Monday, September 30, 2013

Is It Fall Yet? (with Sharks)

When I left my house to go fishing Sunday morning, the thermometer in my rearview mirror read 69, which was the first time I'd seen the 60s in months. I knew I was headed to a flat where I might find some redfish, and my hopes were that they'd be starting to school up with the cooler weather and water temperatures. No such luck. I drifted and paddled across a couple miles of flats, picking up only a sea trout and a mangrove snapper (not counting one overly aggressive pinfish).

I did see three reds, but not before they managed to see me. A sheepshead ignored about four casts before deciding to swim away. Overall, not much action. That is, until I turn a corner into a bay, across which I was supposed to meet my family for lunch. Here, schools of mullet and other baitfish were being harassed by predator fish, including a three-foot bonnethead and a five-foot blacktip. The blacktip was remaining pretty visible, and I had to decide whether to cast at him with the 20-pound mono leader on my rod or just turn on the GoPro and try to catch him that way. I was already late for lunch, so I chose the latter. Keep in mind, objects in GoPro are closer than they appear.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013


Too rainy to fish
Might as well write a half-assed
Haiku for my blog

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Book Review: Pulp Fly

I don’t know how it is in the rest of the country, but it seems like the supply of good fly fishing literature has dwindled in recent years in my neck of the woods. When I got into the sport, in the 90s, my local Barnes and Noble had a good three or four shelves worth of fishing books, most of the titles related to fly fishing. That may have been due to the efforts of Robert Redford, but even so, it’s how I became acquainted with John Gierach, Robert Traver, Nick Lyons, and Jerry Dennis. Now, though, the same store stocks the better portion of only one shelf, mostly with how-to/where-to books.

These days, I feed my need to read (about fly fishing) with a few excellent periodicals, like The Drake and The Flyfish Journal, as well as some really great blogs and e-magazines, such as This is Fly and Southern Culture on the Fly. Still, as I sit and re-read my battered copy of McGuane’s The Longest Silence, I find myself itching for new book-length publications. 

When I recently discovered Pulp Fly, an e-book of fly-fishing-related short stories and essays, I was eager, yet dubious. Why, I thought, would it only be published as an e-book if the quality of the stories was up to snuff? Then I saw that some of the contributing authors had written for some of the periodicals and blogs that I’ve come to enjoy. So I hit the appropriate buttons and downloaded volumes 1 and 2 to my Kindle.

Upon finishing both volumes, perhaps the greatest compliment I can pay Pulp Fly is that these are not stories about fly fishing. The fishing serves as a motif, a thread to tie the very different pieces together. These stories are about people. They are all people who fly fish, sure, but the act of fishing is merely a stroke of characterization, which for me, serves to strengthen the pieces because I find myself connected to them through this shared passion. 

That’s where the similarities between stories ends, however. To call them varied would be an understatement, as the pieces cross multiple genres, such as crime and science fiction, with many striving toward the literary and one serialized piece that pays distinct homage to the genesis (at least in my mind) of American literary flyfishery: Hemingway’s Big Two Hearted River.

Pulp Fly bills itself as filling a niche occupied in the 20th century by pulp magazines -- inexpensive repositories of entertaining adventure and mystery stories churned out by young or upcoming writers, some of whom, like Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, Elmore Leonard, and John D. MacDonald, would go on to publish some of the most popular and enduring stories and novels of their time. I would say that on this note, Pulp Fly succeeds in its objective, had such a niche in fly fishing literature ever existed. In any case, it does now, and I’m glad Pulp Fly is there to fill it.

Sunday, September 22, 2013

Saturday, September 21, 2013

Carolina Dreaming

Florida summers are hot. There’s no escaping it. It’s hot in the morning, hot in the evening, blazing hot in the afternoon, and slightly less hot in the middle of the night. The  weather warms in April and doesn’t let up until October or November. So despite loving the fishing down here, there are times, in the midst of this endless summer, when I find myself yearning to be up high up some cold mountain trickle dapping for colorful little wild brookies

It would be a long drive up to North Carolina to get anything like that, so I turn to the next best thing: bluegill. While we have no mountains and the temperature can’t be helped, at least I can fish for colorful little freshwater fish with my 4-weight and flies that look like bugs.  

This morning I had that freshwater feeling, so I dug out some hoppers and nymphs from my last trout fishing excursion a couple years ago, knocked the rust off the 4-weight, and headed out. I probably drove past a hundred retention ponds full of bluegill to get somewhere a little more natural -- a slow-moving blackwater creek flowing through a nearby park. It’s not exactly wild, but it’s a pretty close approximation for its location in the middle of a metropolitan area, and Fish and Wildlife did recently pull a wayward 11-foot, 700-pound crocodile out of the lake that feeds the creek. They released it 300 miles away, where it was born, near Key Largo, I guess so it wouldn’t have a bad influence on our local alligators.

I strung up my rod, tied on one of the hoppers, and on my third cast, a bluegill slurped it down with a smacking kiss. I brought it in and let it go, thinking that I would have a couple hours of fun with the little fish on surface flies. I was mistaken. I had not another bite the entire morning. I switched flies. I tried fishing on the surface, under the surface, tight to the bank, in deeper water, in the sun, in the shade, and couldn’t buy another look. So after an hour or so, when I snapped off a fly on a DO NOT FEED OR MOLEST the alligators sign, I reeled it in and drove home. But I guess I got what I was looking for after all -- the bluegill doing their best trout imitation by turning selective and tough to catch.

Friday, September 20, 2013


Beer number 2: Anything from SweetWater. SweetWater, out of Atlanta, puts out a line of nice beers. They sport a rainbow trout on the label, and you don't have to feel any guilt about drinking them because SweetWater is a contributor to the Waterkeeper Alliance, which works to preserve rivers, streams, and coastlines and keep them clean and free of pollution. So do your part to fight pollution and have a couple SweetWaters.

Wednesday, September 18, 2013


The humble haiku. Have you seen them? Yes. Even about fishing? Uh huh. Written them yourself? In seventh-grade English class. So why bother?

It might be fun and a way to squeeze in a little creativity in a very short amount of time. Anyway, here goes:

Mythic proportions
Through fish-eyed GoPro lenses
Become commonplace

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Cast and Repeat

The water hisses against the underside of my SUP as I paddle across a small saltwater lake, connected to the Gulf of Mexico by a short creek that cuts underneath an impassable tangle of mangroves. The clouds hang low in the sky, purple and swollen with rain that has yet to fall. I feel their weight somewhere deep within my consciousness and kneel as I strip line from my reel. From my knees I lift the line into the air, casting sidearm toward a hole in the shoreline, a shadowed cave where the snook of my imagination dwells, a thick beast of a fish hovering near the bottom, finning slowly against the tide, growing with each false cast until I let the line go and send my fly to its fate.

I strip the line through my fingers, waiting for the fly, an abstract foam and feather shrimp imitation that I had lovingly tied only hours before, to be engulfed, to be sucked into the raspy maw of a backcountry leviathan. Strip. strip. strip. The fly pops on the surface. Rain begins to drizzle, pattering on the brim of my hat. Strip. strip. strip. The fly is moving farther from the edge, out of the strike zone. Nothing.

I repeat the exercise again and again, dissecting the shoreline. With each cast, hope ebbs and wanes, until a fish strikes. Not the snook that’s been swimming in my head, but a snook. It takes the fly just as I’m about to lift my line from the water once again, a pleasant surprise, but overmatched by my eight-weight rod. It jumps two times, shaking its head and cartwheeling back into the water. The fight is over quickly, and I slide the fish into my hand, maybe fifteen inches long, warm like the water, like the air, like me. 

It happens like this three more times this evening -- two snook and a chunky mangrove snapper that fought bigger than it was. Thunder sounds in the distance, and I reel in my line, hook my fly in the stripping guide of my rod, and paddle back across the lake, water hissing softly underneath me.

Ready to Go

Friday, September 13, 2013

Low and Clear

I realize that I may be a little late to the game on this one and that the movie's been around for a little while, but it hasn't been on iTunes all that long, so it's new to me. Low and Clear is a documentary about two old friends (one of them J.T. Van Zandt, son of Townes) whose bond was built through fishing. After drifting apart through factors of geography, responsibilities, and the diverging currents of different lives, the two men get together to test that old bond on a steelheading trip to British Colombia. The film includes a compelling story, some good music, and gorgeous cinematography featuring both B.C. and the Texas coast. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend finding it on iTunes and giving it a watch.

Like P.O.M.F on Facebook

Proportions of Mythical Fish is now on Facebook. Follow the link and like it.

Harrison vs. McGuane

Nice article on MidCurrent about two of my favorite authors. Try Ninety-Two in the Shade or The Longest Silence by McGuane and A Good Day to Die by Harrison.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Favorite Flies: Gurgler

I would say that when I've gone out lately (mostly to fish for sea trout over grass flats or snook in the mangroves) the first fly I tie on is the gurgler. It's light, easy to cast, floats well, and produces great topwater strikes. Because it's really just the foam with that cupped lip that makes it a gurgler, you can tie it with an endless variety of body and tail materials. I'll often tie mine with a marabou tail, so no matter how slow I fish it or how little I move it, the fly always has that wavy, undulating motion.  I've seen some ugly gurglers out there, but also some really nice ones. I'm sure they all work fine, but I think it's more satisfying to tie and fish a good-looking fly. Some of the prettiest ones I've seen (such as the one below) are on

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Fish and Beer Go Together Like Peas and Carrots

In the interest of expanding my piscatorial obsession to incorporate other vices, I'm starting a list of fish-related beers. I'll be only listing the ones I can vouch for, but if anyone has suggestions, I'll be sure to give them a try.

Beer number 1: Bell's Two Hearted Ale. What self-respecting English major could see this on a menu and not order it? Camping, fly fishing for trout with live hoppers, PTSD -- this Hemingway classic has it all, and it comes in beer form. Even if you never read it, you can drink it.

A really cool snook video from Glades Outfitters to help pass the work week.

Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Haunted by Waters

I might as well admit it up front. I came to fly fishing through the movie. Never mind that the closest trout stream is probably a 10-hour drive from home, it sank into my consciousness. When I saw Flip Pallot and Jose Wejebe doing their thing in the saltwater on ESPN, I realized that maybe I, too, could be haunted by waters, as is the apparent fate of all who pick up fly fishing as a hobby. Without further adieu, let us now pay tribute to the best lines of a great movie and even better book.