KOA Camping Kabins are the best

So the family is going to bunk together under one roof?  I'm not real sure about the whole idea, but I figure that's why there's alcohol and Ambien.  All that keeps running through my mind is the Griswald's and American Horror Story.  I've taken the girlfriend camping now for years, she's become like a machine when we get to the campground.  She knows her duties and knocks them out super quick, all while swilling Mic Ultra and making up funny stories about our neighbors.  She's the only one in her family that camps, which is why I think she wants to bring them to the Titusville KOA. 

The cabin has two rooms, a full kitchen, and a half bath.  I'm bringing along the tent and air-mattress just in case.  I know myself and the quiet I am looking for when I camp.  If there is a bit too much "togetherness" in the cabin, I'll simply sleep where I am most comfortable; under the stars.  Jon snores so loud I think he needs one of those sleep-apnea-machines.  He reminds me of the old guys at deer camp after they drank too much, except he doesn't drink.  

The bunk-beds for the kids should be great.  I'm not sure if they ever slept in bunk-beds before?  The tree beds are a ton of fun, as well as the Fred & Wilma table and chairs.  I call the cabin furniture, "Fred Flintstone Furniture", because it's made out of tree limbs and big-clunky planks. The door, made of heavy tongue and groove planks, has usually gouged a half arc into the wood floor.  The whole cabin is made from tongue and groove cedar, which gives it a warm feel.  The weathered porch-swing usually completes the cabin feel.

The last KOA I stayed at was in St. Augustine.  The place was near the beach and on its own small lake.  The water came right up the deck offering some great views at night.  I took some great time lapse and open aperture photos that I think capture the tranquility of a KOA, more than the day time photos.  

The Titusville KOA is only a short 10 minutes from the famed Mosquito Lagoon.  The lagoon is an incredible fishery year around, but in November it is in its prime.  Schools of Redfish migrate through the Lagoon after every falling high tide.  The Atlantic which is about 25 minutes from the cabin will be home to all kinds of migrating fish that time of year.  It will be an epic time to be on the east coast.  

With the Kennedy Space Center being so close as well as the Hollywood Boardwalk, I don't think there will be a shortage of things to tire everyone out.  I think we will all have the chance to feel like kids when we walk among the rockets and satellites. The boardwalk always brings the kid out of everyone too.  I think there will be good times to be had by all, but I'm still bringing the tent.

Sorry guys

I was so pissed waking up at 6 a.m. on Saturday to 20+ knot winds.  I bought the shiners knowing I would more than likely be dumping them into the honey hole.  The guy working at Chiquita Bait & Tackle warned me about the wind but I told him I had made a promise.  He chuckled and said he wouldn't buy any shiners back.

The kids were up when I got back, squealing about how they were the Bassmasters.  It was cute and I knew they would be disappointed but what choice did I have?  I promised them that if we didn't catch anything, I would take them the following day.  Hurricane Sandy was causing the winds to whip up some serious chop, which in turn mucked up the bottom too.

Standing on the bridge overlooking the water, I knew it was going to be a short trip.  The wind was bad on the road and in the parking lot of the bait shop, but holy crap was the wind bad on the bridge.  If the wind was blowing 20 in the parking lot, it was blowing 25+ on the bridge.  It was ridiculous and cold.

With the hooks baited and all the lines in the water, it wasn't more than 2 minutes until the whining started.  I was actually grateful because my bald head was freezing.  The wind was blowing so hard that the line was wind resistant enough to lift the bait out of the water.  The conditions were bad, it was beautiful but not conducive to a good time.

The yearly trip was a bust.  The weekend was shot, there was no fighting the wind, so alternative plans had to be made.  The kids just wanted to go to McDonald's for a Happy Meal.  I was more than happy to oblige and get outta the cold.

The alternative plans were made on Sunday when we decided upon a family trip to the Titusville KOA for Thanksgiving.  We reserved a couple of cabins and are a 20 minute drive to the Space Coast.  I promised the kids that instead of Bass fishing, we will go shark fishing.  I have a couple spot around New Smyrna, Mosquito Lagoon, and Cocoa that have produced for me in the past.

 

Family time

I just got off the phone with my nephew.  His voice went up an octave because he is so excited about going fishing this weekend. His voice went up even higher when he asked if I could please take him saltwater fishing?  Pretty sure that I created a monster.  I told him it was up to his Dad and sister and not just him on where we go, but I might get him up early on Sunday to show him one of my honey-holes in Naples.  It depends on the tides and what happens on Saturday.

He is a cute little 9 year old and has more questions than I have answers.  He also has the attention span of a Lab.  Bored out of his mind until something interests him, then he's off like a shot!  It's amusing to me and one of the main reasons I enjoy putting him on the fish.  His old man however, I don't think he has the fever. We have never been fishing by ourselves, it is always him with one of the kids in tow.  He says feels like an inconvenience because I'm always doing the work; baiting, landing, de-hooking, releasing, re-baiting, casting, unsnagging, fielding-a-zillion-questions.  It's not something I mind doing, I don't think he gets that yet though.  All that running around, is fun for me.  If everyone is enjoying themselves, then I am doing my job as the facilitator of fun.

Jon wants to learn how to do everything, but it's not something you learn overnight, besides we only get together twice a year.  This year though we have broken the norm and have actually gotten together 4 times and it's not even Thanksgiving yet. Who knows, maybe 2013 will have more family time in it than all the other years combined? 

Give away

I am never really sure why people like to stop me and talk to me, while I'm fishing?  I dress funny; I wear a white patterned balaclava with a white booney hat and sunglasses, along with long sleeves and long pants. It seems especially strange to me when people want me to explain why I am catching fish and they are not?  I usually have one answer; luck.  I know that's not the truth; or the answer they are looking for, but it is my stock answer.  People want to see what I'm using and what I have, along with a small dissertation of the lure.  I had this very thing happen 7 times on Saturday and 5 times on Sunday, an even dozen.  I even had two guys go out of their way, just to paddle-board up and pick my brain. I got the most questions when I was rummaging around under rocks I had flipped on shore.  I suppose it is a strange site to see someone flipping rocks, jabbing at the dirt, coming up with a crab in my pliers and cussing up a storm as I de-claw them.

I will teach people how to flip rocks and what to look for.  Oysters are sharp and if you are not paying attention to where, and how you are grabbing a rock you can end up with a stitch worthy gash.  I will also show people how to pick up crabs correctly, how to spot a female and why they need to leave her alone.  As soon as I mutter the phrase, "Fly Fishing" or "Matching the Hatch" the eyebrows go up behind everyone's sunglasses.  I immediately tell them, "I don't have all the answers, sometimes I don't have a good answer, but I will try my best to field any questions."  I usually end up giving away some of my flies or lures to people, telling them all the same thing, "now you have a lure that works, go buy a couple more and when your having a great day, give a lure or two to someone who's having a bad day and tell them why."

I usually try to get into the back-country, away from people and away from the noise.  Unfortunately the fish are not always away from the main roads and highways.  While this makes loading and unloading extremely easy.  It also opens the doors for the weekend warriors, and their bombing the water with shiny things from shore.  I enjoy this particular breed of fisherman.  They bring buckets, coolers, chairs, multiple rods, umbrellas  radios, cases of beer, and a dizzying array of lures, baits, jigs, plugs, and God knows what else?They sometimes provide me with entertainment when the bite is off.

I don't know why people are afraid of water, especially fisherman?  We all go swimming in the ocean and the Gulf right?  So why in the world are most fisherman, trying to stay dry and fishing from shore?  I mean honestly, when you fish a river you wish you could be in the middle so you can cast to either bank.  Why would you not want to walk away from shore so you can pitch to either the shore or the deep?  I watch people bring all sorts of crap with them to edge of the water, but never INTO the water.  Sure there are the few that wander around like I do, and to you few I say, "Thank you."

The places where I go you can walk nearly 1/4 of a mile, away from shore, before the flats drops off.  The drop off is a scary- scary place.  All sorts of toothy monsters lay in wait there.  At least that's what my psyche tells me and it's what I buy into when I am; chest deep, 1/4 mi from shore, it's getting dark, something just splashed behind me, and what was that against my leg?  Like I said, the drop-off is a scary-scary place, it's a total mind &*^&**^, but the waist and chest deep grass-flats before the edges are some of the most beautiful places in Florida.  Each  flat offers it's own eco-system, and it's own specific topography.  Some grass is longer, some pot-holes are bigger,or deeper, there may be mangroves, there may be oyster beds, there may be shifting sand bars, anything is possible in grass flats.

The picture above was taken with my Iphone panorama option.  I haven't figured it out quite yet, but it seems like less is more.   The entire flats area which is several miles to the left and right are cropped funny to make the picture look like it's an inlet, it's not. In the picture, about as far as you can see out, is the drop-off.  The sandy areas in front are the potholes and grass.  The initial area of grass and sand is what I like to get out beyond.  Since fish spook pretty easy, presenting a large form above them is the easiest way to spook them.  When you are looking into the sun the fish have the advantage, their vision is actually magnified and blurred so when you move, they dart.  If there is a fish cruising this initial area and he spooks, he will alert the rest of school and your prime spot is busted.

Here I am maybe 300 feet from shore and it is just over my knee's.  The sandy area is what I refer to as a pothole.  They are sandy areas in a mix of sea-grass, which serves as prime ambush points for predator fish. A (something small and shiny), swims through the sandy area unsuspectingly and POW, a predator fish nails it.  These are the first thing that need to be found during low tide, along with any other type of structure.

Here I am closer to 1,000 feet from shore and it is still at best waist deep.  The pot holes are influenced less by tidal change and moving sands so they are less defined, which means more aggressive predator fish and more active roaming of predator fish.

Here I am chest deep, about the full 1/4 mile maybe more?  Those are hotels in the distance, you can still see the bottom, all you do is pick your pot hole and cast to it. Just watch out for boats, jet skis, and thinks that can cut clean through 30 pound test.

Showing the subtle waves that will alert a spooky fish to your presence.  Hard to believe that ripples like this in clear, smooth water will give a fish pause.

I enjoy looking back toward shore from my extreme distances.  I get to take it all in, all 360 degrees of it.  It's where I get lost for a while and forget to think.  I had the pleasure this weekend of watching this one guy throw an entire tackle box worth of lures at the water.  I don't know what he had, but every couple of casts he would be sitting back down tying and something else on, it was comical.  I felt bad that he had invested what seemed to me, a considerable amount of money and had no luck, but then again that's why they call it fishing.

That's what is great about wading out into the blue.  You have a complete circle to cast from, and if you choose a direction to walk, every 50-75 feet you have an entirely new area to fish.  It doesn't matter the type of of lure you are using this time of year, as long as it is either a Silver or Gold Spoon.  The only exceptions to this rule is when you match the hatch.  I did that over the weekend, but I timed the waters incorrectly to work it to my advantage.  The winds picked up creating a pretty bad chop, along with a steady, 5-knot, Southeast wind, which caused the bite to end at 10:30 a.m. Sunday.  It was a stellar Flounder bite from 7:30-10:00, on the fiddler crabs I caught on Saturday. I caught a dozen legal Flounder, some where over 24 inches and bent the shit out of my rod.

I Matched the Hatch, but failed to judge the tides and barometric pressure. The wind and chop churned up everything on the flats, causing all the fish to head for cover.  I was going to do the same but decided to try to my luck at the drop-off.  I had 2 more large, angry crabs and several hours until I had to be home, so I figured leaving good bait behind was bad fishing etiquette.  I'm an idiot.

I judged the current in front of me, around the drop-off,  to be running at maybe 1-2 knots, and was about 18 feet deep.  Anyone can do this with Google Earth and a topo map by the way.  Find your position, research the tidal flows, and research the current flows.  It's all  on-line and readily available.  So casting toward the 10 o'clock position and allowing the crab to free line and sink with the current, should afford me a pretty good fish and the hook-set would more than likely be directly in front of me.  With all the chop, wind, waves, grass, and muck, all I wanted to do was catch something before I left.

The drop-off is where boats and jet-ski's run, so standing against the wakes they kick up is a big pain in the ass.  Dealing with the reality that something is capable of cutting my 30 pound leader clean off, with out too much of a tug on the pole, is a whole other pain in the ass.  Thirty pound Sufix Superior has the ability to hold a piano to your roof, or you can pull a car out of a ditch with it.  What I'm saying is the stuff doesn't just break.  I had a pretty quick realization, that "Oh Shit" moment, where you are really grateful your not reeling a 30 inch Redfish, to your nearly submerged body.  Here I was again; looking around, wondering what else I was sharing my grounds with, but I really didn't care as I backed away from there.  Being so far from shore and realizing your an idiot is right up there with, well I don't know but it is one of those moments that you just wish would be over quickly.  One-thousand-three-hundred-twenty feet is a long ways to ponder the stupidity of fishing alone, at dusk, even if the cell phone is waterproof and there is reception.

Once I got into waist deep water I felt better.  I was cold though from being out of the water.  I didn't realize how bad the wind was blowing until I got out.  Trudging toward those guys on shore, I could just feel their stares and questions looming large.  I tried my best to walk around them but as I got closer I could see some of them reeling their stuff in and waving.  Waving back sealed my fate and committed me to telling at least one story.  Seeing beach contractors with all their do-dads and gadgets give me pause, but I realize not everyone is a minimalist.  Their eyes scan and bore into me looking for more paraphernalia besides a pair of hemo's, clipped to my shirt.  When they pose the inevitable questions of, :what are you using"; I point to my chest and tap my shirt pocket to make my spoons jingle.  People just don't seem grasp the idea of less is more.

After showing off my wares, showing what's under rocks around shore, and giving a small lesson about matching the hatch.  I head home before noon, cold, tired and hungry.  I learned a pretty valuable lesson about the wind, but because I didn't go to the other side of the bay, or the leeward side, I didn't really learn enough.  I would like to take my canoe or kayak out to the ledge with some steel leader to see what's hungry.  I have been drug around before by giant fish, and it's almost that time of year again!  November brings the migration of giant bull Redfish into the bays and estuaries around Tampa Bay.  This is my favorite time of year to fish, some areas will have schools of Redfish in the hundreds.  Being prepared, aware and knowledge about what is natural to the area will allow for incredible success.

Next weekend is my yearly retreat back to Cape Coral to take my nephew fishing.  I got him hooked on Bass a couple years back and he has never looked back.  I got to turn another person onto my favorite past time.  He enjoyed it so much he wrote a little book about it.  It was the coolest Christmas present  last year.

Soul Snatching

A cold front is pushing through Florida, squeezing that last bit of humidity out of the air, shoving the heat and memories of summer into the recesses of my mind.  The cooler air is inspiring me to consider socks, shoes, and growing hair again.  Nah, I don't think I will stop shaving my head.  I will however have to consider wearing more clothes in the mornings.  I am not a fan of multiple layers of clothing and all the bulk they bring to my life.  I don't care for the restrictive nature of jeans, tennis shoes, jackets, hats, socks and for those especially blustery days; gloves.

I used to live in Pennsylvania and swore that when I could leave, I would become a nudist or move to someplace where jacket and jeans is a curse word.  I couldn't stand another Pa. winter, shoveling the roof, salting the sidewalk, getting up an extra 20 minutes just to defrost the car.  None of these familiar patterns were heartwarming to me.  Each was an exercise in drudgery and another oppression of old man winter.  The chores and necessities of winter catapulted me to the Caribbean.

My first big move out of the country was to Maho Bay, St. John USVI.  I was 21 and sick and of it all. I had spent my last muddy, grizzled, oppressive, winter and spring in Pennsylvania; ever.  I cashed in my 401k, my savings, sold my car, converted some inherited bonds, and bought a one-way ticket to an island I had only seen pictures of.  I had never really read about St. John, I honestly didn't know anything about it or what was there.  I only knew that year after year, muddling through and merely surviving, slate-gray years of Pennsylvania weather was going to drive me mad.

I chose Maho Bay because of a little article in the back of Budget Traveler Magazine.  There was a small 2x2 ad for a 4-hour worker program.  I had no idea what a 4-hour worker program was, what work-exchange meant, or what in the world one does on a resort?  So I sent them my (embellished) resume and hoped for the best.  I explicated how great I was at construction and other various fields, I was good but far from great.  To my surprise and complete excitement I was invited to work for Maho with the added bonus of being asked if I would consider permanence, if I enjoyed the work environment.  I called Roland immediately, introduced myself, and said I would be down in a week, I just needed to tie up a few looses ends, like selling everything I own.

I sold everything, bought a one-way on American and said my good-byes.  I had been on trips and extended excursions before, but never had I followed through on something with such single-minded determination.  There were times when I would pick a place, go, and call it home for a few months here and there.  I had never considered resigning myself to leaving the United States, even if St. John is a U.S. territory.  It was about as far removed from what is considered , "Normal Society" as I could get without leaving the English speaking world.  I wanted to have a Robert Young Pelton experience, without having to go to an actual war-zone or dangerous place.

I got my wish, not only was I far removed, I was isolated.  My ignorance and youthful exuberance led me to a place I had not researched, knew nothing about, along with placing me in a state of (paradoxical_anticipation).
Paradoxical- because I was in the most beautiful place imaginable, in the prime of my life. Yet I had just sold everything I owned, bought a one-way ticket, crammed my life into a couple of bags, and found out I was going to be living in a tent. Anticipation- because I was fully committed, I was going to live on an island, in a place that was soul-burstingly beautiful, in the trees like the Swiss Family Robinsons. There was no turning back when I walked off the tarmac to board a taxi. Which was nothing more than two benches welded to the bed of a pick-up truck, with a plastic/clothe canopy over the top to block out the burning sun.

The ride to Charlotte Amalia Harbor on St. Thomas, was one of the most harrowing rides I had ever been on!  Doing 55, on the wrong side of the road, will increase the pucker factor by a factor of 10.   If I had done my research, I would have known that vehicles drive on the opposite sides of the road, to better assess the edge of the highway.  The passing vehicles in the other lane, on those mountain-side roads, left little room for error on both drivers part.  Later I found out drinking and driving is perfectly legal.  The roads are on the sides of mountains, sheer cliffs on either side; their valleys sprinkled with the pitted and decaying bones of vehicles that had negotiated poorly.  I had the ability to claw the rail,  be excited, terrified and flabbergasted at what in the hell I had done to myself and what the %$^ I had gotten myself into?  This was all before I even started the boat ride.

The ferry from Charlotte Amalia to Cruz Bay took 45 minutes, and offered a roof-top deck to take in my new home.  I couldn't get over the vastness of water that lay all around me.  The clarity alone had me spellbound and I found myself leaning over the edge more than I felt comfortable with.  I tried to take it all in but couldn't, it was simply too much so I sat back and waited for the next phase of my adventure.  I knew what the taxi's were now, and I knew it was going to be a strange ride.  I was off the plane for a little over an hour and my introduction to the Caribbean was an interesting one.  The boat ride was uneventful, thankfully but now I had to find Frett, the taxi driver.

Frett runs the service from Cruz Bay to Maho.  It is about a half hour ride and is again on the wrong side, with rusted hulks in the valleys, at break-neck speeds, seriously WTF.  After paying the man, I met my future cohorts at the registration desk and immediately am struck by smells and sounds.  It smells like dirt, earth, rotting leaves, and nature not a resort with concrete and fertilizers.  It sounds like campground, without generators, screaming babies, noisy dogs, or anything else to interrupt the cadence of the crickets.  All the stress and angst of getting there, started to feel like it may have been worth it.  It seemed that as long as I didn't leave the cocoon of Maho, everything would be alright.

I found out the 4-hour worker program was simply an exchange of 4 hours work for a place to stay and discounted meals.  The free place to stay was an above ground tent, think about a wooden deck, wrapped in opaque-white, heavy-duty, plastic.  At about waist high, there is screen for approximately 300 degrees, affording views of the most breathtaking panorama, I had ever seen.  Even if I had done research, it could never have prepared me for the place I was going to be calling home.  My tent village in the trees was more surreal than than any amount of information can prepare one for.  After lugging my life up a bunch of steps, and settling into my sky-cabin, I had to explore and eat.

The place where you eat is again unlike anything I had ever seen before.  It has a lower dining deck with around 40 tables, an upper deck with 10 tables and a side deck with another 10 tables.  Happy hour started at 5:30 and to my pleasant surprise they had Bass on tap with free popcorn.  I ordered from my future ex-girlfriend and settled into a seat that offered a view of her and that Caribbean sea. After a few pints I decided to order and watch the sunset.  If you have never seen a sun burn its self out in the water before, put it on your bucket-list.  If you spend enough time watching the sunsets, you will eventually witness The Green Flash.  That didn't happen my first night, but a different kind of magic did.  I met the staff at Maho and the rest of the 4-hour workers.

The crew was a motley bunch of ex-pats, professionals, 20-somethings, burn-outs, social misfits and the most beautifully enlightened individuals one could hope for.  They scooped me up from my perch at the bar, and ran me down the hundreds of steps to the beach below, where I had yet to go.  I had been saving the beach for sunrise, but when young-beautiful people beckon you to engage in debauchery and hedonism, you oblige with a smile.  Upon reaching the sand, I was immediately struck with the realization that apparently I was the only one who had not donned a swimming suit.  R, the beautiful 20-something that grabbed me initially at the bar, laughed so loudly that it caught me off guard and was a little jarring.  G. her boyfriend smacked me on the back, looked me up and down and asked if I was afraid something was gonna bite my dick off?  Confused and realizing both he and R. were stripping down, I tried to avert my eyes to the left or right, only to realize I was the only one not shedding my daytime uniform.

As far as I could see in the limited moonlight, were darkened bodies with bright, glowing-white areas, some square, some triangle.  I was surrounded by a sea of naked bodies all giggling, talking, joking, coughing, swilling.  They were wading almost in unison into the darkened water that shone with the stars above and something else I had never seen before.  Each movement, each disturbance kicked up a fluorescent-glowing-blue-green, poof of energy.  These marvels were a phosphorescent bacteria that lives in water and is natural occurring.  As I waded into the water every hair on my body agitated the glowing-blue-green orbs.  I was no more than 8 hours off the tarmac, and I am worlds away from anything I could have ever imagined or dreamed of.  No amount of research could have prepared me for what was happening.  I was immersed in a world that was so foreign and so far removed from what I called normal, I had to dunk my head and scream for joy.

Maho Bay.  Nothing prepares a person for a sensory assault that forever alters their perspective of life or how they view it.  Maho is one of those places that has forever infected 10's of 1000's of peoples lives; guests, staff, exchange workers and hopeful dreamers have known the magic that is Maho.  The place touches your soul, forever residing there, forever altering your perception and never allowing you to forget.  Even when you return home more than sand, shells, or photographs are brought back.  Memories are not even what you bring back.  What you encounter are sensory overloads that create flashbacks later in life.  Moments when things are bad, you are able to reach back and relive that exact moment, be bathed in every second, every detail, touching the fabric of the memory.  There is a magic in Maho Bay, it possesses the code to inscribe details on your soul that you wont even notice until one day it is simply thrust into your consciousnesses by an unknown force.

Maho Bay has inspired a generation+, but it is coming to a close.  The magic and joy that is maho, is soon to be no more.  The lease has run out and the 14 acre, hillside resort is now for sale.  The idealic local will soon be gobbled up by an oppressive land baron who will develop it into either swank 5th home development for millionaires, or another fantastic ticki-tack resort, with as much depth and character as a politician the week before elections.  I have recently been reminded that the place which first unburdened my soul will never be able to inspire after July of this year.  An injustice against the human spirit will soon befall this small corner of heaven.  My soul aches when I consider the implications of never being able to engross myself in everything Maho.  If only the place that has animated and inspired millions of dreams could inspire one affluent enough.

Escaping the noise

There is no greater escape for me then wading away from shore; watching the people, the cars and my problems of the day fade into shadow and become a unified horizon.  Low tide is part of the requirement needed to wander a great distance from shore.  Catching the out-going tide is a huge plus as well.  I recently chose an area near Clearwater to wade fish.  I'm not going to give away the place, because the sheer volume of fish I caught while there was staggering.  The pressure on this area must not be that great because the bite was amazing.

The fly fishing was not that great, I tried a variety of just about everything and the only thing I caught was Puffer fish.  There is not a thing wrong with catching 50 Puffer fish on a 6wt. fly rod.  A two to three pound saltwater fish on a fly rod is exciting, but catching something that size on nearly every cast is epic and tiring!  I can honest;y say I got tired and decided to take a break from the fly rod.  I wanted to catch my breath and catch a different variety of fish if there were any to be had.  To my immediate surprise, not only were there a different variety of fish present, but they were hungry and keyed in on silver.

I switch from my fly rod over to my inshore spinning rod.  I grabbed a couple of spoons, spinners and poppers, threw them in my breast pocket and headed out to deep water again.  This time I had Redfish on my mind.  The clouds were right, the wind was right, the tide was right.  Everything seemed to be lining up for me to have a great out-going tide session.  On my first cast with the newly tied on Johnson Silver Minnow, I had a solid hit, followed by a ton of bricks with a tail.  The Redfish hammered that spoon and took off in the opposite direction so fast I was completely caught of balance and mid-step in my walk to deeper waters.

I cast into the outside edge of the pot-hole to my left at 11 o'clock, as soon as I cranked my reel the second time is when he nailed it.  He hit the initial flutter of the spoon and crushed the retrieve.  He felt like the 6 pound Smallie I had hooked over the summer in Pennsylvania, still my all-time record for Small Mouth Bass. Anything over 5 is a monster and he was every bit of Frankenstein's monster.  This Redfish hit the spoon with the same voracity and intent that the smallie did.  I honestly couldn't contain my happiness, his hit validated that my spot was indeed hot and it was teeming with life.  It had been a long time since I had enjoyed a Redfish, it was long overdue and I figured I had earned the right to indulge in my spoils.

I did something that was uncharacteristic of myself.  I kept a fish this time.  I believe the last time I kept a fish was somewhere in the mid-90's?  I know it has been at least 15 years since I kept a fish, but for some reason I wanted to eat Redfish Friday night, so that is exactly what I did.  

Redfish are a spooky fish, like trout.  I approach them just like I do any other easily spooked fish.  I waded against the current, fished against the current; keeping my body, shadow, and movements hidden from a foraging school of Red's.  I was reminded of a two passage in Ernest G Schwiebert's book, Matching the Hatch.

"Under water, the trout can see quite well up to distances of about 30 feet.  The position of the eyes makes it possible for him to see objects around him in a three-hundred-degree arc.  He has a sixty-degree blind spot to his rear.  Both eyes can be brought into play only on objects directly in front of the fish.  For this reason the greatest areas of vision are seen with only one eye at a time.  Through a study of his physical limitations, one can readily see that the trout is best approached form the rear.  The extent of his view of things outside the stream is directly proportional to his depth in the water."(14)

"Sunshine and shadow greatly effect the vision of the trout.  They can be more easily taken when they are lying in bright sunlight then when they are lying in shade.  The reasons are rather obvious.  Anything lying between the eye and the sun becomes blurred because of the glare.  Conversely, the trout can see more clearly when there is less glare to confuse his eyesight."(14)

Friday and Saturday were supposed to be slightly cloudy with a possible cold front pushing through the area.   This meant that there would be some cloud cover and some bright sun.  If I could time the area right, I could have the best of all three worlds; a moving tide, moving clouds, and moving bait-fish.  Turned out I was right in my approach.  I caught 1/2 dozen Red's, 1/2 dozen Trout, 2 Flounder, 30 Puffer-fish, 2 Bonnet-head sharks, 1 large Ray, and something toothy that I had never seen before.  That was just what I caught on Friday.  Saturday was an exact repeat except no Ray and no Flounder.  All in all I caught and safely returned over 80 fish in two days, except for the one Redfish below.  It was an epic weekend for fishing inshore around the Bay area.

To prepare the Redfish, I keep things simple.  I simply prefer to stuff it and wrap it.  I like the flavor of the fish to shine through and would rather celebrate the fish than mask any of its flavor.  Start by cutting 4 lemons into slices and pulling apart one bunch of dill.  For spices I use only Salt, Pepper and a little blackening seasoning for a subtle punch.   

  

Stuff the cavity of the fish with some of the spices, lemon and dill.  Add 2 pats of butter between the lemon to keep the fish moist.

Lay down a bed of lemon, some sprigs of dill, 3 or 4 pats of butter, some salt, pepper and blackening for flavor.  Gently place fish atop the herbs and lemon.  Cover the fish in the same manner.  Sprinkle spices over the fish, lay the dill on it, place lemons on top of dill, followed by the 4 pats of butter, place lemon slices along the edges of the fish.

Start to roll the foil around the fish, keep all the lemons and herbs pressed tightly against the flesh of the fish.  This is where the flavor will come from.  The flavors will steam into the fish.

Keep rolling until you have a big shiny tube of goodness.  It will be huge and heavy so be careful when moving it.

Grab a beer or six and head to the grill for about 45 minutes to an hour depending upon the size of your fish and the temperature of your grill.  This one was about 5 pounds.  At an average of about 10 minutes per pound, at around 400 degrees, this fish took exactly 4 beers to cook.  If it would have been earlier in the day, it could have taken a solid six pack to cook.

When you are done cooking the fish.  Remove form the heat and let everything rest for about 5 minutes before opening the foil.  It will prevent you first from getting steam burn, but it also allows all the wonderful flavors floating around inside the foil to homogenize into a fantastic menagerie of awesomeness, that is truly the celebration of the catch.

The sunset was the final hurrah,  it really was the perfect weekend.  Here's to happy Red-fishing!  Good luck and tight lines!

                                   

Weeki Wachee Spring

The place in Florida where mermaids do exist, manatees could be sexy sirens of the deep, and forgetting you took I-75 to get there is easy.  The Seminole Indians named  Weeki Wachee Spring; it means either "little spring" or "winding river", depending upon the interpretation.  Weeki Wachee is a place that transports you back in time, back to an undeveloped Florida.  The cool, clear-water, the brilliant, white-sand and the low hanging canopy make the Spring a special place.  The water hovers around 72 degrees all through the year.

The river; which bubbles out of the ground at a rate of 117 million gallons a day, is limestone rich and crystal clear.  Weeki Wachee is a first magnitude spring, and there are 27 such springs in the state of Florida.  It puts out a little over 100 cubic feet of water per second, it also has a current of about 5 miles per hour.  That flow rate has enough force to rip off a snorkel mask, take a grown man off his feet, or wash a mermaid down stream.

I wanted to float the river but I did not want to go to the touristy area known as Buccaneer Bay.  I wasn't really interested in the mermaids or the throngs of screaming children.  I was interested in putting in just below the bay and taking a leisurely float down the river time forgot.  I started looking for a reputable company to shuttle my canoe or my vehicle, whichever was the companies preference.  Goggling Weeki Wachee, canoe rental, and reviews turned up some terrible sources and some promising leads.  I called the lead that had the best reviews and kept my fingers crossed.  To my surprise the people on the end of the line were ready and willing to portage whatever I needed.  They also told me they would have a cooler of free beer on the porch!

The Kayak Shack owned by Jon Cone & Amber Costa is the best place to rent from, in my opinion.  They have canoes, kayaks, stand-up paddle boards and are very accommodating   They will shuttle your craft up 5.5 miles and be waiting for your return with smiling faces.  I offered them 20 bucks to shuttle my canoe, my crap, and my girlfriend and I.  They promptly turned around and said, "No, we'll do it for 15, but only if you have a beer right now."  I knew it was going to be a great day, who can argue with hospitality like that.  Amber took my girlfriend and I around and showed us their canoes, kayaks, and their stand-up paddle boards.  They had everything and more, finding them was a real treat.

Jon Cone posing for a picture next to his plethora of canoes.  He even gave me a T-shirt to eat next door because mine was too wet to wear when we were done. What a great guy!

The place we put in was a short 10 minute van ride up the road.  I'm not sure where exactly where we put in at, because there was some very lively conversation going on in that 10 passenger van.   When you are given free beer, time to wait for the shuttle, and a roadie is not of the question, you know it is going to be a good day.

The driver, a young guy in his early 20's was real helpful loading and unloading everything.  We walked the canoe on a trailer for about 1/4 of a mile til we reached the water.  When we did, we were greeted with the most stunning aqua color water.  If the put-in site was indicative of what was to come, we had hit the jackpot.  After that walk the water felt amazing, I was in no hurry to hop in the canoe but I knew I had to get the show on the road.

We were told this area was the widest part of the river and that everything would begin funneling together after about 1/2 a mile.  We were told, "watch out for the big boats", "watch out for the little boats", "avoid the Manatees", and "stay left".  The last one didn't make a lot of sense to me, but I figured just like everything else it would make sense in time.  They were right, the wide expansive river narrowed quickly and became intimate, quickly.  

Looking ahead you could see the river laid out before you with white sand on the outside and green grass in the middle.  The whole area was teaming with life; fish, bugs, birds, raccoon's, turkey and even the lone manatee.

 

Less than 5 minutes from the canoe launch the rivers panoramic views of marshes, shrubs, mangroves and trees, gave way to a thick, encroaching, forest.  The canopy on either side of the now small river offered plenty of protection from the sun.  Even overhead, the canopy was getting thicker and casting long shadows at 1 in the afternoon.

The clarity of the water was amazing.  Words can't do it justice and I don't know if pictures can even do it justice?  Leaning over the side of the vessel you are in, becomes habitual and necessary.  You become almost afraid you will miss something if you are not looking down.  Seeing sand bubbling and spurting from the water pressure underneath the sand is an amazing thing to sit and do, but there was so much to see that I couldn't just sit and watch bubbling-sand potholes.  

I had brought along my spinning rods because I knew the water and the environment was not conducive to fly fishing.  I was right, but it was also not friendly to bait casting either.  The sub-surface currents were multi-directional.  There were swirls and cross-currents.  There would be boils in the same area as eddies, and vorticies were common around downed trees.  It was an angling nightmare, but a fish's dream.  There was so much life and so much variety of food that the water was simply teaming with fish.  Needless to say, I didn't do much fishing.  It was actually an unwelcome distraction to taking in all the sights and sounds.  So I packed up my rods and broke out what I really wanted any way.

I brought along one of my special occasion cigars.  My La Flor Dominica Double Box Press.  These big guys are about my all time favorite cigars.  They are HUGE first of all (54 ring gauge), and they are flavor to back up their huge profile. They are a limited quantity smoke at about 14,000 so I scoop a few up for special occasions, this was one of them.

Pay close attention to the person canoeing up front. Oh wait, she isn't.  My co-pilot.

After about a mile the river started to have a lot of ox-bow's in it, which made for some fun canoeing because of the overhanging trees, stumps, beaches, sunken logs and of course other boaters.  The beaches were little spits of sand on the inside bend of the ox-bows.  They were just as white as the sand in the river too.  It was amazing, it seemed as though the water became even clearer the further we canoed.  It was crazy how crystalline the water really was.

This was the first deep hole we ran across.  You could see the color change from 50 yards out.  It was at least 15 feet deep.  The soft sand and strong currents dug a fish filled trench that had swirling currents and boiling outside edges.   When you got over top of the hole it seemed to beg for a swimmer or someone to take notice of its depth and play in it.  I was too in awe of it, to do anything but record it.  It was the first time I had run across a hole that deep in a river that clear, I could actually see the bottom and count the leaves.

We were making OK time down the river, but I was a little taken aback to see were were exiting Weeki Wachee State Park?  I wasn't real sure if were were leaving the perfect blue waters behind and heading into something else?  I was almost disappointed we were leaving the confines of the park.  What was around the corner?

As it turned out, what happened was the trees gave way to flood plains again and the river opened up.  The sun was high above at 3 o'clock.  We still had almost 4 miles to go and already the river had changed forms several times.  Weeki Wachee was not holding back.

As the river widened and the flood plains spread out, it took on a different tone.  There was real loud music, whooping, hollering and all kinds of carousing coming from around the corner.  It sounded like there was either a party or a small concert happening ahead.  There were even people playing in trees along the river.  You could smell the Bar-B-Que, the campfire, beer and cigarettes.  I began to think, "paddle real hard and ignore what's on your right".

Passing the Private Property on our right, as quickly as possible so we could drown out the competing John Mayer and Skid Row.  After getting downwind and out of eye-sight the beauty started to quickly return.  I had read about that spot and I am not going to cast any negativity.  As soon as we were about 1000 yards away the music faded, the yelling and screaming was replaced by the chirping of birds and the buzzing of Cicadas; tranquility was restored.

At one point near the end, there was an unmarked tannic river/stream that flowed into Weeki Wachee.  The small river/stream flowed in from the right.  It immediately turned the water tea colored.  I nearly missed it and did not take any pictures.  All I was able to snap was the left, center and right.  It happened to quick for me to realize what happened, and spinning around to paddle back up stream was quickly shot down.

This is the center of the river looking down stream, just after the tannic river merged.

This is the left side of the canoe after passing the tannic creek.

This is the right side after passing the tannic creek.  Weird right?

 This is the last bit of clear water before the tea stain totally over took the river.

It was one of the most beautiful canoe rides I have been on in years.  I can not wait to go back and do it again.  Jon and Amber are accommodating to say the least and offer fantastic service.  You should check them out and go have a few free beers.  The whole river was beautiful and I have a few must do's for next time.  I want to check out Hospital hole, I'm not going to dive it, I'm just curious if you can tell anything from the surface?

The restaurant next door had a great menu and a great view of Roger Park.  The whole adventure was fantastic and the repeat trip will be an all day affair.  Now that I gotten my feet wet in the winding river, I can better prepare for the ride.  I'm working on a couple of ideas for fishing Weeki Wachee too.