Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/742011
164 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S rain and the sun off. From there we'd pick our spots to fish— from the grass flats, channels, mangrove snarls, and the deeper recesses called potholes. The tides measured only about a foot, but they'd push a breath of current along the creek mouths, rivers, and the channels where the shallow and deep water met. We'd fish structure like deadfall trees, mangrove tangles, and oyster bars. Jumping a tarpon in the morning and nailing a snook at the end of the day seemed like a pretty good plan to me. B efore daybreak on a calm morning we pushed away from the dock and buried the throttle. We followed the channel markers for a long ways, and then everything seemed to disappear. No more markers, no other boats— nothing but us, the wind, and a few bald eagles soaring overhead. We ran and ran, and after a while we came off plane and puttered to the mouth of a dam. We dropped the hook, off-loaded the 'yaks, and filled 'em with water, provisions, camping gear, and tackle. The 20-minute portage put us into the zone, and we paddled forward in search of fish. It was cool where we paddled. The mangrove canopies surrounding the shallows and the oyster bars kept the sun from shining through, and the exposed roots made the zone look prehistoric. The bugs weren't bad, and every now and then we'd see a push of water caused by a predator chasing bait. We paddled and paddled some more, and after a while we decided that we were in an area that surely no one had fished in the past century. When we paused we saw a deep cavern of mangroves with elevated roots. It looked absolutely perfect for sending a fly into the darkness, where there had to be a giant snook tucked back up and in. There was a log in the water running parallel to the opening, and I figured I could work a fish down toward the end of it and into the deep water for a fight. I grabbed my rod. There wasn't a lot of current, so I sat back a ways while I worked out some line. It was wide open behind me, and after a few false casts, I pitched the streamer perfectly in the middle. I smiled at that cast, made a couple of quick strip retrieves, felt a bump, and set the hook. I was late; it was a swing and a miss, and the fish did not get any iron. I vowed to get him on the next cast and continued to retrieve my line. Rats, I hung up on the log. I tried a few roll