Archive for the Writing Category

Stinky Beach…

Posted in Fishing Reports, Saltwater, Thoughts, Writing with tags , , , on August 6, 2019 by stflyfisher

You can’t go home again

Thomas Wolfe

American novelist Thomas Wolfe once wrote “you can’t go home again”. One of his novels, titled as such, explored numerous themes related to home, among them, that once one leaves home, it is never the same over time and one never returns to the same place. The story goes that Wolfe took the title from a conversation with the writer Ella Winter, who remarked to Wolfe: “Don’t you know you can’t go home again?”

I thought about this theme recently as I fished a beautiful stretch of bay beach and sod bank in Ocean City, Maryland. It sits just inside Ocean City Inlet. The inlet was formed during a hurricane in 1933 and separates what is now Ocean City (Fenwick Island) from Assateague Island. The Army Corps of Engineers took advantage of nature’s intervention back then and made the inlet permanent. The inlet eventually helped to establish Ocean City as an important Mid-Atlantic fishing port as it offered easy access to the fishing grounds of the Atlantic Ocean.


In this photo, the Ocean City Inlet is clearly seen, separating Assateague Island from Fenwick Island (Ocean City “proper”). Stinky Beach is the beach in the middle top of the photo, just south of the Rt 50 bridge on the inland side of the bay.

I was in Ocean City as part of a July 4th weekend visit with my wife’s brother and his family. My brother-in-law had purchased his parent’s retirement home there, a 1990’s 4 bedroom contemporary in Ocean Pines, an old resort community somewhat inland from Ocean City and Assawoman Bay. We would visit the place when my wife’s parents were in retirement, usually around July 4th weekend. Its proximity to good saltwater fly fishing made it all the more appealing to me. My wife’s family, non-fly fishers (golfers no less!) and late sleepers, didn’t mind me slipping away in the pre-dawn hours any time we were there and it was no different this time.


Once referred to as “Stinky Beach”, the place I always fished on the bay is now officially called Homer Gudelsky Park and that name has an important local story of its own.


Homer Gudelsky was one of the Washington DC area’s leading real estate developers and investors. The son of Russian immigrants, Gudelsky was raised on a farm in Baltimore County where his father started a gravel business. In the 1930s, Homer and his two brothers took over the business, opening a plant, Contee Sand and Gravel, in Laurel. During World War II, Homer served in the Army in Europe. Returning home from the war, he moved to Silver Spring in 1946, and during the postwar years invested profits from the sand and gravel business in suburban real estate at a time when the Maryland and Virginia suburbs were experiencing vast and rapid population increases. Mr. Gudlesky, with his wife, set up the Homer and Martha Gudelsky Foundation in 1968. The Gudelsky’s wanted most of the funding to go to the state which had been good to the family. Homer died of leukemia at the age of 78. His largesse left Stinky Beach for the greater good.

Stinky Beach – Homer Gudelsky Park – is 100 yards of rock-fortified rip-rap and another 100 of sandy beach and sod banks, with salt marsh tucked behind. A deep channel runs by it, offering boaters access to a harbor, and providing good fishing for “flounder” (summer flounder) – also known as fluke in more northerly salt. Its proximity to the inlet also means good fishing for bluefish, striped bass (rockfish in Maryland), drum, sea trout, and sharks.

Years ago, before development enveloped Ocean City and its surrounds, Stinky Beach was just another sandy, soddy piece of bay frontage. Commercial fishermen would stop there and clean their catch there; hence the name. The place is now a haven for picnic, recreational fishermen and families looking for a place by the bay to relax, swim, and walk their dogs. Lost in a maze of development, Stinky Beach stands at the convergence of two forces – the natural world and the ever-increasing human population. Sadly, it is a last foothold of sorts of the old Maryland shore.

My wife, youngest son, and I got to Ocean City on Wednesday night, July 3rd, and I went to bed much later than I wanted but still managed to get up relatively early for fishing the next morning. I arrived at Stinky Beach around 6:30 am and it was just as I remembered from my last visit, some years ago. The morning was already hot and humid, almost steamy at such an early hour. The sun rose in the east over Fenwick Island, my view interrupted by the island’s development – condos and hotels reaching skyward. Looking at that horizon, I wondered what Fenwick Island must have been like when Homer Gudelsky purchased Stinky Beach – then most likely a barrier island with a few summer cottages, fishing shanties, old-style motels, and a boardwalk.

I geared up, walked to the park, and waded in the bay where the rip-rap ended and the beach and sod banks began. There was little current then, the tide just beginning to flood after slack tide. I worked a heavy clouser off an intermediate sink tip line, casting up current, mending up tide to let the fly sink, then letting my fly swing across the bottom with short strips. I was hoping I’d get into a summer flounder that way, as I had done on a few occasions in the past. There was plenty of bait in the water – killies swam about in the lee of the current break my legs afforded them. Crabs scurried about the sandy bottom too.

As the sun rose over Fenwick Island, the whole beachside world seem to rise with it. It wasn’t long before boats powered out of the harbor nearby, their mates readying gear as their sports smoked and chatted hopefully. Watching them gave me hope too.

People began arriving as the morning hours waned, many led by eager, joyful dogs. I watched one couple with two labs – an older gent of a dog with grayed muzzle and what looked like his adolescent “little brother.” The poor older lab could not get away from his tag-along sibling, the younger dog constantly latching on to the retrieving duck big brother held, trying to play tug of war. If the older dog could speak in human, it would have been “just leave me alone” (add your own expletives).

I fished on and the current quickened with the flood tide. I could see sporadic bird play out well beyond my cast, and nervous water, signs that the baitfish were stirred up by hunters on the prowl. I thought I might have a shot at schoolie stripers or cocktail blues. At one point I had a few snappers boiling at my fly as I hauled it skyward to cast again.

With the fluke seemingly not interested in chasing a fly, I scaled down to a lighter and smaller clouser pattern – chartreuse in color in the spirit of Lefty Kreh, a Marylander and author of the saying “if it ain’t chartreuse, it ain’t no use.” I started casting this lighter fly, stripping a little more aggressively, hoping to steal the attention of gamefish on the prowl.

A gentleman came by, walking his small dog. He stopped to watch me fish and told me he and his family visited Ocean City often for vacation, and though a fly fisher, he never considered fly fishing the salt. This seems to be a regularly occurring comment when I am observed fly fishing the salt. So many freshwater fly fishers have no idea what they are missing when they take a trip to the beach and leave their fly rods at home.

Maybe it was that thought that turned my luck on. As the man started to walk on, I stripped and came solid to a good fish that exploded out of the water, gills flaring. The fish took off bay-ward and made my reel sing a sweet song. Then I saw my line angling upward and witnessed another jump. I thought this was a nice-sized bluefish, but as I worked to land it, I saw what looked like spots. Sliding it up on the beach, I realized I had caught a spotted sea trout – a close relative to the weakfish we often catch in Barnegat Bay and northern waters – a southern cousin of sorts. This was a personal best for me…


The Spotted Sea Trout

This fish had the spike-like teeth of a weakfish, fought well, and would have been excellent table-fare.


A spotted sea trout comes to hand, courtesy of my very own custom made 9 weight TFO BVK.

Contrary to its name, the spotted seatrout is not a member of the trout family (Salmonidae), but of the drum family (Sciaenidae). It is popular for commercial and especially recreational fishing in coastal waters of the southeastern United States. Adults reach 19-32 inches in length and 3-15 pounds in weight. This fish was a very nice specimen and turned an otherwise uneventful morning to a great morning out.


The man who had passed by came back over, excited with my fly fishing success. He took some pictures to show fishing friends and then took a few for me. I released the sea trout and fished a little longer, but soon my time there was up. I headed home to a house of still-waking family. I fished the next morning, hoping for a repeat or at the very least, a few summer flounder, but it was not to be.

It was a nice July 4th weekend, all in all. There was good food and drink, family “catching up” and lots of laughs. The hot steamy weather reminded me of so many other visits when my children were little. Way back then I did not fly fish and knew little of the fishing opportunity that Ocean City held for saltwater anglers. Eventually, after getting started with fly fishing the sweet water, I ventured into saltwater fly fishing. I bought my first saltwater outfit and Ocean City beckoned.

On a hot and humid July morning, so many years ago, I sloppily cast a clouser, and let it drift with the hope only fishermen have, and a fluke rose off the sandy bottom and took it. That day added another dimension to my fly fishing life, one that grows as the years go by. Thomas Wolfe was wrong, I think. Stinky Beach, Homer Gudelsky, and a hurricane in 1933 said it all to me on my recent visit. You can go home again…


Remembering Don…

Posted in Smallmouth Bass Fishing, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , on August 3, 2019 by stflyfisher

In memory of Donald A. Calder

A great bass fisherman, an even better fisher of men…

9/5/29 – 8/3/15

I quartered my streamer up-current and let it sink, dead drift, in the river braid. As it swept past me, I pulled it back in short strips interspersed with a pause – letting the olive marabou and the silly legs of the fly do an enticing water dance. Midway back the fly stopped abruptly and I swept-set the hook. My fly rod took a deep bend with the pull of a solid fish. Nothing exploded skyward on the set, so I knew this was not a smallmouth bass. Whatever this was just throbbed in the current, moving powerfully upriver, then twisting back with random but decidedly heavy surges that tested my drag. The fight continued a time; a tug of war followed by heavy sullen plodding. I started to think I had a big channel catfish on the line.

The fish continued the fight even at my feet, then finally emerged, turning away once more with the slap of its tail. I saw in that boil of river water, green and gold and white and began to wonder about this “catfish.” Then I brought to hand the biggest walleye of my fly fishing life…


I pulled him up carefully, respectful of his canines and sharp gill plates, and laid him where the river lapped the bank. Standing back with camera in hand, I marveled at his length, the green mottling of his back against golden-hued flanks and his ivory-white underbelly. His river camouflage was that of a warplane – coloring that made him invisible against the sky from below and perfectly invisible against the river bottom when seen from above.

After a quick picture I returned the walleye to the river. With one hand beneath his broad pectoral fins and the other grasping the narrow of his tail, I held him head-up into the current. His gills flared and as I felt the life come back to him, I loosened my grip at the base of his tail. With a strong sway of his head he pulled away and slipped back to the river, swimming slowly across the braid, melting into the bottom. And that is when I remembered Don and smiled to myself at the thought of his disdain for walleyes: “they fight like a bag of rocks”, I’d heard him say on more than a few occasions.

“All Americans believe that they are born fishermen. For a man to admit a distaste for fishing would be like denouncing mother-love or hating moonlight.”

John Steinbeck

It was in August of 2015 that I got a call from Bill – Don’s son and a best high school friend – that Don had passed away from cancer. And so I made my way down to northern New Jersey on a hot humid day to attend his memorial service and to give the family my personal condolences. The service was light-hearted, as I am sure Don would have wanted it. Afterwards, there was a reception at “The Legion”, a place Don frequented to have a beer with old warriors.


Don with a nice Wisconsin musky…

Now, some 4 years since Don forever hung up his spinning rod, I continue to fly fish and I think of Don. I target the smallmouth bass, my favorite gamefish – and Don’s favorite as well. But us anglers cannot always choose the fish that respond to our offerings. And on that recent foggy summer morning, a walleye took my fly, and Don came down to earth…

A part of my personal philosophy is that fishermen are born but never really die. Those that eventually slip the grips of gravity end up hanging around us, the water-bound, and watch the casts we make. We are reminded of these old fishermen in odd ways. When I am lucky enough on my home water, a nice smallmouth will launch skyward after taking my streamer and will invariably bring a smile to my face just as it did for Don. I pass an angler at the fishing access, enjoying a cold can of Budweiser after a hot day on the river, and I am again reminded of him, a tall lanky guy who sported a ball of a beer belly later in life, and who was rarely seen when land-borne without a Bud in hand. The wind whips up on the river and there he is again – Don just hated the wind, though as a spin fisherman, I never completely understood why – us fly fishers have a bit more of a valid objection. Pike remind me of him too – that peculiar smell of their slime has never left me ever since first landing one on a big Mepps spinner fished from Don’s boat. And of course there are stories from times I did not fish with him – the time Don used a large spring-device to keep a pike’s toothy yap open while removing a hook. After removing the hook, Don released the pike, forgetting that he needed to remove the spring!

Don was more than a fisherman who could tell stories. He could engage one so very well that once he caught you, it was rare you’d ever want to be released from his sense of humor and maybe too, his wisdom. For memories of fish and fishermen have always been magical in their ability to grow larger than life. The smallmouth Don caught and released will always be bigger than my own. This is a fisherman’s right, just as it is to pick and choose the stories that we leave behind. And, as with Don, a fisherman but always first a fisher of men, some of them scorn walleyes…



Heaven on earth

Posted in Saltwater, Thoughts, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , on May 13, 2019 by stflyfisher


Like ev’ry flower wilts, like youth is fading
and turns to age, so also one’s achieving:
Each virtue and each wisdom needs parading
in one’s own time, and must not last forever.
The heart must be, at each new call for leaving,
prepared to part and start without the tragic,
without the grief – with courage to endeavor
a novel bond, a disparate connection:
For each beginning bears a special magic
that nurtures living and bestows protection.

We’ll walk from space to space in glad progression
and should not cling to one as homestead for us.
The cosmic spirit will not bind nor bore us;
It lifts and widens us in ev’ry session:
For hardly set in one of life’s expanses
we make it home, and apathy commences.
But only he, who travels and takes chances,
can break the habits’ paralyzing stances.

It might be, even, that the last of hours
will make us once again a youthful lover:
The call of life to us forever flowers…
Anon, my heart: Say farewell and recover!

Hermann Hesse

Jack Hofen sat on the trunk of a fallen white cedar and looked out at the bay. The cedar, a casualty of the ebb and flood of tide and the hard nor’easters of fall, lay where the bay lapped the sedge island. Jack’s free hand was resting on the bare wood of the trunk – waxy smooth and buttery yellow. It was lovely to the touch and somehow comforting on this Mother’s Day.


Jack looked out on Meyer’s Hole, the deep water just inside the inlet and the lighthouse, and the beginnings of Barnegat Bay. He was waiting for the tide to ebb. The tide was at full slack, the bay’s surface as motionless as a mill pond. He needed the moon to act so that the waters of the great bay would be drawn back to sea, that magical pull draining the bay all the way up its tiniest tributaries, even to the distant pineland bogs where the sweetwater and bay brine intermixed. Then the richness of the backwater, the great salt marsh, would yield to the pull, giving itself to the bay and the inlet. The backwater would drop, forcing killies, spearing, shrimp and crab to come out of hiding. And the striped bass, tide-runner weakfish, and bluefish would be waiting, set up to gorge themselves as the tide washed its bounty seaward. As Jack waited, he remembered an Athabascan Indian saying: when the tide goes out, the table is set.

Barnegat wide

Jack checked his leader and tied on his favorite fly – a white half and half. It was weighted with heavy eyes and on an intermediate line would get down to where the fish would be holding. He carefully tied the fly on to his leader with a loop knot that would give the fly more life in the current. After doing so, he wondered if he should have tied on a bite guard. Experience had taught him if he had a take and the leader was cut clean, it was time to tie on a bite guard. He decided to wait, hoping that fishing “naked” would bring him good luck.

Rigged up and ready, Jack sat and watched the water. A light sea breeze soon came up as the sun crept above the horizon. He thought about his mother. He remembered her smile most of all, and how she gave endlessly to others. He remembered her making breakfast for him on Opening Day, driving him to the Saddle River while it was still dark, just so he could get a good spot. He remembered birthday lunches – thick roast beef sandwiches and a Hostess cherry pie. He remembered her enthusiasm about his fishing, how he always felt the hero coming home with fish. And he remembered one of the last fish meals they made together – fluke with a delicious Chablis sauce. The dementia had started creeping into her life then, so he gave her simple repetitive tasks that made her smile.

His mother was a devout Catholic and her faith had been everything to her. Since her passing he had wondered what faith meant at life’s end, for though he believed in God, and believed she was now in heaven, he did not know what or how to think about heaven. Catechism taught about the soul but it had not taught where it went, other than “to heaven.” Heaven seemed like the universe – endless – but how did one think of “endless.” And what was heaven like – was the soul in heaven a person, a thought? Did it come and go like the wind? All his life all he had known were the Hollywood images – people clothed in white, the soft light, and the clouds. It bothered him that he had never asked his mother about it while she was alive.

Soon enough, the bay began to stir. Jack saw sea grass on the surface, moving imperceptibly with the still young ebb tide. Now he waited anxiously. The breeze had freshened and left cat’s paws as it skimmed the bay’s mirror-smooth surface. There was no bird-play as far as he could see. He knew from experience that the herring gulls and laughing gulls would sense the fish long before he did. And so he watched the sky and the horizon for them.

With time, the tide ebbed, the water now flowing like a stream past the sedge island on its way to the inlet and the sea beyond. Jack got up from his perch and walked to the sod banks. They were soft and spongy and bounced as he walked them. The strong tidal currents had undercut them in places and he knew enough to fish them carefully. The drop-offs could be 2 feet from the edge and plunge to 20 feet or more. He knew of a fisherman who had drowned at the very spot, and he wondered what heaven was like for him.

The birds finally arrived and wheeled overhead. They were seeing things that Jack could not. He laid out some line and began to false cast, shooting his fly, quartered up tide, just like he had done so many times when fishing a streamer in rivers. He mended a few times to let the fly get down deeper, then let the fly swing in the current, bringing it back with short strips. He repeated this as he moved along the sod banks and saw an area where there was a point in the bank. He looked at this area as a good ambush site, where fish could hold just off the current in the lee of the point, much like trout might hold behind a big boulder. He cast again quartered up current and let his fly do its seductive dance as he stripped it back on the swing. The fly stopped and Jack instinctively strip-set, feeling that good heavy sponginess of life on the line. His rod took a deep bend with each surge of the fish, so powerful that they had all the markings of a bass.


He fought the fish in the current for several minutes. The fish surged heavily with the tide, using its broad, powerful tail. He gradually got the fish out of the current and slid it into the shallows. It was broad-shouldered, bright, and thick – everything a striped bass should be. He released it quickly, smiling as it sprayed him with water with a broad slap of its tail.

The fishing continued with a slow but steady pick over the next hour. They were mostly schoolie stripers with a few that pushed the mid 20″ mark intermixed. But as all good things must end, the pace soon slowed to nothing but unrewarded casts. The lull seemed odd to Jack as the current was approaching full ebb and running at its strongest.

And that is when the blues showed up. They arrived under circling, hovering birds, like a swarm of hornets, slashing at a school of baitfish, sending it flying in all directions. The birds dove into the fray, risking being bitten in the effort to feast on the bait now pinned to the surface. It was barbaric how nature played. He watched the blitz surround the edge of the sedge island.

Jack stripped line and made a quick cast. The fly landed in the midst of the fray, the line coming tight with a thump that nearly jerked the rod from his hand. A bluefish raced off and bored deep into the current, stripping line with ease. Jack tightened the drag and his rod doubled over, bucking with the fight. Where striped bass were all torque, blues were all speed and power. They were fast, dogged battlers, yellow eyed demons, armed with razor-sharp teeth.


Jack landed the first blue, rushing to get it released and to throw another cast before the blitz moved on. He hooked and landed a second blue that ran him into his backing – a big chopper stuffed to the gills with baitfish. And then they were gone almost as soon as they arrived. That is how they were – a brutish hit and run wolfpack. All that was left of them now were pieces of flesh and vomited baitfish drifting in the current, the aftermath of their lust to gorge. He watched as birds again circled and dove in the distance, now far out of reach. His mind drifted off again.

He thought about the call in the middle of the night from his sister. He knew before he even answered the phone that his mother was gone. His brother had gone to the nursing home to identify the body and as he returned and drove up the road to the house, he saw an unusually bright light. The light was at telephone pole height, and arced across the black night sky from the house and in the direction of the nursing home. His brother did not know what to think of it. It was too low to be a shooting star or low flying plane. And it was too bright and too fast also.

Jack thought more about heaven while searching the bay for more life. He could not think of heaven as a spring creek cutting through a soft meadow where every cast was met by a big rainbow or brown. This did not seem real to him. He wondered if heaven was no more than a void where pain, suffering, and fear did not exist. Or maybe it was like it was before he was born – unknown, unreachable, unthinkable. He was sure his mother was in heaven, but where?

The ebb tide gradually slowed to slack low and Jack knew he’d have to wait hours for the flood tide.  It had been a nice morning. He had gotten into them good and he smiled for that. But gnawing underneath was still the question.

It would be a long trudge to his car, skirting deep drop-offs on the sod banks along the back of the sedge island. He set off, the sun creeping higher in the sky, heating the day, and with the heating of the land, the onshore breeze stiffened.

As he waded along the sedge island, he caught movement in the grass nearby. Looking closer, he saw a terrapin struggling. It was tangled up in a mass of mono-filament line, exhausted by its bindings. Jack bent down and pulled the terrapin from the tall grass. He laid him on his bag and cut away at the tangle with his nippers. At last he freed him, carefully placing him back where he had found him.

The terrapin slowly moved deeper into the island grass. As it disappeared, a cool soft breeze seemed to envelop Jack and the heat of the day lifted, the sounds of distant laughing gulls, hushed. Jack stood up and looked around. The blanket of air surrounded him for a few minutes, then moved off, exposing him again to the heat of the sun and to the sounds, smells, and sights of the bay. But what was momentarily stilled seemed now much more clear and alive.

He continued his hike to the car, coming to the trail that crossed the sedge island. The trail weaved in and out of bayberry and holly, patches of sea grass, and stands of cedar. The sun was bright and high in the sky, and the laughing gulls cried out in their jesting way as if to make fun of Jack’s struggle. He stopped to look out on the bay one last time as he approached the access, the bay deep blue and white-capped. He felt his mother’s presence more clearly now than he ever had since she had passed. Looking back on the morning, he realized she was there in everything he saw and sensed. And it occurred to him then that his search had been too deep – his thought of heaven had been far more complex than it needed to be. Heaven, he believed, had always been right right under his nose – in his struggles, his passions, his needs, his questions, his joys, and his tears. And his mother, and indeed all of those he knew who had passed, were with him every time he thought of them.

Jack Hofen reached his car and raised his eyes to the bright sky. He was thankful for good fishing, but more so, for a catch he would not release. Heaven truly was, on earth.



The Golden Bear

Posted in Rod Building, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , on May 1, 2019 by stflyfisher

“And how you should make your rod skillfully, I will tell you. You must cut, between Michaelmas and Candlemas, a fair, smooth staff six feet long, or longer if you wish, of hazel, willow or aspen; and heat it in an oven when you bake, and set it as exactly straight as you can make it; then let it cool and dry for four weeks or maore. Then take it and bind it tight with a good cord to a bench or to an exactly squared timber. Then take a plumber’s wire that is straight and strong and sharp at one end. Heat the sharp end in a charcoal fire till it is hot, and pierce the shaft with it through the pith of the shaft — first at one end and then at the other until it is all the way through. Then take a bird spit and burn the hole as you think fit, until it is big enough for your purpose and like a taper of wax; and then wax it. …. In the same season, take a rod of white hazel and beath it even and straight, and let it dry in the same way as the staff; and when they are dry, make the rod fit the hole in the said staff…”

from “The Treatise of Fishing with an Angle” (1450) as modernized in “The Origins of Angling” by John McDonald (1963 Doubleday)

We got in late, unloaded the car, and settled into our place. Once everything was put away, I made my way to the owner’s closet. Inside, leaning against the far wall, was the big tube that housed a rod that had spent the last 7 months in fly fishing hibernation.

I pulled the fly rod – affectionately named “The Golden Bear” –  from the tube and with maker’s pride, joined its two pieces and assembled the removable fighting butt to the chrome reel seat. The rod felt as good as ever in hand. I admired the shiny green blank and the green and gold wraps, glistening with the high gloss of multiple coats of marine spar varnish. I sighted down the guides and felt great satisfaction and then a twinge of guilt for my pride, Catholic that I am…

I had built this rod with fly fishing the salt in mind. The guide set is PacBay, saltwater grade. The butt section sports three big stripper guides versus the normal two and all the snake guides and tip top are larger for shooting line. It has a 2″ fighting butt that helps with “putting it to the fish”, as they say. The PacBay blank is a medium-fast action – buttery smooth – faster with floating line and slower with sinking or sink-tip lines.

I caught some nice smallmouth bass with this rod in its first year…


The Golden Bear and some bronzeback…

It was righteously baptized when I hooked a good-sized carp that ran far out into heavy river current and put a deep bend in the rod.


Big carp are a rod-builder’s best field testers…

Its first year of freshwater rites of passage led to a one-way trip to Destin, Florida, where The Golden Bear has spent some good days in the surf and the bay. Heading up the beach one day I passed a young couple, fly fishers themselves from Colorado, who flagged me down to ask about the fly fishing. As we chatted, the husband seem to be fixated on the rod. “You made this?”, he said, almost in disbelief. He held it and gave it the fly rod wiggle. “Man, this is nice”.


Redfish meets The Golden Bear…


And as recently posted here, the Golden Bear has also served in the freshwater of Destin.


While I enjoy tying flies, I find rod-making a higher calling and a potentially marriage-threatening addiction. It is both technically interesting – there is an element of design in it – and a true act of craftsmanship. In rod-making, one combines skill and creativity to make a tool that can be used and admired, given as a gift, or sold. The same applies to fly tying, but a rod fished will be around a lot longer than a fly fished.  Too, it is a legacy craft. The very rod I fish may someday be the same one that starts another generation of fly fishers, remaining in family hands.

The Golden Bear has younger kin. I’ve now completed my fourth rod, the three descendants being an 8’9″ 4 piece 5 weight TFO Finesse given to my brother-in-law as a 60th birthday gift, a 9 foot 4 piece 8 weight built as a prototype river rod, named “The River Rat”…


The River Rat…

…and a 9 foot 4 piece 9 weight TFO BVK aimed for saltwater duty in the Northeast.


The 9 weight BVK blank getting wrapped…

Down the road, I plan to build a 9 foot 8 weight TFO BVK and a further improved 9 foot 8 weight River Rat. Also, recently added to the list is a 5 weight my cousin’s husband has asked me to build.

Graphite or glass rod making is the process of finishing a rod as opposed to bamboo rod-making where the actual rod blank is built and then finished. The equipment needed to build a graphite blank and the process is capital intensive – not that bamboo rod-making equipment is cheap – but potentially more in reach monetarily for the true enthusiast. But whether finishing or truly building a rod from the blank up, the process is soulful. Wrapping starts with symmetry and builds from there to inlays and other ornamental wraps. And while most makers coat their wraps with epoxy, I prefer to use marine spar varnish, in the tradition of master maker and teacher, Joe Swam. Varnish is more flexible and I think more weatherproof than epoxy, though more time-consuming in its application since 5 to 7 thin coats take much more time to apply than one coat of epoxy. The varnish lays flatter over the thread wraps – there is no bulge of coat like one often sees with rods that use epoxy – and ultimately varnish holds its gloss longer. And then there is that intoxicating and rich aroma…

Building a fly rod takes patience, something fly fishers should already have in spades, but also skill, an eye for detail, a creative sense, and the drive to see the build through. I think for as long as I walk this good earth I will continue to build fly rods, particularly in the cold winter months when a warm crackling fire burns in the fireplace, the snow coats the ground sugar-white, and the wind batters like a gale at the windows. Then, entranced in the act of building, interspersed with a sip of good scotch, I’ll think of the good days to come and another fine fly rod of my own to take me there…

Ole bucketmouth saves the day

Posted in Fishing Conditions, Fishing Reports, Saltwater, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , on April 25, 2019 by stflyfisher

It was an 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.


Just steps off the deck…

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.


A personal best Florida largemouth…

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 giving praise. I felt righteous, indeed. After a quick picture, I released the fish, and headed back to my own place with a definite skip in my step.

But 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.



Posted in goals, Rod Building, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , on March 16, 2019 by stflyfisher

I put down the windows for the rush of air and to discourage conversation. I’m thinking of one of the last times Chester and I ever fished together. We had a remarkable day of catching, and he turned to me as he winched the boat onto the trailer. He had a giant cigar clamped between his teeth, and a large grin. “Those are the kind of days that keep you young, son,” he said, and then he cranked the winch handle like a man half his age.

Fish Pimping

Callan Wink

I believe in goals. Without them, my life would feel rudderless – a ship at sea drifting, with no destination and ultimately no purpose. Every year I set goals, then circle back and look at how I did against them. Some years I do well, others I find myself to have strayed, but as once said by General Dwight D. Eisenhower;

In preparing for battle, I have always found that plans are useless but planning is indispensable.

And so, every year I do my best to look into the future and project a path for all areas of my life, including fly fishing. I am convinced I am a better fly fisherman for doing that.

My goals for 2018 were aggressive, perhaps too much so for the year that was. As mentioned in my looking back post, it was a difficult year for a number of reasons, and one that kept me high and dry, rather than wader wet, more often than I would have liked. So what follows is my assessment on my performance to 2018 goals:

  • Expand my knowledge of smallmouth bass. Never happened… (0%)
  • Read books related to fly fishing, talk to and fish with experts, and study smallmouth bass biology. (0%)
  • Read Dynamic Nymphing by George Daniel. Did not happen… (0%)
  • Learn to fly fish for Muskie. (0%)
    • Purchase line and leader
    • Tie flies
    • Study muskie fly fishing
  • Saltwater fly fish in Destin, FL. Scored big here! (100%)
    • Expand bay and surf fishing activity. Fished both extensively.
    • Target reds, trout, ladyfish, jacks, and spanish mackerel. Caught a nice red, lots of ladyfish, and lots of pompano.
  • Saltwater fly fish the NJ coast: Here again I scored big! (100%)
    • Spring bluefish bite – the spring bite was more about stripers, but I did get one blue. I’ll try this one again for 2019.
    • Fall albie bite – my timing of the fall albie bite, was off, but I did get out. 
    • Possible tuna trip – never made this one.
    • Stripers – got out in August but not in the fall.
Cayuga lake 013

Dawn patrol, Barnegat Inlet…

  • Continue fly tying – learn to tie 5 more patterns. (100%)
    • Tied a number of unique patterns along with some of the usuals. One such pattern scored me my first ever Lake Trout!

Cayuga lake 057

  • Float-fish the local warmwater rivers (6X). Did not float the rivers at all, mainly due to high water. (0%)
  • Fly fish, practice casting, or attend fly fishing events 100 times this year. As previously reported, I only got out 35 times in 2018. Attendance to fly fishing events was poor as was my practice of casting. (25%)
  • Learn to build leaders. (25%)
    • Buy leader kit – not done.
    • Buy leader micrometer – Completed.
    • Fish my leaders – I have built some leaders and fished them. (50%)
  • Night fish for trout. Never got out. (0%)
  • Build more fly rods / advance my rod building skills: I’ll give this one 100% considering:
    • “River Rat” prototype. Started late 2018 / completed in early 2019.
    • Saltwater fly rod. Started and completed in early 2019.
    • Fly rod for BCFF auction. Push this into 2019 / 2020.


Trying best to summarize with an overall score for 2018, I’d say I landed a 40% – not very good. But I’ll take the highs and plan for a better year in 2019.

After assessing my overall performance, I always take time to rethink and re-tool my goals. For 2019, I have re-categorized my goals, to give me a little more focus.

  1. Knowledge
    1. Read Dynamic Nymphing
    2. Study smallmouth bass biology
    3. Study casting – read books, watch videos
  2. Fishing
    1. Fish 100+ times.
    2. Recon / fish 5 new areas
  3. Casting
    1. Practice 25 times
    2. Study FFI Certified Casting Instructor
    3. Video my casting
  4. Tying
    1. Tie 5 new patterns
    2. Learn 1 new tying technique
    3. Perfect the Wooly Bugger, Clouser, and Half and Half
  5. Rod Building
    1. Build 3 rods
    2. Improve wraps
    3. Learn new inlays
    4. Establish rod workshop


Looking back on 2018…

Posted in Fishing Conditions, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , on February 11, 2019 by stflyfisher

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

I believe it is very important to take a look back on the year that was, reflect on it, and hopefully learn from it before looking forward to the New Year, making plans and setting new goals. So here is my look-back on another interesting year fly fishing in the Southern Tier…

Water, water everywhere… Mother Nature sent our area some climate curve-balls which had a big effect on fishing – in some cases helping, and in other cases outright shutting fishing down for certain species. One need only look at the climate chart for Binghamton to recognize that precipitation was way above normal.

KBGM2018plot (1)

And this made some types of fishing challenging, especially for wading fly fishermen. Interestingly, average temps were higher than normal on both ends of the year, like bookends, yet the majority of the year, stayed within historical norms.

A review of the USGS water gauge for local creeks and rivers mimics what the overall climate chart shows:


My home water, the Susquehanna River, was not wadeable until July, after which flows moved up and down erratically, requiring critical timing to hit windows of lower flows. The river was somewhat fishable for boat anglers, but even then, varying high flows made it a hit or miss proposition. The same was the case for the other warmwater rivers like the Chenango and Tioughnioga and even the Chemung which drains a completely different watershed.

Similarly, the West Branch of the Delaware also ran very high for most of the year. I did not wet a line once on this great river, and just a few times on other trout rivers / creeks for that matter.


Fishing in my pond has been excellent in recent years, and 2018 was no exception. A winter kill in 2012 wiped out most of the bass and the fishing suffered for a few years but some selective restocking after the winter kill is already paying off. I think the overall balance of the pond’s fish species is better, resulting in fewer but bigger bass and some big sunfish. The grass carp have been restocked too and are thriving in the aquatic-rich pond environment.


A pre-spawn largemouth out of Grippen Pond…

2018 was my absolute worst year fly fishing for smallmouth bass, my favorite gamefish species. I only got out a few times due to weather and a pretty busy personal life, but high unwadeable river levels are the primary cause for my absence from the river.


This personal best walleye was the highlight of one of just a handful of outings on the Susquehanna River.

While fishing was way off for me for smallmouth bass and creek / river trout, 2018 will go down in my personal history as the greatest to date in the salt. Part of my saltwater activity was the result of having a place in Destin, Florida. There I have easy and quick access to the beach (the Gulf) and to Cowahatchee Bay. In April, I was able to cash in on an incredible run of pompano in the surf. On one day alone I caught and released over 30 of these “baby permit” that would hit clousers and crab flies aggressively and make high speed runs, using their tall side area to put on quite a fight. Throw in a few big ladyfish and you have quite a day. I also fished the bay and landed my first decent redfish.


Little speedsters of the surf. Pompano are great game on an 8 weight…

Over Memorial Day weekend, I fished Barnegat Bay and caught 4 nice schoolie-sized striped bass off the sod banks – a first for me.


Barnegat Bay striper…

The following day I went out with Captain Greg Cudnik, a great saltwater guide and owner of Fisherman’s Headquarters in Ship Bottom, NJ (on Long Beach Island). We fished the North Jetty from his boat and shook the skunk there early in the morning, but the real action turned out to be in the bay. We ended up drifting the flats and had a phenomenal day with schoolie stripers. In some cases I was hooked up on every other cast!


I went again with Greg in the summer and had great luck with resident striped bass. Unfortunately, the timing of a fall trip with Greg for false albacore was off by a week or so. While we saw big schools of white bait (anchovies) the albies were not around. As is the case with fishing often times, it was a case of “you should have been here yesterday (in this case substitute with tomorrow)”…

Alaska! My wife and I were able to enjoy a dream trip to Alaska. The trip was a sea-land cruise package with Holland America in late August / early September. We cruised up the inside passage in Southeast Alaska. After leaving the ship in Seward, we took a motor coach to Denali. All of that nature got me thirsty for fly fishing. Fortunately, I had booked a one day float with FishHound Expeditions. My wife would tell you I booked a cruise to go fishing but I honestly figured if I am going all that way, I can’t NOT fish even if for only a day. And so we did

That’s right, “we” did fish. Well, more correctly, my wife went along for the ride at least. And with subdued tones, she would later admit it was a lot of fun.


Another first for 2018 – my wife in waders!

I missed the 2018 fall steelhead / salmon season due largely to work commitments, but did manage to fish the Finger Lakes area where I work for short periods of time. I have found flexibility is key in making fly fishing opportunities happen, particularly when one works for a living. The fall FL trib runs were reportedly strong and I was able to cash in on a nice landlocked salmon on one evening of fishing with my cousin’s husband (he caught a nice lake-run brown – a first for him).


I was also able to get out a few times to fish the lake at Taughannock Falls. Fly fishing friend John tipped me off on the good fishing with some sound advice and so I made my way there, with my cousin’s husband, John. The fishing was slow at first, almost to the point where I was ready to give up after slinging a full sinking shooting head and heavy streamer for a few hours, but while doing so, I had seen lake trout and even some brown trout milling about in the depths of the lake. These fish seemed a little skittish. But finally, as the sun got low in the sky, a bite materialized, if only for a half hour.

Cayuga lake 057

Another first – laker on the fly!

Looking forward to a better 2019

My log of fly fishing days for 2018 was on the light side. I made it out 35 times, compared to past years when I fished 100+ days. One’s odds of fishing success are bound to improve the more one wets a line. Having said that, this year was truly unique in the number of “firsts”, compared to previous years, so in retrospect, maybe it was a good year of a different sort.

In 2019, I hope to log a lot more time on the water than I did in 2018. Be looking for my annual goals blog post, where I will once again look at how I did against last year’s goals, and lay out some new ones for 2019. I am already wondering what Mother Nature will have in store for us weather -wise. I am itching for much needed relief of bronzeback fever, sooner rather than later. Maybe the spring will be dry and I’ll have a shot at pre-spawn smallies. But there’s that great Pompano bite, drop-back steelhead, pond bass, tributary rainbows, early season creek fishing, and the Delaware waiting in the wings as well. We are certainly blessed with more opportunity for fly fishing than many other locales. There’s just not enough lifetime to do it all. Here’s to 2019!


Posted in Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , on January 26, 2019 by stflyfisher

In memory of John Raymond Hatfield…

1928 – 2004

The salmon were in. From above the tail-out of Plumber’s Pool, I saw them; a big hen holding over a bed of gravel and a handsome buck guarding her as jack salmon took turns trying to dislodge the larger suitor. The water suspended them in its glassy flow, a gift from the river’s far reaching fingers. Just upstream, a towering falls thundered, casting its froth to the wind and cooling the air even more than it should in late autumn.


From my perch on the bridge, I watched an angler emerge from the scrub of the river bank to fish the pool. He shuffled with elder steps, his stooped posture and bowed head that of a blue heron in stalking. His long mane, white as the falls-cast spray, whipped in waves as the wind buffeted him. He tried in vain to cast high enough into the pool to allow his streamer to sink well before the tail-out. His casting stroke was slow and deliberate – his long rod moved the way it should – but the wind overcame his frailty. Wise in years, he moved upstream and deeper to improve his position, but the unyielding current rebuffed him even as he leaned into it with his wading staff.

The angler’s struggle brought thoughts to mind of my late father-in-law, Ray. I could see his shadow looming through the translucent glass of a doctor’s office door. Framed in rich mahogany, the scene played out: an upright shadow approached, leaning down to him, speaking in hushed tones. At the age of 58, Ray listened to his doctor give the final prescription: he should retire and live out as many years as he could before his failing lungs took their last breath.

Silent to a fault and with a stiff upper lip, Ray never showed what likely ate away at him during those final years. He did the best he could with his sentence, retiring early, and building a house on the ninth hole, a place he duly deserved after 30 years of commuting from New Jersey to New York City while raising 6 kids, living, loving, and perhaps, wanting a bit more. Golf had somehow eluded the busyness of working life, so those first years of retirement were lived deliberately, ushered in with late morning risings, choice tee times, and capped with sunsets and vodka gimlets, both welcomed but measured. Eventually, however, the doctor’s words cast their pall and one day on the very course that hugged his retirement dream home, a final swing was made.

Now, as I approach that same age, I think of my father-in-law sitting before the doctor, the scene that we watch in our own way and that all of us must act in at some point in our lives. Golf, fly fishing – life itself – is a continuum of firsts punctuated by an inflection point, where lasts begin.

And so I watched the elderly angler finally give up the ghost. He looked up at me, as if cursing fate, his mouth gaping open and ringed white from exertion. He ambled into the riverside brush and I followed with my own retreat to a warm car. Fall waned that day and winter waited hauntingly in its wings. And I wondered as I walked away; would he remember his last cast, and would I, my own?


The Grinch…

Posted in Flies - Local Favorites, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , , on December 23, 2018 by stflyfisher

I am not alone at all, I thought. I was never alone at all. And that, of course, is the message of Christmas. We are never alone. Not when the night is darkest, the wind coldest, the world seemingly most indifferent. For this is still the time God chooses.
Taylor Caldwell

Jack Hoffen arrived in the dark, having hiked a good mile through snow from his car. He looked down-river in the faint light of dawn and took solace in the view. The silver lining in the dark cloud that followed him was that he was the only angler on his favorite Great Lakes tributary.

It felt good to be fishing, especially without the typical crowds, but most of all because fishing always lightened his emotional load. During his most trying times he had made a point of going fishing despite the weather or conditions, as he knew he would end the day with a fresh perspective on a problem or at least with the will to face it on his feet. Today, especially, he needed to get away from his troubles, for it was Christmas Day.

The morning sky had dawned bright and clear and the sun had given Jack some relief from the bitter cold. But as morning turned to afternoon, snow squalls swept in and darkened the sky, coating the ground with yet another layer of lake-borne snow. Fringed in the white of the woods, the river ran quietly by, its sounds deadened to a soft murmur.

Jack had fished a broad riffle and deep run all morning and early afternoon and then made a move to a choke point in the river upstream where big boulders had been placed to protect a high bank from erosion. He watched the swirling waters of the eddy that the boulders formed and thought how similar his emotions had been lately. The spot had been good to him in the past but now, absent anglers, he could fish it better than he ever had. But none of the egg patterns he used earlier that day had worked and it was bothering him. He had adjusted leader length, weight, tippet size, and changed later to an indicator set-up with no luck. Even the Salmon River Gift, a favorite pattern for killing the skunk, was not drawing strikes. It was as if the steelhead and browns had taken the holiday off.

Jack opened his sling pack, searching for answers. Digging deep into his bag, he pulled out a box of woolly buggers. He had not opened the box since the spring when black sparkle buggers had been the ticket for dropback steelhead. The woolly buggers were arranged in tight, orderly rows in the box, much like the sardines he had wolfed down for lunch. He grew sad thinking about the spring and its excellent dropback fishing and how a great day on the river had ended so badly. He remembered returning home that evening, and finding the note. He grew sadder still thinking about where his life had taken him: a cold can of sardines on a lonely river on Christmas Day.

Emotions welled up while Jack looked at the box. Reality bit as hard as a steelhead taking a fly on the swing. His eyes clouded up with tears, several of which dropped into the box and onto the flies in their neat rows. And that is when Jack noticed a different color bugger emerge that had, until then, lay hidden by its black and olive box-mates. Pulling the fly out, he recognized it as a pattern a guide had him fish on the Bighorn River many years ago, in happier times. The pattern was called “The Grinch”, and for good reason: it was dressed in glorious Christmas color; red and green sparkle chenille body, red wire counter-wrap, and an olive tail accented with red flash. Maybe, he thought, this pattern was different enough to rouse a strike. Darkness was approaching as he tied on this last hope of a fly. He decided to fish it dead drift off an indicator, letting it swing as it tailed out downstream.


The Grinch (picture courtesy of East Rosebud Fly and Tackle)

Jack lobbed the rig up above the river chute and high-sticked it, watching the white indicator as it bobbed down the fast water of the chute and into the run below. Once it had swung out, he let it hang briefly in the current and repeated the process like any good steelheader would do. After a few drag-free drifts, he changed his cast so the rig would drift closer to the large boulder that formed the choke point in the river. The indicator rode the heavy water, then shot underwater as it passed the eddy formed by the boulder. Jack immediately swept his rod down and to the side and felt the heavy sponginess of a good fish. It was all he could do to recover the slack caused by the fish as it immediately reversed course and rocketed down the river. At last the line came tight and the drag brought the fight to the fore. A lengthy battle ensued up and down the pool.

Jack beached the fish on the smooth gravel bank at the tail of the pool. The buck steelhead laid there looking almost as dark as the water, with the Grinch prominently adorning the point of its kype. He removed the fly, briefly admired the fish, and then held the big steelhead in the current to revive it. Slowly its strength came back and then it was gone, back to its icy black world.

Day’s end neared now: the sun had dropped behind the hills to the west and Jack began to think about the long hike ahead of him through the deep snow of the woods. He wished he had brought his snow shoes. Before leaving the river, in a moment of charity that belied his troubles, Jack clipped the fly off and left it on a prominent flat rock at the pool tail-out. ‘The Grinch may have stolen Christmas, but this Grinch gave it back’, he thought. Perhaps some lonely, discouraged angler, like himself, would discover it. And perhaps too, it would do more than catch a steelhead on an otherwise luckless day, as it had for him.

Jack started the hike back to his car. The snow was deeper than he thought and he labored against it, breathing heavily as he lifted his legs high to move forward with each step. The sky had cleared again and the wind had dropped. He could see the stars overhead, bright pinpricks that winked at him amidst the inky black heavens. The woods was beautifully silent and still.

Jack thought about the steelhead and the fly that saved his day. The fly reminded him of  characters of Christmas stories whose lives, sad, destitute or seemingly doomed, had been saved: the Grinch’s heart had grown three sizes larger, Ebeneezer Scrooge had become a better man, and George Bailey discovered that one had no troubles who had friends. Jack could not be sure his wife would ever forgive him or even return to him, nor could he bet that his children would ever open their hearts to him again. But for the first time in a long time, Jack Hoffen looked forward to the future. Hope had come to him in the form of a fly. He had a lot of Grinches to tie before this Christmas ended.




Redfish and the value of fly fishing…

Posted in Fishing Conditions, Fishing Reports, Flies - Local Favorites, Saltwater, Uncategorized, Writing with tags , , on October 19, 2018 by stflyfisher

“What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value.”

Thomas Paine

I awoke eager to see what the wind was doing early that morning. Looking out the back sliding glass door of our townhouse, I could see the lake behind our place was as still as a mill pond – a nice sight for a saltwater fly fisher. Even the palm fronds were still.

I made some coffee and busied myself with cleaning my line and getting my gear and flies in order. I wanted to get to the bay before the wind came up and while the light was still low on the water.

The bay was still flat when I arrived, with just a few sporadic cat’s paws on the bay’s surface. The water was cool, shocking me more so out of warmer expectations, but once in, it felt just fine as I waded to where the the salt marsh began.


I started out fishing a small pink and white clouser on an intermediate sink tip line. My 8 weight fly rod – the first fly rod I ever built – proved perfect for fishing the bay water. In a few past outings in spring and fall, I focused my fishing efforts on the deeper water of the bay – the channels, sloughs – and then on the potholes – slight depressions on the flats that sometimes harbor fish. But after dredging the depths with nothing to show for it on this morning, I decided to change the game plan and explore new bay water, well beyond where I’d ever gone.

I waded along the salt marsh grass, stepping as carefully as a blue heron stalking the shallows, scanning the water for shadows or signs of fish. I changed my fly to a small shrimpy looking pattern that cast easily and was light enough to enter the water with little splash.


The Hot Legs Foxy Gotcha – pic courtesy of

As I approached the mouth of a tidal creek, I noticed two forms slowly move out from the shoreline. I followed their movement and immediately recognized them as good-sized redfish. They didn’t appear spooked but I questioned whether it was worth a cast to them as they lazily swam out. I decided ‘what the hell’ and made a 15 foot cast the put my fly slightly ahead of them and to their right. I allowed the fly to sink a bit and gave it a twitch-strip and I was tight to a red.


The red bolted bayward and I frantically cleared the slack line and got the fish on the reel. It then swam hard in a long wide circle, swinging back towards me. It was a nice fish and had its friend swimming alongside the entire fight, apparently checking to see what all the fuss was about.

I soon slid the red up on a break in the salt marsh where there was sand. The shrimp fly was perfectly set in the corner of its mouth. Clad in hues of copper, pink, and red, I noticed even dark blue on its tail, and the unmistakable black dot as well.

With that first success in hand, I continued to stalk the salt marsh edges and saw at least half a dozen more fish. One more showed interest, but refused at the last moment.

Later as the sun rose and the wind began to come up, I made my way back to leave the bay, stopping briefly to talk with a spin fisherman who had been casting from a long pier. He had been using a popping cork rig and shrimp. The float was supposed to rattle and pop, attracting the attention of redfish to the bait. It seemed clumsy and I didn’t see that there was any way he’d catch a thing given the low clear water, the high sun, and the “spook” factor of the fish.

“Getting anything?”, he asked as he looked down from the pier. He was old, tanned, white-haired, and dressed in white sneakers, socks pulled up high, a neat T-shirt, and golf shorts, appearing more like he was running errands in town than going fishing.  “I got one nice redfish”, I said. “What are you using?,” he asked. I showed him the shrimp fly. “I’m not a lure guy” he said without a hint of disdain. “I like to use bait”.

We talked a little more and then bid each other farewell. I finished my way back to the bay access and by that time the wind was breezing up and the sun was high in the sky. I was wet from the wade but comfortably warm with the breeze taking the edge off the late-morning heat. The bay was a checkerboard with patches of light water over sandy bottom and alternating darker patches where the turtle grass grew dark green and lush.

As I approached the bay access, I met another man about my age who was relaxing on a bench while his dog ran around the bay beach. He asked me how I did and we began talking about fishing. He claimed to be a fly fisher, saying he had an 8 weight in a closet of his condo but admitted he had never thought of fishing the salt with his fly rod.

This man told me a bit about his life and his fishing adventures, which were extensive. He had owned a big center console boat and had fished the deeper offshore water of the Gulf, but only occasionally in the bay. He finally sold his boat due to the high cost of ownership and the fickle species regulations for offshore waters. He had also fished other saltwater areas, most notably the Keys, but again he had never thought to bring his fly rod along. I told him he should break that 8 weight out and give the bay a try, and maybe even the surf. But I sensed his reticence. Perhaps it was too complicated, perhaps he feared he didn’t have the skills, or maybe he didn’t believe saltwater gamefish would come to the fly.


The ride home…

So I left the bay, hiked back to the golf cart, and headed home, thinking about my experience. I was happy after a nice morning on the water, exploring new water, unique methods, and feeling good about a plan that came together. To top that, my redfish had been a “first”, hopefully to be followed by more in the years ahead on that emerald bay.

But beyond happy, I was thankful for the skills fly fishing had taught me. While no fishing is easy, catching fish with a lure is challenging, but to catch a fish on a fly is, arguably, the ultimate of fishing challenges. That challenge comes in many forms to the fly fisher, and particularly in the salt: wind and current test casting and line control, casting comes with it’s own set of technical difficulties in that lines, flies, and tackle are heavier, and fly rods are often faster action. Finding fish is dependent on a lot of new factors when compared to freshwater fly fishing: tidal changes, wind direction that can move water and vary water temperature, fog, and other environmental factors. And then there are the fish themselves. But for those who can prevail over the difficulty, fly fishing can be far more satisfying. With that satisfaction comes the confidence to keep on, and ultimately, achieve a level of effectiveness one never thought possible.

So I am thankful for redfish and, for that matter, all fish that beckon a cast. Because of them, I am a better angler.