ISSUE 54 WINTER 2025

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episode one: Uneasy Listening the lads recap the 49th issue and try not to throw up episode two: SSO Debrief the lads siddown with Jeff Wright and Ryan Stephens to talk about another successful southern striper open. episode three: SCOF 50 Recap the lads recap the 50th issue and talk permit fishing with Declan "Gecko" Rogers epsiode four: films and shine the lads drink high octane moonshine and discuss the state of the fly fishing film industry

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episode five: The Buzz Fades the lads recap the Emergence Convergence with a South Carolina reservoir biologist episode six: Helene and 3 Cats the lads talk about Hurricane Helene with the Headwaters Outfitters crew, and what it could mean for business, and the fisheries. episode seven: Forks of the River the lads attend a festival designed to help the shops and guides that were hit the hardest by Helene. epsiode eight: the Sherpa and A Warehouse of Coyotes the lads waterboard Todd Gregory, founder and owner of Towee Boats. Between gasps for air, he talks about his much anticipated model "The Sherpa".

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MORE FIGHT,MORE TOUCH

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SALT

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CHOCTAW BASS

by CLAY GRACE

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CHOCTAW BASS

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letter from an editor

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haiku / dispatches

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Becca Sue Klein: A Legacy of Leadership and Love Through the Lines She Cast

Clay Grace

Dr. Profesor Mike

by cola / brother swagler

by Jessica Whitmire

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A Tale of Two Strippers

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Game of Thrones: House of Tarpon

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Cast & Crash: A Marsh Hen Story

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The Novice, Avoiding The Hat, and The Payoff

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The Magic of Well-Curated Christmas Gifts

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Love Struck

by cola

by JD Miller

by BJ POSS

by CH Daniels illos by hank

by cola photos by Doug Henderson

by Gecko

Imposter Syndrome: Bats & Crabs

by Charles Warren

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Pocket Water

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GIERACH

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by S. Reid Fuller

by Scott Stevenson illo by hank

Conservation Corner: Who doesn't love a beach?

by Dr. Mike Steinberg

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Monsters in the Mangroves

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Southern Campfires: Brother's Gumbo

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by Ryan Stephens

by brother swagler

The Back Page by hank

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photo by Alan Broyhill

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issue no. 54 The GULF STREAM Managing editor John Agricola

Editor at large

Michael Steinberg

Creative Director & Design Chief

Hank

Director of Advertising

Samuel Bailey

Merchandiser

Scott Stevenson Media Director

Alan Broyhill

contributors: Clay Grace Jess Whitmire Brother Swagler Sam Cook S. Reid Fuller Gecko JD Miller BJ Poss CH Daniels Ryan Stephens Scott Stevenson Managing editor emeritus: David Grossman Creative Director emeritus: Steven Seinberg copy editor: Lindsey Grossman ombudsman: Shad Maclean general inquiries: southerncultureonthefly@gmail.com advertising information: sam@southerncultureonthefly.com cover image: Winslow Homer, Hank back cover image: Winslow Homer, Wikipedia

photo by Alan Broyhill

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FAILURE is not an option

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A letter from Mike, the conservation editor Dear Kind Reader, The cover art for this issue is decidedly sophisticated compared with our usual fun and games here at SCOF. Winslow Homer’s The Gulf Stream has always been one of my favorite paintings by one of my favorite American artists. Although I don’t recall the first time I saw it, I was just a kid and was mesmerized by the scene which includes a struggling boat and single crew member surrounded by sharks with a waterspout in the background.

Of course, as a kid who spent summers on the Gulf (of Mexico) Coast, the sharks are what drew me in. I’m not sure if I even noticed the waterspout until I read the description of the painting while visiting New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art many years later where it is permanently displayed. I was always focused on the absurd lunging sharks who seemed desperate for a meal. I am of the “Jaws generation” and so sharks figured prominently in my nightmares and imagination as a boy. I grew up surf fishing off the beaches of Sanibel Island in the summer and it was a huge deal to me if/when we caught a sand shark.

The painting, although completed in early 20th century, is apropos for today because of its many themes that continue to be important a century later. These include the overarching struggle between man and nature, the status of sharks themselves in fisheries management, and even the political-social-racial turmoil our country seems to be unable to shake represented by the lone Afro-Caribbean crew member sprawled on the deck with sugarcane stalks. My letter today isn’t intended to be an interpretive art history lesson, and again, for most of my life I’ve been solely focused on the menacing sharks, but the painting is a powerful microcosm of many conflicts. Nor is my letter intended to be overtly political. But it’s hard to deny we seem to have entered a zero-sum game where both sides see very little room for middle ground on so many issues. Conflict and extremes seem to dominate every news report.

However, I do believe we in the fly fishing community can provide an example for a path forward. We come from all sides of the political and increasingly even the economic spectrum and we generally get along and find common ground within this community by focusing on the long-term, larger picture. We all want clean water and healthy fish, whether they be trout in Virginia or tarpon in the Keys. And in dare I say most instances, our community and our political allies from both sides have shown the ability to work together to get things done for the larger good.

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We may not agree on many other important national issues, but from wood hippies to CEO’s, we have put fish and environment first to solve (or try to solve) real world problems. For example, there is probably no greater challenge in our region in terms of fish and fishing than the Florida water quality/red tide/hypoxia issue that continues to wreak havoc along the Gulf Coast. Images on social media of dead snook, redfish, and tarpon are infuriating. These aren’t isolated outbreaks but seem to be occurring at more frequent intervals. So, this is an issue far from being solved. But our community and industry have been at the forefront of pulling various sides together which has led to some critical political successes and will hopefully lead to long-term management solutions. Instead of seeing group A or B as the enemy, our industry has provided an example for a way forward. When we dehumanize the other side, no matter the issue, we have no path forward. We will never solve any problem at any scale if we cannot talk. So as we enter a new political era I hope parts of our larger fly culture can trickle down (to borrow another politically charged past phrase!) and provide some common ground, successful examples of how to work together instead of more entrenched camps that get nothing done.

Extremism on any side or any issue is not sustainable. Let’s move forward.

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Haiku by cola

Pull hard, pull true, pull The beer in her arse won’t budge Boaz, Camelot After that night, puke Then get fried eating fried food Shake it off, catching

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Becca Sue Klein: A Legacy of Leadership and Love Through the Lines She Cast

By Jessica Whitmire

Every once in a while, someone comes into our lives as a force for good. For me, that was Becca. At just 42 years old, she made a lasting impact on countless lives.

“I first saw your larger-than-life smile in 2018. We had connected on Instagram and decided to meet up to fish the East Fork of the French Broad River. I remember telling you, ‘I don’t usually do this—meet up with people I don’t know and go fishing.’ But even through Instagram, your energy was so authentic and real that I couldn’t resist.

Gunnar was a bonus—bouncing around on rocks, barking as we netted fish, and running circles in the riverside fields.

You quickly became someone I wanted to spend more time with. You quickly became someone I loved deeply.”

Becca grew up immersed in the outdoors. She loved it all. Her spirit was adventurous, and her passion for protecting nature was contagious. She often spoke of her adventures with her parents. Her dad was her hero and her favorite fishing partner. I had the privilege of watching them fish together once. They moved through the water with a similar grace—it was inspiring to observe. Becca was an exceptional angler. She took pride in her cast and her mends. I always enjoyed watching

her fish. When she got frustrated (as we all do), I would throw out something random to make her laugh. “Mend it like you mean it, Becca,” or the classic, “Hooksets are free,” as we bounced our flies off the rocks of the Davidson.

You never know when it’s a fish and not a rock.

With her deep love of the outdoors, it was no surprise Becca chose a career in conservation. Since 2009, she worked with the Chattahoochee Riverkeeper (CRK). Throughout her journey with CRK, she created her legacy.

Her cancer battle began in 2015, and shortly after, she picked up a fly rod for the first time. Not long after that, she made the life-changing decision to live a sober life, trading post-work drinks for sessions on the river. Casting to trout in mountain streams became her way of healing. She faced her diagnosis in 2015 with unmatched bravery, and when it returned in 2017, she didn’t let it break her. With a clear mind and determination to make a difference, Becca began building programs that would outlive her. Fly fishing taught her invaluable lessons—practices that became instrumental in her cancer journey. She often paused to take deep breaths, slow herself down, and observe before wading into a run. She approached every outing on the water the same way she approached life— with the resolve to tackle challenges head-on, learn from them, and leave everything better than she found it.

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Rivers, communities, and all of us were better because of her.

As the fly fishing community grew, Becca dove in. She supported organizations like United Women on the Fly (now IFishIBelong), hosted classes at her local Orvis store, and shared her growing knowledge with everyone she could. Her goal was simple but profound: to leave a legacy for others to follow.

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By Hank

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A Tale of Two Strippers

By Cola It all began with a feeling—I needed to fish with the guys from Cohutta. Drew and Austin were twins of bassery and North Georgia fishiness, but I could only bring one to fish with Pell City legend Tim Barr.

I’d fished with Tim once before, hooking two monster striped bass the previous fall.

As winter dragged on in its ball-crushing way, none of us were sure if the fish would play. Some extracurricular sport would be necessary, and going through a divorce, I figured what better way to shake the blues than sticking some bass below Logan Martin Dam. I invited Austin to my family farm.

His mullet alone deserved

my business and my professionalism. We bounced along the trails for an hour, and once the buzz hit, we felt familiar enough to check out the local watering hole.

That’s where we met Puss in Boots.

She wore knee-high, velvety green boots covered in crisscrossing hundred-dollar bills. Long, toned legs led up to flawlessly round hips in Daisy Dukes, her stomach flat and tight, her chest seemingly too perfect to be real—yet nothing about her presence felt fake. A twenty-dollar bill got her attention for a moment, but her pouty lips and deadened eyes betrayed an emotional distance. She worked at Foxy’s Lounge in Walnut Grove, Ala. Foxy’s was a stark white cinderblock building with a red roof, and a sign riddled with bullet holes. Walking in felt like

stepping into a makeshift casino in the middle of nowhere, a microcosm of desperation and indulgence. Men from all walks of life gathered there, drawn to a shallow, idealized femininity. The dancers bore the weight

a trip to the Fox Trap, a bar exactly 1.2 miles down the road. He arrived skeptical of both 42

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of hard lives—prison time, addiction, rough upbringings. But their stories weren’t easily revealed. The walls they built to shield themselves were as solid as those of the lounge itself.

Then there was Lola. Fresh out of prison, she moved slower, her body aching from the wear of time and bad choices.

Percocet dulled the pain, and fleeting companionship—maybe from Little Mamma or a disappointing baby daddy— filled in the emotional gaps. She tended bar and danced, weaving between both roles with practiced ease, making patrons believe in her authenticity. Her suffering was real, but it had also become part of the act.

I tried to connect beyond Foxy’s, invited her to my place—a non-trailer house—but she never came. Instead, I watched her dynamic with Brandy, her bullishly humorous friend, and her baby daddy. They were a survival team, each supporting the other while Lola worked. It was stark, but there was humanity in it.

Lola claimed she was single, but the setup suggested otherwise—some polyamorous entanglement where love, loyalty, and necessity blurred. Brandy and the baby daddy sat at the bar, content to let her earn, draining resources from willing patrons. It was a coordinated hustle. Her pain—her aching body, her empty gums— was part of a larger performance, rooted in real suffering but wielded for survival.

For a week before Austin arrived, I watched and tried to understand. I wanted to tell their stories, expose their pain, glimpse their humanity. Instead, I saw myself—the emptiness in me, the monstrous shape I’d taken since my wife withdrew her love

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seven years ago. Maybe that’s what binds us: trauma and longing, driving us to seek comfort in the most unlikely places. But in the end, all we’re left with is the hollow illusion of connection—loneliness wrapped in fleeting gestures and transactional intimacy.

Oh, and as for me and Austin, the fish were part of the journey, too. Tim knew where to find them, and after our rager at the Fox Trap, we woke up groggy but ready. Tim greeted us with coffee, and our inebriation still lingered. Austin lost his wallet in the bathroom the night before, but I found it, so we hit the road mostly intact.

The fog of war was real, but Puss in Boots had already tested us the night before, daring us to pull a beer bottle lodged in her booty. It was Arthurian legend in the making, but neither of us proved worthy of her stone ass cheeks.

Tim took us to frozen pipes rimmed with ice—a Narnia for Alabamians recovering from depravity. We cast all day with little effect. But when we found warm springs bubbling into the 44-degree water, the game changed. Yellow bass slapped our tiny Clouser minnows. It took time, but we figured out the slow strip retrieve and sidelong set to wear them out. Spotted bass, crappie, a dozen yellow bass— enough to save the trip from becoming another almost-fish story.

This was winter. No shame in the grind under these frigid temps. But for those needing more, we’ll be back in spring. We’re planning a tournament for degenerates called “The Sunfish Trap.”

More bar time. More Tim Barr time. The man’s a legend.

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The Premier Fly Shop in Blue Ridge, GA S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

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Sam Cook

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W

hen you play the game of thrones, you win…or you die.

Death, in this case, meaning the person you were before you entered the game ceases to exist – what you thought you knew, what you thought you were good at, what you thought you liked, what you thought you cherished, what you thought you were passionate about, what you thought you loved – gone. Forever. One duel with the silver king, whether it lasts for 10 seconds or 10 hours, sheds away your existential exoskeleton like a molting mayfly and you are born again. Rising from the ashes – reborn, renewed, and completely fucked.

You’re in it now, not fully understanding the web in which you’ve become entangled.

Not knowing how deep you’ll go, how much the lifestyle will change you – the way you look, the way you speak, the way you think – but knowing that the need to feel that power again will never wane. You have no control over the desire, it trumps all else, you’ll do whatever it takes. Once you’ve felt the unbridled strength of the sábalo, you’re a slave to it. Priorities shift, commitments break, alliances sway, morality fades to murkiness. Like a Tesla driver on a cross-country road trip, it’s constantly on your mind as to how, when, and where you can connect to that power again. Money, relationships, career aspirations, 401k…up in flames.

Dracarys. Your former friends and family will say that you’ve gone insane, but Megalops doesn’t concern himself with the opinions of sheepshead.

It’s a dangerous, all-consuming game – giving your life to the pursuit of the silver throne. The highs are high, sure, and each peak breathes reassurance into your

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Game of Thrones House of Tarpon

by JD Miller photo by Sam Cook soul. A hard-fought battle won here and there is evidence that you’re ascending.

Scattered victories are proof that you’re trusting the right people, hiring the right guides, tying the right flies, brandishing the right rod, wearing the right hat and eco-friendly sun hoodie, drinking the right rum, getting the right tattoos in the right locations…you’re winning the game.

And just as you think you’ve made it, just when that all the chess pieces seem to be perfectly placed after an expertly executed tactical and political scheme, it’ll break you. Sending you spiraling on a ride of shame…shame…shame back to the boat ramp, contemplating the decisions you’ve made to come to this point, what you could’ve done differently:

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a different rod angle, a quicker stripping cadence, a stronger knot, a different rum brand, a couple extra bucks in that homeless man’s collection bucket (you had it, you know you did, you liar). The king held court…and you bended the knee.

You remind yourself that whatever erroneous choices or egoistic mistakes you’ve made to this point, the chaos you’ve created, the destruction you’ve left in your path, doesn’t matter. Chaos isn’t a pit, it’s a ladder. Lesser men have fallen off the rungs and returned to societal norms with their tail tucked between their legs, a shell of their former selves, defeated, losers. Not you though.

You’ll continue to climb, to chase, to plot,

to plan, to scheme, to conspire, to play the game… until you’ve tamed the flats dragon, Megalops Atlanticus…until you sit on the silver throne overlooking your marine monarchy, the blood of “doing what society says you’re supposed to” puddled at your feet, crown atop your head.

If that glory exists, if that power can be harnessed, you’ll take it…rest of the world be damned. Meanwhile you’ll be living life between the expletives and the exuberance, craving and suffering the brilliant, addictive torture of the House of the Tarpon.

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Cast & Crash: A Marsh Hen Story

BJ POSS A new moon swallowed up the tendrils of North Florida marsh. An afternoon storm swirled in the midst, laying down a blanket of heavy air. Spartina grass tinged yellow from an outgoing season.

In an open splotch of water, there was a skiff- worn, with a faded tannic measuring line to show how skinny she could suck in. It pushed a small wake, even with its pole holstered. A fella donned in tie-die, slim as a 3 wt, teetered atop the bow.

His fishing pole was shoved in his armpit.

The wind carried his belch of tobacco as a used cigarette hit the water.

The captain unfurled from that back platform and moved them through the Spartina. The harsh orange line was easy for Stevie the Snipe to follow against the grey-clouded sky. The line stretched and whipped about as the captain folded back into a guarded position. Back and forth, back and forth went the line until gust caught and crumbled it like a gas station receipt.

“Say, Wesley, I reckon we’re in the clear with this one,” Sevie said, to no answer.

“Wesley?” their corner of the marsh was quiet, with only the wind and distant sea birds talking to the cat tails. Stevie made himself small amongst a splotch of

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Spartina and peered for his friend.

A pink and white clouser snagged the neighboring patch of wetland grass.

Stevie hunkered as the line went taught near the stalk’s bottom. It wouldn’t thrash nor tail whip; it simply set hard on a bouquet of Spartina. “They’ll be coming,” Stevie thought. “They’ll spot us and whack around until we flush.”

Only bubbles floated by where Wesley had last been seen. The grass was tugged and tugged until the tippet snapped free, and the phony baitfish plopped in the water. Indistinct cursing sang through the marsh.

Wesley popped from beneath the tide, the fly dangling from his beak.

“Tastes like shit,” Welsey murmured and spat it into the water. A blue-trimmed. spotted tail slipped in the air at the sound.

“Randy! Watch your ass!”

Another feathered hook flew in and hit the water. This time, it lay out softly, tucking itself under the blanket of shaken wake.

“Oh Randy, don’t do it,” Sevie said, “you think bull, don’t you do it.”

ZINNGGGGGGGG. Randy skeetered through the shallows in a sprint for deeper water.

inch day. We threw him a party and everything. I cracked his mollusks. He’s a…he’s a,” Wesley gulped. “He’s a SLOT.” Stevie waddled from his bedded-down cluster of Spartina and took off toward the angler. A high drum of hoots and hollers bellowed. Wesley followed close behind; they weaved through the thick Pensacola smog as if Goose and Maverick had polished off a sixer of Steele Reserve.

Randy was losing his fight, portly and lethargic; he inched just out of reach from the skiff. He was a good tug from being deemed a catch by the IGFA when Stevie scraped his mud-drenched talons across the angler's knuckles. Wesley followed, barreling down; he missed his mark and walloped butt-first into the angler's cheek.

Wesley ricochetted to the skiff, thudding against its hull.

Stevie flapped above the commotion, the angler was scrambling for the eightweight that scurried across the bow, the poler leaped down from his perch, and Wesley lay quietly in the belly of the boat.

He soared there for a moment, perhaps more of a tubby flutter, but he hung there.

He willed his buddy to show signs of flapping.

“Shake him loose, Randy! Shake him,” Stevie cackled through his beak.

Randy had shaken himself loose as the fly line laid flaccid atop the coffee-tinted water. It wouldn’t be long before the anglers turned their attention to Welsley and spun his body in circles.

“Oh, what do we do? What do we do?”

Wesley pleaded, “We just had his 21st-

Stevie tucked his wings and fell against the pink-hue sky that now reflected

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off the maze of Spartina. The grassy pathways that rippled through the grass were quickly fading in a gushing tide. He cut through the drone of reason and split the anglers, pinched fistfuls of Wesely’s scruff, and lifted him over the rail.

He flapped with all his might. He huffed and puffed and swore off eating cigarette butts. His wings churned until he lost feeling and was unsure if he was still floating up or down. The hum of a .26 Winchester rang behind. “These bastards took their plugs out,” was Stevie’s final thought before crashing into a bed of Spartina.

The tide was falling by the time that Stevie came to. Wesley’s heinous squalk woke him, his lungs filled with marshy stench.

“Wesley!” Stevie shuttered.

“Oh, hey,” Wesley offered between mouthfuls of snail.

“Are you hurt?”

“Uh, no, are you hurt?”

“No, why are you screaming?”

“Oh, uh, because these are really good snails.”

“How about you stop.”

“I just like it.”

“Where is that boat?”

“They’re stuck.”

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On the other end of the flat, the skiff had found a particularly skinny batch of marsh. The anglers were pushing it from behind to the opening of polable water.

A soft crackle rustled behind them.

“Must be Randy getting in some shells,” Wesley proclaimed. The rustle got closer.

“You see that?” Stevie said, interested in what was just beyond the brush.

“Oh, that?” Wesley said with a stench of lackluster, “that’s nothing.”

“It’s getting closer.”

“You’re just like way too paranoid, man. You’re bugging me out.”

The rustle materialized to the pointed bow of a Hell’s Bay, bending the Spartina cover.

“Uhhh,” Said admitted. “Uh oh.”

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The Novice, Avoiding The Hat, and The Payoff

By C. H. Daniels illos by hank

The Novice William wanted to learn how to flyfish. To be clear, I am not a guide. At least not in the traditional sense of the word. I do take veterans and sometimes their guests out fly fishing, outfit them, set up their gear, tie on flies, and net their fish.

And sometimes during the prime season it can be darn near full-time. But I “work” mainly as a volunteer guiding veterans for a

number of non-profit organizations during trout season. I truly enjoy it, but being a volunteer made it difficult to refuse when asked to guide a group of college-aged novices who were interested in learning how to fly fish.

The morning of the event, William immediately scored some points for his punctuality by having preceded me to our meeting place at the river. The windfall was unfortunately offset by the fact that he had somehow also fallen into the river by the time I arrived, and was now lying on the only sunny spot of the bank in his short-sleeved shirt. I stood there in the cool October sunshine, observing William basking in the sun, watching the frost slowly burn off the grasses, and have to say I was doing some second guessing.

And at this point, I had yet to discover that William didn't know which end of the rod you put the bullets in, and which end you used to shoot the fish.

We walked back to the truck and retrieved my spare polar fleece jacket, making William’s life immediately much better. With him now somewhat dry and certainly more appropriately dressed for the weather, we set about the formidable task of mastering the basics of fly fishing.

“With fly fishing, William, it is important to realize that you are casting the line, not the fly. The fly simply follows where the line goes,” I began. Um. Right.

I must have sounded like Charlie Brown’s parents. I am fairly sure that what William heard was, “With fly fishing, William, blah, blah, wah, wah, waaaah. Blah, bla, bla, bla, blah….” His eyes glazed, muscles slackened, and he was at risk of disintegrating into the river, a mass of insentient cells.

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Shifting tactics, I snapped William out of his stupor by explaining to him that I was now going to attach a strike indicator to the leader to make it easier for him to detect a strike. Awakened from his near comatose state, he interrupted me for the first time that morning.

“Excuse me sir, but what is a strike indicator?”

“It is this small Styrofoam sphere, William, but a strike indicator can be any number of objects that float and suspend the fly beneath it.”

“It looks like a bobber.”

“I assure you it is a strike indicator, William.”

“It looks like the bobber I used for my bait when I was fishing for bluegill.

What’s the difference?”

It is well known to any respectable fly fisherman that bobbers are reserved for use by bait anglers. Drastic measures were called for to restore propriety to the situation.

“Look, William, we can quibble about technicalities, or you can cast this fly and strike indicator so we can catch some fish.”

I attached the strike indicator to the leader all the while thinking, it does look just like a bobber. We moved into position, and he lobbed the little strike indicator that was a small Styrofoam bobber out into the water. Artistry it definitely was not, but I thought it was good enough. Thus prepared, we headed back upstream and set about the important work of terrifying the trout and dislodging any little bottom dwelling stream critters. There will always be some collateral damage.

You are without a doubt familiar with the phrase, “the patience of a saint.” I am firmly convinced this was because all saints were first fly fishing guides. William 62

began his efforts to put our brief lesson into service.

Splat! The strike indicator slammed into the surface of the water like a wrecking ball, well short of the target. "Ok, William, that was good. Did you notice how you stopped the rod tip at 10 o’clock? That was really good. Try it again, releasing the line with your left hand."

Splat! The strike indicator smacks into the water well short of the target. “Ok, William, remember you are casting the line, not the fly. Casting harder will not get more distance. Slow down just a little.”

Splat! Same spot. “Ok, William, that was good, now try to stop the rod tip earlier so that you are sort of lobbing the strike indicator gently to your target.”

Splat! Searching for positive reinforcement, I thought at least it wasn’t caught in a tree or tangled in the weeds along the shore. I chose to remain silent and had him try again.

Splat! “Ok, William, try aiming at the clump of brush on the bank above the stream. That should let the strike indicator drop gently on to the target.”

“You mean the bobber, sir?”

Sigh. Fine. “Yes William, the bobber.”

Ker-splat! Perhaps I should try charades.

William was the model of consistency, doing the same thing he had done each previous cast, with the exact same result.

It was a moment of epiphany. Knowing that William could reproduce the same cast, for better or for worse, I realized I merely had to put him in the right spot. Instead of having William try to cast to a target, I needed to position William so the target would be wherever his cast would inevitably end up. I thanked the pescatarian gods for this divine revelation. The small discoveries in life make the biggest difference.

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The Hat

We moved up to the next hole, and I positioned William carefully to start the process anew. The fly made its less-thansubtle landing sufficiently upstream of the fish, then drifted perfectly into the fish’s field of vision. The indicator disappeared under the surface, and I watched for a split second in stunned silence as William was transformed into the living embodiment of a marble sculpture. Immobile. Immovable.

The statue of William just looked at the void where the indicator had disappeared and did nothing until I exclaimed with some urgency, "Lift, lift, lift!"

William transmuted from stone into an entire color guard, his fly rod a flashing baton, his fly line a legion of flags and banners dancing to some cosmic beat he alone could hear. The kaleidoscope of color and motion abruptly ended with William pointing the rod to the heavens, great coils of line settling upon the water all around him. But with all of that, the line never got tight, which means the hook never gets set.

As the fish darted off spooking every other fish in the run, I demonstrated perhaps the most restraint ever in my life. I pulled my ball cap off my head in preparation to deliver the well-deserved "hat." In case you have never been a recipient of the hat before, it is what happens when you do something totally uncalled for and the other person pulls off their ball cap and delivers a carefully targeted swipe, ensuring the little metal button at the top of the cap catches on some exposed surface of your body. But I didn't. I slowly brushed my hair back and slid my hat back in place and cried just a little. William looked over at me and asked, 64

"Hey, are you ok, sir?”

I choked back a sob and said, "Yeah, yeah, you just splashed a little water in my eye when you did that. But that was really good. Next time, let's try...."

He improved in fits and starts, steadily making progress as we continued up the river. As he improved, he would occasionally manage a drift that resulted in a take. I would shout, "Lift, lift, lift!" and then wipe my eyes. I give him a lot of credit; he never became discouraged, workmanlike in his endeavor to catch a fish.

He almost set the hook a couple of times, rolling over a surprising number of fish given our follies. I shifted to working with two rods. When he tangled and mangled one rod setup, I would hand him the other rod ready to go, so he could keep fishing while I untangled or replaced the first. If he was willing to put in the work, I was going to do everything in my power to help him get a fish.

We approached a fresh run, a clean canvas for our budding artist. After a moment’s observation, we could see a number of fish holding in the clear water, including a pair of bruisers. William’s first attempt was commendable, painting the near side of the run. One of the larger fish slowly turned, took the fly and by now you know the sequence. "Lift, lift, lift!" This time he managed to roll the fish over, but the hook set was a fraction of a second too late. The leviathan charged off angrily through the pool, scattering the rest of the fish.

William exhales saying, "Oh man," and turns to look at me. "Did I splash water in your eyes again, sir?"

"Yes William, yes you did.”

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The Payoff

"Let me see that, William." Despite continued small improvements, we had another tangled mess. It was about noon, when I handed him the other rod and explained why this fly is even better than the last one, and began the task of untangling and tying new flies on the rod he had just returned to me. Then it happened. He managed a perfect drift, and a trout that must have been ravenous grabbed the fly and darted away so fast it set the hook itself. William simply had to hang on. It wasn't a particularly large trout, but I wasn't sure who was going to come out on top. The gods favored us, and soon we had in the net a beautiful brown trout adorned in its autumn gold and brown colors, accented with brilliant red spots. I practically danced with joy. "Dude! This is a brown trout. This is the king of the trout!"

William was now regarding me with a slightly skeptical look as if he was trying to determine whether I was stable enough to be with him in the river. I gave him a few pointers on how we would capture the moment, and demonstrated how to hold the trout for a picture. We managed to get a photo and release the trout somewhat traumatized, but unharmed.

"I did really good on that one, didn't I?" "Yes William, yes you did. Well done.

Your hook set is getting better, and you guided him right to the net."

"And I didn't splash water in your eye this time."

"That’s right. You sure didn't." We had a few other happy accidents over the afternoon. As the sun settled into the treetops, light slanting low over the water, we spotted a large rainbow trout prowling 66

the near seam of a nice run. William moved into position and after a few false starts, he managed to lay out a good cast. The little indicator ducked and bobbed through the bubbles as the current swept it toward the unsuspecting fish. The fish turned toward the fly, rose, and then to my astonishment, inhaled the bobber! Realizing its mistake, the fish promptly spit out the little foam ball and turned to swim off. Then, in yet another inexplicable chain of events, the same trout swirled back around and now took the fly. It was a lovely, big, fat rainbow, and it was giving William the business. The big fish started to tire, when it made another hard run toward the far bank, faltered, and then turned to rest briefly in the current.

William held on for dear life. The fish rolled slowly, its nose turning upward in the water under the constant pressure. I was silently thanking the piscine gods for rewarding us after all of William’s hard work. I could feel victory for both of us at hand. He wrestled the trout close enough so I could corral it into the net. And William would have had quite a photograph to show his friends and family if his so-called guide didn't allow the fish to squirt out of the net after the hook was removed. The gods are fickle.

"Shit! William, I am really sorry. That was a beautiful fish."

"That’s ok sir."

"You gonna be ok?"

"Yes sir, I just think you might have splashed some water in my eye when he got away."

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Yeah, its tarpon season. Masochism disguised as a sport. If you’re lucky enough to hook one, congratulations—you’ve now entered a one-sided brawl holding a high-voltage powerline.

Spit hook, slack line. You’re left with a sore back, a bruised ego, and a burning desire to do it all over again.

We’re here to help you get ready for your shot at the Silver King. Visit us in store to choose from our extensive selection of saltwater fly rods, reels, fly lines and flies.

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The Potency of Well Curated Christmas Gifts

by cola photos by Doug Henderson What is a life without memory?

Imagine life as a collection of present moments that punctuate meaning and worth from birth to expiration. The fly fishing life rarely chooses us, but in a series of moments we select it as our preferred means of angling. The holidays are a highlight reel of these moments, when your parents curate the season and the birth of our Lord, Jesus Christ.

When I was 13, my Aunt Taterbug gifted my grandfather, Willie, an Orvis fiveweight. He scarcely used this graphite rod before his stroke, but he was the jolliest benefactor of my life known for his newshour happy hours, where his charcuterie boards were full of cheese spreads, pâté, crab claws, and cold chicken wings. Us children were careful to avoid the bourgeois dog foods for Mickey the Yorkie, a response to the mistake of mistakes, the crunch of kibble.

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We learned to cast Willie’s Orvis rod on the dock of Lake Guntersville by casting and hauling to the bream beds.

This work showed proof of my dedication to a sport’s dynamism, which would move from frustration to competence. My father, Willie’s boy, taught me many lessons.

Through his storytelling I came to know my progenitors. At Christmastime, a wool cowboy blanket taught my father that packages can be deceiving. All of Willie’s children were weighing their Christmas packages, and it appeared my father had the heaviest gift. The wool cowboy blanket would stay in the family for years at our Guntersville lake compound. This year, after my father’s passing, I reluctantly disposed of the blanket after it sat outside mildewing in several rains waiting for its last use.

During my childhood, my parents would gather on Christmas morning in spite of their acrimonious divorce. They would create the work of love by preparing the living room together. My sister and I would come down the steps from our rooms with all the excited fervor of children of God. We always wished the gift would be their reunited love for one another, but it never was, and we would always have the loot as a consolation.

One year, I ruined my sister’s big gift.

It was a life sized My Size Barbie, roughly the height of a blonde little person. As she went into a room to try on Barbie’s wedding dress, we burst into her changing room. In my malevolence, I took pictures of her with the naked Barbie calling her a lesbian, as I had just learned the art of big brother bullying.

As we aged, Christmas became more about spending time with family and the obligatory travel of the season. My

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father’s birthday was early January. When my father turned 64 about a decade ago, I bought us a trip to redfish in Hopedale, Louisiana with Captain Doug Henderson.

It was the best gift I ever gave my father.

He and I had been bonefishing a handful of times, but it had been a long five years since our last trip. After catching a few big ones, I wanted my father to take up the rod and stick one. His generosity to me on the bow was tinged with the wonder of not knowing if his knees would support his own balance on the bow. Doug stuck one in the gin clear water of the Chandys, and handed Dad the rod. He fought the fish masterfully, and with confidence, stood in the cage taking a few laser shots at bulls.

I heard Doug say, “Ew, that might work.”

He stuck the fish and caught a fish that went 32 pounds. It was a birthday and Christmas miracle, and the last fish I saw Dad catch. He reminded me of the fish often, and whenever I went for redfish he would ask, “You did not catch one over 30, did you?”

No, Dad. I never did. I miss him terribly during the holidays. But now it is my turn to curate for my son the meaning of Christmas. My wife does the shopping.

I assemble the many parted gifts, and am inspired by the stories of our past, and the lore of A Christmas Story. He isn’t old enough for a fly rod, but I can work on his gun safety with a Red Ryder BB gun.

Maybe, just maybe, he will learn to handle it like I hope he will someday handle a new fly rod. Objects and gifted ones have the affective power to not only be made for commerce but also make us who we are.

Here’s hoping that this will be a magical source for many a fly angler, and may your Christmas sales be as miraculous as the season.

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Love Stung

By Gecko Photos by Sam Cook

Here’s a story of young love, and how a higher power makes no mistakes, except sometimes. My experience with the one that got away: It was 2023, I had just moved to the Sunshine State after picking up my hot new custom skiff. I was as eligible a bachelor as there was in north Florida, just missing a lab named after a country legend and a diesel with some blacked-out wheels, but hey you can’t have it all, and I had most of it.

Anyhow, one summer evening I left work around five to start my nightly routine. 20 pushups, a YouTube Lightroom tutorial, and a 20-minute hinge sesh.

It’s Florida, so you know what to expect.

“Liberals swipe left”, “Under 6ft swipe left”. “Baja blast or swipe left”, “Morgan Wallen <3”. Slim pickins for a city boy like myself, sitting at just under 5'10" with a Prilosec script that hopes to keep me far

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away from any baja anythings.

But, one Wednesday evening I found her. Pretty, tall, no mention of height requirements, and a picture of a fish. She was holding this rainbow trout like you would a python, and she may have put it in the microwave prior to the click, but it didn’t matter to me. A fish was a fish.

And I planned to catch her like I had many before.

I swiped right and we matched. I told her that the C in ZCB stands for custom and that I didn’t have a diesel right now, but I had one on order at only 26% APR.

while driving were about to pay off.

I took my pants off and jumped in, waiting on her arrival. She walked elegantly towards me, as I waited to embrace her like she had that dying rainbow trout.

Only feet away she fell and cried out. “My legs! My foot”. Whimpering in distress, taken over with pain. Tears came immediately.

“Get my phone”. She proceeded to call her mom, sniffling, screaming, and crying.

The date of my dreams was over. She had stepped on a stingray. I have another girlfriend now.

She met me at the ramp, 24 twisted teas in hand. She looked like a winner walking down that dock. We hopped in the skiff and I proceeded to poll her onto flats with no fish as she barely casted the leader out of the gudies. Half a case of “tweas” in we were starting to have a fine time.

She talked, I listened, when It got quiet I pointed out a fake tail or described some “nervous water”. Best date ever, so far.

The sun went down and I prepared for my final act, bioluminescence. She had no idea. I ripped the skiff across the flats, jumping mullet and baitfish as we avatared waves of blue through the night. We were falling in love.

I told her of a small sand beach island.

She wanted to go. And when we got there she wanted to skinny dip. I felt like some sort of magician. My plan had worked. All my preparation, fake pointing, and serious David Mangum-inspired facial expressions

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IMPOSTER SYNDROME: Bats & Crabs

By Charles Warren

"The Nina, The Pinta, The Santa Maria...

That s*** flying over my bed is not cool man" A good friend once wrote in a song, "Rocking chairs feel better when your body's good and beat." What is comfort?

Is it tangible? Can it be defined? Can you taste it on your tongue? Or is it relative?

An abstract collection of parameters that are different for each of us?

I never grew up with a brother, but if I had Charles "Chuck" Hill would be a logical candidate to play the part. Chuck, or "Number Two" as the team at 4 Corners Costa Rica likes to call him (grinds his teeth, trying to scream "bullshit") is the owner of 4 Corners Costa Rica. He’s an avid angler/conservationist/archivist, average baseball player, proud author, and represents the strongest southern accent residing in Costa Rica today. Our meeting was like an arranged marriage of work and subpar insults. He's cooler than me, but our friendship evolved, nonetheless.

Quickly realizing how lucky we were to cross paths at this time in our careers, the unofficial travel partnership began with gusto.

As someone who brings a private battle like imposter syndrome to a public arena of spectators, I expect/hope you all will see this exactly through my lens and empathize with me. The first lesson Brother Chuck would facilitate in my personal quest to overcome imposter syndrome was regarding comfort, or rather, the importance of dis-comfort.

Chuck is a professional at how to un-f*** a situation for himself. After battling years of undiagnosed digestive illness, he ditched the 20-plus daily pills and migraines for a place where miracles happen. With his health completely restored and the bonita fish big, Chuck decided to bring me and the wonderful team at Free Fly Apparel to the land of uncomfortable comfort: Mar Vista.

This place sounds awesome! What a cool name. It sounds like paradise. Like Sandals Jamaica but hopefully a little cooler..

I bet you're wondering how imposter syndrome fits in with this story. Well, relax. I'll tell you after my tension-relieving introductory salvo.

And, action!

I looked at the tarmac one last time, mustered a Larry David-quality bow to our "Airbus of Likely Catastrophes" and began to walk towards what I considered the fishing-equivalent of the movie Sandlot. I would learn to play like Benny. In total, my wager for this trip amounted to putting the lives of myself and four well-respected young professionals in the fly fishing industry, my entire career, reputation, and lawsuit-free lifestyle into the hands of my new friend Brother Chuck and some guy named Arturo. Our destination was in a country I hadn't visited before, to what is supposedly a hand-built house named "Marvista" on the remote coast of Costa Rica with no power or electricity, hot water, internet, cell service, and oftentimes doors in the house. This would be the epitome of discomfort unless the fishing was solid.

I'd say our usual hosted trip standards were long out the window, and

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control was very far out of my hands.

Maybe, somehow, every disaster won't happen at once, I thought. Pulling in the long, dirt driveway, inhibitions clawing to escape the sideways carousel that was my stomach, I prayed over the last few moments of my new business. "It's been fun. I'm sure some farmer down here will feed me for hard labor after this," I groaned, as simultaneously right on cue, right as my Catalina wine mixer was likely going down in opera-style cinemagraphic dramatic flames in my mind, we see one of the resident crocodilians block and then unblock the entire length of the driveway leading to the culmination point—our doorless, hand built, Mar Vista.

"Mother F*****," I said, slumping downward while adding "crocodile attack" to the list of possible liability charges. But then, Brother Chuck's voice echoes out the doorframe, "What's up gang, where y'all been?!"

And then, I looked up.

Fishing seems to create some kind of comfortable space to break out of your traditional comfort zone. When you fish with someone who you consider to be better than you, you experience imposter syndrome relative to their skills and ability.

Their fly patterns. Their rhythm. Their energy. Why does that make us feel like an imposter?

Like most anglers I know, life has expectedly diminished time for chasing fish on the fly. Careers, families, vices, or a combination of the three increasingly subdue the motivation to spend dollars or minutes doing what we love. Thus, when presented with the rare opportunity to chase tropical fish from the bow of a skiff in an exotic location, the pressure to perform is debilitating. Intrusive thoughts 94

bark like hounds: I better have something badass to say when everyone back home asks, “Did you catch anything?” I used all my vacation days for this… Why am I not relaxed up here?… Deep breaths, it’s just fishing… Tummy feels weird… Probably just nerves… Wait - did I eat a fucking scorpion last night?

As we walked our bags through the doorframe to greet the other group that arrived only minutes before us, one of the most real and surreal moments occurred that broke down every structure of my desire for comfort in that moment. Surf rods flying through the air, down to the beach like foam fingers storming the court.

A bottle of Frigate Reserve tumbling by my face the opposite way in slow motion, only to be caught in perfect time with

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the chorus of Good Vibrations blasting through the hammock-filled porch. A spoonful of ceviche shoved in my mouth from one direction, a shot of fine rum from the other. Hollering erupts from the beach as the first cubera snapper of the night eats, pauses, then rips straight over to the cliffside, welcoming us politely to the area and showing us how things are going to work around here. And, the ill-fated house with the name Mar Vista, was nothing short of a deep breath—holy smokes.

This place is paradise. These people are wonderful. Old and new friends. And my new fake brother. No thing or no one person or thing of the people seem to be on fire – and I try to take it all in. This is the greatest place in the entire world.

The first night winds die down after rounds of fine cuisine, quality conversation,

snakehandling, beach fires, and more rum.

We're all reeling for a chance to get shots at any one of the species on the table the next day.

Tomorrow we get a shot at a rooster.

My cast still sucks, but not as bad as last summer. I'm comfortable. A new level of comfortable. Let's go. Laying my head down, I look up at the ceiling and take a deep breath. Relax. Even my mom would be comfortable staying here. Something itches a little. The ceiling is making noises.

I open my eyes to see what's scratching my leg. Three sets of eyes, two eyestalks with little black beads stare frozen back at my face.

"Yo dude, there's a crab in my bed."

"Don't worry, the bats will get him."

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Pocket Water

S. Reid Fuller I entered the trailhead in the cool, gray daybreak of an autumn morning, all misty and frosted and kaleidoscopic, with sunbeams that pierced through the forest canopy to splinter off and dance about the path as I squeaked atop its fine dirt.

A well-trod thoroughfare. I drew in a lung full of the good stuff and strolled ahead, amidst the spent floaters of red and yellow.

A tender and familiar lamp burned in my heart when I heard the sweet song of an Appalachia trout stream calling out to me from beneath a veil of rhododendron.

There was a skip in my stride as I followed the trail. Memories of nightcrawlers and split shot flashed through my mind like a filmstrip. The wonder of this place could never be lost on me. My father and I would load the truck bed full of camping and fishing gear and leave the heat of the Piedmont behind for the shade of the Blue Ridge. Its peaks painted the horizon and butterflies fluttered in my stomach as we leaned into the winding roads that seemed to never stop climbing. Throughout the years, I ventured deeper into the wilderness, further upstream. Up, up, up.

As I stumbled over the slick river rocks, I found that there was no end. Just waterfall after waterfall, the next more remote than the last, like opening a series of doors into the unknown, until my courage ran too thin to venture on. Oblivion awaited me, just over the next crest, but fear gripped my child subconscious like a python, and I scurried back to the campsite where Dad fed the fire.

Beneath the canopy, there is a darkness that broods. Not sinister per say. More so a looming uneasiness that

infects the flatlander as soon as he finds himself high above the realm of reason.

I do not know where the mystery stems from. Perhaps it is in the air, or the trees, or the water. Perhaps it bleeds from the mountains themselves, entities as old as time that remember when the ocean lapped foamy cumbers over their heads.

More likely, it is the lack of direct sunlight.

The mountain folk speculate on the matter, but they tend to keep it to themselves.

My plan was to fish one of my favorite streams, though further on up the mountain than I had ever been. Of course, I could get into a mess of nice stocker rainbows on the lower end. The hatchery trucks had been making their rounds, up and down the forestry roads, carrying on the Lord’s work. Instead, I chose to seek out the natives. I knew that there were brook trout in the watershed, it was just a matter of how far I would be willing to hike.

Knowledge of such fisheries is difficult to come by, and it is often only discussed in hushed tones amongst the secret order of greying fly shop loiterers, long after the likes of you and I have been shooed out to go slap wooly buggers into the nearest tailwater.

Once while I was admiring rods that I may never afford, I overheard of a landmark. They said that there was an abandoned cabin off the side of the trail.

From there I should access the creek. As I climbed further up the mountain, the trail began to decompose from neglect.

There were times that I had to reach out for the assistance of laurel branches to pull myself up the slope. After what felt like three or four miles of hiking, I peered through the skeletal mesh of branches and saw a building clinging to the slope. More

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of a shack than a cabin, really, derelict and riddled with holes. The planks of the clapboard bowed out like rotten feathers and ratty insulation bled from the gaps.

It appeared as if something colossal had come along and fatally mauled the place.

There seemed to be a faint blue stream of smoke rising from the crumbling chimney, but I shrugged it off as the mist and made my way toward the sound of rushing water.

The drumming of the cascade grew louder as I stomped through the thicket, having to stop every few paces to free myself of the vines and briars that kept reaching out to grab me with their little hands. I ducked under the last of the brush and finally allowed myself to step out into the stream, letting the icy water soothe my feet. I stood there for some time, taking sips from my canteen and admiring what I determine to be one of the most beautiful pieces of pocket water that there is. There were boulders scattered throughout the creek bed, each rock creating a swift riffle, each riffle spilling out into a swirling eddy, each pocket a world of its own. The chorus of running water was upstaged by the thunder of the falls. It was maybe only six feet, but a waterfall nonetheless, and it hammered its oxygen-rich life force into the pool below without rest. I could see shadows drifting through the water.

Their labyrinth camouflage kept the brook trout hidden from the untrained eye, but they were betrayed by the white tips of their fins, slipping left and right in the current as they sipped on the little morsels that sped past them on a wire. I stripped enough line out to get started and began flipping into the nearest seam. I watched a fingerling come to the surface to examine my bug for a moment, but it turned away 104

in disgust to flee back down behind a rock. Such was the case for the first six or so casts. I changed my fly to something a bit smaller, a yellow stimulator of around #14 or #16, and made my way to a more promising run. It was an undercut bank beneath a log with a swift line that seemed fishy enough for me. My first drift was true, and just as I was lifting my rod to shoot back upstream, a vortex opened beneath the fly and it vanished. I snatched the line taught.

There was an explosion underwater, and trout began frantically darting about, trying to make sense of the affair. Though she was little, she was fierce, and the hooked brookie erupted across the top of the water as I guided her into my net. I removed the fly and marveled at the beauty of the mountain char. Speckles of red and blue and yellow atop bands of dark green, their existence propelled by fins of amber fire that have burned in this stream long before man ever took the notion to tie feather to a hook. I savored the moment as I watched the fish slide from my hand and swim back to its holding water. Relieved to shake the skunk off, I stood and readied myself to make another cast when over my shoulder, I heard a voice exclaim, “Hell, you let ‘em go!”

I gave a start and spun around to find a small old man, gnomelike, with a bushy gray beard that trembled when he spoke like something alive. He sat leisurely atop a boulder whittling a block of pine and wore ragged denim overalls over a flannel shirt that hung loosely from his thin frame.

He was hatless and the breeze blew his wispy hair about, giving him a spectral appearance. It seemed that he had been sitting there watching me for some time.

“Yessir, I don’t keep ‘em,” I said.

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alan broyhill “I don’t much like fish either. Too many little bones. Don’t get many folks tryin’ to fish this far up the mountain,” the man replied.

“Yeah, I try to get away from the crowds if I can.”

“I reckon you don’t mind crowdin’ up my stretch of creek though, do ye?”

A nervous string plucked within my chest. “Oh, w-well I’m sorry sir. The maps say this is all WMA land. I didn’t think I’d be trespassing.”

He scoffed at me and said, “Maps huh?

You sound just like them khaki fools I catch poking around up here every now and then. I’ll tell you just like I told them, there ain’t a suit wearin’ man in all of Georgia that’s gone tell me I can’t live up here no more. The bank couldn’t run me off the mountain, the law neither, and it sure as hell won’t be some man totin’ a fishin’ pole.”

“Well sir, now I don’t know anything about all that. I just came up here to fish this pretty water. But I see that I ought not, so I’ll head on out of here.” Feeling perplexed and a little ashamed, I stepped out of the stream and made my way back

towards the trail. As I passed him, I saw him fumbling with something in his front chest pocket. He looked up at me, now with a saddened face, his toothless mouth closed yet still working up and down, trying to find words. He grabbed me by the shirt sleeve.

“Son, I don’t mean to run ye off like this. Most folks I come across are up to no good, but you sound to me like you’re from the right parts. You wouldn’t take a drink with me now would ye? I’ve been known to make a purdy good whiskey.

Unless you’re the law, that is. You got to say so if you are.”

Now most of you would be opposed to taking a drink from a stranger in the woods, but when the old man pulled that mason jar from his chest pocket and held it out to me, I became mesmerized with the crystal liquid sparkling in the sunlight.

On the other side of the jar, a large and distorted eye admired my approval. How often is one presented with a spirit straight from the distiller’s hand? He unscrewed the lid and took a healthy pull and handed the jar over to me. I brought it to my lips and tipped it back. The shine ran down my

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gullet like magma. I jerked and let out an exhale that would have combusted over an open flame. Standing there, trembling at the little electric notes zipping up and down throughout my nervous system, I managed to croak out, “Hellfire,” as I held the open jar out between us.

He snorted and said, “'Naw sir, that there’s lightnin,’” and took it back from me to enjoy a couple more ‘swallers,’ fending off the quakes with a sly wink to me. He whistled and said, “You won’t find a better drinkin’ whiskey than that right there. Gitcha another’n.” He handed the jar back to me and I obliged. The second pull inflicted less pain than the first.

I gave him back the moonshine for good, and looked around at the untimely darkness that had begun to settle over the woods. I swiftly became drunk. The old man watched me and chuckled to himself.

He put the jar back into his pocket and said, “You ain’t gone make it off this mountain before nightfall son.” What he said had not yet registered with me, and I smiled at him and stood up to leave. The trees began to spin around me, as if on a carousel, and I saw the old man laughing at me as he flew by, howling, “You won’t never get down this mountain at night!” This time I heard him loud and clear, and in a spell of pure animalistic panic, I bolted off, following the creek downstream. I managed to yell back over my shoulder, “Thank you for the good liquor!”

In a fury of pumping arms and clamoring fishing gear, I blazed down the black tunnel of a trail with reckless abandon. Fleeting visualizations of shapes and shadows, other worldly cryptids, and vaporous apparitions all manifested in my periphery as the trees flashed by. I kept 106

tripping over what I could not see, like someone kept sticking their foot out in front of me, and I heard the old man’s laughter as I popped back up each time to continue running. The branches were coming to life and reaching out to take hold of me, but with drunken vigor, I fended them off and kept going. It was as if I was having to fight a band of ambushers at every switchback, armed to the teeth with thorny lashes.

From what I gather now, one moves much faster down a mountain than up it, as I took a last tumble and somersaulted out of the trailhead. I was on my ass in the gravel, out of the shade and back under open sky for the first time since stepping out of my truck that morning.

I sat gathering myself for a moment, looking out at the parking lot full of anglers discussing the day’s fishing. They stood around breaking down fishing rods and slipping out of their waders, cracking jokes to one another and giving me side-eyed glances. Well-seasoned outdoorsmen tend to keep strangers at a distance. Though I surely did not look it, I felt completely sober now and much relieved to be in the presence of civilized men. I stood up and began dusting myself off as I walked back to my pickup. A country boy around my age was parked next to me and he gave me a curious look as I fetched a towel and started to treat my scraped arms and face.

He asked, “You find any good fishing up past all these folks? I couldn’t hardly cast without hooking into the sumbitch next to me. Then they wanna act like they own the damn water.” I let a guffaw slip and said, “You keep following that stream up the mountain, and you’ll find the best pocket water you’ve ever seen in your life.”

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GIERACH

by Scott Stevenson illo by Hank

I had read a few of John Gierach’s books but I couldn’t recall which ones the day I heard the news of his passing. I have a terrible memory that works sporadically at best, but a wave of guilt or embarrassment or maybe both passed over me that day in October. You couldn’t (and still can’t) walk in a fly shop and not see his stuff on the shelves.

He’s by far the most known fly fishing author I’d say in the last forty years within the fly fishing community. Definitely one of if not the most prolific fly fishing writer of our time. Maybe the contrarian in me wanted to read other authors all this time. I’m weird. I don’t know why I didn’t read all his books. I tried to explain it away. I mean I have read most of the works of his buddies like James Babb and of course the great Thomas McGuane. I used to fall asleep in the 90’s to VHS copies of AK Best teaching me how to tie parachutes. LaFontaine. Whitlock. All his buddies. But for some reason or another I passed over John.

Maybe it was the catchy titles. Like I said, I’m weird. So, this December I decided I was going to read or reread every work he wrote. I am even going to try and hunt down the poetry books if I can find them. As of the last week in February when I am writing this I have read seven. About one per week and I should finish my New Year’s resolution by the end of April at this pace. One of the few resolutions I might actually accomplish. I have read a few other books by others sprinkled in there to break up the flow a bit, but I must say I am enjoying every word. And feeling like a damn fool for not doing this sooner or as they were released.

John loved old trucks. In fact he took tremendous pride in driving old pickups with high mileage. I was asked by a coworker last week when I was going to get a new truck. My

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Toyota is about to hit the 250K mark. I looked at him incredulously and said “I hope I get ten more years with this one” and immediately thought of John. John’s writing style leans more on the humorous side without trying to be obvious about it. I have found myself laughing out loud a few times per book. Maybe his attitude, outlook and opinions hit a little close to home. I am at the age when he was in his prime cranking out books and I must say that we have a lot of the same thoughts. Maybe that is also just an age thing. Either way it feels like I might be doing something right. John’s obsession with bamboo makes me feel a little better about my own personal insatiable thirst for fishing gear. I also appreciate his outlook on flies and fly tying. He seems like he walked the line between fanatical and down to earth quite well when it came to patterns, materials, pattern efficiency and tradition.

One other thing that has surprised me the most is that I seem to enjoy his more informational writing more than anything. I haven’t read Rat Lake yet, which a great deal of fishy folks think might be his best work. My favorite so far has been Fly Fishing Small Streams, a how-to guide on fishing the stuff that most folks ignore. I cannot wait to wade a few mountain streams for Brookies this year, but most of all I am excited about getting up in the Alabama “mountains” for some Redeyes. I would have loved to have taken John fishing for Redeyes. I’m also about to purchase a coffee pot to take on outings this year. I found myself loving every creek side coffee break he took whether solo fishing or with a couple buddies. The ‘slowing it down’ really appeals to me. I have spent the last thirty plus years covering the most water at the most maniacal pace I could muster. I’m ready to get a little more introspective, retrospective and just plain spective with my time on the water. Maybe find a good rock in the middle of the river and sit a spell.

Thank you, John, for taking us along on your adventures.

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Who doesn’t love a beach?

I often get asked by first time visitors to Belize, “Where should I go/stay for a fun beach vacation?” I don’t laugh in response, but I do find it funny how many or most people (non-anglers) associate Belize with beaches. I’ve been asked that question a thousand times. I’m not exactly sure how that perception became rooted, probably through some creative photography from various marketing firms with a little help from Photoshop. Or maybe most people just connect beaches with most Caribbean destinations, which isn’t incorrect in many locations.

created and maintained by hotels for the entertainment of their guests. I guess you could call their maintenance efforts beach nourishment, but on a far more diminutive scale than what we see in Florida and so many other industrial tourism locations.

I’ve seen on many occasions one-man operations that consisted of a small dory and a shovel or bucket moving sand from one location to another. I consider that the polar opposite of industrial efforts.

There are a few bigger beaches found on Ambergris Caye and in southern Belize around Placencia and Punta Negra. But again, most are very small, usually with a mix of sea grass beds and nearby mangroves, especially on the cayes

In response, I carefully, so as not to mislead, tell my audience that yes there are beaches in Belize, but not in the same sense or geography as say the Gulf Coast of Florida. Most of the beaches in Belize are small, pocket beaches, some of which are

The main reason I have beaches on my mind as a fly angler is because they provide critical habitat for juvenile permit. Sure, there are other opportunities for fly fishing on many beaches for seasonal snook, ladyfish, even tarpon, etc., but beaches are

By Dr. Professor Mike

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critical for juvenile permit. Permit are deep water, broadcast spawners. If successful, the larvae float along ocean currents until the growing baby permit start to resemble a “real” permit (a few of inches long) whereupon they spend a couple of years feeding and frolicking along the beach until they school up and move to the flats and adjacent channels.

This stage in the permit’s life isn’t necessarily incompatible with people, but there is a tipping point, although its isn’t fully understood what level of people pressure tips the balance beyond repair because there has been limited research done on juvi permit. Obviously large-scale dredging projects or widespread sea grass and adjacent mangrove removal to beautify the beach doesn’t help juvenile permit, or any marine life for that matter, but again, the presence of people alone doesn’t necessarily lead to the demise of the prized fish in miniature. I have accidentally caught a couple of these fish in the hand size range, but they aren’t necessarily targeted by anglers (I was fishing for cruising bonefish). And I have followed a few while I snorkeled in shallow enough water that I was almost high centered. Again, though, there is a tipping point where we disturb them enough whereupon they either move on or we disrupt feeding opportunities which can lead to stress and higher mortality.

I’m probably incredibly naïve in my hope that juvenile permit will somehow be weighted equally or even close to equal with beach tourism development. There are far too many examples throughout the tropics of destructive marine/beach tourism, too many to list here. However, 116

before I sound too sullen, in many locations, a legal and conservation framework exists that could better protect key beaches (especially in marine reserves) if the rules are enforced. And in some cases, there have been successes, but again, when large amounts of money are involved, dredging often wins and fish lose. We think about protecting mangroves for so many important reasons, which is obviously good, but let’s not overlook the simple, small beach. It’s my hope that gaining a greater appreciation for the true value of flats fishing will tip the balance in favor of fish and ALL their habitat instead of largescale developers. Bonefish and Tarpon Trust have published economic valuation studies of flats fisheries, so the information is available and becoming more important (in some countries) to coastal planning officials, so we know the value if we care to look.

It’s sort of easy to overlook the importance of three-inch permit because we rarely see them. But they are literally the foundation of the species. Today’s baby fish is what makes tomorrow’s grip and grin possible.

I’ve had a bit of success with permit, and I want that to continue, or at least the possibility. I highly recommend giving it a try if you’re a masochist angler. So next time you are planning a trip, support the lodges that play an active role in the positive side of this tipping point. There are plenty of them out there not just in Belize, but wherever permit are targeted.

Most lodges and guides understand what’s at stake. The valuation studies are only as good as we make them through the power of the purse. Good luck, you're gonna need it.

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Monsters in the Mangroves Ryan Stephens

As a man in his thirties, Hamilton Disston emerged from his father’s shadow after inheriting a saw-making empire with a fortune to spend. Trying his hand at speculative real estate, he believed the untouched southwest Florida to be a goldmine. In 1881, he struck a deal with Florida’s governor, and set off to convert the Everglades into fertile farmland in exchange for half of the land recovered.

In an attempt at frugality, he ignored the engineers he hired, and dredged merely half the width and depth recommended to move water down the Kissimmee River through Lake Okeechobee, out the Caloosahatchee.

Disston was awarded 1.2 million acres for what he completed, but in 1887, the basins flooded again, exposing most of the work that had been done. It amounted to little, and the project was considered a failure. Ten years later after leveraging his land in Florida, the banks foreclosed on everything, leaving him disgraced, penniless, and in his bathtub, a revolver slowly sliding from his fingertips.

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Bourquin, F. (Frederick), b. 1808. Map Florida land et al., 1883. 1883. State Archives of Florida, Florid 2025.<https://www.floridamemo

owned by Disston Company, da Memory. Accessed 19 Feb. ory.com/items/show/323167>

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Until 1905, Jean Chevelier, a French explorer, bushwhacked his way across the backcountry from Lostmans Key to Opossum Key, blasting out rookeries and digging up shell mounds for hidden Calusa treasure. Plume feathers were worth more than gold, and he left a near extinction of wading birds in his wake. Shooting flocks of birds was his business, but his heart was in it for the treasure.

Being outspoken by nature, word got around, and another young man struck it big right from under Chevelier’s nose.

Soon enough, articles were published and whole expeditions were dispatched.

Men were sent pillaging every bit of high ground in the region, all funded by the man kicking up mud making a mess of the Caloosahatchee.

Chevelier, sick with a broken heart and robbed of his glory, spent his final months on his deathbed receiving food and care from kids living down the river, the closest thing he had to family, his godchildren he once called them. One day, while on their way to bring him food, they were greeted by a man with a dark reputation. He notified them Jean had sold him his rights to the land in the moments before his death, and was buried out back behind the cabin.

Plume hunter Leigh M. Pearsall posing with a Blackcrowned night heron on Santa Fe Lake. 1900 (circa).

State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory. Accessed 27 Feb. 2025.<https://www.floridamemory.com/ items/show/35148>

Topright: EJ Watson photograph origin unknown

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In the Spring of 1894, EJ Watson stepped off a trading schooner dubbed The Falcon, and onto a dock in Everglade.

He was a man on the run, hardened by misfortune, and sharpened by poor luck.

He looked here for a chance to make a fresh life for himself. Watson hacked and hoed at not only the land, but at the wits and nerves of what few neighbors he had. He lived on a 40-acre piece of high ground, pushing out into the Chatham River with a broad view and nothing but mangroves behind. He raised hogs, sugar cane, and exported his Island Pride Syrup to Fort Myers and Key West alike. Quickly seeing the islands for something they were not, Watson believed a canal cut to the farmlands at Deep Lake would ease export struggles and prime the region for future development. He devised a plan and secured the needed land by any means necessary.

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After a short 16 years of hard dealings, success, failure, love and murder, he himself took 33 bullets from each one of his neighbors. His final lunge landed him face down on a 120-acre mound of discarded oyster shells nearly 200 years abandoned by the last of the Calusa Indians, as they disappeared from the landscape they had been terraforming for thousands of years.

At the time of Watson’s last boot print on the islands, the second attempt at dredging had begun to deepen the canals in hopes to turn the river of grass

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into prosperous farmland, extending the boundaries of America’s manifest destiny.

Pioneers and plume hunters were fading out, and citrus became king.

bottom left: Group on porch, Watson house, Chatham Bend, Florida, 1905 Dimmock Julian. American Museum of Natural History.

top right: Hall, George Barton, Sr., 1891-1947. Dredge Loran at the Hillsboro Canal in the Everglades. 1910 (circa). State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory. Accessed 19 Feb. 2025.<https://www.floridamemory.com/items/show/263345>

bottom right: Former governor William Sherman Jennings (back left) and Governor Napoleon Bonaparte Broward (back right) on Everglades drainage project tour. 1906. State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory. Accessed 19 Feb. 2025.<https://www.floridamemory.com/items/show/136795>

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n e . >

s d e . >

Governor of Florida from 19041909, Napoleon Broward staked his entire career on gutting the everglades, planning to divert water from Okeechobee through canals to both the Atlantic and the Gulf.

He hired and mostly ignored the same chief engineer appointed by Disston and personally oversaw every detail of the project. Broward sent to digging the first two dredges before the first survey flag was placed, and cut only 13 miles of canals in two years before realizing he would need another lifetime to see the progress he hoped.

While Broward's plan under his leadership was a failure, he did manage to get the Florida tax payer behind him.

Eventually the lake was completely transformed by a series of dikes, and the Everglades was permanently crippled, robbed of its natural spillway. Napoleon Broward would never see his success and the horrors to come as a mass had been patiently chewing its way through his gut and he died before taking his seat as a newly elected senator.

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For the 15 years after, the Everglades were consumed by development starting east and pushing west. Highrises on the coast gave way to farmlands and settlers south and west of the lake. As the land boom peaked and waned, the folly of it all became abundantly clear. In dry years, the water needed to feed the farmlands silently slipped away in the canals. In wet years, it busted from its banks taking the coveted rich topsoil with it, a catch 22 in reality.

After an unusually wet summer in 1926 with the Lake nearly escaping its levees, an unexpected hurricane turned west and hit Miami head on, flooding homes and sweeping residents out to sea.

As if a clear message to stop fucking with the Everglades, the storm headed straight for the lake, pushing 700 square miles of water on a concentrated path, killing nearly 400 and leaving 40,000 homeless.

When a message falls on deaf ears, it must be said louder. In 1928, another hurricane headed straight for Lake Okeechobee wiped out another 21 miles of the recently repaired dike, and all told killed more than 2,500 Floridians. If it wasn’t clear then, it is abundantly clear now: Greed and the lust for prosperity conned America out of a fully realized great wonder of the world.

Matthiessen, Peter (2008). Shadow Country. Random House Grunwald, Michael (2006). The Swamp: The Everglades, Florida, and The Politics of Paradise.

Simon and Schuster Douglas, Marjory Stoneman (1947) The Everglades: River of Grass. Rinehard & Company Cartoon showing Uncle Sam telling a personified Miss Florida about the Everglades. (1916) State Archives of Florida, Florida Memory. Accessed 19 Feb. 2025.<https://www.floridamemory.com/items/ show/295324> 124

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THE CAJUN COLOR WHEEL

Brother's Gumbo "The only gumbo recipe you'll ever need"

t

INGREDIENTS: •

4 Stalks of Celery diced

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1 Large Onion diced

•

2 Green Peppers diced

•

4 Cloves of Garlic minced

•

1 Roasted chicken shredded

•

1 lb or andouille or Conecuh sausage

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1 cup all purpose flour

•

1 cup of canola oil (combined with pan drippings)

•

8 cups of chicken stock (homemade is best)

•

4 Sprigs of Fresh Thyme

•

3 Bay leaves

•

1 TSP Gumbo File Powder

•

Cajun seasoning to taste

•

1 bunch of green onions, finely chopped

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This is my Gumbo recipe. There are many like it, but this one is mine, and your mom thinks it's pretty damn good.

Step 1. Roast the chicken, a whole chicken with salt, pepper, and cajun seasoning, typically 15 minutes per pound or until it gets to 165º. Once fully cooked, you shred the meat and use the carcass for 8 cups of homemade stock. If you're an unemployed trout bum like me… skip this step, get a rotisserie chicken and some Swanson's broth from Publix. I won't tell anyone.

Step 2. Prep everything. You have to do this, don’t try to prep along the way or you will be too rushed, and you'll inevitably screw it up. Before you even touch the stove, chop the garlic, celery, green bell pepper, and onion. Cut sausage into little coin-sized pieces.

Step 3. Brown/sear the sausage, transfer sausage to a plate and cover with foil. Save the drippings. Strain the leftover bits of burnt sausage out of the pan drippings. This is a super important step, do not skip.

The drippings will be used in the next step, and you don’t want burnt sausage tainting the roux.

Step 4. Make the roux. Add 1 cup of flour to 1 cup of canola oil/sausage drippings to a dutch oven, a large stock pot, or an original aluminum Magnalite for the real pros. If your roux appears too clumpy add a touch of oil, if it’s too runny add a little flour, it should be a thick, yet fluid mixture.

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SOUTHERN CAMPFIRES WITH BROTHER SWAGLER

For beginner gumbo cooks, start with an enameled cast iron dutch oven. Crack a beer and put your phone away, this needs your undivided attention. Stir constantly with a wire whisk, while gradually raising the temperature and keeping the liquid moving.

Not too hot where it begins to boil, but hot enough to get a few bubbles. The roux needs to be hot, but cannot ever settle.

The moment you smell anything burning you have about 2 seconds to lower the heat and dissipate any burning flour, or the whole thing is fucked, and you have to start over. Over the next 30-40 minutes, the roux will change colors – from white, to blonde, to peanut butter brown, and then finally to a deep chocolate brown. Once you reach this point, it’s time to go to church.

Add the trinity.

Step 5. Immediately, add the Holy Trinity.

Green Pepper, Onion, Celery. Aren’t you glad you prepped? A chemical reaction will occur here, your roux will steam and get gummy.

A couple minutes later add the Pope, garlic.

Time to crack another beer and let the trinity do its thing at medium heat. You did the most difficult part and made it. The sweet, earthy aroma of the trinity is a key part of the gumbo experience.

Step 6. Slowly ladle simmering chicken broth into the trinity infused roux, constantly stirring the entire mixture until your broth pot is empty.

Step 7. Add aromatics. That’s herbs, dummy.

Bay leaves and fresh thyme. Hell, if you want, add cayenne pepper, smoked paprika, or even a little cajun seasoning of your choice.

You made it past the hard stuff, now make it yours.

“Wait, you didn’t say anything about salt and pepper!!!”... You’re an adult, you don’t need a fucking recipe to tell you when to add salt and pepper.

Step 8. Simmer until the vegetables begin to liquify and the flavors meld into one smoky, nutty gumbo. Give it at least an hour; if you have the time give it four. Gumbo gets better with time.

Step 9. Add the sausage and chicken that was set aside. simmer for up to an hour. The longer you simmer the meats the more they break down into the gumbo. You can serve immediately or let the meat fall apart and soak up the flavors, up to you.

Step 10. Add a pinch of Gumbo File, this is a sassafras root powder that aids in thickening the Gumbo.

Step 11. Serve with white rice and some form of Louisiana hot sauce, (I like Crystal), add green onions if you're feeling fancy.

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The Back Page MANFISH

by Hank We had been anchored up for most of the day, sheltered from the wind in a little tidal creek off the back of Dauphin Island. Our frozen knuckles were busted from wailing on rat reds in a little pocket with some depth. Ticking heavy squimps across the bottom was easy, fun, and a much better alternative than fighting Jack Frost on the poling platform. Once the wind laid down, we did end up leaving our fish to find more, but only connected with one. It got off.

It was slack tide now and the sun was out. The other skiff had buzzed back from their excursion and we rafted up side by side on the glassed out flat. It was time to compare notes and trade jabs like cannonfire.

They shot first.

"While y'all were catching em like little boys, we went to look for man-fish."

"See any?"

"One." "You catch it?"

"No." "Sounds manly."

"Y'all wanna head back?"

"Let's stay here another fifteen minutes."

S.C.O.F Magazine | issue no. 54 | Winter 2025 | The Gulf Stream