Southwest Florida Fishing Report 06-28-12

This report is sent to you by Tight Loops Flyfishing

It’s safe to say that my 2012 tarpon season ended with a bang. Literally.

Capt. Jeff Mayerle, who’s a corporate pilot for a Cincinnati developer, had flown his boss to Venice and was going to be staying in town for a couple of days. Since he’s fished with me several times during the past few years, he decided a tarpon trip would provide some great fun.

I had fished another of my regulars, Ron Boehm, and his pal Bill Sanford, the previous day in the Gulf off Casey Key. The weather had been pretty good, with hardly any wind, and some fairly-gentle swells.

We even bumped a few fish. Ultimate success eluded us, however, and finally it was time to head for the ramp amid gathering wind and the beginnings of Miss Debby’s ill-tempered visit.

Jeff and I talked on the telephone several times throughout the late afternoon and early evening, debating, as pilots will, whether or not the forecast had any semblance of validity. The forecast, of course, being quite bleak.

Finally, we decided that caution was the better part of valor, and settled on trying my “secret spot” instead of taking our chances in the Gulf. Turns out, that was a darned good call.

Jeff and his fellow pilot, Derrick Burchett, met me at 6:30 the following morning and we set off in search of tarpon. We found them readily enough, but they stayed juuuuust that far out of shooting range. Mostly.

The guys were tossing some crabs that I’d managed to scrounge up after an exhausting search, and finally they each had a bump. Neither, however, managed to get a good hook-set.

Then it happened.

The crab Jeff had pitched out was merrily swimming around—apparently looking awfully enticing—when Jeff felt “something like a vacuum cleaner pulling on the line.”

I had cautioned the guys at the outset that “if you feel anything unusual, hit that tarpon as if he owes you money.”

Well, let me tell you that man and fish immediately had a simultaneous confrontation of momentous proportions. Jeff whaled back on the rod like a man possessed. The tarpon—which obviously was a huge old female pushing 180 pounds—reacted predictably. Which is to say, with extreme outrage.

In an instant, pieces of graphite were flying across my Hewes like shrapnel from a claymore mine. When the commotion ended, I found that two stripping guides were completely shattered, and a third was missing its ceramic insert. The rod was a splintered mass just above the ferrule, and two inches of the tip-top was broken and dangling on the line.

The tarpon was, of course, gone.

All three of us stood there in utter silence for what seemed an eternity—actually a matter of seconds—before each uttered an appropriate oath, curse, or exclamation of shocked surprise. I’m not sure what that tarpon was thinking at the moment, but I’m certain it was awfully smug.

Oh, we hung around for a while after I more or less got things reorganized, but we all knew the day was done, so in a little while we puttered out of there. Still marveling at the absolute power of that tarpon!

Now I’m back in Michigan, and in a few hours I’ll be waving a four-weight trout rod, explaining the basics of fly casting/fishing to a group of wannabes at Otsego Lake State Park, ten miles from my house on the Manistee River.

The Michigan Department of Natural Resources asked back in May if I‘d do this demo, and after debating the matter in my mind for a few days, I agreed. Turns out it was a good call, considering the torrential mess that Debby’s made of Florida’s Gulf coast.

Besides, Heart’s thrilled to have me back home. And Tug—the puppy—is afire with the light of hunting instinct in her eyes. She’ll be two years old come October, with it’s glorious grouse mornings, and I think she’s gonna be a good one.

Oh, probably not another Ghost—but I doubt there ever will be another Ghost! Speaking of which, the book I wrote about our 14 fabulous hunting seasons together—Ghost! Field Journal of a Bird Dog—has been selling quite well through Amazon.

I’m also scheduled to do several book signings this summer at various bookstores in Traverse City and Gaylord, as well as some signings/dog training events at a couple of the shops that handle upland bird hunting tackle.

I hope to see you at one of them. And don’t forget that it’s getting verrrry close to Hopper Time and large, hungry brown trout!

Tight Loops, Capt. Tony
This report is sent to you by Tight Loops Flyfishing

It’s safe to say that my 2012 tarpon season ended with a bang. Literally.

Capt. Jeff Mayerle, who’s a corporate pilot for a Cincinnati developer, had flown his boss to Venice and was going to be staying in town for a couple of days. Since he’s fished with me several times during the past few years, he decided a tarpon trip would provide some great fun.

I had fished another of my regulars, Ron Boehm, and his pal Bill Sanford, the previous day in the Gulf off Casey Key. The weather had been pretty good, with hardly any wind, and some fairly-gentle swells.

We even bumped a few fish. Ultimate success eluded us, however, and finally it was time to head for the ramp amid gathering wind and the beginnings of Miss Debby’s ill-tempered visit.

Jeff and I talked on the telephone several times throughout the late afternoon and early evening, debating, as pilots will, whether or not the forecast had any semblance of validity. The forecast, of course, being quite bleak.

Finally, we decided that caution was the better part of valor, and settled on trying my “secret spot” instead of taking our chances in the Gulf. Turns out, that was a darned good call.

Jeff and his fellow pilot, Derrick Burchett, met me at 6:30 the following morning and we set off in search of tarpon. We found them readily enough, but they stayed juuuuust that far out of shooting range. Mostly.

The guys were tossing some crabs that I’d managed to scrounge up after an exhausting search, and finally they each had a bump. Neither, however, managed to get a good hook-set.

Then it happened.

The crab Jeff had pitched out was merrily swimming around—apparently looking awfully enticing—when Jeff felt “something like a vacuum cleaner pulling on the line.”

I had cautioned the guys at the outset that “if you feel anything unusual, hit that tarpon as if he owes you money.”

Well, let me tell you that man and fish immediately had a simultaneous confrontation of momentous proportions. Jeff whaled back on the rod like a man possessed. The tarpon—which obviously was a huge old female pushing 180 pounds—reacted predictably. Which is to say, with extreme outrage.

In an instant, pieces of graphite were flying across my Hewes like shrapnel from a claymore mine. When the commotion ended, I found that two stripping guides were completely shattered, and a third was missing its ceramic insert. The rod was a splintered mass just above the ferrule, and two inches of the tip-top was broken and dangling on the line.

The tarpon was, of course, gone.

All three of us stood there in utter silence for what seemed an eternity—actually a matter of seconds—before each uttered an appropriate oath, curse, or exclamation of shocked surprise. I’m not sure what that tarpon was thinking at the moment, but I’m certain it was awfully smug.

Oh, we hung around for a while after I more or less got things reorganized, but we all knew the day was done, so in a little while we puttered out of there. Still marveling at the absolute power of that tarpon!

Now I’m back in Michigan, and in a few hours I’ll be waving a four-weight trout rod, explaining the basics of fly casting/fishing to a group of wannabes at Otsego Lake State Park, ten miles from my house on the Manistee River.

The Michigan Department of Natural Resources asked back in May if I‘d do this demo, and after debating the matter in my mind for a few days, I agreed. Turns out it was a good call, considering the torrential mess that Debby’s made of Florida’s Gulf coast.

Besides, Heart’s thrilled to have me back home. And Tug—the puppy—is afire with the light of hunting instinct in her eyes. She’ll be two years old come October, with it’s glorious grouse mornings, and I think she’s gonna be a good one.

Oh, probably not another Ghost—but I doubt there ever will be another Ghost! Speaking of which, the book I wrote about our 14 fabulous hunting seasons together—Ghost! Field Journal of a Bird Dog—has been selling quite well through Amazon.

I’m also scheduled to do several book signings this summer at various bookstores in Traverse City and Gaylord, as well as some signings/dog training events at a couple of the shops that handle upland bird hunting tackle.

I hope to see you at one of them. And don’t forget that it’s getting verrrry close to Hopper Time and large, hungry brown trout!

Tight Loops, Capt. Tony