My eyes snapped open
mid-morning. The previous night found me
restless—scouring charts, tables; interpreting the forecasts; weighing my
options. Tides were slight; and the
weather, poor. “Cold spell” complaints
were being tossed about Southwest Florida tackle shops like lies since the day
I arrived. At 86 degrees and breezy, I
found no quarrel with Florida’s sunny disposition. Had I met the coast with an inkling of prior
knowledge of fly fishing saltwater or the area, I might have.
 |
| Matlacha backcountry on a sunny fall day. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
As I rolled from my
sleeping bag on the concluding day of my sojourn, the mercury was reduced to
40. The sky was dismal. The air carried a briskness that rendered my
featherweight Florida fishing garb useless.
The snook that finned my dreams would be stressed.
Doubt flickered as I
shouldered my kayak, and chilled water from a nocturnal storm met
exhaustion. Its weight depressed
me. I pushed on, slinging it atop the
car.
I met slack tide at
D-&-D marina in Matlacha. A doorbell
chime welcomed me to pay my launch fee to a gruff gentleman in a stained gray
t-shirt.
“You might try it. Tough day.
Unstrapping my craft, I
toted it to the water’s edge. An anchor
and PFD smacked the gravel with a ceremonial thud. A milk crate took on fly boxes, Boca grip,
leaders, and a dry bag. A paddle was
assembled. I was a week-old tourist, but
my routine was seasoned.
Every moment of flux is
opportunity. The tide was rising,
submerging the shoots of the tangled labyrinth of mangroves where predatory
snook would take up vigil over unsuspecting prey. My plot relied upon a northwest-oriented
course winding through the backcountry.
Fighting for every inch of my kayak’s advancement north along the Gulf
edge, I was reassured that the gusts would assist me, moving my craft south as
I fished. I needed only to reach the
north end of the cut.
In the tight, winding
water trail, the wind was shielded. I
reached my destination inside a half hour.
Rod rigged, anchor secured to the trolley, I slid into a standing
position--rod at my feet, anchor boated, paddle in-hand.
The gloom afforded no
chance of sight-casting. Blind-casting
would rule the day. I poled to a
position fifty feet from the mangroves and dropped anchor.
Drizzle spawned rain
and wind slanted it harshly. Many
fruitless casts turned me to gliding upright through an open lake at the
confluence of two creek channels.
I heard the fish
first. Amid the timid roar of gray
static stippling the tannic water of the backcountry, a beast woke and
fed. Billows of an angry sea breeze
shrouded the hint and challenged my balance atop my kayak. The brisk frontal haze thinned temporarily,
permitting my strained eyes a quick study of the mangrove edge. Dark water swirled again beneath arms of
green. My eyes brightened.
Sixty feet separated me
from the fish, and I feared clamoring to adjust my position would spook
it. I stripped line from reel and
awaited my moment.
At once, the wind
reduced. Raindrops thinned. Losing no time, I flexed my 8-weight. One, two, three false-casts and I punched my
thumb through the cork. A CK Baitfish
uncurled, miraculously, between leafy limbs, tight to the shoots.
The fly sank for two
seconds. Twitch. The line went tight before my strip was
through. A surge of whitewater and
unseen energy engulfed my fly. I swept
the rod outward, flexing the butt, stripping, driving the hook. Tug-of-war ensued. Then, the fish tore parallel to the edge,
wrapped the leader, and severed the leader with a flare of her razor-sharp gill
plate.
My legs and arms
shook. Minutes passed before I could sit
without tipping. Ecstatic for fooling a
snook into eating, I reconstructed my shock leader, retied my fly.
My hopes were escaping
with the tide. The perfect ending to my
story flashed before my eyes, fleeting.
But it would be out of
character to admit defeat. The outgoing
tide would pull the fish from their hideouts into the troughs adjacent. I abandoned the lake, and poled on to another
location.
Around the next bend, a
deep drop-off grazed the mangrove shoots.
Ambitiously, I pushed a long cast out parallel to it and let the fly
sink. A few strips turned the water
behind the white fly black.
My rod hand
began to sweat. The hallmark gill flare
sucked in my offering. My arm reached
skyward, coming tight to a fish in the open, with nowhere to go.
 |
| A small backcountry snook taken just in the nick of time. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
Somehow, I found the
grace to kneel. Raising the rod tip, I
reached out and seized the Line-sider by the jaw.
On my knees, I gazed
into a bronze eye as a warm emotion swallowed me—a summary of my experiences
thus far. I laughed, shakily, and
shouted, triumphant.
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