Papago Ponds

July 29 2007, Papago Ponds – Phoenix

It’s cloudless and 104. My mother has just telephoned me from Nashville: “You don’t go to Arizona in the summer.” After more than five decades . . .
I have just parked my car in Papago Park and seeing the first of the three Papago Ponds erases all effects of the heat.
Gorgeous! Surrounded by rocks and desert and those Arizona orange/red hues, these three patches of blue are postcards. I see gray lizards scampering everywhere, herons along the shores (including one pure white giant), those tall cacti on the hillsides, and a smattering of chattering birds that I can’t identify.
There are three ponds here – each about two or three casts across and bordered by palms and other foliage. The three ponds are terraced, each further up the hill, and each draining into the next. In the shallows I see bluegill, tilapia, and bass fingerlings.
I circle the two lower ponds as I cast a plastic worm. Nothing.
When I reach the top pond I tie on a Senko and catch a bass – about a pound – on my first cast in the shadow of an over-leaning palm. Then a second bass – twice as large – on the second cast under another palm.
On the far bank I see the only other anglers here at Papago Park – three men attending baited rods. I fish my way around to them – without another fish – and introduce myself. They smile and are generous with their hospitality and conversation.
They are Jesus Placencia and his 19-year-old son David, and his 16-year-old nephew Angel Garcia. They come here a lot. It’s their favorite fishing hole.
Jesus – the father – started fishing when he took David when he was 5. “I started liking it because he did,” grins Jesus. (Refreshingly backwards from the way it usually works.) He has a genuinely affecting smile on a face that is tanned and creased from 30 years in the roofing tile business. He was born in Mexico and moved to Phoenix when he was 23. “The first fish he caught,” he says about David, “were bluegill and we had to clean and cook them.” They all laugh.
Today they’re fishing with live nightcrawlers. Their largest bass from this pond was a 4-pounder that hit a nightcrawler. They also catch tilapia on them. Today Jesus will also cast a chrome Rat-L-Trap on which he will hang and lose a bass when it jumps.
David works for Western Window Systems, and Angel is still in school.
“It’s relaxing. It’s calming,” says David about fishing.
“I like it because I get away from everybody,” offers Angel.
They usually arrive early and fish until 1:00 or 2:00 – “until it starts getting unbearable,” explains David. “Or we run out of bait,” adds Angel. I ask if the fish are biting and it’s really, really hot, will they stay anyway. All agree yes.
They tell me that today is cool. Usually it’s 110. Last year it got to 118. They are amused when I lament that 90 is hot in Virginia.
Following Jesus, I tie on a chrome Rat-L-Trap and catch 2 more – a 14-incher and a 10-incher. A bigger one follows the lure in.
When I leave, my clothing – all of it – is soaked. Jesus and his son and nephew and I share the inability to resist the siren call of fishy waters – even in Arizona in the summer and even in spite of motherly wisdom.

Photo: John Bryan (me) at Papago Ponds

Lake Cuyamaca

July 28 2007, Lake Cuyamaca – San Diego County near Julian

I dare you to present this question to the kids in your life: If you could spend an entire day doing whatever you want on a computer, or the entire day fishing, which would you choose?
Today on a hot, sunny, no-fish-biting day at Lake Cuyamaca I ask that of Jamelle and Janaya Mitchell (ages 8 and 9) and their neighbor Kemon (12), and all pick fishing. Parents Clinton and Cheryl Mitchell have brought the family, with friend, here for the day. They do a day trip every weekend, each centered on fishing.
“It’s a way to keep our kids involved in something positive and their minds in the right direction,” explains Clinton.
Cheryl adds, “It’s relaxing – a good way to get away from it all.”
Relaxing? Cheryl has packed food and drinks and folding chairs and towels and other stuff. Clinton untangles a jumble of rods and reels and hooks and lures and as he talks to me he removes two hooks that have stuck his hand.
“Look, a fish!” points Janaya. “There’s another one!”
“Where’s the net?” shouts Jamelle.
There are trout everywhere – mostly 12-inchers – jumping and swimming and even dying. The park ranger tells me that they’re starving for oxygen because the water temperature has reached 73 degrees.
This is one of those clear San Diego County lakes that gets stocked with trout that provide a smorgasbord for jumbo Florida-strain bass like the 14-pounder Mike Long holds in the framed photo in the tackle shop.
Or rather it WAS clear until the wildfires hit three years ago. Since then the lake has remained muddy – visibility less than a foot.
“Everybody was crying after the wildfires came,” recalls Clinton. “everything up there,” he points, “was so pretty and green. You would see mountain lions and wild turkeys, but they haven’t come back.”
Cheryl Mitchell grew up with a love of fishing in Queens, New York where her step-father took her fishing at Rockaway, Coney Island and other places. Clinton was born in Louisiana where he gained an immediate love of fishing from his parents, grandparents and everyone else.
“Kemon,” instructs Clinton, “Here’s what you’re gonna do. Get this pole; let me fix you up here.” He fiddles with hooks and sinkers, then adds, “Tell your mom for Christmas you want a new fishing pole.”
The park ranger has told me that during spawn you can catch some bass on swimbaits, but the rest of the year it’s tough. Today is a Saturday and I count easily 75 anglers on the shores and in boats on this small lake. Not one is bass fishing. Most are fishing for trout and I see a sprinkling of 12-inchers on their stringers. Others are fishing for catfish and small crappie.
“Patience,” responds Clinton instantly to my request for a fishing tip. “That’s the best tip you could ever give a person trying to fish.”
I throw a chrome and then chartreuse Rat-L-Trap hoping one will be noticed by a bass in this muddy water. Nothing. I throw a worm into the very scarce shoreline grass with no results. Finally I catch one scrawny crappie on a white mini-jig. Nothing else.
I stay for a couple of hours and walk the shorelines. Each time I look at the Mitchells the kids are active and laughing. Clinton is continually attending to fishing poles. And Cheryl keeps an eye on all.

Photo (left to right): neighbor Kemon with the Mitchells: Janaya, Jamelle, Clinton and Cheryl

Lake Poway

July 27 2007, Lake Poway – north of San Diego

(At this lake I meet a gentle, two-decade Marine Corps helicopter pilot whose favorite activity is fishing – with his family. He was the one who prepared the cut fruit for the day’s snacks – and who cooks omelets every Saturday.)
It’s hot and sunny and breezeless and my boat rests on Lake Poway’s surface which is as flat as a puddle of purple paint. This small lima-shaped lake, less than a shout from one end to the other, is cradled among hilly canyons.
On the shore in front of me rest a half-dozen buzzards – one frozen in a wide-open wingspread worthy of a cactus pinnacle. High above, along one of the canyon paths, runs a woman trailing three feet of bright blonde mane. And deep below me – maybe over 100 feet deep – swims what Poway’s proprietor says is the world-record bass. My lures – everything I can think of – go fishless all morning.
I meet four other first-time-Poway anglers: the Beldings – Mike and Lisa and their children W.D. (10) and Jessie (9). They moved here from Virginia just two weeks ago: “Fishing was the first thing we thought of when we got here.”
Mike is a 22-year helicopter pilot in the Marine Corps – the Nam-era “phrog” used for troop and cargo transport. Lots of them in Iraq right now. Mike’s Corps experience spans 23 countries and 6 deployments of a half- year or longer. He expects to be deployed again.
Mike grew up in Pennsylvania fishing with his dad and grandfather. In college he and buddies did trout trips to Colorado. Lisa grew up fishing in the North Carolina coast. Their children W.D. and Jessie – military kids – are growing up in lots of cities, but always finding a place to fish. Last weekend they went out on a head boat for sea bass and yellowtail. Catching fish on today’s outing at Lake Poway is more of a challenge. “We like it even if we don’t catch anything,” smiles Jessie.
And I meet the other end of the angling spectrum: Matt McMahon and Jim Cavanaugh III, both 18 and both claiming to be 17-year bassing veterans of Poway. They have 7 rigged bass rods in their boat and they will have caught 3 bass by mid-afternoon, all on dropshot rigs, and all about a pound and a half.
“There’s a 25-pounder in here, “ says Jim with no expression. “I’ve hung 15-pounders and I’ve seen bigger. You’ll see a huge shadow swim beneath your boat . . .” He doesn’t complete the sentence.
Matt and Jim are among the 6 or 7 bassing regulars that fish this lake. The lake’s proprietor tells me that on a hot and sunny July day a “regular” may catch 3 bass. He says the regulars say that if you can catch bass in Poway you can catch bass anywhere.
Matt and Jim are obviously in the full-tilt bass zone – confirmed by the fact that they arrived early this morning and will stay until 11:30 tonight.
You need to understand that this lake is so small that every square inch of it has been continually pounded by bass lure after bass lure after bass lure. And whenever you do see a spot that looks like a likely bass hangout, you have to know that every other bass angler before you has said the same.
For example, there is only one fallen tree along the shorelines of Poway – only one on the whole lake. It is THE bassiest looking spot on the lake. I of course throw my lures to it, and of course they are ignored by whatever bass are in the tree.
“I like casting,” responds Jessie to my question about why she likes to fish.
Then I ask the kids to tell me something about themselves. Jessie says she loves sports and competition. W.D., with a confident grin, says, “I’m the brains of the family. I keep the whole operation going.” Nobody argues. But Lisa raises her eyebrows and waits for more. I ask W.D. for an example – just one example – of how he “keeps the whole operation going.” And he comes through: he was the one who put together the family’s game plan for their visit to Sea World.
Back in my boat after lunch, and without much bass confidence remaining, it is now 1:30 p.m. and the sun is hotter. The only shade on the lake is beneath the string of log-shaped buoys that block off the area near the dam. They stretch across a deep area of the lake. Earlier today I threw plastic worms at them with no response.
I decide to now do something radical and slow. I tie on a #8 hook with no weight and hook a 6-inch worm through the middle. I drop the hooked worm in the water and count; it takes a full 6 seconds for it to sink 12 inches.
I take my boat to within a long cast of the buoys and start casting – one by one as I proceed across the lake. A VERY slow process – letting each cast sink for 60 seconds.
But it works. In the next hour I catch 2 bass this way – each about 2 ½ pounds. Now, according to Poway wisdom, I can catch bass anywhere.
I ask the Beldings if they care to offer any words to live by.
“Play hard, eat fresh,” Jessie lifts as she says it. Lisa reminds her that that’s a Subway commercial.
W.D. of course offers this: “Work should be as close to prison as you ever come.” Lisa and Mike shake their heads.
Mike: “Just be nice to everybody.” Lisa: Family first.”
And I learn that August 22 will be an important day: W.D.’s 11th birthday as well as his and Jessie’s first day back in school.

Dixon Lake – San Diego

July 26 2007, Dixon Lake, Escondido – San Diego County

When I top the ridge and see Dixon for the first time my eyes widen as I proclaim a spontaneous phrase that, taken out of context, would label me as both profane and sacrilegious. But within this context, my words are those of praise and awe.
A blue oasis filling high-ridge canyons, the view from up here is dangerous. My eyes need to stay on this narrow un-guardrailed road that snakes the hillsides down to the lake.
Tiny Dixon Lake – as all purebred bassers know – is where the world record largemouth was recently caught, witnessed, filmed, weighed, released, and disqualified because the bass was hooked in a place other than the mouth. Word of that remarkable bass attracted a zillion anglers, a zillion media folks, and a zillion versions of the story.
But today, scarcely a year later, I have Dixon all to myself.
I count 43 vacant boats – powered by only muscle or electricity – at the rental dock. I count 4 anglers on the half-dozen fishing piers. I count 8 cars in the lot. I count nobody in the line to buy a permit.
Walt and Malia Brame attend catfish rods on the closest fishing pier. I don’t know Walt’s age, but Malia – his daughter – tells me she is “fwee” without being compelled to hold up fingers.
Malia also answers my question regarding why she likes to fish: “Because it’s fun.” Pause, then, “I’m going to eat some pudding after lunch.”
Walt and Malia usually fish for bluegill at a small lake near their house in nearby San Marcos. This is Malia’s first time at Dixon. “Look at that duck over there,” she interjects.
“What’s your favorite thing about fishing?” I ask Malia.
Her eyes search and her shoulders lift. “Let me think for a minute.” She does. Then, “When the fish pulls your line.” She follows that, without pause, with a fishing tip to live by: “It’s good that the grass is here – because the catfish like to ‘fwim’ around in it.”
Bingo. This lake is deep and clear, but along much of its shorelines are underwater grasses – rooted down to 10 and deeper. Thick vegetation. This is the stuff that catfish – and of course bass – relish. And this fishing pier is surrounded by it.
Walt’s a school teacher – fifth-grade. “They’re sophisticated enough that you can have almost adult conversations. And they have developed a good enough sense of humor that they get your jokes, and that can be a lot of fun.”
Malia is talking too. “I was telling my daddy that he is a rhinoceros,” she stated amid sips from her purple sippy cup. She then offers that she uses “real” cups at home.
Walt and Malia have gotten bites, but no fish. The two anglers on the other pier have caught one catfish – maybe two pounds. The park ranger tells me that it’s been “a problem for anybody to catch pretty much anything lately.” After all, it’s July, it’s hot, it’s sunny, it’s cloudless, and it’s the middle of the day.
Still, with Dixon’s notoriety, you’d assume there’d be at least 100 or so bass anglers here even under the worst conditions. But there are zero.
“I have milk to drink and daddy has water,” Malia again.
Walt on fifth-graders: “The biggest challenge is trying to make the curriculum appealing to them when you know yourself that it isn’t – like when you’re teaching about prepositions or compound sentences. How do you get them to learn the boring stuff?” Indeed.
I rent a boat, tie on a hunk of soft plastic, and am well aware of the history – and big-time money – that’s possible here with every cast. But still I wonder why no other bass angler within highly-populated southern California is here.
After an hour of absolutely no interest in my offerings I think I know why I’m the only one. So I change strategies. No longer will I use my go-to bass methods; I will offer these bass something they have never before seen. (Nor I.)
It takes me about a minute to rig up my new secret (e-mail me at jbryanfish@aol.com and I’ll tell you) – a rig that anyone can make with stuff they probably already have. It looks goofy and I’m glad other bass anglers aren’t watching.
But it works!
In five minutes I hang a fish. (I am using only 6-pound line in this ultra-clear water.) I assume my thoughts are the same as those of all first-time Dixon anglers when they hang a bass. My rod bends double, a few feet of drag peel from the reel, and I’m holding on for the big money.
The fish heads towards deeper water and away from the shoreline weeds, thank goodness.
This is a very heavy fish. I realize that it will be a miracle to land him on this light line.
My rod throbs deeply as I slowly make progress. Then more drag. Careful not to put too much pressure. Careful to steer her away from the electric motor.
Finally, after two long minutes that seem longer, the fish nears the boat as I gain more line. Then I see him and it is indeed a bass (not a catfish!) and I genuinely can’t believe its size. It’s a two-pounder. Without a zero attached. I unhook and release him. What in the world would a teener feel like in this lake?
My exotic rig takes five more bass in the five more hours I am here. The largest is four pounds. The boat dock attendant greets my return with, “Did you ever get a bite?” I feel like Roland Martin.
Prior to the goofy rig I tried various versions of finesse worms, Senkos, frogs and crankbaits. And I threw them in great places: holes in grass, alongside shady piers, bluffs, shoreline weeds, and on top of one surfacing school of small bass. Nothing.
I visit with Walt and Malia again. Malia says, “The crabs pinch. Daddy had one pinch him before and it really hurt.” They are discussing surf fishing which Walt does with sand crabs for perch in the shallows. He also uses lures and on one caught a leopard shark recently.
Advice for Dixon anglers? I have none – except that it’s worth it just to see its beauty. And of course the hold-your-breath feeling of floating atop bass giants.

Photo: Dixon Lake - Fifth-grade teacher Walt Brame and his daughter Malia

Yorba Park - Anaheim, Calif.

July 25, 2007, Yorba Park, Anaheim – east of Los Angeles

The angler on the opposite shore is doing what I’m doing at this crystal clear weeded pond: dropping a soft plastic lure into holes in the weeds. I watch as he makes long casts, reels quickly until the dark salamander is over a hole, and stops it to let it sink. Same thing I’m doing. I introduce myself.
He is Phil Chung, 32, an aerospace engineer and systems designer for Boeing. He left work early today. “I’ve been fishing ever since I was strong enough to lift a fishing rod, I guess,” he smiles. “I come here about once a week. I like being outdoors and fishing helps you unwind.”
Phil is about my height, my weight, and like me he is using a spinning reel with light line.
“Any fishing tips for others who might want to fish here at Yorba Park?” I ask.
“Patience,” he grins. “Southern California is different. There are so many people that you’re not only competing against the fish but also against the people.”
Although Phil and I are among only a half dozen anglers spread among the park’s ponds today, he says on weekends the park is very crowded – people everywhere, children everywhere, and perhaps as many as 50 anglers on each pond.
I ask him about his work: “Exactly what do you do? What sorts of things are you working on?”
Phil doesn’t respond. He’s thinking what to say.
I try again: “Are you at the computer all day?”
“They don’t really like us to talk about it,” he says gently.
I am now casting a plastic frog that kicks on the return and sinks on the pause. I see a 3-pounder, pull the frog over him and let it drop. The bass pivots, puts his nose down to the frog, and inhales it. I set the hook and the fish is off. Must have spit it out. I see two other good bass, but no other bites. Phil also goes fishless.
His biggest bass from here weighed six pounds – on a white jig. He’s seen them close to 10.
Phil’s other hobby is photography – pictures of nature and of his two-year-old son who has gone fishing but has not yet mastered holding a rod.
My two hours at Yorba Park include good efforts, sans fish, at all three ponds. This beautifully green public park has three tree-lined ponds – four if you count the tiny one at the end – and plenty of parking spots, picnic tables, and restroom facilities. $3 to enter and park.


Photo: Yorba Park - Phil Chung, Aerospace Engineer

Santa Monica Pier – California - Part II

July 24 2007, Santa Monica Pier – California

A Pocket Fisherman! A Pocket Fisherman! A Pocket Fisherman!
Here at the extreme end of the Santa Monica Pier there is a young man actually using one of Ron Poppiel’s best-selling novelties of all time. (Ron doesn’t fish; he invented this mini-rod/reel after getting poked by a full-length fishing rod at an airport.)
And this guy is actually casting a baited hook into the Pacific Ocean!
I introduce myself and tell him I’ve never ever seen anyone use one of these things in real life. His name is Chris Jones and his companion is Jason Samuel. (Jason’s fishing rig is a ball of twine with what looks like a Hopkins Spoon with a fake minnow impaled on it.) They come here a few times per week.
Chris – tall, handsome, well-spoken, friendly and polite – is only 17. His mother gave him the Pocket Fisherman when he was 11 and that year he actually caught a tiny fish on it right here. He lives in Hollywood, is in school, doesn’t know what’s next after school. He likes fishing for the “peace and quiet and relaxation.”
He reels up his Pocket Fisherman and casts again. The cast is a sweeping full-arc launch, and the bait actually travels out pretty far. The reel-in makes me shake my head. Each revolution of the handle equals perhaps four inches. ( My spinning reel does 29 inches.) And Chris winds and winds and winds.
Jason is his brother, is 22, and used to fish a lot. (I have never ever seen anyone use a ball of coarse twine as a fishing outfit, but he does so calmly and confidently – launching the line by hand and then winding up onto the ball.)
Jason works now in real estate credit clean-up, but will soon begin teaching medical classes at Concord University – classes related to holistic medicine. I ask about acupressure and he knows his stuff – even the couple of points that I know regarding relieving headaches.
After I photograph Chris and Jason I move to another area of the pier, but I continue to observe them. It is obvious that they don’t consider their goofy fishing rigs – the twine and the Pocket Fisherman – jokes or gimmicks. They continue to fish, to talk, to smile, and to interact nicely with other anglers – one from whom they borrow some bait.
This is a slice of fishing that I love.

Photo: Santa Monica Pier - Jason Samuel and Chris Jones

Santa Monica Pier – California - Lunch Break

Lunch break on the Santa Monica Pier – California
You can even park your car on this pier – which I did, in the wooden-plank area right across from Bubba Gump’s which I now enter for a quick bite. The tables are full so they seat me at the final vacant spot at the end of the bar. I look at the menu, order, and then hear a voice next to me, “So how is your day going?” A pretty young woman nursing a beer. “Just fine,” I answer. And then I deliver what I assume will be a non-pickup line: “Do you like to fish?” “I do,” she responds with a knowing smile and a towards-me swivel of her bar stool. And she launches intelligently into bluefish and flounder and fluke from her growing-up days on Long Island, and also some sort of fish from her stay at a lake house in Finland. She agrees to let me interview her, but is reluctant to provide much information – such as her age and her name. Kay (no last name) moved here from New York three years ago and works as a massage therapist. She likes the work: “It’s relaxing for both the client and the therapist – a nice release of energy.” She says business is good, although my questions receive fuzzy responses. “Do you work for a company or independently?” “Both.” “What have been the ages of your oldest and youngest clients?” “I like clients of all ages.” “What’s the profile of your favorite type client?” “It doesn’t matter.” “Do your clients like to carry on a conversation during the massage, or are they in some sort of deep relaxation?” “It varies.” In spite of Kay’s obvious knowledge and experience with fishing, she has not fished since moving to California. She intends to go flyfishing in Montana – something sparked her interest on a television travel show. I want to photograph her and she says yes, but profile only. The lighting at this bar is awful, but it will have to do. Certainly it will punctuate Kay’s mystery. “Why do you like to fish?” I ask before I leave. “It’s fun to be outdoors. I like throwing the line and the anticipation and reeling in the fish and eating it.” “Any fishing tips or words to live by for whoever reads this?” And Kay says, “I like the three Ls of life.” Nothing more. She waits for me to ask. “Live, Love, and Laugh.” And with a postscript, “You can add that in.”

Santa Monica Pier – California - Part I

July 24 2007, Santa Monica Pier – California

I really don’t know how good the fishing can be on this pier (I catch nothing today), but there’s an energetic every-slice-of-life ambience that’s a keeper.
Go to the northwestern corner of the pier on a Monday or Tuesday and you’ll probably see the mild-mannered Jesus Lopez whom I am talking with as I dunk a slice of squid that he gave me. Jesus stays on this pier for 48 hours straight every Monday and Tuesday – stays up all night, sleeps some in his chair during the day. He fishes for sharks.
“The one I caught last week was half as big as my car.” (I have seen one of his baits – a mackerel head.) “That one almost took my rod over.”
Jesus is 22 and has been coming here since he was 12. He says he remembers his first time: he got lucky and caught a lot of mackerel. “Then a Chinese guy asked if I was selling them and I said yes, give me $1.50 each. I got $60 – spent a lot of it on burgers.”
Jesus works as a street vender in Hollywood – sells flowers and toys and other things. Single roses go for $5 each. He’s been doing this since he was a child; his mother taught him.
“What kinds of customers are best?” I ask.
“When they got their girl or their wife and they stop, I know they’re going to buy.”
“When they do stop, do you say anything to them?”
“I might say, ‘How are you doing?’ or ‘Good afternoon.’ And then, ‘Would you like to buy a rose for your wife?’”
“Who buys more – younger people or older?”
“Older people buy more than the younger ones,” he confirms.
“As old as me? I’m 57.”
“No, not that old,” Jesus smiles and shakes his head.
He lifts his Sabiki rig and winds in three cigar-size fish he says are perch and puts them in his bait bucket. Then he checks the row of tiny hooks to be certain that each still has its tiny piece of squid.
I ask him what he likes about being a street vendor.
“You don’t work for nobody. You get your own hours. You don’t got anybody telling you what to do.” Pretty straightforward. “I also sell watches - $3, $2 and sometimes for $1 when I really need money.”
Two nearby anglers are having difficulty with their lines and Jesus walks over and helps them and ends up giving them new hooks and sinkers which he rigs for them. Bait too.
“I caught six lobsters here yesterday. Gave them to a man that wanted them.”
Why does Jesus like to fish? “When you catch something – get a bite – you’re curious. You want to see what it is. That’s what got me into it.”
Photo: Santa Monica Pier - Jesus Lopez

Deep Clear Lake, Florida

Friday, June 29, 2007, Deep Clear Lake, Homestead, Florida

That’s not the name of this lake; it doesn’t have a name. It’s a 25-acre borrow pit bordering vacant land on which some sort of new development will no doubt be built. Someone I met at another local pond told me about this lake – says it’s very deep and has huge bass.

This lake is a couple of miles from Homestead’s racetrack, and has no homes or buildings in the neighborhood – just vacant fields. A pair of earth-moving cranes sit alongside the lake, and 100-foot mounds of dug-out gray-white stuff border one side of the lake.

I park next to the cranes and walk the 20 feet to the edge of the lake and see that its shorelines drop vertically in a hurry. I also see a bunch of small Peacock bass and a couple of small largemouths. And a couple of 2-pound tilapia. I have over an hour until sunset and I anticipate that this is going to be one good hour!

But, as they say, the fishing is good but the catching is lousy. I throw everything at these fish but the kitchen refrigerator and there is not much interest. The water is clear as Jimmy Buffet’s empty glass, and so I know that the fish see my lures. I throw, in no particular order, a topwater popper, a topwater frog, a Rat-L-Trap, a topwater Spook, a Roadrunner, several versions of finesse worms, and a Senko. Nuttin honey. At least not much of nuttin. I do catch one big bluegill deep on a 3-inch finesse worm after getting continual bites on it. And I do catch one bass on the topwater frog – a bass scarcely 6 inches long. It always amazes me how such small bass can mouth such big lures. And I do catch one other bass – this one 10 inches – on a small piece of Berkely Gulp shrimp (which I purchased for general saltwater use).

If anyone else fishes here, there’s not much evidence. All I see on the ground is one small Mustad package. Shoreline anglers are famous for littering (I could make a living as a shoreline angler tracker) and around this lake are no other signs of their presence.

When you have an hour or so to fish a strange body of water and discover that there are lots of fish that you can’t figure out how to catch, you always think about it afterwards and determine what you’ll try next time. I’m going to throw a small Peacock bass imitator.

Lower Matecumbe, Florida Keys

Friday, June 29, 2007, Lower Matecumbe Flats, Florida Keys

If you’re fishing in greater Miami and go 25 miles south to Homestead, you naturally have to drive the additional 25 miles to the Keys. And you have to visit the Worldwide Sportsman store in Islamorada and ask if there’s a place where you can pull your car over to the side of the road and wade out on some flats and possibly find a bonefish. The answer is yes and it’s just a handful of miles down the road on the east side of Lower Matecumbe.

I don’t know how to catch bonefish other than with live shrimp and I don’t have any live shrimp, just a vestful of mostly bass lures along with a few lures that the salesman at Worldwide Sportsman says will work.

But I do know how to wade these flats – from a brief visit when I was a child and from three brief outings as an adult down here on business over the past few years – but none with a guide.

First the weather: perfect. It’s 80s, mostly sunny, and breezy. The breeze gives the flats a surface chop which is not ideal for sighting fish but good for making the fish less spooky. I of course wear polarized lenses. If you’re an angler you’re nuts not to always have a pair.

When you’re in the Keys you notice the colors of the water – the shades of green and blue that vary with the depth, the clarity, and the bottom. I’ve never visited the Arctic Circle, but whatever indigenous peoples were first here in the Keys had to have had as many words to describe the hues of this water as the indigenous peoples up north have for snow. This place is a watercolorist’s delight.

My wade on these flats lasts three hours and I don’t catch a bonefish. I do see one – a large one, maybe 8 or 9 pounds, during my first 15 minutes – but he sees me simultaneously and darts away. Bonefish don’t stick around when they see a human or a fishing rod. You have to be stealthy. So I never get to cast a lure to a feeding bonefish.

But I do get to cast to other fish including perhaps 25 barracuda. Barracuda are similar to largemouth bass in that they’re both curious and wary. When they know you’re around, they’ll come over to take a look, but when you throw your lure to them they back off. You have to tease and tease and tease until you goad them into striking. I eventually crack the code with a finesse worm that I’ve bitten to three inches – speed it across the surface as fast as I can reel and then stop it dead. Then twitch and twitch and twitch. I hook a dozen or so barracuda, mostly less than 14 inches, but one measures at least 3 feet. I’m using only 8-pound line and most of the barracuda bite it off. I know I can put on a wire leader and eliminate the bite-offs, but that would also eliminate any interest from a bonefish if I happen to see another. It’s fun to fool the barracuda even if it means losing a lure.

At one point I reel in an empty barracuda-bitten line and stop to tie on another hook and as I’m looking down at the hook I see a big shadow approaching me on the water – a shadow from a storm cloud moving in. I look up to see the cloud and there’s no cloud. So I look into the knee-deep water and there’s a giant closing in only five feet away. I gasp (only in saltwater can the swimming giants make you actually gasp) and step sideways and then the giant notices my presence and veers off. It’s a lone manatee. A year ago I had seen my first manatees, but in a deep lagoon and in pairs. I had no idea that they ever swim the shallow flats. This one comes within a foot of my legs as it glides by.

There are not a lot of fish on this flat – at least I don’t see a lot – but I do see enough to keep me very interested. There are needle fish on the surface, schools of pale green finger-size minnows, occasional blowfish hugging the bottom, and one shark. The shark is 3 feet long and brown – not gray – and has a wide head and a slender tail. I toss a Zoom fluke to him and dart it along and he inhales it. I’ll never land this fish – his teeth will sever the line or his strength will strip all of it from the reel – so I give him slack rather than setting the hook. And within 10 seconds he spits out the fluke. I wind it in undamaged and watch him swim off.

This stretch of flats spans a mile or so alongside the road and at least 100 yards wide – more in some places. There are a few areas as big as a half football field that have bottoms of white sand, but mostly these flats are covered with various short grasses and smaller strips and patches of white sand. It’s against the white sand bottom that you spot fish.

In one direction is the Atlantic Ocean and in the other is the slender Lower Matecumbe Key with expensive homes hugging the water. It’s not tourist season, but still there’s a sprinkling of boats: a half dozen or so small outboards in the distance, and two family-size jet skis in close. Still there’s plenty of room for everyone.

A pair of four-foot-long fish swims slowly by, weaving their way among the grasses, obviously hunting food. They’re thick and black and I wonder what they are. Cobia? (I’ve caught cobia off the Alabama coast, but in deeper water.) These are 40-pounders. I cast a little bonefish jig to them and they veer off. The Senko! I fumble through my vest, heart beating, and find and tie on the Senko, one eye staying on the big fish and continually following them with my wading feet. The Senko on, I heave it a long way and it lands perfectly in the path of the fish. They swim by it without any interest. Twice more I repeat and twice more there is no interest. I wonder what these fish are. They’re gone now. Will I see them again?

Five minutes later they come back and before I can cast to them they swim within a few feet of me and I see them from the side: tarpon! I’ve seen tarpon in other environments, but never on skinny flats and I had no idea they look like this: stark black from above with strong, thick bodies, and silver-dollar silver from the sides and with clear delineation of that distinctive jaw. I cast again in front of them, but no interest. My admiration for folks who have caught these fish on flats immediately skyrockets. My fish are mere 40-pounders; anglers have caught tarpon 3 and 4 times that size on flats.

I depart the flats with 3-hour-tired legs from continuous water-walking, and with a thirsty throat. As I drive off the clouds move in and drop a massive load – massive enough to later make the evening news.