Fly Punk - Issue 3

F
all is my favourite time of the year.
It’s a fact. It’s the best time to be
afield, and it’s the best time to be
on the water. The marsh goes through
a predictable transformation every fall.
The spartina grass begins to brown off;
shrimp course the creeks like blood
through veins. The fish begin to school
up and feed heavily before the coming
winter, and the water begins to clear up a
bit. These things combine for the perfect
setup for sight fishing with a fly rod. My
good friend Rich Walker and I watch the
tides with a careful eye this time of year.
The week before thanksgiving I had a free
weekend. I hadn’t been on the water yet
this fall as I had been enjoying my oldest
son's first foray into the game of soccer
every Saturday morning.
Rich and I have fished together for many
years. He gave me my start in saltwater
fly fishing. He endured my less than
stellar poling while I was learning how to
manage a skiff in the wind and put him in
position for a shot at the fish. He willingly
shared everything he knew about the art
and sport of sight fishing. He’s one of my
friends that I no longer need to talk to on
the boat as its all automatic. So, when a
text came that week inquiring if I was free
to hit the low tides Friday and Saturday
the answer was also automatic. We opted
to camp and enjoy the cool fall weather,
a fire, and sleeping outside. We had both
been busy at work and dealing with life in
general and it was quickly agreed upon
that an immediate infusion of time on the
water was the only treatment.
JUST
ONE
― jeff scoggin ―
As my skiff backed down the ramp Friday
afternoon I hit the trim and turned the
key bringing the motor to life. Tucker,
our ever-faithful skiff dog, quivered with
anticipation and whined softly. I pulled
around and slid up next to the dock, Rich
stepped aboard, and we were off. Rich
took the wheel and the skiff jumped on
plane. We raced down a winding set of
creeks headed to our first spot. I had
tied up a few black and purple clousers
and was pulling my loop knot tight as
Rich shut her down. Without a word,
he grabbed the pole and ascended the
platform and Tucker and I made our way
to the bow. Rich pushed us along slowly
and methodically, and as we scanned
for signs of fish we caught up like good
friends do. We saw a couple of single
redfish but no dice. We had, had a lot of
rain recently and the water was semi clear
and tannic coloured. We made a quick
run to our money spot known to us as”
The Corner Store”. I had caught my first
redfish on fly here years ago, and we had
spent many great days there since. It's a
wide flat littered with oyster rakes at its
edges and divided by a couple of creeks.
We prospected for a bit without luck and
then Rich called out an orange popping
cork. He commented that it appeared to
be moving. Sometimes a fisherman will
break a fish off and their popping cork
remains in tow. After minutes of scrutiny
it became obvious that the float was
indeed moving. Rich gave a gentle push
and spun me into position. I hauled softly
and the line shot 30ft and laid the fly just
ahead of the cork. I gave a quick strip and
the cork plunged beneath the surface in
a scene reminiscent of the movie Jaws.
The fish charged the fly but I didn’t
connect. The cork resurfaced next to the
boat and I reached down and grabbed
it. The redfish bolted and snapped the
brittle monofilament line spraying me
with water as he made his escape. I rolled
over on the deck and laughed loudly. We
both did and it was good for our souls.
We caught a dejected look from Tucker
signalling play time was over and we
needed to get serious about putting a fish
on the deck.
With afternoon quickly fading into
evening, Rich considered our options. We
decided to hit one more spot we hadn’t
tried in quite a while. It was just a small
flat on the way back to the ramp, but it
had saved the day more than once. We
made the short run and went to work. It
quickly became apparent we had made
a good call. A small school was pushing
around the disappearing oyster mounds
and busting bait along the way. Rich
already had me lined up for the shot and
I tossed the fly, made a single false cast,
and sent the line on its way. The clouser
plopped a few feet ahead of where the
closest fished had swirled. I stripped
the fly slowly, felt a thump, stripped
hard and was hooked up. The fish dug in
and refused to give up surprising me by
doubling my 8wt. After a short fist fight
I slid him to the boat and into my hand.
He was a stocky, broad shouldered fish.
Tucker swiped his obligatory lick. Rich
took a few quick photos as I held the
fish high, the afternoons light shining
through his fins and illuminating his
turquoise tipped tail. I returned him to the
water, and Rich commented he couldn’t
believe we hadn’t seen more fish today.
I quietly watched the sky fill with a pallet
of pastels as the sun dropped below the
marsh grass. I turned to Rich and said,
“Just one, that’s all I needed”. Without
taking his eyes off the evening light show,
he rubbed Tucker’s head and nodded in
affirmation.
18 | 19
www.fly-punk.com