By John Kumiski
Like so many outdoor adventures, this one starts with a phone call.
“Jonnie- Walt Jennings. Mangrove Coast Fly Fishers are running an outing to the Everglades. Would you like to join us?”
Well, yeah, but I need more information. The Everglades are huge, with everything from diminutive mosquitofish to monster goliath grouper.
“We’re fishing in canals along I-75. Mostly fishing for panfish– sunfish, small bass, oscars, cichlids, maybe peacock bass. We drive down and fish one day, and fish and drive back the next. When it’s good it’s close to a fish a cast.”
The wildest fantasies of most fly fishers, when contemplating a trip, revolve around two things. The first is hooking a freight-train fish that goes deep into their backing. The second is to catch so many fish they get sick of catching fish. This trip sounded like there was little chance of the first, but a huge chance of the second. I signed up.
Fast forward a few weeks. I’m sitting in Walt’s boat, trying to stay warm, with limited success. We’re whizzing down a canal, flushing alligators the entire way. The sun is just coming up. It all looks the same to me, so why are we going so far? Hint- it was not all the same.
We come to a sign that says we can’t go any farther. Well, duh, there’s a dam there. So Walt’s buddy Mike Kwasny and I get our rods out. Mike has a nine-foot three-weight, with a popper-dropper rig. I have an eight-foot three-weight. It’s armed with a foam spider. Walt will just be running the boat.
Mike hits a fish on his second cast. It’s an oscar. I quickly answer, with a small largemouth bass. Mike is soon catching more fish than me, but he’s using two flies. Every time he gets hung up and breaks his rig off, though, I keep on fishing and catching. The catching is remarkably steady, and just like Walt said- oscars, cichlids, and sunfish. The vast majority of the sunnies we catch are spotted sunfish, known as stumpknockers in Florida. Being small, they don’t offer much resistance, even on a three-weight. The oscars and cichlids aren’t ripping any drag, but are surprisingly sporty, and quite fun. I find myself enjoying this trip more than I thought I would.
Mike Kwasny shows off an oscar.
As the sun gets higher, I find myself shedding clothes. I don’t need the hoodie when the mercury is pushing 80 degrees! The bite slows down, too. I cut off the foam spider, and tie on a small Clouser Minnow, tied with calftail hair.
This oscar, caught on a foam spider, is stout enough to put a good bend in a three-weight.
The canal we’re in runs eight-to-nine-feet deep. It has a narrow shallow area along the bank, then drops almost straight down. I start casting my little weighted fly along that edge and just try to stay tight as it sinks. That bite picks right up again, enough that I give one of my flies to Mike.
In the meantime Walt just keeps working the boat, giving both Mike and me equal opportunities at the fish. And a fine job he did, too! He maybe caught a half-dozen fish combined in the two days we fished. He said he just enjoyed watching us fish.
Pretty quickly it’s mid-day. Hot now, the sun blazes onto us. We left Venice, Florida at 3:15 that morning, and are ready for some lunch and a nap. So we end the day’s fishing, and head to our lodging. The nap was delightful, and was followed by a rousing social hour and dinner with the rest of the fly club.
I’m not a counter (and encourage others not to count, either) and have no idea how many fish we caught and released. But it was easily 50, and could have been significantly more. Could we top it the next day?
Another dawn patrol morning followed. In south Florida, you have to time your movements to take advantage of breaks in the traffic flow. Walt wanted to leave for home before noon so we didn’t hit the late afternoon gridlock, thus the early start.
It was raining. We stayed near the boat ramp in case the rain got worse. And what we found was that, even though we were fishing in large beds of lily pads (where both my companions assured me the best results were had) we were not getting bites. After a short discussion, during which higher fishing pressure in the vicinity of the boat ramps came up, the decision was made to go where we had gone the day before.
It turned out to be a brilliant call.
Mike continued with the popper-dropper. I elected to try a small wet-hackle fly with a gold sparkle braid body and chartreuse tail and hackle. Oh, my, it was effective.
Mike Kwasny casts his popper-dropper rig to lily pads lining the canal.
There was a place we fished where a mass of branches overhung the water. Hanging from those branches were a few leafless, scraggly, grape vines. If you made the cast side-arm, you could get the fly up under there. Every time I did, I got an oscar. I pulled at least two dozen fish out from under those branches. And those branches gave us the biggest entertainment opportunity we would get.
I made another cast under there. My leader wrapped around one of the vines, but the fly fell into the water. A fish nailed it immediately. I set the hook, but could not pull the fish in – the leader was firmly wrapped around the vine.
Up until this point, the alligators had really not paid us, or all our splashing fish, any attention. This was a different situation though- this fish was tethered-in-place. A four-foot or so alligator came out from under some bushes and lunged at my poor oscar. I pulled on the line, the vine moved towards me, and pulled the fish out of the water. The gator missed!
The fish fell back in the water. The gator tried again. I pulled again. The fish flew again. The gator missed again.
Holy cow, a game of keep-away with an alligator!
Yes, there were some alligators there!
This savage amusement went on for several minutes. Walt got his phone out and started filming. I felt sorry for the poor fish, but didn’t know what to do. I certainly wasn’t going into that mess with a riled-up lizard, to try to untangle the line or unhook the fish.
Things got even more interesting when a much larger gator came over, pushing the runt out of the way. Except for the size of the predator, nothing had changed, though. I could pull the fish away from the gator, but could not get free of the vine. Two worked-up gators now wanted the fish. I asked my friends, “How am I going to get the fish off of there?”
Walt said, “You have to let the gator get the fish. Then just break him off.” So after playing several more rounds of keep-away, I let the victim dangle, and the now-frustrated gator just crushed him. My eight-pound tippet was no match for the hundred-plus pound gator, and I tied on a new fly as the happy gator snapped, crackled, and popped his snack. Again, poor fish. He thought he was getting a meal, and instead he became one.
We didn’t fish much longer after that. How many fish do you need? In addition to the cichlids, oscars, and stumpknockers, Mike had gotten two warmouth and a bass, and I got a fat bluegill. Some passing fishermen told us the 71-degree water was too cold for peacock bass, and we certainly (and sadly) did not see any.
Colorful Mayan cichlids also give a good account of themselves on light tackle.
The boat ramp giving access to this magic spot lies on I-75 at mile marker 35 in Broward County. There is a rest area there, in addition to three boat ramps and plentiful parking.
So, if you want to catch fish until you’re sick of it, now you have a good idea of where to go and what to do when you get there. Good luck!
