St. Augustine Textures

The tourists gave me a wide berth, changing sides of the street as they approached. Like I was crazy or something. Mothers gathered small children tight to their legs, hurrying them along the sidewalk to get past without making eye contact. Mary walked ahead with that determined "never saw him before in my life" stride that I've come to know so well.

All understandable, I suppose, considering I was facing relatively blank walls, inches away, intently focusing my camera on nothing. That's how they saw it, anyway. But I didn't notice as I was digging the textures.

St. Augustine is quite possibly the oldest city in the US. The climate is fantastic, the architecture's fascinating, and this particular evening's light was perfect. We had stopped for dinner and a quick overnight at an old-town B&B, breaking up the drive from home to Key West, and wandered along St. George Street to work the kinks out of our driving legs. Camera in hand, I became fascinated with the old walls (and probably a few that were just made to look old).

Old or faux, I was captured. So here's what came of that stroll. Pictures of nothing.

I might add, one night's not enough in St. Aug. We'll definitely go back and spend a few additional days as there's plenty to explore. History, architecture, gastronomy...

...and, most importantly, a lot more walls for the crazy man to stare at.

The Photo Bin - February 2016

Feast or famine, here at the bin. Last month, almost nothing. This month, there's Abaco.

It's a fitting way to end the barrage of Bahamian posts that I've subjected you to, here of late. Hopefully, Spring's finding its way to your doorsteps and you no longer need these palm tree and bonefish fixes to start the thaw. Besides, you're probably tired of them by now. And I suppose that I, too, need to move on lest I get stuck forever in dreamy remembrances of paradise. It's time to come back to earth.

So a few final images from Abaco. A handful from around the lodge and the flats that, in true Photo Bin fashion, have no context but I thought I'd share just the same.

It's how things work around here.

So, be like my little lizard friend here and get out on the deck to find some sunshine, some Spring paradise of your own, and we'll see what next month brings to the Bin.

Feast or famine.

What is a Photo Bin?

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.