Finding Backcountry Flats

Dave

Mary typically asks me, as I’m packing my duffle, if I know any of the guys I’m flying off to fish with. The answer, more often than not lately, has been “No.”

But that’s not a problem because what I do know is that they are guys who are willing to jump on a plane and roll the dice on weather, winds, and the finicky nature of gamefish. There’ll be no crying if conditions are bleak or the prey is absent because they accept that plunking down hard-earned cash for airfare and lodging guarantees nothing. Most importantly, they understand that if the journey and the company alone won’t satisfy them, they might as well stay home. They roll with it.

With such companionship, I’ve been seldom disappointed.

Last month’s trip to Abaco was no exception and for that I’ll thank my week’s fishing partner, Dave. Connected only by a quirk of timing and a common friendship with our (sadly absent) host, Oliver White, we spent a week chasing bonefish together out of Abaco Lodge before he returned to Sun Valley, Idaho, to prepare for a season guiding with Natural Retreats and I returned to, well, this.

So a simple, heartfelt thank you is in order. I enjoyed the hell out of it, my friend. Let’s do it again sometime soon.

The Abaco Lodge

If it's good enough for Lefty, it's good enough for me. In truth, "good enough" doesn't begin to describe it. It's wonderful.

Sitting just outside of Marsh Harbour on perfectly-named Sunset Point, Abaco Lodge is a Bahamian escape that's not to be missed. From the comfortable accommodations, to the incredible food, to the out-of-this-world fishing, it's the best way I know to shake off Old Man Winter.

Breakfast to order at 7:00am. On the flats with world-class guides by 8:00. Lunch on the water and dinner, 6:30ish (if you're not too full from the copious hors devours that constantly appear throughout the happy hour). A quick pass (or three) by the open bar as you wander to and from the fire pit. Casting to late-night snapper and the occasional bonefish from the lighted dock. Kicking back with great new friends from around the world. Good times.

I think I'll just let the pictures tell the story.

The Buccaneers

The Shoreline

The Morning Start

Hell's Bay - Hell yes!

Homecoming

The View from the Deck

Bird Watching

The Food. Oh my God, the Food.

What's Your Pleasure?

The Fire Before the Fire

Waiting for Tomorrow

A Little Help with the Cast

Sunset Point

Relax

How I Found My Room #5

A Fine Bahamian Night

Valesca and Matt - Our Most Excellent Hosts

My thanks to the whole crew at Abaco for a great week. I came home with a February tan, a couple of extra pounds, and renewed strength to finish off the cold season. Just what the doctor ordered.

The bonefish were bonuses.

Rising Spirits

Even in the Bahamas the evenings were deliciously cool.
It was just February, after all.



After a day spent standing on the bow of a skiff, it felt good to warm my toes in front of a roaring fire and to lift my spirits, like showers of glowing sparks, in the rising drafts of good companionship.
A couple fingers of brown water didn't hurt either.



The fishing life doesn't get much better.

A Rod Problem

We sit, mesmerized, as they emerge from the rod case, one shiny blue Helios2 after another, and another, and another.

7 to 11wt, with redundancy. We watch as each ferrel is meticulously waxed, all sections carefully aligned, every rod paired with a stealth-black Mirage or glittering NV-G; the reels, like the rods, all appearing out of the bottomless Carry-It-All. Piece upon piece materialize from the case like some impossible number of clowns unfolding from a P.T. Barnum punch buggy.

For bonefish. For permit. For tarpon. Even barracuda. At stick number six we start laughing, bringing a sheepish grin to Bob's face.

Okay, maybe I have a rod problem. But I get a handwritten Christmas card every year from Perkins.

Holding his right index and middle finger together, just so...

Me and Perk. We're like this.

We laugh even harder, not completely convinced that he's kidding, and wonder where we might get one of these magic bags for our own.

The Pastel Dawns of Abaco

On the Brain

He insured that the first rule was clear before we stepped on the boat. One could not have a beer until they caught a bonefish. To my great relief, we each snagged a ghost early so the drinking could begin.

The rest of the rules he made up as the day progressed.

One of the joyful perks of this whole blogging thing is the opportunity it provides to make connections. I've had the pleasure to meet and fish with a host of folks who share my combined passions for fly fishing, writing, and generally baring one's soul on the internet; a combination that pretty well insures some interesting connections. I've yet to be disappointed.

So I was thrilled to learn that my visit to Abaco Lodge would overlap with that of my left-coast pal, Bjorn Stromsness, Mr. Bonefish on the Brain himself. Better yet, we shared a day on the water; my last and his first of our respective trips. It was the icing on the cake for me and, I hope, a good start for him.

No surprise, Bjorn pretty well schooled me that day on the water, confirming that his blog's title is well earned. He's passionate about the sport and the environment within which it's enjoyed. He calls foul when foul needs to be called and he's unflinching in his advocacy of all things bonefishy. On top of it all, he's a mighty fine angler.

Bjorn and his buddy Aaron were to spend another day at the lodge and then wander off on a North Abaco do-it-yourselfer for the remainder of the week. Let's all keep an eye on his blog to see how it went. Given the participants, and the location, it had to have been a memorable adventure.

I wonder if they had any beerless days.

The Dance

We dance with the winds. Play cat-and-mouse with thunderheads. Skip over the salt that swirls in the erratic patterns of spooked bonefish. We circle, circle, circle, to outflank the looming cataclysms, to hide behind keys, to sneak around stray sheets of showers in search of hidden blue skies, to simply get out of the blow that comes impossibly from all sides at once.

Tides shift in minutes, ignoring their lunar influence. Instead are herded like livestock, driven mercilessly by tempestuous phantoms, whipped to a bellowing froth. Stampeded across the mangroves.

Flats empty, then fill, then empty again. Whitecaps in eight inches of brine. Now five. Need to run but no depth to get it on plane. Rumble out slowly, painfully, the grey wall closing in behind. Find a depression and spin the skiff hard, pirouette, slingshot to speed. Escape. Run for the next tack, too stubborn to give in, too hard-headed to go home. The waltz goes on.

Boreas. Zephyrus. Eurus. Notus. They toy with us. No. That’s flattering. They couldn't care less of us as they romp amongst themselves for control of the empyrean. We’re collateral. Insignificant. The Marles are theirs.

But in between the skirmishes we find tails, waving in the chop like crisp silver flags. The bones don’t care about the firmament. It's just air and they have no interest in it. Noses down, not up. Get a fly to them, they eat. And they run. In defiance of it all we laugh and we celebrate our own small conquests, lesser gods that we are.

The winds note this hubris and we dance once again.

Opening Statements: Abaco

Let's get a few things out of the way, right up front:

No Bahamian residents were harmed in the making of the next few posts. A few bonefish, however, may have been temporarily inconvenienced.

There's something downright civilized about getting out of bed a little early in North Carolina and then being on an Abaco bonefish flat by two-o'clock that same afternoon; tipsy on Kaliks by four. One could get used to such days.

Sitting around the same fire pit shared by Lefty and Flip, Yvonne and Oliver, Thomas and Tom, is exhilarating. Fishing with the guides that regularly pole them around, a bit scary. I'll bet Marty doesn't have to keep telling Lefty, More String, mon. Give it more string!

Picking up a fly rod for the first time in twenty-knot trades can't be easy. Hat's off to the brothers from Minnesota who gutted out a tough couple of days and had fun doing it. Respect.

Fan of funk or not, you gotta love Freddie, on the platform, breaking out the KC and the Sunshine Band at every hook-up. That's the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it!, accompanied by a boogie-woogying drag. Buddy... Buddy...

Fly fishing can be a small world, made clear when you're in the islands and make a deliberately obscure reference to this "secret" Michigan brown trout stream that you've once visited and it turns out to be another guy's home waters.

And let's be perfectly clear, here. Sometimes, you just have to throw at the barracuda.

Glad we got all that straight. Now, let's get on with it.

Keep Pounding, Panthers!

Photo by Chris Hunt

I'm not going to make the mistake of assuming I'm going to catch anything... rather, the opposite. I'm looking forward to casting to jacks and ladyfish... IF I get to cast to a rooster, I'll be thrilled. If I land a rooster, I'll run naked into the surf. (Dont' think I won't do it, either). - Text from Chris Hunt

Oh, I knew he'd do it. And I shared the sentiment, so it turned into a somewhat inverted bet. First to catch a roosterfish during our expedition to the Baja took the plunge. It ended up being me, though there was some question as to whether I had actually landed our target species. (That's a story for another time.)

Today, we wager again. This time, the one who doesn't get the prize has to go off the dock in Saskatchewan this summer when my Bronco-loving buddy and I get together again, up North, to chase big northern pike with flimsy fly rods. I'm thinking those Canadian waters might not be as hospitable as the warm Sea of Cortez, even in June, so...

Keep pounding, Panthers!

Post-game Update: Hats off to a truly masterful defensive clinic. Well done, Broncos. Dammit. And it's been a pleasure, Peyton. Seeing you go out on top almost makes this bearable.

Almost.