A Great Blog

Surrounded by 1000 redfish

2012-05-15T17:14:00.004-07:00

Back to website

I find it hard to get up early when there's no client or partner to fish with. Rosie and I had treats and coffee and then moseyed down to the dock where the Stilt was waiting. One of my first stops of just about any day when the water is deep enough is a back lagoon known for its shallow shoal (that traps incoming boats), sting rays, alligators and yes, big redfish. A single boat with a single poling angler was poling the shoreline, so I took a wide berth, said goodbye, and headed for water that was too shallow for most boats to negotiate. Not trying to show off, but making an impression no doubt, I stopped in critically shallow water, took stock and decided to continue heading for the most remote regions of this particular body of water. Birds were working in the back, so I stopped about 200 yards short of the melee and started wading toward the action. The last time I'd seen so many birds in this lagoon I'd decided they were working bait, not fish, only to hear from Rick Hartman (who stayed behind foolishly, at least I thought) that a herd of reds were slumbering beneath them. Trying to avoid a similar mistake, I waded diligently toward the birds only to find that there was nothing beneath them. Oh well, angling is not a perfect science, if even a science at all. Without regrets and giving thanks for an early workout, I headed back to the Stilt with Rosie beside me.

Where to go now? The water was too deep for north, so I turned right at the mouth of the Arroyo and made a beeline for another springtime venue. Not a boat was in sight as I planed into critically shallow water and wondered if I'd made a mistake to enter the area. The depth increased by an inch, and my prop wash told me that I would be able to float if I came off plane. Deeper water lay to the east another 200 yards, so at least I wouldn't sleep aboard the Stilt that night. While calculating the risks of coming off plane, I suddenly moved half a dozen pods of redfish, and pulled back on the throttle without further regard for the consequences. I stepped overboard into bootie-deep water, and began wading south toward water that was a whole two inches deeper. Meanwhile, it slowly dawned on me that there were redfish milling around and tailing in every direction, and as far as I could see. Blowups 200 yards away told me that the concentration of fish probably extended for another mile, to the southern end of the lagoon.

I had my video camera, and was less concerned about catching fish than taking video of them tailing at close quarters. It was kind of silly trying to fish and shoot video, and my arm has been seriously punishing me for doing this for the past month. Holding a sizable red at bay while I try to capture him on the Sony has a way of leaving me with a small debt to my shoulder.

Reds were everywhere!! I estimate that there were 1000 reds--mostly small ones, with some sizeable trout mixed in an area of several hundred acres. I know I've said this before, but I have never seen so many redfish in one area. There wasn't another boat in the entire lagoon, which is probably why the fish cavorted happily for the entire time I was there.

I landed about 9 reds without fishing hard at all, and one 24-inch trout before tiptoeing back to the boat, not wanting to disturb them any further. I thought, "I'll bring Chip here tomorrow morning."

So I did. And you know what happened, don't you? We found the lagoon almost devoid of life...except for an adolescent alligator. The contrast was almost unbelievable...I say almost because I know better than to expect the same conditions from one day to the next.

When I got back to the dock on Friday night, after encountering the hoard of redfish, I met a guy in the Arroyo City RV Park who asked me where I found the fish. Did I tell him? You might think I wouldn't. But almost always, I tell people where I have fished. Why? Because I know that 99% of them cannot go there in the boats that they own. And even if they can, it's likely that the fish will be elsewhere. The key to mastering the Lower Laguna is having enough humility to expect your expectations to be defeated again and again, and enough knowledge to know where the fish may have gone. I can't really say where wisdom fits in, except perhaps in not treating the catching as more important than the communing. I told my son today over dinner that when you get to the top of whatever mountain you wish to climb, you either look up with yearning, or you look down with self satisfaction. I endeavor to do both.

Back to website

The Secret of The Sand

2012-05-12T07:11:00.001-07:00

Please post your comments here. And please subscribe. You will receive notifications of my updates. Thanks -- Scott

My constant companion Rosie (well almost) and I are headed for the Arroyo City RV Park, where I keep my little trailer and have my boat. Julie is in Pennsylvania, so except for Rosie, it's a guys' weekend. My brother Chip will join us for early morning fly fishing.

Randy Cawlfield emailed me a couple of days ago to confirm what I've been observing this year--that the sand is fishing better than it has in a couple of years. Last year was a lackluster year for the sand, at least in the afternoon. The year before was phenomenal all spring and summer long. I believe that last year's lull was due to the huge deposit of silt that the heavy rains in the Mexican mountains brought down the river and into the LLM the autumn before last. Even though it was bad for the bay to suffer so much deposition all at once, the positive benefits of all of the fertility are now being seen on the east side. Indeed, much of the sand is covered by short sprigs of grass where only barren sand had been before. This, of course, promotes the food sources there, especially the shrimp, which tend to avoid the most barren areas of the sand. Until we have a major sweep of the sand (as during a hurricane), we will probably see the reds gravitate toward the east side after mid-morning when the west side water heats up.

The sand fluctuates in attractiveness through a given day. In the summer, the sand is cooler both during the night and at daybreak, but because of its shallowness, it warms up more quickly on calm mornings than the deeper water. Without the breeze to cool it (via evaporation), it becomes relatively unattractive by midmorning. During summer, you will see almost all of the fish stream off the sand by 9 am. But then, the grassy bottom of the west side heats up because it absorbs the sunlight, and the sand begins to cool relative to the west side as the wind rises. The harder the southeast wind blows, the more attractive the sand becomes by early afternoon. That's why our highest catching days are on windy afternoons. So don't fear the wind in the afternoon! Pray for it! The reds feed upwind in the only clear water left in the late afternoon. You can really score if you stay out and don't fear your greatest ally.

Bent hooks and Line Mismanagement

2012-05-06T13:35:00.001-07:00

Julie and I drove down to the Arroyo City RV Park, planning to fish on Saturday and Sunday. But after getting settled and launching the Stilt at the private launch, we decided to run out to the bay to enjoy the evening, a time of day characterized by a blessed absence of boats and an abundance of birds. We headed into one of my favorite places to fly fish, and looked for gulls working over redfish. At first the lagoon seemed devoid of gulls, but then I spotted a couple of single gulls working close to the water--a sure sign of redfish, as long as there aren’t any Ibises around. (Gulls will also work over Ibises for the same reason as they hover over reds: The ibises stir up shrimp, and the gulls like to steal them before the birds can seize the prize.)

“Do you want me to catch a red,” I asked Julie. It was a 200-yard wade through murky water to get to the spot where the gulls were hovering, and sting rays are plentiful in the area. I didn’t mention that. J. said, “Sure! I’d like one for dinner.” So I hiked as fast as I could through the muddy, wind-blown water toward two laughing gulls that were working along the edge of shallower water, where I knew the reds would show--backs and tails--even if the birds headed elsewhere. As I got closer, I could see blowups and splashes beneath the birds, and I noticed that the gulls were sliding north along the horizon, indicating that the fish were moving around rather quickly. I waded into the area, and saw that three different groups of redfish were covorting in the shallow water. The were driving waves ahead of them, and their tails and backs were breaking the surface. The water was full of algae, making an unfouled presentation almost impossible: I would have to hit the fish on the head and provoke a strike before the fly picked up the algae.

I casted a Mother’s Day fly several times to the largest sweeping group, and drew two quick strikes without hooking up. On the third cast, the fly hit the water just in front of the sweeping wave, and a huge red exploded and chased the fly for about 10 feet before grabbing it and speeding away. As poor luck would have it, some of my fly line clumped into a little ball and jammed in the smaller guides. The big fish was going to break off at any minute, so I dropped my rod, grabbed the rod tip and pulled the mess of line through just in time. Alas, a minute later, the fish--probably 30 inches long--came free. When I reeled in the fly, the hook was bent. I would have never landed him. So I changed flies and put on a Kingfisher spoon.

The fish were now upwind, and the southeast wind was steady at 18 knots. I considered wading around them and casting downwind to them, but that would take a while, and I wasn’t too concerned about catching them. So I stripped out as much line as I could hold out of the water, and approached a group of reds from downwind that were milling around under one gull. A fairly large fish swam away from the group and toward me, so I stopped and waited. Casting upwind as best I could, I dropped the fly too far to the left, then to the right, and then right in front of the fish. It swam up and ate the fly and never stopped. It turned away and shot off with the spoon embedded.

A while later, I landed a 25” red. Leaving the rest of the fish feeding visibly in the shallow water, I escorted the red back to the boat. While I rarely keep fish, Julie wanted to have one for dinner, and so I relented. I eat fish, and it doesn’t make sense to let all the redfish go, and then buy salmon in the grocery store. Also, it keeps me in touch with what it means to be a predator and mortal, and to survive at the expense of other forms of life. It’s humbling, and it’s a good way to stay grounded.

The next day, we went out at about noon. Heading straight to the sand, I stopped at a spoil island north of Green Island so J. could explore while I waded onto the sand just to the east of the spoil island. I hadn’t gone 50 yards before I spotted two reds cruising together. They fought over the Clouser before one won the battle and shot off with the Clouser. Alas, my fly line wrapped around my rod butt, and the fish bent the hook almost straight before coming off. Chastened by my poor line management, I changed flies and continued my eastward wade while J. walked the island, escorted by a hundred gulls interested in having her leave the rookery. I spotted several more reds, and managed to land four before heading back to the Stilt. There was no need to overdo a good thing, and my partner had been patient with me. I knew it was time to sip a beer and have a late lunch aboard the skiff, so I turned back toward the island, 300 yards to the west. It had been a great day, and a beautiful woman was waving at me.

April fly fishing

2012-04-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

It's always hard to summarize what's happening when I have let so much time pass. I have just finished 7 days out of nine on the water. Before that, I vaguely recall one of the most incredible days of personal fishing I've had in a long while. My brother Chip and I went out on a Sunday just for a few hours, first to fish the west side, and then to check out the sand. We had a stellar early morning with reds tailing and "backing" along shallow shorelines, and then went east in time to catch the last of the "glass" before the wind came up above 15 mph. But until then, we waded in 8 inches of water with reds spread out over the sheen, tailing ever so slightly in the mirrored sky. How many did I catch? Six on the west side from 26-29 inches, casting with one arm and videoing the hookups with the other--and then four more on the east side from 24-26 inches apiece.

A week ago, Julie and I headed to the Arroyo to stay in the Casita at the Arroyo City RV Park, our little trailer camper on the water. The next day, I guided an old client and guide from Alaska, Capt. Kirk, who faced two difficult, high-wind days on the lower Laguna. I warned him before he came, in order to give him the option to cancel. But he needed to fish more than he needed to catch them, so we did it. I didn't expect much, but on the first morning out, I opted to vary from my usual routine and fish south early. Wow, did we find the fish! They were tailing under birds in a very shallow lagoon with a firm bottom, which made it easy for Kirk to wade downwind and target the ever-moving pods. It was already 20+ knots, and the water looked like chocolate milk, but Kirk had great action for a couple of hours. Then, thinking that it was probably all over, I went in search of clear water, and found some south and east. We waded a beautiful area--one of my favorite venues--and he caught a couple of more reds before we headed in. We had a second day almost as good as the first, even though the conditions were simply terrible. Having to fish on bad days will make you a better angler, and a better person, as well. You learn that poor conditions can be seen as a challenge rather than a curse. Most people give up and move on, but the people I respect--like Kirk--like to see what they can do once the crowd has gone home.

Then I guided my old client and friend Richard Thompson from Amarillo. Dick came down with his wife Lynn, who fished both days with us. We had fair days, with some good opportunities, but not enough for the couple to really get in the groove. Still, they enjoyed the time on the water, and promised to return again before long.

This past weekend, Rick Hartman and I joined forces to guide Tony Woodward and his buddies. Tony is from Colorado Springs, and has fished many times on the Lower Laguna. One of my favorite videos was made with Tony and his buddy Scott two seasons ago, and is available on YouTube. Tony's group scheduled three days on the water -- a good practice, since it gives you the best opportunity to have good fly fishing conditions, given the changing conditions in saltwater venues.

Our first day was a pretty decent day--strong SE winds with sun in the afternoon. We caught fish in several venues. It wasn't easy fly fishing by any means. One interesting highlight was finding reds sweeping up a shoreline under one or two birds. It was chaotic and difficult fishing, with the big reds plowing through off-color water, driving shrimp ahead of them. It's always hard to get the fish to see the fly under such conditions, but Tony finally landed one after his friend Chris had broken off and lost a couple. The high point of my first day was Chris's 28 inch redfish in a west-side lagoon just before we headed in. Rick's party also landed a 28 inch red, which is always memorable.

On the second day I fished with Scott (whom I'd guided before) and Jim. We faced strong north winds following a stormy frontal passage the night before. We weren't looking forward to a great fishing day, but we left the dock and did the usual for April--looking for reds under birds. I opted to go south since the tides were so high, and found a large group of reds working under 25 gulls in a location that never, never has birding. It was just one of those gifts that befalls those who are willing to show up on an otherwise bad day. We went on to surprise ourselves by catching a number of reds on the sand in the afternoon. Indeed, after we all lit up cigars (thanks to Scott) for good luck, we had a triple hookup on redfish.

Tony fished the last day with me, along with Jim. It was the best day weatherwise, but it started off rather slow. No podding under birds, and the reds we found were in off-colored water. While they were feeding aggressively under birds, they were broken up and hard to track. So we gave up on that action, and headed to other venues, which proved to be even less productive. Finally, we headed east onto the sand. Under a cloudless sky, we fished in low-wind conditions to reds that were spread out along the edge of Padre Island. It was very tough fishing. Indeed, the guys compared it to spring creek fishing. After Tony landed a beautiful 26-27 inch red, we headed further west to fish closer to the grass line. There we found a mixture of trout and reds, and sight casted to them for about three hours until the afternoon glare sent us packing. Tony waded off alone as he's prone to do, and returned to boat with a big smile and stories of catching a big trout and several more reds. Jim scored a nice red just before we headed in. It was a great three days, even though the weather was marginal for the first two.

The Sound of One Hand Casting

2012-03-27T07:31:00.004-07:00

Having recently purchased a small trailer and put it on the Arroyo at the Arroyo City RV Park, I was eager to spend a night or two, and do some early fly fishing. Julie and I towed the Casita camper trailer to the Arroyo the previous weekend, but it was time to go through the launch routine and to do some fishing on my own. I went down on Saturday with Rosie and put the Stilt in the water before dark, so everything would be ready. It was great having a private launch, so I didn't have to hassle with the Park traffic. I set the alarm for 5:45, as I wanted to go out before daybreak and get some photos of the sunrise.

Rosie was eager to go. It had been a while since I'd taken her with me, even though I got into taking her out with some of my clients last year. Having her along seemed to boost everyone's morale, and result in better results to boot. Even if that was a fantasy, she did seem to become a mascot of sorts, whose bouyant spirit kept the rest of us afloat when the fishing was tough.

I had enough light to navigate into a back lagoon, where I could barely see reds blowing up and moving away as I approached the shallowest areas. On the way to my destination, I looked to my right and saw what appeared to be a school pushing water away from the boat's intrusion. While I could have stopped there, I made a mental note to check out the area later once the sun rose. I wanted to explore an even shallower area in the low light, where I would be able to see single cruising fish in the low light.

They were definitely where I hoped they'd be. Shutting down in about 7-8 inches of water, I could see wakes pushing away in all directions. I spent some time letting them settle down, and started to hear blowups here and there. I knew the reds were feeding, so I opted for a Mother's Day fly and slipped overboard. It wasn't long, however, before I changed to a VIP popper, because the water was so shallow that as soon as the fly would hit the water, it would pick up grass or algae.

The reds were showing themselves intermittently, but were still hard to track. The wind was getting up, so the redfish movements blended with the waves and mullet action. Still, I was able to track a few of them in the shallowest areas, and cast the black VIP ahead of them. Wow, they were tough. I blew up one after another, sending small pods packing, and I wasn't sure if it was my presentation, or their mood. I tend to blame myself, but sometimes what is usually a virtue (taking responsibility) can obscure the truth of the matter. So, eventually, I opted to change my fly rather than to persist in the belief that my presentation was at fault. I shifted to a Kingfisher Spoon.

I caught one 23-inch red, but after landing the red, the feeding action slowly diminished. I knew from hundreds of visits to this particular venue that the reds tend to migrate after the sun rises, and that the lack of action in one area may imply that they are gathering elsewhere. Sure enough, as the day brightened, I spotted reddish egrets, great egrets and a passel of Caspian terns working together near the area where I'd spotted that school earlier. Instead of making a quick run aboard the stilt, I opted for a more stealthy and time consuming approach. I told Rosie to get aboard the Stilt, and I pushed the skiff slowly in the direction of the melee. As I got closer, I could see reds coming out of the water, and pushing waves ahead of obvious feeding action. The birds were crazy with excitement. The egrets were running around behind the reds, and the terns were diving into the middle of the feeding fish. The reds were so intent on feeding that the birds didn't seem to bother them at all, even though the water was so shallow that the backs and tails broke the surface as they swept around side by side driving shrimp and finger mullet ahead of them.

I wanted to video my catch, but I was alone. Having practiced one armed casting previously, in which I could shoot line and cast with one hand, I decided to take my new Sony and see what I could do juggling the two instruments. Since the reds were moving a lot, I figured I might be able to strip line into the water, and stay fairly stationery as they approached. As it turned out, I had no problem getting one shot after another. The first redfish surprised me by swimming by on my left. It was alone, and as it turned out it was near 30 inches long. I cast the spoon ahead of him a couple of times before he saw it, and then wham! He took it and ran. Holding the rod with one hand, I videoed his powerful run, in which he almost spooled me. It took a while to turn him and get him in, but the spoon fly rarely comes out once its found a purchase. I landed him, got a closeup of his massive body, and let him go.

The best way to tell this story is through the video, which I have almost finished editing. Once I do I will post it on YouTube and add the link here. So watch for it. I showed my son Ryan the rough edit last night, and he got really excited. He's not easy to please, so I was particularly gratified with his response.

How many reds did I land? Five more, from 26-30 inches. My arm was sore afterward, having supported the rod without any help. But I had fun getting some great video of big reds exploding on my fly. I think you will enjoy the result, even though it was hard to hold the camera steady. Next time, I will be better prepared, because I'm getting another video camera that I will mount to my cap--a "GoPro" camera. If you haven't seen the display for this camera in Best Buy, drop by and take a look. The promotional video is breathtaking.

March Redfish Action

2012-03-16T20:48:00.010-07:00

March is a transitional month, partaking of lingering cold fronts, but graced with warm breezes saturated in the perfume of huisache and citrus blossoms. For the novice fly fisher, the problem with March is not temperature, it is wind. Fly fishers lacking experience in the salt have a particular aversion to fishing on windy days; but traveling fly fishers do not have the luxury of planning around the weather and making plans on short notice. When your charter lands on a high wind day, guide and client just have to go out, regardless of the wind. This kind of compulsory attendance, while seeming like punishment, has forced me to discover that there are plenty of opportunities awaiting the fly fisher on a windy day in March.

When you live near the water, and you're fishing for fun like I was last Monday, you might take your time getting to the water. The forecast called for clouds and breeze, so Julie and I decided to target the bay in the afternoon, when sometimes the clouds give way to the warming sun.

After launching the Stilt, I headed for one of my favorite westside lagoons. Parker Lake is shallow by comparison to more popular westside venues, and thus most anglers avoid it in favor of deeper waters. My boat was the only one in the four-square-mile back lagoon, and I ran back as far as I could before shutting down. On the way, huge single reds erupted and fled, leaving muddy trails as they fled in indignation.

I was hoping for some pods, since the water was murky: I was afraid that I would not be able to see singles cruising steathily through the discolored water. But not encountering any groups, I eventually shut down before the decreasing depth made the decision for me. The prop dug into the mud as we came off plane, but I was sure that the Stilt could get us up again.

I left Julie sunbathing, and went on a wade toward even shallower, but slightly clearer water where I might be able to spot cruising gamefish glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Alas, the reds weren't feeding in Parker as best I could determine. So I quickly returned to the boat and headed east onto the sand, directly east of the Arroyo's mouth. As we traveled across the increasingly clear and shallow water, the sea breeze came to a virtual halt. We passed beyond the edge of rippled water, and entered a glassy expanse in which the distant dunes of Padre Island sketched a white line over a horizon that was otherwise seamless in the surreal conditions.

I was happy to see a few redfish moving ahead of the planing Skiff, so I shut down in gin-clear water, and gave the water and fish a chance to settle down. Leaving Julie behind, I took my TFO rod and Ross Vexis and waded barefoot eastward, keeping the declining sun over my left shoulder. After only 60 yards, I spotted three reds approaching head-down from the northeast. Since it was so calm, I opted to wait until I could cast about 10-12 feet to one side of the pod, knowing that even at that distance, the fish would perceive the presentation. Sure enough, one of the reds briefly turned toward the fly before resuming his course. I casted the fly a couple of feet closer, and saw the fish move together toward it. In seconds, they were chasing the fly side by side, obviously intent on winning the prize. Moments later, I hooked up on one and saw the other two reds take up a position behind the hooked fish and circle me for a while before heading away.

After landing the 24-inch red and photographing it, I resumed my wade only to spot another, larger red within a few minutes. He was swimming quickly towards me so I false casted only a couple of times before shooting enough line to intercept him before he came close enough to spot me. He didn't hesitate to take the chartreuse Clouser, and I was fighting my second red within 15 minutes of leaving the boat.

Obviously there were plenty of redfish on the sand, but I'd had enough. It was classic redfish action, but I put my rod away, rejoined Julie, and headed in.

On the Beach in Early February

2012-02-05T12:37:00.000-08:00

Scott here. My partner Julie and I went up the Padre Island Beach on Friday to catch some rays, have a picnic, and test the new Outback's all-wheel drive. Of course, I took my fly rod. After three hours sunning atop one of the highest dunes on the Island, we learned that it's possible to get terribly sunburned sunbathing in a thong in February if you're an Irish woman with fair skin. I was barely pink after it all, but J. was so badly burned that she would have parted the waves in any local ER if she'd been inclined to get medical attention.

Fortunately, we didn't know that she'd gotten so burned til much later, which gave us time to learn a second lesson. Four-wheel drive will improve your chances in loose sand, but it's not a failsafe solution. We were so happy twisting and turning in the soft sand that we almost overshot the access "road" to the highway. At the last moment, instead of going further south toward a hard-packed access point, I told J. to turn into a poopload of loose sand just in time to get stuck up to the frame. I got out, took a look at the situation, and pronounced, "we're f....d!" Then I bent down and started to dig us out, and pulled my back. Fortunately, a kind man and his son arrived just time to pull us out.

Before the sunburn and my back problem started to assert themselves, we headed over the bayside and drove up toward Coyote Hill and beyond. Parking near the bay, I waded out to the edge of the sand, which is only about 300 years that far south. I promptly started seeing reds feeding head down and heading upwind. After landing two nice reds, I broke my Clouser hook on the third strike, and proceeded to miss two more before realizing that I was shooting blanks.

Then we went over and visited with my buddy Skipper Ray, who had just been out with Bill Blodgett shooting an episode for Majesty Outdoors. Skipper decanted a nice bottle of wine for the non-designated driver (Julie). We sat in the open air at Island Outfitters, and talked fish and relationships.

As if we hadn't already had a great day, we had dinner at Pirate's Landing on the way home. So, the motto of the day is, Don't sun nearly naked under a subtropical sun, drive careless in a poopload of soft sand, or cast broken hooks to hungry fish.

Fishing South Cullens in January

2012-01-30T10:41:00.000-08:00

Ah, winter fly fishing. Sometimes I think it's time to tell people "no" when they want to come down in midwinter. I know, I've often spoken highly of the remarkable opportunities during those sunny days in January and February. Indeed, you will never see as many huge trout as in the winter months. And the reds are usually larger and fatter. But it's hard to play the weather, especially when guys are coming down from central Texas and beyond, and are hungry for that good taste of salt air on the Laguna Madre.

I drove down on Friday afternoon to guide Bobby McConnell from Kerrville and his friend Greg. I'd never taken them out, but they'd fished out of Kingfisher with Roel V. previously. The weather forecast was iffy for most of the weekend, but there seemed to be a calm window developing for Sat. morning. Sure enough, it was glassy on the East side when we arrived on the flats. Reds and trout were plentiful just southeast of the mouth of the Arroyo, so we shut down and poled for a while. We got some decent shots at tailing pods, but the calm conditions kept us from getting more than one cast off before the group would turn and slowly move away. After several such encounters, I made the questionable call to move further south towards S. Cullens Bay, which is my favorite west side venue during the low tides of winter. The water was plenty clear on the west side of Cullens, and we pushed a lot of fish just as soon as we crossed into the shallower side. So we poled westward toward the shallower water. Reds and a few trout blew up as we moved into range, but they weren't doing much. With a low sun, and lethargic fish, we didn't have what we needed. So I ran a bit further west, thinking that if we could get the fish in less than a foot of water, then they'd show even if they were barely moving. We ran over some small groups, shut down and decided to wade because it was too shallow to pole over the turtle grass. I was in and out of the boat for a while, pushing the Stilt over piles of turtle grass. I was relieved when the guys opted to wade. But that didn't do the trick either. The reds were hard to see--no tailing or active feeding.

A cold front blew through about 11:00 am, putting the end to our sightcasting. The 25 knot north wind wasn't cold at all, but it gradually churned up the clear water until our chances of seeing fish went to zero. It was then that we headed home. Not a fish was landed, but many were seen. A typical result on an otherwise promising morning that was interrupted by an abrupt change in the wind.

I did see something in my running south early in the day that was confirmed by my buddy Skipper Ray the next day: There are pods of big trout on the east side. I may be out there for fun later this week.

Flyfishing Before the Cold Front

2011-11-27T09:20:00.001-08:00

I went down to Kingfisher Inn and spent the night with Rosie, so I'd be there early for the windless dawn that was forecast. My brother Chip came down at dawn and joined me on the water. We knew we had only a few hours before the cold front would blow us off the water, but until then it was calm and moist from the showers that were blessing us with a bit of precip after months of very little.

We took the Stilt out and headed for a lagoon where we usually fish in the 'deep' sections that are only 1 foot deep in the highest of tides. We are fortunate that the Stilt can go there just about any time. Chip was driving, and asked me, "How far back can we go?" I kept waving for him to continue, because there's an area that looks almost dry in the far back end of the remote lagoon, where reds will venture into 5-7 inches of water looking for baitfish. We stopped the boat about 200 yards from the edge of the glasswort sprigs, and waded slowly into the glassy water. Reds were tailing near the boat, and I should have hooked a couple, but my casts always fell to the wrong side, apparently, because none of them reacted. I could have stayed there targeting the tails, but the sounds of exploding reds distracted me from an eventual sure thing. Rosie had been waiting patiently aboard the boat, so I called her and she eagerly jumped in the foot-deep water and took up her position just behind me. We waded slowly toward the shoreline, and registered the location of several actively feeding reds. Approaching the edge of the sprigs, I spotted my first snaking redfish coming up the edge, and casted the pink VIP just off to the side of the sauntering red. It turned and inhaled it and made a blistering run toward deeper water while I tried to clear the line from the vegetation at my feet. As I fought the red, another blew up about 40 feet away, and started showing himself as he swam through the sprigs, his back showing every once in a while, and staying almost visible as I held my Nikon trying to capture him with video while the hooked red pulled my left arm around and pinned it against my side. I wished for a third hand.

The action continued for a while. Chip, meanwhile, was fishing to my left along the sprigs, and said several times, "They are up in no water! I don't know how I could land one if even I hooked it." So he stayed put, hoping they would come to him. I didn't care much about landing the fish, only hooking them, so as soon as I landed the 26 inch red, I headed further in, scanning carefully for the reds that would remain almost invisible before exploding like cherry bombs (remember those?) and sending rain minnows airborne in all directions. I only landed two, but managed to cast to several others. In such shallow conditions, it's very hard to get the fish to see the fly without spooking them at the same time. In fine Sparrow tradition, Chip and I punctuated the morning stillness with expletives that would have made Nixon turn red. It was tense and very challenging, the kind of morning that will make you a better angler if you can keep yourself from imploding. I did, but an observer within earshot may have thought otherwise.

East Side Magic, part 4.

2011-11-23T20:23:00.000-08:00

Here's the last installment of the article, which should appear in the winter issue of Tide magazine. I just heard that the photo that the editor wanted to use for the cover (see part 1 of this article) did not scan clearly enough to use on the cover, but--good news--he wants to use another photo of mine that was shot digitally. Here's the photo, which I have titled Sunrise Magic. I guess I'm partial to "magic," huh?

The quality and challenge of this sightcasting venue is only exceeded by its beauty. In between fish, Dave and I remarked at the dream-like quality of the scene ahead of us, in which the sky was perfectly reflected by the unbroken surface. An unnamed client of mine, who was so moved by the pristine beauty of the sand on a calm morning, said that he didn't need to catch fish at all to make it worthwhile. He went on to imagine holding hands in groups and singing Kumbaya, and at that point I interrupted his fantasy, thinking he'd gone a bit too far.
As Dave and I quietly enjoyed the beauty of the scene, and scanned ahead for more tails, I told him of fishing the area with my friend Pete Prata the week before, in which Pete and I would approach each pod with the intent of a double hook-up. Pete, who was spin fishing at the time, gladly accepted the exquisite burden of making the first cast. With my encouragement, he would approach from the south and cast his gold spoon near the pod. I would, in turn, approach the fish from the west. Once Pete cast his spoon into the fish, usually hooking up, the reds did what they always did––head west for deeper water. By anticipating their departure route, I was able to cast my fly head-on to the broken pod, often hooking a second red within moments of Pete's hook-up.
The great thing about this action is that the area is hardly fished. During weekends, in particular, game fish will migrate onto the sand, in part, to escape the crisscrossing boats. But sheer avoidance of boat noise does not account for the main reason the reds can be found in such conditions. Indeed, a careful observation of the sandy bottom reveals almost continuous tiny perforations and trails made by worms and crabs that live mostly beneath the sand. Besides these pinhole-size openings, larger "divots" give testimony to the efforts of bottom-feeding sheepshead, black drum, and redfish to rout these food sources from their hiding places.
The boats capable of entering this area at lower tides comprise a distinct minority, and the anglers who know enough to park their deeper-draft boats and wade onto the sand on a calm morning are few and far between. But while the outward appearance of barrenness turns most people away from the sand on a dead calm morning, the redfish know better. And those of us who are willing to make the counterintuitive call to go east instead of west on a calm morning on the Lower Laguna Madre may be rewarded by unparalleled sight casting opportunities.
Capt. Dr. Scott Sparrow is a fly fishing guide, psychotherapist, professor, cofounder of Kingfisher Inn (www.lagunamadre.net), and author of Healing the Fisher King: A Fly Fisher's Grail Quest(www.lagunamadreflyfishing.com).

East Side Magic, part 3.

2011-11-19T12:48:00.001-08:00

I'm going flyfishing tomorrow, so I will let you know how the fishing is. Meanwhile, here is Part 3 of "East Side Magic."

Autumn is perhaps the best time for this action. In summer, the game fish will leave the sand by midmorning in response to the warming conditions, but the cool water of October and November will keep the reds feeding on the sand all day, especially if the sky is overcast. Normally, one wants a cloudless sky for fishing the sand, but on calm days when the fish are feeding in seven to 10 inches of water, they can't help but show themselves. Under such ideal conditions, clouds keep the sunlight and temperatures low enough to satisfy the prowling fish.
On that November day, we had a mixture of clouds and sun, but the cool water and available food sources offset any warming effect of the subtropical sun. I sensed immediately that the action would be good as long as the wind remained below 10 mph.
Spotting two tailing reds moving toward us, I poled the Stilt within position to intercept them. As we drew closer, I imagined that I could hear Dave breathing roughly. It's not an easy thing to succeed in such clear and shallow conditions where every false cast can alert the fish to our presence, and every imperfect presentation may be the last one before the fish explodes and flees in indignation. Failure comes easily when every sound and every movement seems to offend the stillness. I found myself holding my breath and freezing in place as Dave began false casting to the reds, which had already sensed our presence, and turned slowly away. They could still be caught, I realized, so I coached him on the placement of successive casts. Alas, the increasingly annoyed fish swam beyond the range of his best cast. Dave apologized profusely, blaming himself for the miss. I reassured him, knowing that success was imminent under these conditions.
The second opportunity was a single large red approaching head-on from out of the pewter-like sheen to the east. Dave tracked the redfish's snake-like signature through the skinny water until it was about 40 feet from the boat, and closing. He made a couple of quick false casts to get enough line aerialized, and then dropped the size 6 Clouser three feet to the side of the approaching fish. The red swirled and rushed to the fly, and went head down on it before Dave could even strip. "Get ready, get ready," I said in a hushed voice just before the big fish sensed his predicament and sped past the boat at a blistering pace. The line ripped audibly through the water, and the drag screamed. Dave stood silent and intent on the deck of Stilt, holding his rod high and knowing full well that if the fish was going to break off, it was going to happen right away. I said, "Let him go, let him go. Just stay tight. He's stop eventually."

East Side Magic, part 2.

2011-11-17T19:30:00.000-08:00

Planing into nine inches of vegetation-free, gin-clear water can show you everything that's there, but such intelligence comes at a high price. Every redfish within 300 yards will summarily spook ahead of the encroaching boat, and can therafter be observed as silvery V's moving slowly toward deeper water. Gamefish tend to be wholly intolerant of noisy intruders in this most-sensitive area of the LLM, where any semblance of cover is at least a mile away.

Taking up a position on the poling platform of my NewWater Stilt, I went through my well-practiced orientation speech so Dave could muster the requisite patience without losing enthusiasm for what was to come. "These fish will be larger than average, and spread out," I said. "It may seem impossible to approach them, but they are feeding, and they're not looking up. So we should be able to get close enough for you to reach them." I then added, "Try not to cast before you are pretty sure you can place the fly within three or four feet of their heads."

I urged him to practice his cast while I moved us slowly beyond the empty zone that we'd created by our arrival. After about 15 minutes of poling eastward toward the distant dunes of Padre Island, we entered the edge of unmolested water and, since the winds were still imperceptible, we began to spot tailing fish ahead of us on the mirror-like surface. They were easy to see; for while the redfish barely tail on the sand as they move forward at a slight downward angle, there was nothing else to compete with the occasional nervous water and surface breaks of the feeding fish. Above the bright sheen, we could see the occasional dark tips of tails, and then track their movements beneath the water without much difficulty. As I expected, they were spread out, such that each small pod was 75-100 yards from the next one. I knew that the distance between the tailing fish was advantageous to us, however, because every fish within 50 yards would surely flee the moment Dave hooked up on the first redfish.

Stay tuned for part 3., which will appear in two days!

East Side Magic--New article--serialized in four parts, pt. 1

2011-11-15T11:53:00.000-08:00

East Side Magic
by Capt. Scott Sparrow

(According to the editor, this photo will be on the cover if the slide scans well enough.)

My client Dave Cole had never flyfished for redfish on the Lower Laguna Madre, and had come down from north Texas to see what it was all about. After catching his first two reds from tailing pods in a west-side lagoon, I suggested that we go elsewhere. He must have been a bit worried that we were committing the fundamental error of leaving fish to find them. But I could see that the action was falling off, and another place called to me.

A calm morning is a rare thing on the Lower Laguna Madre of deep south Texas, but during the summer and fall––between the fierce winds of March and April, and the disruptive cold fronts of late Autumn––mornings often dawn breathless on the shallow estuary. At daybreak on a calm morning, sight casting can be superb just about any place you go. Most of my guide friends head to the west side of the lagoon, into the seagrass meadows of such storied places as Paytons, Cullens, and Rattlesnake––bays named, respectively, for a local angling family, a wealthy Houstonian, and our indigenous pit vipers. In these fertile places, the reds will tail in earnest in a foot of water or less as they root head-down through the shoalgrass for shrimp and baby blue crabs.

It's hard to improve on the heart-stopping sight of waving tails spread across a west-side lagoon on the Laguna Madre. But experience has taught me that there can be something even better if I'm willing to go in search of it on the east side. I know that beyond the sheer chaos of mullet and sheepshead that congregate on the east side sand, above-average redfish in small pods can be found feeding even further east in otherwise empty water.

See the next installment in a couple of days!

Choosing the Right Fly

2011-11-14T14:57:00.000-08:00

I have said that the context determines your fly choice, at least in a fishery where the fish are not selective, as on the Laguna Madre. I use only four flies for 95% of my fly fishing: the VIP popper (March through November only), the Kingfisher Spoon, the Mother's Day shrimp pattern (or Crimp as an alternative), and the Clouser. That's it. Regardless of what anyone tells you, you don't need more than these four flies. Of course, there are other great flies, but each of them is roughly equivalent to one of my four choices, but probably inferior for various reasons.

You need a weedless popper, not only for great action, but for line management in conditions that are too grassy for anything else. The popper needs to cast easily in the wind, break the surface tension of the water without sinking (so it stays in place during the strike), not make noise on the back cast, and produce a high percentage of hookups (with a wide-gap hook). The VIP does all of these things. It's easy to tie, and cheap to tie.

You need a spoon fly in two weights for fly fishing the flats. I usually use the lighter weight only, and switch to a Clouser instead if it's deeper than 18 inches. A weighted spoon is fine, but harder than a Clouser to cast in the wind.

You need a light-weight weedless shrimp pattern, or one that doubles for a crab. My Mother's Day fly, or the Crimp, satisfies this need. You can weight some with lead wire, or heavier eyes.

You need a weighted fly that casts easily in the wind for grass-free venues. The fly needs to get to the bottom, because that's where the reds will be looking. A size 4 or 6 Clouser cannot be beat. We usually use bead-eye or brass eyes; that is, lighter than lead.

Your decision about which fly (and which weighted version) to use also depends on whether you are wading or fishing from a boat. If you're wading you can use a slower sinking fly and lead the fish a bit more so as not to spook him on the cast. However, if you're on a boat, you need a faster sinking fly--to get it to the fish before he looks up, but also to get it down in the water column so he will see it quickly without looking up.

I never use poppers from the boat, at least with clients. Typically, clients do not see fish in time to make a long cast to them. So casting a popper to close-in targets will bring the fish to the surface within sight of the boat. That's self defeating.

Redfish will always eat--almost. If you use a fly that is suited to the context, then your choice cannot be faulted. If the fish doesn't appreciate your fly, it's probably due to another reason: poor presentation. Next time, I'll talk about presentation errors and how to correct them.

The Fundamental Error

2011-11-09T21:00:00.000-08:00

Newcomers to the Lower Laguna are almost universally unaware of how willing redfish are to take a fly. Having fished in venues where fish have been more selective, they are ready to blame the fly for what they perceive as the fish's disinterest. In actuality, redfish and trophy trout are almost always willing to take a fly. Indeed, even big trout--which are known to feed for about two hours out of every 24-hour cycle, can be enticed with regularity. So why don't people realize it?

I could be here all night answering that one. But suffice to say that it's a combination of factors that keeps the angler in the dark. For one, redfish and trout don't see flies that aren't at the level where their attention is focused. A friend of mine, who once had the IGFA 4-lb tippet world record trout said that sink rate is the most important factor when fly fishing for big trout. Sink rate? Who would have thought it? But what Tom Kilgore is saying is that a gamefish is usually focused on a particular level of the water column. Reds usually feed head down, and thus overlook just about anything that passes overhead. Trout are also prone to stick their heads in the grass. Still, the idea that the fish should see my fly is a hard misconception to cure. After fishing six hours with my buddy Skipper Ray, his clients asked if they should change their flies. Skipper replied in his customary dry style, "Fellas, the fish haven't even seen your flies yet."

So the first thing to overcome is the fundamental error of interpreting the fish's lack of response as disinterest. A big trout or a redfish will almost always react to the sight of your fly. So if the fish doesn't react, it hasn't seen your fly! This is a good starting point in a rather complex analysis that I will be making in the next few postings about fly selection. So as you go to sleep tonight, affirm that the next time you sight cast to fish, and it doesn't respond, you won't blame the fly or the fish. Instead, affirm that you will simply cast again, and hope he sees it.

Next time: The Context Should Determine Your Choice of Fly

Fishing Report--Appt. with Judge Ochoa

2011-11-02T19:54:00.000-07:00

I promised to write about fly selection, and I will, but I thought you'd enjoy hearing about my brother's success fly fishing yesterday. I got a call about 10 am from Chip, who asked me, "Do you have a fire extinguisher on the boat?' I'm thinking, maybe there's a fire, but then I realized that if there was one, he'd probably be overboard rather than calling me on his cell phone. "There's one in the console...I think," I said. "Why do you ask," I added. "Because I'm talking to a couple of game wardens who want to see it." Well, I didn't hear from him for a couple of hours, so I called him to see what had happened. He was excited about the fly fishing, and told me that he and Art had caught several large reds--two oversized, in fact. It wasn't like my brother to ignore the obvious question about the game warden visit, so I had to ask, "What happened?" He said, "We got a ticket, but no big deal." I was impressed that he was able to enjoy the day without fretting over his upcoming visit to see Judge Benny Ochoa. If you can enjoy fly fishing more than worrying about the cost of your mistake, I would say...You're living well. What do you think?

What's in a fly?

2011-11-01T11:14:00.000-07:00

The legendary Catskill fly fisher Edward R. Hewitt once said, "The fly is not the problem. It's what's on the other end of the line." For those of us who have fly fished the Catskills -- Hewitt's statement is pretty surprising, because the fish in those waters are extremely selective. Color, size and pattern are crucial variables. But what he was saying, as you probably surmise, is that we tend to conveniently minimize the contribution of the angler, especially when things aren't going well. Instead, we blame the fish, the fly, the wind, and whatever else can conveniently distract us from where the real power lies -- in our hands. Hewitt's statement is even more true on the Lower Laguna Madre, where the fish are not so much selective as they are uncompromising. More wary than picky, big redfish and trout alike will accept just about any fly at any time that is well presented, and reject all other offerings. Indeed, presentation is just about everything. When we misinterpret the source of our failures by blaming the fly, our failures become mistakes from which we cannot learn. In my next installment, I will discuss fly choice as a function of angler skill and environmental conditions, not the fish's desire.

2011-10-30T20:41:00.000-07:00

Capt. Scott here...In the spirit of blogging on a regular basis, I want to encourage you to come down to fly fish in November, especially if you have flexible travel plans. The only problem with Autumn fishing is the impact of fresh cold fronts. If you can fish in between the fronts, which is pretty easy until mid-December when they start coming more frequently, you can enjoy halcyon days on the LLM, with some of the best birding action on the westside and sight casting on the sand that you can imagine. Big trout action increases as the low tides of mid-December through February make them more visible in the gin-clear, vegetation-free water of winter time. Remember: Neither the reds nor the trout leave the bay in the winter; they just move in and out of the shallowest waters as the temperatures rise and fall. So don't rule out the fall and winter fishing. But neither should you make inflexible plans. Book on Southwest, and plan on rescheduling. That way, you can play the weather at a time when most people are playing cards. Of course, if you can drive down on short notice from central Texas, then you're really in control. The reds are fatter and larger, on average, through the winter.

Welcome!

2011-10-29T13:16:00.000-07:00

Hi Friends, I have decided to move away from a one-sided fishing report to an interactive blog that will allow you to ask questions, post comments, and take part in a conversation with me and other anglers. An occasional fishing report can create the impression that "you should have been here yesterday," as if there was something special about yesterday. Those of us who have lived and breathed fly fishing on the Mother Lagoon know that any day can be the best day, and any tide can be the best tide. In some sense, there's no substitute for "showing up" after you ascertain that the weather is tolerably acceptable. Magic can happen on any day, and who knows why? Certainly, an experienced guide can predict more accurately the cycles of fish movements, etc., but ultimately the variables are so vast that "expertise" translates into an ability to adjust knowledgably to changing conditions. That's what I aspire to.

I look forward to this blogging format, because it gives you a change to post questions and comments. I will be notified by email whenever you post here, so you can be assured that I will respond to you in short order.

During the last two weekends, I have guided an old client and a new one. My old clients Chuck Thomas and his two sons, Charlie and Zack, came down and fished with me for two days, as they usually once or twice a season. We were fortunate that the reds were podding and tailing in a very shallow back lagoon where there were no other boats. We spent two magical mornings stalking tailing pods of reds until the mid-morning. After that, the fly fishing was tough, but we all agreed that the early action was worth it all. Yesterday, I guided Dave Pennock from Colorado and San Diego (rough life, right?), who had never been to the LLM. He'd spoken to someone in San Diego who mentioned me and the stellar fly fishing on the LLM, so Dave opted for four days. Roel Villanueva took Dave out on Thursday, and I guided him on Friday, just before a cold front blew through. We had a wonderful day, finding tons of reds in the same lagoon as when the Thomas' were down, and then found them as far east as you can go--in the extramarginal waters of the "sand." While we had an abundance of redfish on the westside, they were feeding aggressively and swimming quickly from one place to another in off-colored water. It was exceedingly hard to follow the targets, and Dave only landed one fine red there before we headed east. When we reached the east side, the surface was glassy even though the breeze was rising. We poled into the glassy expanse and quickly spotted tailing reds spread out ahead of us.

It was classic, demanding sight casting where you could see every nuance of the redfish's behavior. Dave did marvelously for his first trial in such sensitive conditions, landing three more nice reds over 25 inches apiece. Alas, a cold front blew in in the middle of the night, and Dave opted to go home early with my support. I always second guess myself when I pull the plug due to weather. It looks pretty now, and I wonder if he should have stayed. But when you're in the middle of a "blue norther," and sunshine seems to be a distant memory, it only makes sense to head for home. I think he's be back.