Category: Fly Fishing Miscellaneous (Page 1 of 3)

General category related to fly fishing.

Fishing with the ladies…

August 24, 2026 / stflyfisher / 0 Comments

My connection with Destin, Florida is now over 10 years in the making. My wife and I have owned a townhouse there ever since being introduced to the place while visiting our son, Chris, who worked as a PGA Pro at Regatta Bay Golf and Yacht Club. Chris has since moved on to a far different career but our connection to this Florida panhandle city and the beautiful “Emerald Coast” remains.

Destin sits on a long peninsula of land between the Gulf of Mexico and Choctawhatchee Bay – a large saltwater bay, 129 square miles in size, that is fed by the gulf tides to the south and estuary rivers to the north.

In addition to an abundance of places to fish saltwater, the area is dotted with ponds and lakes that hold largemouth bass and panfish. Depending on the weather and sea conditions, an angler always has a choice of bay fishing, surf fishing, and pond/lake fishing. There’s rarely a time when a line has to sit dry for long.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA — Miles and miles of white sandy beach await the early morning fly fisher…

We are now waning out of August as I write this and memories of the terrific fall fly-fishing here in New York that awaits fills my fly-fishing mind with great anticipation, but maybe because of a spate of hot, humid, weather, I can’t help but think of a late summer visit to Destin years ago and a very special introduction to a “gamefish” of another sort.

August in Destin, oddly enough, is considered “off-season” in terms of tourism. By late July visitors from as far away as Michigan and the upper Midwest, but primarily from the southeast, are leaving. School starts early in the south and the heat and humidity in the panhandle turns downright oppressive. The beaches slowly turn quiet with the ebb of vacationers.

For most of this August visit I chose to fish the surf. I had previously fished Destin in the spring and fall, focusing on the bay. I’d heard summertime had a significant “trash fish” bite, but among that rubble was a gem of a fish that had a reputation as a great adversary on the long rod: the ladyfish…

The ladyfish is a ray-finned fish also referred to as skipjacks, jack-rashes, or tenpounders. They are coastal-dwelling and found throughout the tropical and subtropical regions of the world but occasionally venture into more temperate waters. Ladyfish prey on smaller fish and shrimp. They can grow to over 3 feet in length and may reach 20 pounds in weight. More commonly, they are found to range from 12″ to over 20″. The body of the ladyfish is a tapered spindle shape with an oval cross-section. Their eyes are very large as are their mouths. Their incredible aerial acrobatics in combination with a hard mouth allows them to throw a poorly set hook quite easily. They are largely silver and white in color, but their backs are a light olive to sand color with a beautiful band of light pink where their color transitions to silver.

After arriving at our place and settling in, I rigged my 9 weight fly rod with a full intermediate line and took a quick golf cart ride to the beach. I walked east beyond the swimming area and began casting a size 2 chartreuse and white clouser minnow. It wasn’t long before I was hooked up and witnessing first-hand, the incredible high-jumps of the ladyfish.

ladyfish.jumping.olander.doug — Ladyfish are known as the “poor man’s tarpon” due to their incessant aerobatics, as captured here in this picture courtesy of Doug Olander.

I fished the surf for several days and found varied fishing conditions for these surf-side torpedoes. One day the surf was flat as a mill-pond and I spent much of the day running up and down the beach chasing ladies crashing the beach. Their devastating attacks on glass minnows in the shallows reminded me of bluefish blitzes. On other days the surf was up and the ladies were still biting but were spread out and cruising resulting in a slow but steady bite. One hot afternoon I found them on almost every other cast, though they were not showing themselves as they were on the calmer days.

One group of Mississippi fly fishermen respectfully refer to the ladyfish as the Mississippi tarbone and point out that local anglers can experience much of the thrill of catching tarpon and bonefish without having to leave Mississippi waters.

I found the “ladies” to feed very aggressively and take almost any fly I threw at them. While I didn’t try topwater, I’m sure a large popper thrown into their blitzes would have resulted in regular hook-ups. At times they would feed actively in large schools and could be seen porpoising as they chased bait in the shallows. The most effective flies were shiny, silver, or white. A white clouser with some flash combined with a fast retrieve that imparts plenty of action to the fly is all that is needed to catch these lightening bolts of the salt.

While sometimes difficult to hook, ladyfish will strike again and again on the retrieve. Their mouth is hard and very abrasive; leaders should be checked frequently for fraying. On the advice of the local Orvis fly shop, I used a small bite guard of 30 lb. mono as ladyfish are not at all leader shy. And I’d also recommend not using expensive or intricate flies because they will get chewed up and stripped to a bare hook in no time! A 1/0 stainless hook tied with a lot of flash and some white hackle, or deer hair will do the trick. Don’t spare the glue or epoxy! Simple and bullet-proof will work well.

The fish I caught ranged in size from 12″ to over 24″. Any ladyfish will fight hard but when they get over 18″ you will quickly be grinning ear to ear with their blistering runs and spastic leaps. I caught several larger ones that put a serious bend in my 9 weight and made long reel-screaming runs followed by tarpon-like leaps.

Noreen Galaba ladyfish — A nice-sized ladyfish caught while wading. Photo by Captain Baz Yelverton.

I fished my 9 weight rod because one never knows what will show up in the surf, including redfish, jacks, and sharks, but I could have gone lighter. A 6 – 8 weight rod would work just as well and reduce arm fatigue from casting. A floating line can be used when the fish are in close but I prefer an intermediate or intermediate sink tip to get down in the water column. A simple 30 lb. mono leader transitioning to 20 lb. of 5 to 8 feet in length is all that is needed on the business end. Flies do not need to be big, but I found that a larger hook helps increase hook-ups.

Ladyfish are often cursed by anglers because they can aggressively interfere with fishing for other species. Redfish anglers, for example, will stalk a flat only to hook up with a ladyfish and spook every red on the flat. But I welcome the opportunity to waltz with the “ladies”. I can count on them to join me on the dance floor with every cast. Their high leaps from the emerald waters of the Gulf straight up to the bright blue Florida sky are a delight to behold and I hope to be back to ask for another dance with them come next summer.

The All-Rounder

August 8, 2026 / stflyfisher / 2 Comments

You might have heard it as you worked your way up through high school, preparing for college, a profession, or work: “you should go out for track (or band, or the debating club, or…) to be more ‘well-rounded’. Whether that worked out for you or not, there is some merit to the strategy of being a “renaissance man”, so to speak – so much so that a version of the term even eked its way into fly fishing.

The Orvis Company, a giant in fly fishing, began a transition to graphite rods in the early 70’s, thanks to Howard Steere, the superintendent of the Orvis fly rod shop. Steere loved bamboo but had the vision to recognize the potential of graphite as a fly rod blank material. During this era, no company had built a satisfactory graphite fly rod. Orvis eventually came out with their own and these rods included the Orvis 8’3” All Rounder 7wt. The name of the rod recently caught my eye, especially in light of my parent’s well-meaning lectures to be ‘well-rounded’ in life…

41753 — The Orvis All-Rounder – 8’3″ of versatility…

While there is truly no all-around fly rod, the Orvis All-Rounder is considered by some to be a good attempt at a noteworthy objective in rod design. It is a full-flex rod with great butt strength and a soft tip and because of its design, it has the ability to cast a lot of line or cast short. The rod handles small flies fairly well yet due to its line rating, can throw streamers in the salt. Its short length allows its use in small streams that have close alder growth and cover.

OldCatalogs018 — A description of the All-Rounder found in an old Dan Bailey’s fly fishing catalog…

As I researched the All Rounder, I started to realize how specialized fly fishing product has become. These days one can buy a myriad of fly lines with tapers targeted to specific fish species, casting taper (WF, DT, Intermediate, Sink Tip, etc.,) and even fishing conditions. A recent scan of one online fly fishing store’s inventory showed a Mastery Redfish Warm and Mastery Redfish Cold fly line. Talk about niche fly lines! The same applies to fly rods where the choices must be absolutely bewildering and intimidating for beginners. Material choices have expanded and now include bamboo, fiberglass, and graphite, as well as composite blends. The lengths of fly rods range from diminutive 5-foot creek rods to 14-foot Spey rods, all offering different cork grip options, reel seats, guide types, ferrule types, and sections, including a return to one-piece rods. Actions vary from slow to ultra-fast and then there are rods built for specific species or types of fishing, switch rods and nymph rods being examples of recently marketed niches.

And yet, many of the old timers and the greats of fly fishing did just fine without the specialization. Lee Wulff, for example, spent a lifetime pursuing larger fish on lighter tackle and frequently used a one-piece, six foot bamboo rod to catch fish ranging from small stream trout to Atlantic salmon up to 26 lbs!

I happen to own a Scott G706/3 (7′ 6 weight 3 piece) that is a replica of the fly rod that Scott’s founder, Harry Wilson, first built for Lee Wulff. It supposedly became Lee’s favorite fly rod, and he used it to catch everything from trout to Atlantic salmon to permit.

None other than Lefty Kreh was once interviewed in an excellent video about his fly-fishing biography during which he bemoaned the fly-fishing industry’s over-pricing of product so that many people – particularly the working class – have not been able to afford to enter the sport of fly fishing. Lefty also discusses fly rods during this video and has an intriguing take on their classification. He breaks down fly rods into 3 categories as follows:

Presentation weight – up to 6 weight. These are generally used for trout fishing where tippet protection is of upmost importance.
Distance weight – 8 to 10 weight. These are used where distance casting and the use of large / heavy flies is common such as with smallmouth and largemouth bass, pike, and carp and lighter saltwater gamefish.
Lifting weight – 12 – 14+ weight. Lifting weight rods are almost exclusively used in saltwater fly fishing where the rod’s primary function is to fight and land big fish.

Lefty’s approach would definitely help any beginner angler slim down their choices to a few, rather than pursuing a stuffed quiver of specialized rods such as I now own, filling up an entire corner of my study. And while Lefty doesn’t see much use for transition weight rods (7 and 11 weight), it’s interesting that the All Rounder happens to fall squarely in the gap between presentation and distance categories.

My own start in fly fishing began with the purchase of a St Croix Pro-Ultra 9-foot 5/6 weight 2-piece fly rod. I bought it at a Dick’s Sporting Goods store for $99. This rod served me well until I began to read fly fishing magazines and then fell under the product trance they sometimes cast. It wasn’t long before I started purchasing higher end specialty rods under the auspices that they would somehow make me a better angler. It’s ironic that even now, with some very good, yet high-priced rods in my stable, I’ll pull out the St Croix.

I’ve often thought of the challenging goal of fly-fishing for a year with some sort of “All Rounder”. I’m certainly no Lee Wulff or Lefty Kreh but maybe fly fishing with one rod could be a good thing for me at one point in my fly-fishing life. It might force me to focus on improving my skills, rather than relying on new fly rod design and technology to bolster me up. And it just might halt my ever-expanding inventory of fly rods, putting a smile on my wife, reducing credit card debt, and even making for a seller’s presence on eBay. We’ve all heard of the one fly challenge – now introducing the one rod challenge, courtesy of the All-Rounder…

Toothy Critters

July 6, 2026 / stflyfisher

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.

Thanks, Dad…

June 21, 2026 / stflyfisher

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…

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.

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.

Fishing in the Golden Years – Part 1

March 23, 2026 / stflyfisher

You do not cease to fish because you get old, you get old because you cease to fish.

Anonymous

It would be a first trip to our little place in Destin where time didn’t really matter anymore. I was free of the corporate chains, retired, and living the “every day is a Saturday” life.

I sketched out my itinerary, travelling from our home on Lake Ontario, which, to my delight, meant a different route than when driving from Vestal. It would be one with some new fish-as-you-go possibilities. Tracing the fastest route on google maps, I found my path took me along “steelhead alley”, an area I had heard much about but never fished. These 400 miles of southern Lake Erie shoreline span three states–Buffalo, New York at its eastern end; Toledo, Ohio, on its western flank; and Pennsylvania’s shoreline in the middle.

After some internet searching, I found Captain Kurt Charters and contacted Captain Kurt himself, arranging for a guide as well as an overnight stay in one of his cabins. I’d be fishing with guide Dale Fogg on Elk Creek. Elk Creek is a 30-mile-long stream in the northwestern corner of Pennsylvania. This tributary, the largest of the streams in “Steelhead Alley”, is best known for its steelhead fishing. Each fall there is a run of fish from Lake Erie that draws anglers from all around, including Canada.

Guide Dale Fogg. Pic courtesy of Captain Kurt’s Charters.

I arrived in late afternoon at Crooked Creek Cottage, a quaint old cabin perched above, you guessed it, Crooked Creek.

Crooked Creek Lodge – all to myself. Pic courtesy of Captain Kurt’s Charters.

The place had authentic old-school fly-fishing charm, with a beautiful stone fireplace, comfy furnishings, and rooms adorned with fish and game.

After dinner out, and a few cold brews, I turned in, looking forward to one more day on northern waters, before plying the warm waters of the gulf.

I met Dale, waders on, at an access adjacent to Elk Creek. He was rigged up and ready to go and after a brief introduction we were ambling down a trail to the creek. Some of the area streams were running high at the time, but the Elk ran clear and at easy wading levels. The Elk runs over bedrock and gravel and features pools, deep runs along cuts in the bedrock, and riffles – very pretty water for sure.

Dale set me up with a 10-foot 7 weight rod and WF floating line, fishing a 2-fly indicator rig – an egg pattern on point with a white streamer as the tail fly. Lake Erie steelhead love eggs but also the emerald shiners that inhabit the creek.

One of the great things about fishing with a guide is the little fly fishing “hacks” you can pick up from their experience on the water. One such hack I learned is to wet and then step on a streamer to get the air out, allowing it to sink faster.

Pennsylvania stocks Elk Creek and other PA tribs with steelhead smolts in the Spring. Dale expressed disappointment that they had been stocked earlier than normal because smallmouth bass run up the tribs in late Spring to spawn and are putting on the feedbag in anticipation of the energy needed for spawning. He feared a year class could be decimated. The steelhead smolts were certainly there – we picked them up frequently on the egg pattern to the point where they were borderline pests.

We started fishing upstream, working the dark cuts in the bedrock. It never ceases to amaze me how easily trib fish can hide in crystal clear and relatively shallow water. The uninitiated would look at these places and declare them fishless.

We moved up to a beautiful long run of some depth, and it was there that I shook the skunk, though I lost that first steelhead after a brief struggle. This would be a recurring theme throughout the day and one common to steelhead fishing. The hookups were often subtle – the slow dunk or even hesitation of the indicator – but each hookset surely set off headshakes that rose to the surface with violent thrashing.

This steelhead hen was likely post-spawn. Note the beat-up fins.

We worked up to a deep creek bend of complex currents and fished that without success. Above us was another gorgeous run but it was taken by a guide and two anglers, so we waded downstream and fished along the way, thoroughly working the seams and pockets.

We arrived at a very nice riffle and run, and it was there that the bite improved significantly, including a huge redhorse sucker that Dale estimated at 15 lbs!

An example of a redhorse sucker. These fish are dogged fighters and can get quite large. Pic courtesy of 365angler.com.

The egg flies were the big producers – I don’t recall picking up any fish on the streamer, although Dale said streamers can work very well at times.

This beautiful piece of water held many steelhead.

We waded down to another deep pool under a train trestle with a deep drop-off and more complex current and I hung a very good steelhead there but lost it. Given the current, the depths, and the limited safe wading adjacent to the pool, I doubt I’d ever have landed that fish anyhow.

Here I’m fishing the “trestle pool” where I lost a very nice steelhead.

All in all, it was a great day, with 3 beautiful steelhead landed and another 7 lost in the fight.

If you fish any Lake Erie trib, you’ll likely pick up quillbacks in the mix.

Redhorse and quillback suckers were also in the mix.

As predicted in the forecast, the skies deepened with overcast, the winds picked up, and the rain came, first in sprinkles, then in cloudbursts along with rumblings of thunder in the distance. Dale was nice enough to push the fishing as much as he dared, but even I started getting a little apprehensive as the thunder and lightning neared and intensified. Dale suggested we head in and I wasn’t objecting.

It was hard to leave fish like this one even with thunder cracking the air, flashes of lightning, and dousing rain…

We hiked back to the access, the only vehicles left, shrugged off our waders, squared up with tip, and went our separate ways in what now amounted to a downpour. I was soon heading southwest on Interstate 90, driving straight into even nastier weather. It took a while to dry out, but I didn’t care. I was tired and happy, and looking forward to my first stop, a cold beer, a steak dinner, a warm bed, and a replay of the day’s great fishing, with steelhead jumping in my dreams.

Ole’ bucketmouth saves the day…

March 14, 2026 / stflyfisher

The fishing was good; it was the catching that was bad.

A.K. Best

It was not a very auspicious start. The first day of the annual spring vacation in Destin was too windy and stormy for fishing the surf or bay, so an evening visit to the lake just steps off our deck was in order.

As the sun began to drop, I sight-fished the shoreline for largemouth bass and after some careful stalking took a personal best fish that jumped like a largemouth should and fought like they normally don’t (as in hard). As Kirk Klingensmith once said during an excellent presentation on fly fishing for bass, “for largemouth its all about the explosive take” (he relegated to smallmouth their rightful place as the harder fighter and no less a jumper). This largemouth bass must not have heard Kirk’s presentation.

What made that catch even more ego-stroking was the crowd that gathered as I landed it. Adults staying in townhouses adjacent to where I did battle were on their decks for cocktail hour. Before long I had a group of them hooting and hollering and raining down praise. I felt righteous, indeed. After a quick picture, I released the fish to applause and headed back to my own place with a definite skip in my step.

Sometimes a little good luck is a bad thing, at least in the fishing world. I headed off the next day, eager to conquer the salt, full of optimistic visions from my last spring trip to Destin. Surely this year’s pompano run would afford me some great action, and unlike last year, I was eager to actually keep a few of these silver bullets of the surf. Pompano are, according to many in Florida, phenomenal table fare. Their flesh is light, fair, and firm to the point where they can be grilled with the skin on.

So off I went in the morning to the surf, high hopes and 8 weight in hand. I walked out across the dunes and there it was – disappointment immediately smacking me in the face. The typically clear emerald waters were dirty and rough. A few bait fishermen using sand fleas for bait – a favorite of pompano – had caught nothing. I walked the beach, cast for a little while into some deep sloughs between the beach and the first bar, and returned home with a big skunk on my back, hero to zero.

I fished the bay, also turbid and seemingly void of fish. A conversation with the local Orvis fly shop’s fishing manager confirmed that the bay was off due to the rain and that I’d be best off to fish the surf. So with renewed hope, I returned to the surf again. The water was colder than last year and previous high winds from the south kept the surf on the rougher side, but clarity was improving and the wave heights were dropping with each passing day. I visited the beach a total of 4 times, and though each subsequent trip saw better conditions, my casts went unanswered. A conversation with a local fisherman confirmed that unusually cold weather had kept ocean temperatures in the low 60’s, whereas normally they’d be approaching 70. This would push back the fishing to later weeks in April or even early May.

Another frontal storm hit Destin on our second and last weekend there. High winds, rain, and cool weather prevailed. On our last day, Monday, the skies cleared bright blue, the sun warmed the air, and the winds abated. The beach had rip-tide warnings posted and the surf was still high, so I returned to fish the lake. We had a late afternoon flight that gave me enough time to get out one last time.

The bass were still around, though in most cases the spawning beds were empty. In some cases fingerlings could be seen in tight schools flitting about the empty beds. I sight cast to fish I saw and enjoyed the challenge of making precision casts. The smaller males guarded a few nests while the larger females hung back in the shadows of the adjacent depths. Both were cautious and spooky and not at all aggressive as they might be early in the spawn. But I did manage to get a few eats, missed a few, and landed a couple more.

One of a few to wrap up our spring trip to Destin…

One never knows what may be in store when travelling to distant places, fly rod in hand. Weather can change and conditions can deteriorate, or conditions can be great and the fish just don’t show up. The great days, the ones that make a fly fisher thank his lucky stars or kiss his good luck charm can both bless and haunt. In the end it is really all a matter of doing thorough preparation and research, damping expectations, and arming one self with confidence and a bit of optimism. Once “in country”, one must try to recon conditions, use weather forecasts and river gauging, and visit local fly shops and talk to fishermen, including the spin guys, the bait guys, and even the commercial guys. All of these sources can help one steer towards a successful trip. Obviously, a fishing destination that is characterized by one “pattern”, as in one river system or one type of fish, carries more risk of the skunk in comparison to areas where there are multiple opportunities, such as in Destin, and our own Southern Tier. I never knew it, but Destin has turned out to be a terrific fishing destination. Most times I’ll always aim first for the salt, but now more than ever, I know ole bucketmouth is always there to save the day.

Pompano on the fly…

March 6, 2026 / stflyfisher

Hey, are you Jeff Lowery? You sure look like him. He’s a fly-fishing legend around here.

Shout-out from an old beach bum in Destin, Florida

He looked like Jim Harrison, the famous writer and fly fisherman, squinty-eyed, wrinkled, and tan as old leather. It was the second time in two days he had asked me if I was Jeff Lowery.

“You asked me that yesterday”, I said with a grin. “Oh, well you sure look like him”, the old beach bum replied. “He’s a fly-fishing legend around here. He fishes from a step ladder on the first bar”. And with that he promptly moved on down the beach in his quest for the elusive fly-fishing legend.

I had arrived early with the morning sun painting the beach and dunes sugar-white and the calm surf in hues of emerald and azure. The first and second bars were clearly visible with the deep blue of the troughs beyond them. The first bar was out 25 to 50 feet. That is where I needed to wade to intercept fish that cruised the trough and crashed bait against the shallows of the bar. It was late-April and the fishing report was that the pompano run was a strong one.

permit pompano spearfishing today — A tale of two cousins…

Pompano are a smaller cousin to the permit – the saltwater fish of fly-fishing dreams and one of the three gamefish of the tropical saltwater fly-fishing “grand slam”, the other two being the bonefish and tarpon.

Pompano can range up to 8 lbs., but fish over 5 lbs., are rare. Even so, they are built for speed with their forked tail and tall compact body. Their saltwater habitat is typically inshore and nearshore warm waters (70-89 °F), especially along sandy beaches, oyster bars and over seagrass beds. Because of their temperature preferences, pompano migrate northward in the summer, and then southward in the fall. Their range extends from Massachusetts to Brazil, but they are most common to areas near Florida. Like permit, pompano feed on crustaceans: sand fleas, small crabs, and shrimp. But they also eat mollusks and small baitfish. They are a member of the jack family (Trachinotus Carolinus) and like most jacks, are very fast swimmers and live in schools. They are bottom feeders with very short teeth made for crushing and their mouths are rubbery, much like a carp.

permit-zoom — The Permit – picture courtesy of Gray’s Taxidermy

I was not sure how to fish the pompano run so I started with a small Clouser in blue and chartreuse. The 9-weight cast it well on an intermediate line and a 6-foot leader tapered down to 15 lb., test. There was little wind to knock the fly down and almost immediately I felt solid taps on the retrieve. As I lifted the fly to re-cast, several small fish came screaming by the fly. I’d deal with these feisty fish all day, dime-bright bullets with tails in egg yolk yellow.

After a few more casts to the deep blue edge of the trough I felt a soft grab, somewhat tentative, followed by a few head shakes and then the jolting of the line and bright flashes in the water. The fish suddenly “grew” in size and made off on a run that pulled my rod down to the horizon, bucking wildly, and had me doing everything I could to keep the slack line feeding cleanly through the rod guides. In no time I had the fish on the reel, the drag screaming as the fish tore off to deeper water.

At times I gained on the fish, then it would reverse and peel out. This continued for 5 minutes and then wondering and hoping it was a pompano, my first pompano, I saw its gleaming deep side and the forked tail. I waded back off the bar into a small trough and up the beach. The fish slowly tired but still fought in the surf. I walked up the beach some more and dragged the fish out onto the beach.

It was a pompano – speed demon of the gulf surf! Its body shone bright in the sun – hues of silver and light blue, its back dark gray with hints of yellow on its underside and tail. The fish had inhaled the small Clouser so I clipped the line as close as I could and released it, feeling good about catching my first pompano.

I waded back out to the first bar. The water was still relatively cool but the sun warmed me. The day brightened and the sea around me turned on with color. I now tied on a fly that imitates a sand flea, one of the principal foods of the beach-running pompano. Like permit, the pompano has a downcast mouth made for eating the bottom dwelling sand flea, among other crustaceans.

Vlahos sandflea — This sand flea pattern was just the ticket for the pompano that ran the troughs the day I fished. This fly was designed by Nick Vlahos and sold on his website (www.sandbarflies.com). The pattern I fished was sold at the Sandestin Orvis store and is called Vlahos’ Marbled Sand Flea.

I fished this fly deeply with short twitches and it wasn’t long before I was fast to another pompano. These fish are truly built for speed in the shallower waters of the surf, and it was evident why when I watched large porpoises in the outer bar that were feeding on them.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, I could see the pompano in schools cruising up and down the beach. I was able to sight-fish them, casting ahead or just short of the school. Though pompano are known for their Jekyll and Hyde feeding personality, on this day the “pomps” were turned on and lit up. Most casts I made were followed and the fly would be attacked even when it meant an about-face for the fish. While the sand flea fly was very effective, switching to Clousers and other bright saltwater streamers didn’t seem to make much difference.

The fishing continued red-hot most of the morning into the early afternoon with 30 fish landed and quite a few more lost. Quite possibly the ultra clear water conditions and bright sun eventually ended the active bite. Pompano are known to prefer turbid waters so maybe too much sun was a bad thing.

After 5 hours of epic fishing in the sun-drenched clear waters of the Gulf, I decided to give the rest of the day back to the fish. I had that good tired feeling as I walked the two miles to the beach access with the sound of a screaming reel and the sight of a deeply bent fly rod accompanying me the whole way. The pompano definitely put a smile on my face and a skip in my step and I was thankful to have met such a beautiful gamefish. I will be sure to return next spring, hoping the timing is in tune with the spring migration and maybe too, in time to meet my apparent fly fishing clone, the legendary Jeff Lowery.

Younger Next Year

March 2, 2026 / stflyfisher

The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.

Robert Frost

We all go through at least a few life-changing moments during our winks on this good earth. For me there have been a dozen or so, most of them deeply philosophical, a few from the school of hard knocks, but two, detailed herewith, that are related to physical fitness. I can see the eyes rolling already; “yeah, yeah, yeah, another message about how important exercise is for good health and what the heck does that have to do with fly fishing anyhow”. Well, bear with me…

Step back in time some 36 years: the location is Camp Pendleton – a United States Marine Corps base in very arid southern California that stretches over 125,000 acres of coastal land made up of salt marsh, floodplain, oak woodlands, coastal dunes and bluffs, coastal sage scrub, and chaparral – basically a very inviting environment for long leisurely walks…

While the weather was quite bright and warm, the greeting committee we NROTC midshipmen met was, well, less than sunny. And the accommodations – Quonset huts right out of Gomer Pyle, USMC, complete with a resident mascot bulldog that had the undershot jaw only an orthodontist could love and the attitude toward us newbies of a junkyard dog. What stands out as most memorable about Camp Pendleton were the leaders we served with for that week – a Latino gunny sergeant whose name escapes me now but who talked about chevies (with a hard “ch”) and cleaning the rifle chamber (with a soft “ch”) – and a most charismatic “bully pulpit” major by the last name of Hatch who unabashedly took us “young guns” to task for being pathetically out of shape and then proceeded to lead us on runs through the hilly terrain complete with oh-so-colorful jodies. I recall one “speaking to” after a run through the hills when we were severely dressed down for not being able to keep up with a man twice our age. So taken was I by the esprit de corps of the place that I remember leaving Pendleton wanting to become a marine officer. A childhood asthma diagnosis ultimately prevented me from walking down that path. While that might not have set well with the mighty major, I think he would be pleased that I have tried to remain fit all the years since…

Fast forward to the summer of 2008: I’m fishing the Chenango River, late one summer afternoon. I round a bend in the river and see another fly fisherman – hunched a little, butt-deep in the river – he false-casts his fly two or three times with nice loops in an easy, almost effortless motion. It’s a rare sight: he is only the second fly fisherman I’d seen on the river in the course of 10 years. I slowly fish my way down to him.

I wade with the river, working my streamer down and across, then pull out just upstream of him. He has a gentle manner about him, and is so soft spoken that I have to draw close and listen cup-eared just to understand his words above the river’s soft murmur. He’s an older man, early to mid 70’s. His face is drawn, his eyes worried…

We talk fly fishing for a bit; he prefers fishing dry flies but laments the days of chasing trout in the faster rivers of the Catskills are largely over. As he says this, he glances down at the long wooden wading staff attached to his waist and wagging atop the water below him.

I wish him luck and wade downriver as evening sets in. A few times I turn upriver and observe him in the same spot, but eventually, imperceptibly, he removes himself from the river. As I finish fishing and hike back to the car, I double back on my promise to keep physically fit but this time the promise is targeted on fighting off aging so that I may actively fish well into my eighties, and even beyond, God-willing.

Sometime after my riverside re-awakening, I came across a book that would be that second life-changing moment related to physical fitness. The book was titled, “Younger Next Year” co-authored by Chris Crowley, a 70-something ball of energy, and Henry “Harry” Lodge, M.D., his internal medicine doctor. The two trade chapters: Chris providing the application and real-world experience side of the book and Harry, the medical facts and reason behind the advice. The book’s premise: if you can fight the biological clock by sticking to some basic rules, you’ll live like you’re 50 well into your 80’s and beyond. I read the book and was compelled to read it again with highlighter in hand.

Harry’s Rules are so simple that one might question buying such a book. But it’s what’s behind the rules that fascinated me most. The medical detail behind each rule convinced me of the book’s worth and reminded me of a common criticism I have of the medical profession: that many doctors preach rules, order tests, but rarely take the time to explain “why”…

So, here are Harry’s Rules:

1. Exercise six days a week for the rest of your life.
2. Do serious aerobic exercise four days a week for the rest of your life
3. Do serious strength training, with weights, two days a week for the rest of your life.
4. Spend less than you make.
5. Quit eating crap.
6. Care.
7. Connect and commit.

Notice that the rules go beyond being just a gym rat, another thing I loved about the book. And even the importance of non-physical rules, such as “Connect and Commit” are backed by sound medical rationale.

The book is a delightful read, especially for us older guys. It’s written by a guy who can relate to age and by a doctor who sees daily, the results that lifestyle can have on one’s aging. Harry and Chris use the mantra, “grow or decay” throughout the book and it is a good one to remember as is their chart that depicts normal aging and what “old age” can be.

Here, according to the authors, is how we typically age…

And here is the aging process if we live by Harry’s Rules…

According to Harry, over 70% of premature death and aging is lifestyle related and that through simple lifestyle changes, captured in Harry’s Rules, over half of all disease in men and women over 50 could be eliminated.

The choice is ours. We can look at aging and all the associated aches and pains and limitations as normal, or we can choose to delay the onset of the slippery slope, and continue to live well into our 80’s.

And so I’ll begin 2016 with another read of Younger Next Year. I’ll think of all the fishing left to do in my life and remember the old guy on the Chenango. I’ll re-commit to fighting the relentless tide of old age, with Harry’s Rules in hand, so that I can still venture out and wet a line well into my 80’s. And with a little luck, maybe I’ll hear the young bucks over the roar of the fast water say, “would you look at that old guy?”

Category: Fly Fishing Miscellaneous (Page 1 of 3)

Fishing with the ladies…

The All-Rounder

Toothy Critters

Thanks, Dad…

Earn this…

Fishing in the Golden Years – Part 2

Fishing in the Golden Years – Part 1

Ole’ bucketmouth saves the day…

Pompano on the fly…

Younger Next Year

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