What a treat this past week to be able to celebrate my son Matthew’s 33rd birthday with a fishing trip into the Everglades backcountry! He was in from Denver for a few days of R&R. Early one morning we pushed off from Chokoloskee in my Gheenoe and were met with eerie fog-enshrouded water that conjured up visions of ghosts who had called this land home hundreds of years before our presence. The fog slipped away quietly, stealthily as the sun rose up, giving way to a beautiful sunny day. We probed deep into the wilds, and the fish cooperated on que. My young lad exhibited some excellent casting skills and caught a smorgasbord of fish including a poor man’s slam–snook, sea trout, jack, and ladyfish. Even Pops fooled a few. Did I mention the sail cats?!? What fun! Nothing like a father-son fishing trip to boost the spirits of an old codger! And to top it off my little sweetheart granddaughter Aly washed off the boat for us!
The early months of 2022 have been a bit of a conundrum from a saltwater fishing perspective in the Everglades around Everglades City, Florida. Guides and experienced local anglers say it has been some of the most challenging in the last 20 years. Snook have been few and far between in the backcountry, especially the big mamas, and reds and juvenile tarpon seem to be AWOL. What’s behind this odd state of affairs? Theories vary: Too much fishing pressure, too much freshwater coming down from Lake Okeechobee and unexpected winter rains, die off from the series of bouts of red tide experienced on the west coast of Florida this past year, or a January cold spell that dropped water temperatures into the low 60s?? Take your pick.
My personal experience has been a mixed bag so far this year. I have been having decent days interspersed with mediocre, have yet to land a redfish, and recently was the recipient of a dreaded skunk on the North Fork of the Barron River, my first one in decades. It’s been hit and miss with regards to location, one day I’ll be catching a bunch of smaller snook, ladyfish, and trout, the next having to pound the water for a half dozen fish. So I put my thinking cap on and tried figure out where the big snook and baby tarpon are hiding. After having been skunked on the upper reaches of the Barron River where the water was very fresh and seeing almost 100 boats lined up at the local marina ramp a few weekends ago, most from out of the area, I figured the honey hole had to be a place where I could taste some saltwater that was also away from the invading forces of angler from the coasts. Then it hit me after a couple of glasses of the magical mystery elixir, also known as Yuengling Amber Beer—the East River in nearby Fakahatchee Strand State Preserve was a prime candidate. The good water on the East is inaccessible by motorboats and requires a 45-minute paddle through winding mangrove tunnels as well as a permit under a newly instituted reservation system. I know from experience that it also has strong tidal flows from Fakahatchee Bay and plenty of saltwater as a result.
In the past, fishing the East River, accessed just off the Tamiami Trail about 11 miles east of Everglades City, has been a challenge because of the hordes of eco tour-led kayakers that would descend every day. This would require the serious angler to be on the water at the unholy hour of six a.m. to reach the best water before being overrun by the flotillas of brightly colored yaks.
But things have changed. A new reservation system has been installed by the state preserve to reduce the crowds and protect the important rookery just a stone’s throw from the launch from intrusions that were disturbing the egrets, herons, and pelicans when nesting. Only a maximum of twenty people is allowed each day. To my delight I would soon find that the effect has been to cut down dramatically on the number of paddlers, making solitude a distinct possibility on weekdays—meaning less fishing pressure as well protecting the birds. Bingo!!
I immediately called the reservation number at the state preserve for a weekday the following week. I chose a Thursday and learned no one else had made a reservation for that date so far. I received the gate lock code as well as instructions regarding payment of the two-dollar fee and parking. All systems were go!
This trip snakes through three mangrove tunnels of increasing length and width that connect a series of four lakes, the two lower southerly ones of which are the angler’s destinations. The launch in Lake #1 is a good hard-bottomed sandy/gravel spot on the shoreline in the state preserve.
The first waypoint from Lake #1 to Lake #2 is a narrow, almost hidden mangrove tunnel at the southeast corner of Lake #1. There are two other false tunnels to the west of the correct one. Except for this first tunnel, all those that follow are well-marked at the entrance with tall white plastic pipes sporting orange tape at the top. For this first one, you’ll know you are on the right track when inside the tunnel you come to a big mangrove tree draped with Spanish moss.
On the way you will pass by the rookery island marked by signs to keep your distance. Please obey them!
The first short mangrove tunnel leads into Lake #2, a long skinny, shallow body of water that in about one-half mile empties into another mangrove tunnel at its south end.
Halfway down to Lake #3, this tunnel widens into a small mangrove-fringed pond that has two exit points into mangrove tunnels. The one the angler wants is the first one at the southeast corner of the pond and is marked by a tall white post. If you continue to the southwest, that tunnel loops back to the north into a large, shallow lake frequented mainly by long-nosed gar and Mayan Cichlids, with only occasional snook. The southeast tunnel leads to Lake #3 in about ½ mile and 20 minutes of paddling.
Be sure to keep to the left and follow the current where the tunnel forks. Lake #3 is known as Kidney Lake by the ecotour guides because of its shape. The good fishing starts here. Then it’s onward to Lake #4 through another longer and wider mangrove tunnel—very scenic but very snaggy. Going can be slow, taking almost a half hour to reach to Lake #4. The route continues to a fifth lake, but the river has been blocked since Hurricane Irma blew through. (For more on Lake #5, see my earlier East River article noted above.)
I take my usual arsenal of three rods on this trip—two 6 ½ foot medium/light spinning rods with 2500 series reels and one six-foot wand for casting in the tight quarters of the mangrove tunnels. With the size of the snook and tarpon, I strongly recommend #30 test line and fluorocarbon leaders.
My favorite quartet of lures on the East includes the redoubtable white or gold curlytail plastic mounted on a one-eighth red jig head, a gold paddletail, and white Yozuri floating/diving 3D crystal minnow, and a gold or baby bass colored fluke mounted weedless for casting under the mangroves.
The Trip (February 2022)
The locked gate at the entrance to the preserve can be opened at 6 a.m. according to preserve staff that I called to make a reservation, while the official time the park opens is 8 a.m. To hedge my bets, I arrive at the gate at 7 a.m. which I figure will give me plenty of time to get my kayak in the water and loaded up. I have followed the instructions on the gate sign and have written the instructions down.
I have a confirmation code to enter on the payment envelope I will find at the kiosk near the launch. I have my two-dollar entry fee in my pocket. I confidently punch in the daily code on the gate lock and ……nothing happens except a red light flashes on the lock. I try it several more times with the same results. Maybe I wrote it down wrong so try several variations on the number I wrote down. Nothing! Now panic starts to set in. The preserve office doesn’t open till 8 a.m.! I try again, get another red light, and proceed to yank on the lock while issuing a series of foul expletives. That doesn’t work, so resign myself to calling the office and leaving a message asking for assistance. By now it’s 7:15, and the mosquitos apparently realize already they have a juicy target at least for 45 minutes.
I decide to walk into the park and scope things out. I find the launch hasn’t changed much since my last trip other than a little more gravel on the ramp. There’s the fee box and also a porta-potty. All the comforts of home. The parking for boat trailers is as tight as ever, with signs seemingly prohibiting it just about everywhere except right inside the gate.
Fifteen minutes later I stroll back to the gate and to my great surprise at 7:30 my phone rings. It’ a park staff returning my call. She walks me through the steps to enter the gate code expressing some doubt I have done it correctly. After several failed attempts she concludes the code is bad and gives me a secret master code that does the trick. She assures me the original code will work when I return later in the day. I thank her profusely for getting to work so early and saving the day.
In a jiffy my Hobie pedal kayak is in the water and loaded for the trip, the two-dollar fee deposited in the fee box, and my trailer parked. I hustle back to the yak just in time to see a two-gator escort squad swimming in my direction. How thoughtful of the preserve to arrange this.
I push off, skirting the signs around the rookery. I see a few egrets that have been dawdling—most of the birds flew off at sunrise—and they gawk at me as if they haven’t seen many visitors. It’s going to be a beautiful day with temperatures rising from 70 now to 82 by mid-afternoon. I drop my little water thermometer overboard, and it comes back up reading a near-perfect 70 degrees, just what the snook and tarpon prefer. The wind is already kicking up from the southeast but shouldn’t be a major issue given the small size of the lakes I will be probing.
I quickly ditch the two escort gators, only to be met by a couple of more stationed near the tunnel to the second lake. They disappear as I get close, and I slide into the tunnel.
It’s a short distance to Lake #2, but I proceed gingerly in my pedal kayak. This tunnel and the ones to come are all littered with submerged snags–logs, branches, and roots that have damaged my fins in the past as I pedaled down the river too quickly. Now I push the pedals on my Hobie apart which lifts the fins below up against the hull and out of harm’s way. I then proceed using my telescoping single-bladed paddle. Only when I get into the open water of the lakes will I put the fins down and use the pedals.
Soon I glide into Lake #2, passing the white pole marker. The lake is long and skinny, fringed with mangroves. One guidebook claims it was once an old canal.
The lake is shallow and home to plenty of gar and mullet. Indeed, as I throw a cast ahead of the kayak, a gar grabs it, tussles with me for a second, then comes off. I have only caught a few small snook here on previous trips, and as it gets more pressure being close to the launch, I don’t tarry long but head for the next mangrove tunnel to the south. But I make a mental note to bring along one of my custom-make gar lures to have a little fun next time (For my adventures with this antediluvian fish, see my article: https://hooknfly.com/2020/04/15/in-defense-of-the-antediluvian-gar/.)
I navigate into the next mangrove tunnel that soon widens into a small pond. Before I slid into the pond, I pitch a few casts with a gold curlytail at the entrance. I’ve caught snook here before that ambush bait fish being pushed out by the falling tide, but today nothing is interested. Same story for the pond itself where I hooked and lost a big snook on a previous trip under some overhanging mangrove branches. Things have changed since my last trip a couple of years ago, the mangroves taking over the north shoreline from the sawgrass, another sign of rising sea/saltwater levels I am seeing everywhere in the Everglades.
I lift the fins into the up position again as I glide past the white pole marking the entrance into the mangrove tunnel that links to Lake #3, Kidney Lake.
Almost immediately quiet descends, and I feel I am in the wilderness. I will see more wading birds in the tunnels today than ever before, perhaps a testimony to the limits on the number of human visitors. There are plenty of good-looking stretches that shout fish. I hold out as long as humanly possible, but when I come to a widening in the tunnel just above a narrow neck where the tide is pushing in, I can’t resist. I throw a back-hand cast into the neck and let the lure sink for a new second before I retrieve. I crank the reel handle once and BAM, something smashes the curlytail. The fish jets downstream, but I manage to turn him and finally bring the little scrapper to the boat. It’s a 15-inch snook, the smallest I will catch today.
I release the fish and throw another cast downstream. As the lure flutters down into the little pond with its tail wiggling, another snook hits but I miss it. Several more casts and a few more nips, but I come up empty. Anyway, it’s a promising sign that the snook are here, and I have already banished the skunk, so I continue on down to Lake #3, admiring the scenery, the dappled light in the tunnel, and the graceful wading birds. I startle snook here and there on the way down but resist the urge to cast—it would be easy to spend the whole day just fishing the tunnels! I finally see some bright light ahead as I get closer to the entrance to Kidney Lake. I know from past experience to slow down and carefully fish the last hundred yards or so in the tunnel before I hit the lake. But as I grab my rod, my yak continues to glide forward right over a big snook that promptly jets downstream leaving a big wake behind her. Grrr! Mental note: Make the approach stealthier and start casting sooner next trip.
I float quietly into the lake and over the shallow sand flat at the mouth of the tunnel. I make casts along the shorelines to the left and right where I have scored in the past, but nothing doing today so decide to take a snack break and recharge my mojo. It’s about 10:30 when I continue my quest for the beasts of the East. I slowly and cautiously probe the nooks and crannies along the mangrove-studded north shoreline that has produced snook up to 28 inches, but nary a strike today. Are the snook AWOL here as well as in the backcountry south of Everglades City?
The answer is a resounding NO as a big mama snook (all big snook are females) inhales the gold curlytail as soon it lands in a little opening in the mangroves and blasts off in a beautiful arcing jump out into open water. She’s at least 30 inches, with the sunlight glinting off her long and graceful, yellow-tinged body. She porpoises again then dives. My rod bends perilously as she peels line from my screaming reel. I scramble to shift my pedals into forward to chase her and in that instant the line goes limp. She’s shaken off leaving me shaking, the biggest snook I’ve had on in a few years.
When my nerves calm down, I check my hook to make sure it’s sharp and my line not frayed from her sharp gill covers. All looks fine so I resume casting, and a few minutes later something slams my lure. A two-foot snook erupts from the water, tail walks, and promptly throws the hook.
Undaunted, I continue casting and the third fish proves to be the charm. I pitch the curlytail far back into a little feeder creek that is choked with downed branches and somehow manage to avoid getting snag. I immediately start retrieving, not letting the lure sink into the thicket. But I get snagged anyway, or so it seems until a big snook thrashes to the surface. I slam my pedals into reverse and horse the big girl away from trouble. I turn her and she zoom out into open water past the kayak, spinning me around like a top. She puts up a terrific fight, but finally I coax her near the kayak. Then just as I figure she’s whipped the saucy dives behind me under the kayak. This calls for a graceful if frantic pirouette on my part with my rod held high over my head behind me so as not to tangle in the two rods standing in their holders in the back of the yak. Somehow I avoid calamity and soon she’s close to the boat for pin-up shot and quick release, a gorgeous two-footer. That’s more like it.
For the next half hour, I have non-stop action against the west shoreline. The brisk wind from the southeast makes maneuvering a challenge, but I land a couple more two-footers, while executing a half dozen long-distance releases. I manage to hook a 30-inch baby tarpon, the only one I will see on this trip, but he wins his freedom with an acrobatic pinwheeling aerial flip that even the Russian judges would have had to award a 10.
By now I have covered most of the west shoreline and am getting close to the tunnel leading to Lake #4. I come to another alluring looking slot in the mangroves and manage to land my lure between two dangling mangrove air roots. As it slowly sinks something smashes it. I throw my pedals in reverse to horse the fish out of the tangle. I succeed at first, but the critter has other ideas and almost jolts the rod out of my hand when it turns tail and heads back into the mangroves. I try to put the brakes on, but to no avail. Within seconds my line is tangled up completely below the surface in the roots. I contemplate breaking it off but want to see exactly what this feisty critter is. Probably a nice red as it just went deep and didn’t jump. So I fearlessly crash the kayak into the mangroves, lean over the side of the boat, and start unwinding the mess. I’m surprised to feel that the fish is still on, tugging and lunging down deep. Miraculously, I managed to untangle the line and triumphantly winch the fish to the surface, a beautiful….Mayan Cichlid, aka Atomic Sunfish, a freshwater invader from South America.
The laugh is on me! It’s a big one, over a foot long, but not the lunker redfish I expected. Oh well, must be time for a snack. I pedal into a shady spot—it’s warm today, pushing into the 80s—and break out my granola bar and beef jerky.
After the break I creep along the south shoreline that usually produces a few snook, but not today. I am also surprised that at the mouth of the south tunnel, a reliable spot, I come up empty. Then it’s off to Lake #4, a good 25-30 minute paddle depending on how much fishing I do on the way. I pull out my pedals completely and stow them, knowing that even when locked in the up position the fins will likely get damaged by the gnarly snags that inhabit this tunnel.
I soon find myself enjoying the scenic paddle. Again I see more birds, and they also seem to be less skittish. And the waterscape is lush, dappled with an ethereal light.
With these pleasant distractions, I resist the urge to fish several good-looking stretches even though I have spooked a couple of big fish on the way down. About 10 minutes into the tunnel, I come to a fork in the creek. Last time I turned right down the wider fork and wasted an hour before realizing I went the wrong way. Be sure to turn left and follow the current. Someone has marked the fork with a yellow tape, but it may not be there very long so again, turn left and follow the current.
I continue a leisurely paddle for another five minutes or so, but when I reach a wide spot in the creek with a good flow coming in from a narrow stretch below, I can’t resist a cast. Looks like big-snook territory. I break out my short six-foot rod for casting in this tight spot and flip the curlytail down into the pool below. I let it sink then retrieve slowly into the neck. Suddenly my rod dips, and a big snook explodes out of the water when I set the hook. Then it’s off to the races. The big girl heads downstream towards a menacing jumble of mangrove roots and downed branches, towing the kayak behind her. Frantically I reach down to throw my pedals into reverse and stop her run…only to realize there are no pedals since I pulled them at the tunnel entrance. YIKES! By this time the kayak is being dragged right into the mess. I paddle furiously to the rear, but to no avail. I crash into the overhanging mangrove branches, issuing choice expletives along the way. I reach over the side of the yak and grab the line. She’s still on. I unwrap the line from a couple of oyster-encrusted mangrove root and start to pull her in. She yields grudgingly, but when big lady spies me she lunges and snaps my line. A 30-incher for sure. I’m left with a case of the shakes.
When my nerves settle down I continue on to Lake #4. But as I near the lake, I hit a log and branch jam that is completely blocking my way. I can’t get around or over it but will not be deterred with big snook only a few minutes away. I hop out of my yak up to my naval in creek water. Fortunately, the bottom is sandy and firm. I work at the jam for 15 minutes, enjoying the cool water, and finally succeed in opening a narrow path through. Now to get back in my yak from this deep water, which is not on the list of approved activities for an AARP member. I gingerly ease the yak halfway down the chute, clamber up on the jam, and slide over into the yak. Not bad for a septuagenarian!
Then it’s onto Lake #4 which has produced some nice juvenile tarpon and sizeable snook in the past. On the way out of the tunnel I spook a big fish as I did in the tunnel above Kidney Lake. Snook? Gar? Should have done some exploratory casting.
With all the excitement, I decide to anchor on the big sandbar at the mouth and recharge with another of my magic elixirs, an RC Cola, supplemented with plenty of victuals.
When I done refueling, I decide to pedal to the south shoreline because the wind has kicked up making it challenging to pitch casts into its teeth. When I get down that way, I see a big 10-foot gator has staked claim to this area, but he graciously and insouciantly swims off to the north shoreline. Whew!
Unfortunately, the action is slow under the bright midday sun. Finally, about halfway down the west shoreline I pick up another snook pushing two feet and then hook but lose another high-jumping thirty-inch baby tarpon. I manage one last decent snook casting into some downed branches in a feeder creek, but that’s it. No big girls in Lake #4 today.
It’s 2:30 now, and time to head back. I want to be at the launch and locked gate by 4:30 just in case I have to call the park staff again if the combination hasn’t been reset and doesn’t work again. Their office closes at 5:00. Also by now the tide has turned again and is flowing out, so I’ll be pedaling against the flow.
I head to the tunnel to Kidney Lake, and the big gator that had sauntered down there now is very accommodating and slowly swims back to his former position on the south end. I paddle into the tunnel and promptly spook another good fish. I manage a couple of more respectable 22-inch snook on the west shoreline of Kidney Lake then am shocked when on the north shoreline, out of nowhere, a big, beautiful two-foot long-nosed gar snatches the curlytail and rockets through the air, his bronze scales flashing in the sun. Because of their long bony snout filled with small teeth, long-nosed gar are exceedingly difficult to hook with normal sized hooks, so I am not surprised he manages to escape. Next time I’ll bring along some specially designed gar lures I have tied up with very small treble hooks that can do the job. Gar are great fighters and fun to catch. (See my article on this antediluvian fish: https://hooknfly.com/2020/04/15/in-defense-of-the-antediluvian-gar/ ) There are plenty of them in the East River!
I make it back to the launch right at 4:30 and hustle over to test the combination lock. I breathe a sigh of relief when it clicks green and opens. It’s been a fun day chasing the beasts of the East. I’ve caught a half dozen sizable specimens around two-feet and had my shots at several much larger ladies and some high-jumping tarpon that spurned my advances. So maybe I’ll call it a draw—a good excuse to try again soon!
I’m an old coot who has been through my share of crises, national and otherwise, over my 70-plus years. During my college days there were the marches and raucous demonstrations over the Vietnam War culminating in the horrific Kent State shootings that sent the nation reeling.
They were followed by the race riots where Chicago and other big cities burned. I remember well sitting in long lines for gas during the 70’s Arab oil embargo with fights breaking out when guys tried to cut in line, then a few years later nervously watching news of the Iran hostage crisis.
I kept right on fishing through it all, including fly fishing through my mid-life crisis in the 90s (tipping my hat to Howell Raines who chronicled this time for all of us angling boomers). Then there was 9-11 when I got stuck on the runway at O’Hare Airport in Chicago for three hours only upon disembarking to watch incredulously on a TV in the terminal the terrorist-piloted jet crash into the second Twin Tower in New York City. I was thoroughly shaken and stranded in Chicago for three days, but back on the water a week later. Fast forward to the Great Recession. That crisis too would pass.
But none of those crises compares in my mind with the Coronavirus calamity sweeping the nation and world. It’s an existential threat when despite all the years under your belt, you have no established frame of reference for anything like it. The only thing remotely comparable in my life is the first time when I was in California and a big earthquake hit. It’s almost impossible to regain your equilibrium when the basic rock-solid reference point of your being shifts ominously beneath your feet. It generates a sense of dread that is hard to shake.
I had that moment in March as the Coronavirus infections began to spread like wildfire in Washington and New York then mushrooming in Florida where I spend the winter. Being among the so-called “at risk” population, I hid away early in my little abode near Everglades City. But after a few days of reading and watching Chicago P.D. reruns, I was going more than a little stir crazy. I figured a fishing trip into the wilds of the Everglades out of my home base on Chokoloskee Island might be the answer, the mental salve that I needed. I have found time and again solitude and fighting fish are the antidote for many ailments. Fortunately I could get away in my kayak to close-by spots without having to fill-up with gas or cross paths with other anglers at boat ramps. But the weather and tides were conspiring against me. The wind was blowing like a banshee, and the tides were super low during the prime fishing times. That meant I couldn’t risk getting out on Chokoloskee Bay or probably wouldn’t have enough water to get into some of my favorite backcountry creeks. And of course the authorities were issuing dire warnings as they belatedly closed beaches and restaurants in Florida. What’s an angler to do??
As I plotted my next move, I also knew I had to respect the admonitions about social distancing and staying sheltered away from the madding crowds to protect others and myself. To make things even more challenging, several of my favorite routes weren’t options as nearby state parks and many public boat ramps had wisely closed. I needed a paradigm shift.
Then if by magic, a friend who lives just outside Everglades City called and asked if I’d like to try fishing on a sheltered freshwater lake that his home borders on, one with public access. Not an angler himself, he mentioned that he’d seen some big fish swimming and rising along the shoreline during one of his walks. Probably bass, I thought. He added he’d never seen a boat out on the lake. No wind, no tides, big fish, and no people—sounded like the perfect Corona escape! And it was!!
I rerigged my snook rod/reel outfits with lighter leaders and dug out my old bass fishing lures that I hadn’t used for years. I tied on an old reliable baby bass-colored fluke on a 1/8 oz. jig head. Bass are cannibals so it seemed like a good bet. No one was on the lake when I shoved off in the early morning in my kayak. Ten minutes later I had managed nary a strike when I hooked the bottom off a stand of sawgrass….or at least that’s what I thought until it moved. Five minutes of chaos later, I landed one of my biggest bass ever—pushing seven pounds.
The bonus was the wildlife that I crossed paths with as I paddled the beautiful clear spring-fed lake.
That outing started me on a quixotic quest to find more hidden freshwater bass lakes in my immediate neighborhood overlooked and ignored by saltwater anglers like myself pursuing snook and tarpon–ones I could get to and fish from my kayak without endangering anyone. It didn’t take long with a little sleuthing to find a hidden series of lakes just down the road from me. This one produced some exotics from South America–a beautiful big Peacock Bass and a colorful Mayan Cichlid, AKA Atomic Sunfish.
And the bonus in one was a surprise snook, a saltwater fish that can survive in freshwater, that went almost 30-inches. The mystery is how she got there miles from saltwater. But then whose to argue??
I have even started chasing toothy gar in the canals along the Tamiami Trail a few minutes from my home. Fortunately I have been able to enlist the help of a human pack mule to haul my kayak into more remote spots. He works for good red wine.
More about those bass, gar, and hidden lakes in the future…and believe me they are mental antidotes for the pandemic.
The whole experience reminded me that life goes on, offering new patterns and adventures along the way, often in your backyard. Mind you, I am not advocating straying miles from home like the knuckleheads from the Miami area who are evading the state and local stay-at-home orders and closed boat ramps there to descend on Everglades City and Chokoloskee Island with its populace overwhelmingly made up of vulnerable senior citizens. The nearest hospital is over an hour away. Stay close to home so you aren’t putting yourself and other people at risk. There’s so much about this virus that doctors and scientists are just discovering—like some people who are infected never exhibit any symptoms.
If you live in Florida, and especially in the Miami or another urban area, take another look at those nearby canals. Monster Peacock Bass and big Mayan Cichlids are probably lurking and hungry. Take the cue from anglers in Denver who are restricted from going out to the mountains to fish so they are catching carp AND big trout in the South Platte that runs through the heart of the city. And whatever you do, just be careful out there.
Greetings to all my friends and readers. I hope your holidays have been peaceful, and here’s wishing you the best for a great 2020. It’s been a very interesting and rewarding year writing my blog. In addition to providing an admitted excuse to go fishing and explore remote places and share them with my friends, my main goal continues to be helping reinforce and building the constituency to preserve and protect these wild and wonderful places fish inhabit. Given the current state of politics in the country and multiple threats to our environment and natural resources, it’s more important than ever to take a stand and do whatever we can to protect Mother Nature and her finny denizens.
I was especially gratified to have some of my piscatorial peregrinations published by Florida Sportsman magazine in an article about kayak fishing in the Everglades. You can find a link to it in my October post.
It was also great to see that by late December, the Hooknfly blog has had over 53,000 views and over 23,000 visitors, a 40%+ increase over 2018An added and very satisfying benefit has been connecting with people and making new friends around the USA and the world.
Among them are readers from over 60 nations. Now it’s easy to figure out why people who follow my blog are mainly from English-speaking countries, but who am I to ask why anyone from Belarus, Ukraine, or Russia would read my articles. Hmmm, but on second thought perhaps there is indeed a common thread here—could it be I’m on Putin’s watch list after posting a not-so-flattering wise crack and photo of him in a 2018 article on upper Saguache Creek:
“By now it’s nearly 2 p.m., and the sun is beating down and things are heating up. I decide to shed some clothing and strip off my long-sleeve fishing shirt and polypro T under it, reveling in my bare-chestedness in the mountain air with no prying eyes. Visions of Vladimir Putin, similarly bare-chested and buff, riding over the ridge float through my mind. No wonder Agent Orange couldn’t resist him at Helsinki! What a hunk!!”
But seriously, as the year comes to a close it gives me great pleasure to look back on the best, the bummers, and the blood-curdling moments of 2019 from an angling perspective. It’s been a treat to have you with me! Here we go…
As the temperatures start to dip into the 30s and below here in the Colorado high country, my thoughts are starting to turn from trout to chasing snook, tarpon, and redfish in my winter home in Florida’s Everglades. I live on a little island in the Glades called Chokoloskee surrounded by miles and miles of beautiful saltwater teeming with big fish. Here’s a sampling of my favorite places that can be reached easily by kayak or small skiff from my latest article from Florida Sportsman with the inside skinny on lures and technique as well. Come on down when you want to thaw out and catch some fish this winter!
Click on the link below to view a copy of the article “Chokoloskee Up Close.”