Southern Tier Fly Fisher

Toothy Critters

July 6, 2026 / stflyfisher / 0 Comments

With a sag belly and the grin it was born with.
And indeed they spare nobody.
Two, six pounds each, over two foot long.
High and dry in the willow-herb –

One jammed past its gills down the other’s gullet:
The outside eye stared: as a vice locks –
The same iron in his eye
Though its film shrank in death.

From the poem, “Pike” by Ted Hughes

We were finally on the cusp of blissfully warm summer days, the severe winter of 2026 all but forgotten. The month of May was now behind us, though some cool nights still lingered in the wings. In this new land of mine I am much like a young boy hiking to unexplored fishing waters. There is nothing but delight in the savor of discovery.

While still in the throes of early spring I booked a fly-fishing trip with Jay Peck, a very fishy guide in my new home waters. Jay’s many YouTube fishing reports often offer up openings for future trips, and I learned that after spring steelhead, he guides for pike on the fly. I had not smelled their distinct slime odor, nor deftly admired their fanged grin in years, the last time being a rare encounter with a decent one that ambushed a crayfish fly in a side eddy on the Tioughnioga River. I very much longed for a date with a toothy critter.

Jay responded quickly to my request, suggesting I ping him in late May. He’d set something up after scouting and once water temps warmed. Sure enough, we set the trip for June 2nd. As the date approached, the weather gods were in a good mood and provided a perfect forecast – a cool morning, abundant sun, and warmth by mid-morning.

I had assumed all this time that this trip would be local. There are, after all, expansive weedy bays and ponds just minutes from my house, but no, we’d be fishing a place just north of Pulaski that Jay described as being “infested” with pike.

I met Jay at the Byrne Dairy right off 81 in Pulaski, then drove with him, drift boat in tow, to the Lakeview Wildlife Management Area (WMA). This WMA is part of the largest natural freshwater barrier beach system in New York State – a 3,461-acre expanse of diverse habitat including open fields, shrub lands, woodlands, wetlands, and a natural barrier beach. There are 5 ponds in the WMA, but we fished South Colwell Pond, farthest south.

South Colwell Pond has a maximum depth of 8 feet, with an average depth of 4.5 – 5 feet. It covers 102 acres and kisses over 2 miles of mostly marshy shoreline. At the time we fished it, the pond was clear and just starting to weed up. Jay indicated that come summer, it gets pretty weedy but can still be fished topwater. While I did see some small bass near the launch, Jay added that he rarely catches them – they are, besides the sunfish and yellow perch, on the pike’s dinner menu.

South Colwell Pond is accessed via a long gravel road that transitions from open pasture to deep deciduous woods, ending in a clearing overlooking the expanse of the pond. We pulled in and set up, Jay loading two 9 weight fly rods into their tubes in the boat, adding a gear bag, and finally adding two spinning outfits, “in case we need to go to the dark side”. Jay backed his drift boat down the ramp with precision and a few minutes later, was rowing us across the pond to a spot just inside a sandy break to Lake Ontario.

It took a few casts for me to dial in my casting stroke using a fast action 9 weight and as Jay would say, throwing a chicken for a fly. He had me rigged with an intermediate sink tip, a 4-foot leader of equal sections of 40 and 30 lb. leader material and a foot of tie-able wire for a bite guard. On the business end was one of Jay’s articulated streamers in white with flash, a fly similar to Mike Schulz’s Swinging D or a Drunk and Disorderly. We would later switch up to the same fly in yellow perch colors. Both seemed to work equally well.

The pike, it turned out, were a no-show – Jay thought water temps may have still been a little cool for them – but pickerel were happy to play, and these were not the hammer-handle variety, but truly large. Steady strips produced with the pickerel inhaling the fly mid-retrieve – other times they followed right up to the boat and needed just a bit of teasing for an eat. Jay surmised that we were probably getting even more follows than we realized.

The bite was fairly steady all morning but began to fade by early afternoon, as did my casting arm. I hadn’t used a 9 weight since the fall, after all, and the casting was continuous. We called it a day before 2 pm.

On the drive home, I reflected on a great day of fly fishing. While I had wished the pike did show – Jay has caught some in South Colwell Pond that taped out over 40″ – I had never caught a pickerel on the fly. It’s always a good day with the long rod when a species is added to the “firsts” list.

This fishing was, dare I say, “simple”. The pickerel were virtually everywhere and eager to eat. They took on the first few strips, followed the fly and ate, and even hovered about the boat waiting for a tease that triggered their primordial instinct to kill. Even sloppy or errant casts would be just as likely to induce a take as perfect ones. Fly selection didn’t seem to matter – any streamer with movement would have worked – articulated streamers, clousers, deceivers, even big buggers – and color didn’t seem to make a difference.

There are plenty of times on the water when an angler must be on point, where tactics, location, and skill make or break the day. The pay-off can be huge but the cost is intense focus, constant attention to detail, and often times frustration with the ways of fish. As Jay would say, “I’ve never had any luck telling the fish what to eat”.

I think us anglers all need a day with pickerel – if only for a break from the hunt and a day on the water of pure enjoyment.

The Last Studs

June 24, 2026 / stflyfisher / 0 Comments

Mama always said there’s an awful lot you can tell about a person by their shoes. Where they’ going, where they been. I’ve worn lots of shoes. I bet if I think about it real hard, I could remember my first pair of shoes. Mama said they’d take me anywhere. She said they was my magic shoes.

Forrest Gump

I got out of the river that evening, happily tired, and made my way back to my car with an 18″ smallmouth and channel cats that pushed the 30″ mark fresh in memory. The wading had been precarious in the run I had chosen to fish, but it was all well worth it. My boots had taken me there, as they had so many other beautiful and productive places and safely got me out.

I had been wading wet for the last few weeks now that summer was in the fore and I liked the fact that I didn’t have to mess with waders. As I pulled my boots off, I noticed for the first time that I had finally broken through the toe of my left boot. These old Simms boots had taken me fishing for 7 years and were finally about done. I had enjoyed them as much as I did the places they carried me and I didn’t want to say goodbye to a pair of old friends just yet. Then I remembered the cobbler down on Main Street. Perhaps he could work the magic he once did for me on an old pair of Hodgeman’s.

I hadn’t visited the cobbler for a long while. One of the great quality conundrums is that exceptional quality can sometimes backfire on a business, particularly a small one. Long lasting shoes, for one, are a thing of the past in today’s throw-away society. My last pair of boots were brought back from extinction thanks to true craftsmanship and those visits to my cobbler saved me the cost or replacement several times over for a very small sum of cash handed, almost with guilt, over the counter.

So one fall evening I drove down to Main Street in Vestal, another Main Street largely bypassed and forgotten and mostly barren now save a nail salon, an antiques dealer, a Chinese food takeout, and what I thought would be my cobbler. But sadly, it wasn’t so. The old shoe-shaped sign was now worn, weathered, and somberly saying “out of business”. The door still listed the hours but taped to it was a sign stating, “thanks for your business, it’s time to move on.”

I left the place disappointed. My boots were truly gonners unless I could find another cobbler. I searched online over the next few days to no avail, leaving me no choice but to purchase new.

I settled on Korkers, which in general I liked, but they didn’t quite feel the same. Oh, they were certainly innovative and I wondered what the cobbler would have said about the technology they offered – the Boa “no lace” system, the quick-change soles, the modern look and use of plastics, and even the rear-entry style of their most advanced offering. There were others too, offering soles of high-tech rubber made by Michelin, no less. And then I stumbled on a new joint offering by Patagonia – their line of boots made by Danner. Danner’s take?

“What lasts a lifetime? The best wading boots need to be ultra-comfortable and supportive for long days in heavy water. They should grip subsurface terrain, muddy trails and the occasional cross-stream log. They must drain quickly and avoid holding excess water. And on top of being tough as nails, they need a lifetime measured in decades. When Patagonia approached us to partner on the Foot Tractor and River Salt wading boots, we knew it was the start to something good.“

Launched in 2019, this was to be Patagonia’s first-ever brand collaboration with Portland, Oregon-based Danner, producing two wading boots built in the USA: the Foot Tractor designed with a heavy-duty aluminum bar sole for big rocky rivers, and the much lighter River Salt, designed for saltwater flats. Both featured stitch-down construction, full-grain leather, a number of small holes to drain water from inside, a variable lacing system with traditional eyelets on the forefoot and an additional quick lacing system in the ankle area, and best of all, they were resole-able — a rare, sustainability-focused feature in wading boots.

They are widely considered among the best wading boots ever made for durability and repairability. Fly fishing forums note these boots were still holding up after 5–6 seasons of hard use for owners who bought them. They were not cheap, however, fetching a price of $450 to $500.

Apparently, the price was too much for most anglers and Patagonia quietly moved on from the Danner partnership and launched a new collaboration in 2023 — the Forra wading boot, built with Italian bootmaker Fitwell. The Forra is lighter, more hike-oriented, and runs $299, signaling Patagonia shifted focus toward a more versatile, less expensive lighter-weight boot.

So, in my own nonsensical way to honor the cobbler, I researched whether any of these Danner boots were still available. To my surprise and delight, I found some at Backcountry.com. There were a few “foot tractors” in my size discounted 30% from the original price of $499. Most would still cringe at the discounted price, but I thought, what the heck for a boot that could last me the rest of my wading days on this good earth.

And so, with the ease of a click that is our modern-day buying experience, I purchased a pair with a nod to the Main Street cobbler. They’ll arrive soon enough and ooze the aroma of genuine leather and fresh Vibram rubber. I think a baptism in the Salmon River this fall is fitting, hopefully the first of many, many more to come…

Thanks, Dad…

June 21, 2026 / stflyfisher / 0 Comments

A father is a man who expects his son to be as good a man as he meant to be.
Frank A. Clark

In a touching scene from my favorite movie, Forrest Gump, Forrest learns that his mother is sick and in characteristic fashion, runs home from his work as a shrimp fisherman to be with her. Sitting bedside, his mother tells him that she is dying. When Forrest asks why, she reassures the simple-minded Gump that death is just a part of life, something we are all destined to do. At the end of the scene, she poignantly adds, “I didn’t know it Forrest, but I was destined to be your Mama. I did the best I could…”

And so it is with fathers. Flawed as they often are, fathers show up to work, bring home the bacon, and love in their own quiet way. Fathers are that stern voice that makes children take notice, the very bedrock on which order in the family rests. They are like a feather of destiny, floating on a breeze, just doing the best job possible to land softly on a few great moments in life.

For me, those greatest of moments were when my Dad spent time with me and took me fishing, a sport in which he never participated on his own, but nonetheless made the time for because he loved me. He bought me gifts for fishing, took me on fishing trips, and most of all, gave me life and tucked into it a marvelous little gene that has always drawn me to water…

Fathers of yore often take a bad wrap for old-fashioned values, but I grow more fearful with every Father’s Day that these same values are being lost to us and have been diluted to the point that Father’s Day itself is on its own bad course with destiny.

I look at my own two sons, standing so close to the line that separates man and boy and hope I have given them what my Dad gave me; that sense that being a father is doing the best you can do with what you have, and hoping they can be as good a man as you meant to be…

Fish Hound

June 8, 2026 / stflyfisher

“If I fished only to capture fish, my fishing trips would have ended long ago.“

Zane Grey

He sat upright in the back of the pick-up truck, like a tall, dome-headed, and very dignified old man. Adam, owner of FishHound Expeditions, opened the back door of his truck and there he was, “Hatch”, a blue-tick coonhound of massive scale and the namesake for Adam’s growing guiding business. I let Hatch sniff my open hand, then pet him. He lightly pawed at me when I stopped. He had those droopy eyes, lazy ears, and goofy charm only a hound-lover could appreciate. I was smitten…

“Rado”, left, along with the original FishHound, “Hatch”… (picture courtesy of FishHound Expeditions)

Hatch would not be accommodating my wife and I on our fly fishing float, unfortunately, but there was another “guide dog” in the offing. Adam asked if I was OK fishing with “Little Bear”. After meeting the Malamute/Australian Shepherd mix, I was all aboard.

Little Bear checks out one of many rainbow trout netted by Jay, our guide.

Before launching our raft, our guide, Jay, told me he needed to take his truck and trailer down to the takeout. My wife followed him in our rental car and Adam drove his truck, already occupied by FishHound Expedition’s two official canines, the honorable Hatch and his sidekick, Rado. Before leaving, Jay set me up with a nymphing rig to fish the beautiful riffle and run at the access while he was gone. One of the many nice offerings FishHound Expeditions provides to customers is tackle and waders. In this case I fished a Redington 9 foot 6 weight rod with WF floating line. The rig was a classic indicator set-up. On the business end Jay had an Alaskan favorite – the bead. I fished the indicator rig at the head of the run and worked it from the top to the tail-out. After just a few casts, I landed a 14″ rainbow that spent more time airborne than in the water. A little later I hooked a 18’ish+ rainbow – another acrobat – but this one threw the hook after a few fantastic sky-borne jumps. Then just in time for the return of Jay, Adam, and my wife to the access, I was into my third rainbow.

20180906_101805 — Early success! This third rainbow really made my day and we hadn’t even started the float!

Jay netted my fish and Adam high-five’d me. Shortly after, as we readied the raft for our float, Jay commented that he could see I didn’t need “Fly Fishing 101”, a before-float class he gives to newbie and beginning anglers. It’s always nice to get a compliment from a guide!

Willow Creek is full of wild rainbows. These fish feast on an abundance of salmon eggs in late summer along with the flesh of dead spawned-out salmon. As we began the float, Jay explained that despite the presence of October caddis, midges, and a few mayflies, the rainbows key in on both salmon eggs and salmon flesh as these food sources provide “more bang for the buck” in terms of nutritional value.

Jay at the oars with Little Bear, ever-present at my side, on lookout…

We launched onto Willow Creek with me in the bow, Jay at the oars, and my wife in the stern seat. My wife was not fishing, but it was a first for me to; 1) have her on a float trip, and 2) have her floating IN waders!

My wife in waders, and not any low-budget waders, but top-of-the-line Patagonia…

From the access we drifted the clear, cold waters of Willow Creek, a tributary to the Susitna River. We were fishing the lower half of the river. FishHound Expeditions guides the upper and lower Willow, and considers this gem of a tributary to be their home water, and for good reason. The Willow turns out to be one of the most popular fisheries in South Central Alaska, although on the day we fished it, with the salmon run essentially over, it was as if we had the Willow all to ourselves. Located about 60 miles north of Anchorage on the Parks Highway, Willow Creek offers excellent fishing for four of the major salmon species: kings, silvers, chums and pinks. In addition to big rainbows (up to 30 inches), the Willow also holds Dolly Varden, Arctic Grayling, and even small numbers of burbot and whitefish.

Willow Creek gets a strong run of salmon each year because of the excellent spawning habitat it holds. The creek’s bottom is a majority composition of pebbles, cobble, and small rocks. And it is full of snags, the result of downfalls of the white spruce that dominate the land. The creek is named for the presence of of the ubiquitous Alaska willow – not the willow of the Eastern US that Southern Tier fly fishers may be so familiar with – but a shrub-like willow that is the preferred forage for the abundant moose. Indeed, during a bio-break to the bush I saw numerous moose tracks and dung.

Since we were nymphing with an indicator, the key to “bead” success was a true dead-drift presentation. Fishing from a drift boat – in this case a spacious raft – made a dead drift that much easier, but I had no problem hooking up when we stopped and waded a bit as well.

Willow’s wild rainbows are beautiful, strong, and egg-crazy…

The snags made fishing a little more challenging. The Willow is definitely a “woody” creek and anglers would be advised to have a lot of flies, shot, and rigging materials on hand to do well here. As much as I tried to pull my rig out of potential snags, I still lost flies with some regularity. The saying goes, if you’re not hanging up, you’re not fishing effectively, but I started feeling bad with the number of times Jay had to re-rig me. Nonetheless, Jay always had an alternate rod rigged for the inevitable quick change-out. That alternate rod was rigged the same way but instead of a bead, had a flesh fly on the business end.

As with the bead, I’d never fished a flesh fly. Jay instructed me to fish it dead drift like the bead, but to give it some time to tail out before picking up and casting again. There were dead salmon hung up here and there in the snags, and Jay was able to demonstrate, “in the flesh” (pun intended) what the real thing looks like in the water by nudging a dead salmon. Sure enough, a chunk the size of my fly came loose with Jay’s prod of the oar and it drifted seductively downstream. The flesh fly I was using was tied by Jay, and looked just like the real thing in the water. My first “flesh” drift proved just so as I hooked up with another nice rainbow.

flesh_fly_tan_large — A flesh fly similar to the one Jay tied and had me use.

Partway through our float Jay decided to change things up. At four different times, smaller rainbows rose to the pink indicator I was using. They were beautiful with their plentiful spots, emerging from the clear green of the creek, pausing a millisecond to study the indicator and then trying to take it with a swirl. I laughed at their vigor and Jay added, “can you imagine what they’re thinking?” “That’s gotta be the biggest salmon egg I’ve ever seen…” But that display gave Jay an idea. He tied on a slightly larger bead with a stronger pink color to it. After our shore lunch he showed me a real salmon egg he had found among the pebbles of the creek’s bottom. The bead egg was pretty close to the size and color (very pale white/orange) of the actual egg, but he wanted to see if the size and color change might further improve our results. First cast with the new bead and I was immediately into a rainbow, followed by many more. We continued to use that new color bead along with the flesh fly.

This rainbow had a faint lime color to its lower sides…

Midway through the float, Jay pulled us over to a long gravel bar. There he set up shore lunch – a small portable grill and cooler – reindeer brats, chips, apples, beer, water. We stood and talked as Jay cooked the brats. Little Bear laid on the gravel, very content. And the Willow washed by.

iPhone Pics 203 — Guide-turned-chef, Jay, sets up a nice shore lunch…

After shore lunch, we continued our float down the Willow. The Willow often appeared as creek, stream, and river. Wide sweeping stretches with deep holes made me think more of the West Branch of the Delaware, mid-sized riffles – the Beaverkill, and then narrow choke points had a bit of lower Owego Creek flavor.

As we worked farther downstream, we began to see a few silver salmon in the deeper holes. At one nice run Jay pulled ashore and rigged an 8 weight rod with a streamer. He said it might be possible to rouse one of the silvers if they were holding in the deeper holes and backwaters.

We gave it a shot, casting the Dolly Llama, a favorite streamer for salmon in Alaska…

Dolly_Llama_Tandem_Gold_Cone_Pink_White_large — The Dolly Llama

With no one apparently home in the salmon hole, we continued our float, slipping easily down the Willow.

IMG_E2280 — Jay deftly maneuvers our raft through a choke point and downfall…

I’ll never tire of indicator fishing. And on the Willow, it was all the more exciting, casting to its deep snaggy holes and imagining what egg-crazy rainbow might be laying in wait. This was new water, truly wild, and a frontier farther west than I’d ever fished.

We hauled out where the Willow met the Susitna River – a big brawling glacial river, slate-grey in color, braided like a pretzel across a wide river valley. Born of Denali, the Susitna flowed to Anchorage and emptied into the Pacific.

Before hauling out, Jay paused long enough to let me get a few more drifts in. I fished the seam where the Willow’s clear flows met the silty flows of the Susitna, and quickly caught three more rainbows – a wonderful send-off to a trip that went way too fast.

For those who have never fished Alaska, my experience with FishHound Expeditions had me immediately planning a return trip. I cannot recommend them enough! There are a lot of choices of quality outfitters in Alaska, and on top of that, myriad fishing possibilities from fly fishing small creeks for grayling to fishing the big salmon runs. Locations are another choice with overwhelming possibilities, given the size of the state. But I would definitely consider a trip or trips with FishHound Expeditions, particularly if you are in the Anchorage area. In addition to floats of their homewater, FishHound offers trips to the back country via plane or helicopter. These trips expand opportunities in fly fishing to big fish days and luxury back-country glamping.

As I write this, I am at once missing the good country, great fishing, and the hardy people that make Alaska. This wonderful day on Willow Creek offered a fine taste of a place that beckons me back. One day I’ll return, and maybe, just maybe, spend an extended trip in the backcountry with fishhounds…

Finn – Never Grow Up

May 31, 2026 / stflyfisher

Don’t you ever grow up, don’t you ever grow up, just stay this little…

Taylor Swift – Never Grow Up

I am sitting in the quiet of pre-dawn, drinking strong black coffee, and simply enjoying the feeling of having arrived after a driving journey of some 20 hours. Finn is curled up beside me, a tired little boy. In the words of fly-fishing guide and friend, Daniel Scheda, “a tired dog is a good dog.”

And indeed, Finn is turning out to be a very good dog. He added a lot of firsts to his resume’ on the trip south through seven states to our place in Destin, Florida: first hotel stays, first elevator trips, first stairs (we live in a ranch), a very long truck ride over 3 days (4+ hour stretches at a time), and numerous people and dogs along the way.

Until we made the drive south, Finn had not felt outdoor warmth in his early months as a puppy.

We brought him home on December 23rd – and outdoor treks were somewhat weather-limited due to a severe winter in Rochester, but in Destin, he finally got in a lot of outdoor time, and he loved it. We walked a lot – around the Beachwalk Villas, along the shores of Horseshoe Lake – and we took golf cart trips to Jolee Island on Choctawhatchee Bay for his first introduction to water.

Finn took to the golf cart like a lab to water…

Finn’s “baptism” to water, saltwater in this case, was another testament to his puppy goofiness, first approaching it with curiosity. pawing at it repeatedly, and then after a toss of his bumper for inspiration, repeated airborne leaps and bounds into the water. Side note, a freshwater “baptism” was out of the question, given the presence of alligators in many area ponds and lakes. During my son’s golf pro career in Destin, there was an eight-footer that was prone to sunning itself on the greens, much to the astonishment of Yankee golfers.

Another first for Finn was his introduction to doggie daycare, something I wanted to do for more dog socialization and to introduce him to boarding. I found a wonderful daycare & boarding facility named Goochie Poochie just minutes from our place. I’d initially inquired with them before we left on our trip hoping to find a place, and it definitely seemed to fit the bill. Finn passed his 4-hour in-facility assessment with flying colors – comments from the staff gushed with praise for his temperament and affable disposition. He got to be quite the celebrity there. Finn ran with the big dogs, including Beckett (a labradoodle), Finley (a big lab mix), Scoobie-Doo (a German shepherd mix), and Maddie (a Bassett hound). Between the staff and some new friends, Goochie Poochie was a great experience for Finn, and it showed as we neared for drop-off with barking and whining, followed by Finn nearly busting down the front door upon arrival. He never looked back when I left him…

His first boarding experience – really just an overnight trial – did not go as well. The staff felt he had a bit of separation anxiety and given the newness of everything that was a part of our trip, and that he was just 5 months old, it was not surprising. So that goal is still on the docket as Finn matures.

I no doubt am boasting here like a proud parent but even walking Finn about Destin made me feel like I was walking beside a movie star. His “puppiness” was naturally a part of the charm, but his glossy dark chocolate coat, highlighted with a unique “braid” along his back, and his constant deep tail-wagging that wiggled down to his butt got a lot of glowing comments from the humans he met on our walks.

While most of my goals for Finn on my trip were achieved, I did not get him out fishing with me, nor did I introduce him to my boat – a small sit-in fishing kayak – so that will come now at our home on the shores of Lake Ontario.

Finn’s growing like a weed, now nudging 60 pounds at 6 months old. His paws still look too big for his body, his legs still gangly. ChatGPT informs me he’s on the “big athletic male growth curve” and when fully mature at 18 – 24 months, will weigh 80 – 85 pounds.

Athletic, indeed…

What’s next for Finn includes a lot of obedience training for good manners, easy handling, and most of all, bullet-proof recall. Recall is especially important if I want to get him out fishing the local creeks and tributaries, including some jaunts on the big rivers of the Southern Tier, where his predecessor, Maddie, once accompanied me a-stream.

I have plans for a boat big enough for two and once acquired, want to get him used to floating with me while fishing nearshore Lake Ontario and the connected ponds and estuaries. And there’ll be plenty of water time right in front of our house as well as hikes on the miles of trails in the surrounding DEC wildlife preserves.

Finn’s future is bright and sure to be chock full of adventures, but it’s hard not to wish he’d stay a puppy if only for a little longer – something gold to stay…

Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, Robert Frost

Earn this…

May 25, 2026 / stflyfisher

“It is foolish and wrong to mourn the men who died. Rather we should thank God that such men lived.”

George S. Patton

Most reading this are undoubtedly familiar with the movie, Saving Private Ryan. The movie’s blockbuster sales and ratings seemed to indicate how good it was, but the A minus grade given by one audience of American WWII veterans who participated in the D-Day invasion is even more telling as to its realism.

While there are several themes playing in the movie, a haunting line towards its end – perhaps the thesis of the movie – is what was on my mind as I nymphed a stretch of Balls Eddy on a beautiful Memorial Day.

The West Branch above Balls Eddy... — The West Branch at Balls Eddy…

This tradition of fishing has been something I’ve been doing for a number of years. There’s an old cemetery adjacent to the Balls Eddy fishing access and it is at that cemetery where I first witnessed a solemn and heartbreaking tribute to those who paid the ultimate price. The place is a simple rectangle of fertile river bottom, walled in fieldstone. There are a few trees there and the graves are adorned with flags, the lawn neatly cut. It is a peaceful place. On that past Memorial Day, the sky was blue, the birds sang sweetly, and the river ran by in hues of blue.

I was on the river and fishing by 8:30 a.m., and at exactly 9:05, heard the volley of shots that marked the day. They crackled through the river valley, then came round again in echo until the sound of the rushing water of the riffle finally silenced them. A few drifts of my nymph rig through the ‘rainbow’s den’, as I call it, resulted in my indicator plunging down in the fast water, the hook set, and a rainbow trout that leaped repeatedly and then made spastic runs in the heavy current. The flash of this fish, its strength, its athleticism made me feel good. After landing it and releasing it, I sat down, watched the river, and remembered the movie.

At the end of Saving Private Ryan, the now-elderly Ryan is seen visiting the grave of Captain Miller, the Army Ranger officer who led the mission to bring the young Private home after all of his brothers had been killed in combat. Ryan pays tribute to Captain Miller with the following:

“My family is with me today. They wanted to come with me. To be honest with you, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel coming back here. Every day I think about what you said to me that day on the bridge. And I’ve tried to live my life the best I could. I hope that was enough. I hope that at least in your eyes, I’ve earned what all of you have done for me.”

Earlier in the movie, with Captain Miller slowly dying from wounds received while defending a critical bridge crossing, Ryan hears Captain Miller’s last words:

James… earn this. Earn it.

"James, earn it, earn this" — “James, earn this, earn it”

As I listened to the rush of the river and the wind in the trees, I came to the realization that Memorial Day is more than just honoring the fallen – it’s about remembering the dead by celebrating life in a way that honors those words so simply spoken by Captain Miller. In this country, we are free to choose how to live our lives. That freedom was bought with blood, their blood. In getting up early and going fly fishing – in doing good things – in living life the best we can, we earn it, and by doing that we remember them for their great sacrifice.

Grippen Pond – back to life

May 18, 2026 / stflyfisher

Grippen Pond sits a mere 50 yards off my back deck and is, at last, reborn. I thought about making that call last year, after hooking and losing a nice bass and following that with a 15″ rainbow trout (a first ever for me in the pond and most likely a holdover from a neighbor’s stocking), but for the rest of the year, the pond just didn’t fish like it used to, especially in summer and fall. My first saunter back to it on an early evening this year convinced me otherwise and left me grinning and looking forward to times like the good old days.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — The first bass of 2018…

After moving my family into a bigger house in 1998, I did a recon of the pond on which we had frontage and deeded recreational access and found it teeming with small sunfish and frogs. Weedy and mucky, the pond looked old. Locals claimed it was once a place where kids swam, and dairy cows drank cool spring water…

Ponds, like us fishermen, grow old and eventually die. The life of any pond will pass through 3 phases: 1) Oligotrophic, 2) Mesotrophic, and finally, 3) Eutrophic. Broome County Soil & Water Conservation surveyed the pond years back and confirmed it was old and dying. The only way to rejuvenate it effectively, according to them, would be to drain it and excavate. Early on (we’re talking pre-1900), the pond was quite possibly Oligotrophic: deep and clear and having a low concentration of nutrients, such as nitrogen and phosphorus. Over time, keeping in mind it was on land that became a dairy farm, the pond transitioned to the Mesotrophic stage: having more nutrients and, therefore, more plant and algae growth. As a result of the plant and algae growth, the bottom of the pond began to fill in with organic material. The substrate that was once rock, sand, or gravel, now would have consisted of mud on top of the rocks. Gradually, Grippen Pond became Eutrophic as it is today – extremely well nourished with nitrogen and phosphorus, leading to an abundance of aquatic plant growth. The bottom of the pond is now filled with organic sediment and mud – I’ve waded in areas were I sank in up to my knees. In the heat of summer, vast mats of aquatic weeds and duckweed give the bass a shady hiding place, safe from the herons that hunt the pond’s shallows. The depth of the pond at its deepest point is over 10 feet but I am sure it continues to fill in as all of that aquatic vegetation dies each year. As the pond or lake fills in and weed growth accelerates, the total open water area will shrink. Eventually, Grippen Pond is destined to be a swamp or wetland without intervention.

In 1998 it was evident that Grippen Pond lacked a population of bass to control the sunfish population and I decided to attempt to balance out the situation by playing bucket biologist, stocking some bass from a coworker’s pond.

Scroll forward a few years and the bass were alive and growing…

Unbeknownst to me, however, my neighbor on the other side of the pond and owner of the pond, was doing his own stocking. Fathead minnows, crappie, largemouth bass, and rainbow trout were apparently planted almost every year. He had good intentions, but the rainbow trout certainly wouldn’t survive the warm water of the pond, especially through summer, though I now know at least one did. Quite possibly, the deep part of the pond has cold springs that allow a few to survive. I’ve never caught crappie, but I have caught some supersized sunfish that took bass-sized poppers and wooly buggers with mouths big enough to lip.

The big male pumpkinseed sunfish in the picture above eventually met a far worse fate than being caught and released by yours truly. The winter of 2014 – 2015 was not kind to Grippen Pond as the Southern Tier of NY was hit with incredibly cold weather. On the way to work one morning I measured a low temperature of -27 degrees F! The arctic environment sealed the pond shut with a thick layer of ice that lasted well into April. And on top of the ice, the winter’s snow layered up into a very heavy coat.

These conditions can set up ponds, especially shallow ones, for “winter kills”. A winter kill occurs when the ice cover cuts off oxygenation of the water and then snow cover on the ice cuts out sunlight to aquatic plants, causing them to die. The dead plants, in turn, use even more oxygen as they decompose: a deadly downward spiral for all aquatic life.

And so that spring of 2015 was a rough one. I remember scanning the shoreline from my kayak, finding hundreds of sunfish, good numbers of bass, and a few very large grass carp, all dead. Spring turned to summer and the pond was unusually quiet. Gone were the sounds of bass crashing bait in the shallows in the evening. Gone too were the toilet bowl flush swirls at any popper tossed close to a weed edge.

After a disappointing 2015, I once again patrolled the pond in the spring of 2016, hoping to see signs of a comeback. Paddling about in my kayak, the pond’s owner, a friendly, elderly neighbor, came out of his house to talk to me one evening. I told him the 2015 winter kill had eliminated the bass and large sunfish and that the pond was overrun by small sunfish and frogs. Tadpoles that spring overwhelmed the shallows.

My neighbor listened intently to my suggestion that we re-stock some bass and acted on it that year, adding a bunch of decent-size bass from another pond.

As a result of this re-establishment of the bass population, sunfish appear to be under control. And the tadpole population also seems to be thinning. I think I know just where most of those have been going…

Fathers, Haircuts, and Fishing…

May 9, 2026 / stflyfisher

Now I am too old to be much of a fisherman, and now of course I usually fish the big rivers alone…

Norman Maclean – A River Runs Through It

He sat with his back to me as I stood behind him with a clipper and cut his hair. His skin was paper thin, stretched tight over his bald head and mottled with age spots. With each pass of the cutter, wisps of white hair, thinner than 7X tippet, fell to the floor. As I cut and trimmed, we talked, and part of me reached back to times when I was in his seat and he was standing in my place. Back then, the Sears trimmer was fitted with what I called “the claw.” The claw was fixed over the cutter blades, assuring an even crew cut. The process was easy – move from the base of the head, up and over, like shearing a sheep. I remember the trimmer snagging and pulling my hair on occasion and I would wince with each pass. And then there was the smell of 3 in 1 oil and the itch of hair falling down my neck.

My Dad, like the rest of my family, was not a fisherman. But Dad had a supplier salesman in business who loved fishing. Mr. Meehan, if I remember his name correctly, loved saltwater fishing. He was raised somewhere in the Big Apple and at one time drove a cab. Later in life, he got into sales but retained his cab-driving tendencies when he drove us around on business trips. I remember two trips – one to Belmar, for albacore and bonito – the other way out to Montauk for blues and stripers. Both were productive, especially for a young boy. I could barely handle the fish, be it big blues or fast running tuna, but oh did it set the hook even deeper into a life already infused with fishing.

Later in my life, Dad still did not fish, but he did participate. He was there for me, in a word. There is a story told by educator and author, Stephen Covey, where he interviews a father, who in an effort to understand and get closer to his son, decided to take a month off of work one summer with the goal to attend every major league game the team played away from home. Beyond time, this took a lot of money and painstaking preparation. On hearing of this, Covey commented to the father, “you sure must like baseball,” to which the man replied, “no, but I love my son.”

During my college years, my father purchased a center console 21′ Proline with a 140 hp outboard. My parents had bought a place on Barnegat Bay, and the boat was a wonderful extension to that home by the bay. In it, we fished the tidal estuaries, the channels, the cuts and holes, and the inlet. When we fished it was all me – baiting Dad’s fluke rigs, setting him up, tirelessly instructing him on how to bottom bounce the rig. He never mastered that fine art, but somehow the fluke didn’t care, and I’d spend more time netting his fish, releasing them, and rebaiting or rigging than ever tending to my own line. Just the same, it was enjoyable time spent together.

With the years, age played its hand. Dad sold the boat as it became too much for him to handle alone, and my time in the Navy and a subsequent civilian job in Texas meant less time to visit. Kids came, responsibilities mounted, and summer days on the bay dwindled to holiday visits that were too short for any serious fishing, though we still would go.

A great day of November bass fishing on the Miss Barnegat Light. I’m slightly left of center, holding up a 39-pound bass that won the pool that day.

Our last fishing trip together was in September of 2012. Dad was 83 then. I remember proposing the trip during a visit and as the words came, I automatically prepared myself for the normal response, an apologetic decline. But this time was different, a hesitant “yes.” “What time do we have to get up?’ came the question I knew was coming. Dad never liked getting up early. “The boat leaves at 7:30 but we’ll need to be there earlier to get a good spot on the rail. He sighed. “Ok, I’ll go…” he replied.

Dad did get up on time, though slowly. He could still walk but had to reply on props like countertops, tables and chair to get around. His balance had faded such that when he did walk, there was what us kids termed “the wing”, used as a counter to his stooping posture. We had collectively warned him in the prior years to get up and move, take a walk. The alternative, we insisted, would be a gradual decline in mobility, ending with a wheelchair.

We made our way out to Long Beach Island and turned left onto the boulevard that took us past the once quaint, now glamorous and overbuilt beach towns, starting humble but gaining with wealth-clad hubris along the way – Ship Bottom, Surf City, North Beach, Harvey Cedars, Loveladies, and finally Barnegat Light, where things turned back to a bit more of a blue-collar fishing town.

The boat we’d take, the Miss Barnegat Light, or the “Red Sled” to many who fished on her, sat stern-to at the dock, and the gangway was open. A few anglers had already taken up position along the rails, and we got ours – starboard quarter just where I liked it.

We got underway on time. The engines – twin Caterpillar turbocharged V-12 diesels, started with the deep roar of 2800 horsepower coming to life. We motored out of the slip and into the narrow channel that led up past more slips, a bait and gas station, the Coast Guard station, and finally Barnegat Light itself.

Dad always liked the ride out. It was a glorious morning – chilly enough to hint of the coming of Fall, the horizon rimmed in pre-dawn crimson. We huddled along with the other fishermen in the deckhouse. The air was filled with the optimism of fishermen. There is, I am convinced no greater hope in any gathering of human beings than this…

The trip out was a long one. We arrived at a patch of sea already populated with fishing boats. We motored slowly about in searching loops, the captain using his fish finder for something deep down – a lump, a mound, a distinguishing feature of the bottom. Fish are, after all, creatures aligned with structure. I once read of an experiment where bass were placed in a large glass tank of water, it’s bottom a white sheet, featureless and barren. The bass were observed to just swim around randomly. After some time, a different sheet was slid under the tank bottom – this time again white save a small black stripe. The bass were then observed to congregate around the black stripe. So, it is with fish.

We anchored up and with the boat’s horn as a signal, dropped our jigs down 90 feet, “baited” in hope. Jigging is a fun way to fish and when working a heavy jig deep, an exercise worthy of Popeye forearms. Soon enough rods could be seen doubled over with good bluefish in the 6 – 12 lb., range. The fish were ravenous. Yours truly started scoring as well…

The good fishing lasted well into the afternoon. Dad had a fine time, sitting near me, taking pictures, and soaking up the abundant sun, though he complained about his legs being sore from the rocking motion of the boat.

That was the last I fished with my dad. He passed away on May 9, 2022, not long after retiring for the night but not before having his daily martini, extra dry with an olive and on the rocks.

A favorite picture of Dad, with my younger brother, David.

I still return to Barnegat, in late Spring to fly fish for stripers and blues, and then again in late Fall to try and catch the big striper migration south. Though my sister and her husband moved from Barnegat to a nice bayside home in Seaside Park about an hour away, it is different now, somehow lonely, as if my ties to this special place have worn and faded with time, the family cloth threadbare, a place first baptized with summer vacations, and then a place where my parents chose to retire to enjoy family gatherings, garnished with wonderful evening cocktails and bountiful seafood meals.

Now I fish alone and perhaps now too, I am haunted by waters…

Tom Nixon and the Calcasieu Pigboat

May 4, 2026 / stflyfisher

“A bass is a far cry from the conventional target of the long rod. So when the conventional concepts of tackle, lures, and procedures fail to interest an unconventional quarry, go it his way”.

Tom Nixon, Largemouth Bass Fly Rodder

On my 2025 trip to our little place on Florida’s panhandle, I read William G. Tapply’s wonderful book of fly-fishing essays, “Every Day Was Special”, and came across a piece about an intriguing bass fly and its innovative creator, Tom Nixon. Just beyond me as I read and enjoyed a beer and cigar, lay Horseshoe Lake, a little sweet water jewel our Beachwalk townhouse is perched on.

The view from our place of Horseshoe Lake

In that water swim abundant baitfish, bluegills, and some truly impressive largemouth bass. While I had previously caught some nice largemouth bass in Horseshoe Lake, the more I read about Tom Nixon and his unique fly, the more I wanted to get my hands on it and give it a try. So, on my most recent visit, this past April, I did just that.

Nixon was a revolutionary in our sport, though, sadly, I doubt many fly fishers have ever heard of him. What I found researching the man, dare I say legend, is that he was born and schooled in Illinois, becoming an engineer, and eventually relocating to Lake Charles, Louisiana through his professional work for the Pittsburgh Plate Glass Company. While working there, Nixon would spend most of his free time in a johnboat, armed with a fly rod in pursuit of big bass and panfish along the Calcasieu River and its many tributaries. And like any good engineer, he was constantly devising new fly patterns that might improve his success on that river.

Nixon literally wrote the book on fly fishing for bass and panfish. His seminal work, “Fly Tying and Fly Fishing for Bass and Panfish,” was first published in 1968, with a total of 3 editions thereafter. I was able to purchase a used copy – it is no longer available new in print.

The book grew from a request of Nixon in the early 1960s to teach fly fishing and fly tying to a group of boy scouts. Nixon tried to document all the various aspects of the sport he could think of, noting that most everything at the time was dedicated to cold-water trout and its flies. Failure to find sources to recommend to others led him to putting his notes into book form.

Fly fishing purists will likely not be fans of Nixon. His creations make use of spinners and plastics and all of this long before such things as the spoon fly ever took form in a vise. But Nixon’s creativity did not bother some of our sport’s greatest names. Lefty Kreh and Dave Whitlock are proud to have associated with Nixon over the years and reportedly fished his flies. Nixon was even invited as a tyer to the very first International Federation of Fly Fishers Show.

It used to be that bassing with a fly rod was wholly devoted to the popper. If bass were not taking topwater, one didn’t fish the fly rod for them. Streamers, crayfish patterns and other subsurface flies were not used for bass. That was, until the creation of the Calcasieu Pig Boat.

Nixon had friends who were into bass tournaments and used all sorts of conventional gear baits. He didn’t like getting out fished by his friends. “I was having to put up with a lot of guff from some of my heave and crank acquaintances about fly rod bass” he told William Tapply during an interview. Nixon wanted to develop a fly that would be as effective as some of the things they used. That’s how the “Pig Boat” was born, and it did prove to be one of the most effective bass flies ever developed. “Pig Boat” was the term used for German submarines in WW2, which were deadly at their ship-sinking craft. His favorite bass haunts were on the Calcasieu River in Louisiana – hence “The Calcasieu Pig Boat.”

Nixon’s creation first hit the water in early 1951. At that time, the Hawaiian Wiggler was one of the best bass lures around, and so he designed the Pig Boat to imitate the conventional lure. This fly most resembles the bass angler’s jig. Over the years, it’s not only taken thousands of bass, but it’s been equally deadly at times on brown trout, walleye and other species it was never intended for.

The Pig Boat’s overall length is two to three inches long. Traditionally, the rubber hackle skirt and the head on a Pig Boat are black with the body, composed of extra-large chenille palmered with saddle hackles in any color you want it to be. Use extra-large chenille for the body. Medium size round rubber works best for the Pig Boat’s skirt. Four bunches of legs are tied in on the near side, top side, far side, and bottom of the hook. The head is built up out of thread, coated, and traditionally has an eye applied to it. Here’s a great YouTube video of tying this great fly.

This is a big bulky fly, so it’s appropriate to use an 8 or 9 weight rod to throw this with either a “big fly” weight-forward floating line or sink-tip line depending on the type and depth of water being fished. This fly is best fished using a strip-pause-strip-pause retrieve but it pays to also vary the type of retrieve depending upon the mood of the fish. Even though the Pig Boat was originally designed to catch big bass, it is also an effective saltwater fly. It’s reportedly been used to take big redfish in the Gulf among other species.

Over 25 years ago, when a local bass club invited Tom Nixon to participate in their tournaments on the Toledo Bend Reservoir, he accepted the chance to stack his fly rod up against their spinning and baitcasting gear. Nixon entered 5 tournaments and got one first, one second, and two third place finishes, and was disqualified from the fifth when his alarm failed to wake him in time for the start. Most of his bass were caught on just two flies – a spinner and Pig Boat rig and a yellow cork body popping bug.

Nixon fished late into his life, well into his 80’s and when he wasn’t fishing, he’d be giving programs or demonstrating his patterns at shows throughout the mid-South.

Nixon designed and tied many other patterns that are less well known than the pig boat, but also effective on bass and panfish, such as the .56%er, a deadly pattern for panfish…

The .56%er – picture courtesy of the Panfish on the Fly blog.

And so, during my recent 2026 visit, I decided to give the Calcasieu Pig Boat a try on the largemouth bass of Horseshoe Lake and adjoining ponds of the Sandestin Resort. I had purchased a bunch of Pig Boats in white and black/green color combinations. These flies sported a “mister twister” tail off the size 1 hook, something Nixon would have approved of – he was known to hang a pork rind tail off a pig boat at times and found it worked well.

A Sportsman’s Warehouse version of the Calcasieu Pig Boat

True to what I read, the pig boat performed admirably for me, tempting bass with its mass of undulating rubber legs and bulky body with the flash of chenille. I worked it in the shallows and around structure on an 8-weight floating line and sight fished it to bass staging to spawn. While I had fished a big Wooly Bugger to catch bass on previous trips, the Pig Boat has replaced the bugger as my go-to bass assassin pattern. I landed several very nice bass, including a personal best that taped out to roughly 23″.

The size 1/0 hook on this pig boat resulted in many more hookups as compared to a size 4 or 2 wooly bugger as well.

A prime example of the quality bass of Horseshoe Lake

In the end, fishing the Pig Boat on Horseshoe Lake felt like shaking hands across time, 75 years to be exact. Nixon built his flies for the dark water of the Calcasieu, but their spirit travels well — from the Louisiana bayous to a quiet Florida lake where a bass with shoulders made my day. Patterns come and go, but the good ones carry a piece of their maker with them. After this trip, I’m convinced the Pig Boat is one of those rare flies that still speaks clearly, decades after its creator set it loose. It now has a place in my box…

Fishing in the Golden Years – Part 2

April 19, 2026 / stflyfisher

“In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.”

Abraham Lincoln

The trip south from my first night’s stop in Columbus Ohio would entail a journey of over 500 miles through the cities of Cincinnati, Louisville, and Nashville, before a final overnight stop in Alabama. A deep front was sweeping eastward as I made my way south, bringing more heavy rains, high winds, thunder and lightning, and even tornado warning sirens south of Nashville. After my final overnight stop, I was up early, coffee and sausage egg McMuffin on the go, and on my way to Destin.

Destin welcomed me with warmth and sun, and after arriving at our place, I set about unloading, provisioning, setting up and settling in. Once that was done, I rigged up my 8-weight fly rod with a big wooly bugger on a floating line and scouted the Horseshoe Lake shoreline for largemouth bass.

Horseshoe Lake is one of several man-made freshwater ponds/lakes situated in the Sandestin resort in Miramar Beach, Florida. Horseshoe Lake is the biggest, the others like small golf course ponds but all home to abundant bluegill and largemouth bass, and both species can get quite large.

One can expect to catch largemouth, like this decent specimen, in the freshwater lakes and ponds of Sandestin.

Our place is just steps away from Horseshoe Lake – all the Beachwalk Villas border it, in some cases with a sloping bank, in others, like ours, with a bulkhead. In either case, one can sight fish to the largemouth as they prepare to spawn. Post-spawn is a different game as the spawn-weary females drop back into the depths and the smaller males guard the nest until the fry are about 2 weeks old. Then they too take refuge in the depths to recharge. The timing of this activity is dependent on water temperatures, which is dependent on the weather – colder springs delay it – warmer springs hasten it.

As is always the case, the vicissitudes of temperature and attendant gulf and bay water temperatures, wind, and rain, all make their mark, good or bad, on the fishing. Fortunately, as chronicled in this blog before, Destin offers diverse fishing options – freshwater lakes, saltwater bay and surf – so there are usually always options to keep one in the game.

From the start, the weather did not cooperate for fly fishing the surf. The winds prevailed from the south and east, making for a turbid and high surf and difficult sight fishing. For the first time since purchasing our property in 2016, I took my small fishing kayak along on this trip to better fish the bay. In all my previous outings, I waded the bay shore, which can still be effective but can be difficult depending on the bottom type. I had personally experienced a few cases where I sunk deep in marsh muck. The kayak removed that risk, while allowing me to explore a variety of bay habitat.

Neighbor Dale, a regular snowbird, would scoff at me and my fly rod. “Oh, forget that thing, get some bait, and fish the dock”, he’d say, claiming there were big redfish to be had. While I wasn’t going to go “bait-dunker”, I witnessed what he was talking about on the several occasions I ventured forth in my kayak. I saw no big redfish caught, but fishing within earshot of anglers on the dock indicated they were getting hook-ups only to be broken off when these big burly fish ran back under the dock.

On the bad surf days with winds prevailing from the south, I’d launch my kayak on the protected bay side at Baytowne Marina. There, from a sugary sandy beach adjacent to the marina, I’d paddle out to the waters off the marina and around the boat channel that leads out to the marine expanse known as Choctawhatchee Bay. The game here was all about fishing clousers and other weighted streamers on an intermediate line to spotted sea trout and redfish, as well as being ready for marauding jacks that could show up in an instant, brutish marauders busting bait.

I made three trips with my little kayak to the bay. I fished the edges of the channel off the marina the first time, picking up scores of “jacks” – juvenile spotted sea trout. Another kayak angler fished near me with spinning gear and did the same. I’ve always felt any time I can keep up with or even best the gear guys, I’m doing well. The fishing was great when you found these fish that tend to school when they are smaller, but they are also a moving target.

Bottlenose dolphins inhabit the gulf, the harbor, and Choctawhatchee Bay. They reach sizes of 6 to 13 feet and weigh between 300 and 650 pounds and consume as much as 4% to 6% of their body weight (12 to 40 lbs!) each day. And they love fish. On my first outing I spied a mother dolphin with her calf, hunting the water around Baytowne Marina. From a distance I had no issue with them, but when they got close, I suddenly felt intimidated by their size and power, especially considering I was in their element, at eye level, and in a 10′ kayak. In several cases I’d be fishing and catching, but as soon as they were around the fishing completely shut down, for obvious reasons.

My final trip in my kayak proved exceptional. On that fine day, I observed huge schools of baitfish close in to marina structure. I focused on casting clousers of different colors where I saw baitfish getting busted. I was using a full intermediate line on my 8 weight – I’d cast and allow the fly to sink, then strip back erratically, sometimes allowing the fly to pause on the retrieve. It wasn’t long before I was hooking up, and these were good sized spotted sea trout…

Spotted seatrout, also known as speckled trout or just “trout” in southern waters, are a great gamefish and good table fare. Their northern cousin is known as the weakfish. Though they have the name trout assigned to their order, they are actually a member of the drum family. They are typically found in bays and estuaries where they hunt crustaceans and baitfish.

While I did not hook any redfish, in two cases I saw two giant bull reds slowly pass just beneath my kayak. They, like the dolphins, made me feel downright diminutive in my little kayak, the Cape Breton fisherman’s prayer coming to mind – “Lord protect me – the sea is so large and my boat is so small…”

My brother-in-law, Jeff, was able to visit for a few days. He arrived one morning after having visited his daughter at college in Tampa. It wasn’t long after getting him settled that we were out the back door like young kids to fish for largemouth. Jeff is originally from Pennsylvania – Claysburg to be exact – and cut his fly-fishing teeth on the creeks and streams of the southcentral PA mountains. After high school, Jeff headed West to Southern California where his brother lived and worked. The rest of his formative fly-fishing years were spent plying the mountain streams of the Sierra with far-flung guided trips to Alaska and other fabled rivers like the Green, the Yellowstone, and the Bighorn. Bass are not in his blood.

As it was for me the first time I fished the lake, he was amazed at the size of some of the bass as they staged for spawning. The females were often twice the size of the males, the males doing all the work and waiting for the females to move up to them. They built nests close to shore, but favored sites near cover, such as tight to a bulkhead, around the pilings of the bridges, and under trees. In the early stages of the spawn, the males would aggressively chase streamers fished around the nest. Once on the nest, the males and females would continue to bite, but as the spawn progressed, the bite would slow. Even so, the stage of the spawn could be different across the lake, so it seemed there were always some willing players. As the spawn wound down with increasing water temps, the females left the child-rearing to the males and after roughly 2 weeks, both parents were gone, sulking in the depths to recharge, while their black needle-like fry held in loose schools around the nest, and then dispersed.

I fished one small pond adjacent to a golf course with Jeff. We cast big buggers to the deeper water as we saw no fish on beds. It was an intermittent bite, but we did hook up with some more nice bass. I believe these were post-spawn fish and back in an active feeding mode. It’s likely the smaller pond’s water temp was higher than Horseshoe Lake, and the spawn is all about water temperature.

A beautifully marked bugger bass… Golf cart fly fishing is fun!

Jeff and I also booked a guide for redfish by the name of Cleve Evans with Shallow Water Expeditions. Cleve met us a daybreak at a boat launch off St Andrew Bay in Panama City. It was a cool morning, and Jeff and I were a little underdressed for the high-speed cruise on Cleve’s flats boat. I shivered uncontrollably but suffered through it. The day would warm with the bright sun soon enough.

Cleve gave us excellent instruction on casting from the platform on the bow – Jeff and I would alternate all day long. Cleve would coach us in a low-key way, calling out fish we he poled us along expansive marsh and flats.

We started the morning with a promising sight – a big redfish was tailing right along a marsh bank, his back partially out of the water. Here and there baitfish would scatter as he worked his way along, seemingly ambivalent to our presence. Jeff was on point and the guide told him to cast. Jeff is an excellent caster, perhaps too excellent in this case as he bonked the big redfish on the head, sending him off to deeper water like a jetboat on nitrous oxide. Unfortunately, despite Cleve’s best efforts, this scene would repeat itself all day. We saw plenty of fish – I’d estimate up to 50 – and we had many shots, but the fish were extremely skittish and usually scooted with any cast that landed even remotely close to them. Cleve fished us hard and towards the end of the day Jeff and I had already resigned ourselves to a redfish beatdown. We were tired and bug-bitten by some type of tiny biting fly that was particularly fond of Jeff’s exposed ankles. Cleve expressed his own frustration with the day – “we had eight yesterday” – but he added that redfish on the panhandle can be that way.

Jeff departed the following day, and I enjoyed a few more days of fishing the lakes for bass…

and beautiful Choctawhatchee Bay for trout.

Soon enough it was my time to leave too. I took the same route home and arrived in the still cooler weather of Lake Ontario. Memories of warmth, white sandy beaches, dark green and gleaming silver fish now faded. But rather than being despondent leaving the great fishing of Destin, I had cause for happy days ahead – the smallmouth pre-spawn bite loomed in the offing.

Toothy Critters

The Last Studs

Thanks, Dad…

Fish Hound

Finn – Never Grow Up

Earn this…

Grippen Pond – back to life

Fathers, Haircuts, and Fishing…

Tom Nixon and the Calcasieu Pigboat

Fishing in the Golden Years – Part 2

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