The Gospel of Salty Fly Fishing

Now, I didn’t come to Florida’s Gulf Coast looking for glamour or fanfare. No, I came here for something purer: the sacred act of hurling a meticulously tied fly at fish who likely think they’re smarter than me. Spoiler alert—they might be. This is a story about salty flats, open bays, and the kind of fishing that gives a man both joy and a proper dose of humility.

It started with the ritual. I reached into my truck bed and pulled out my 9-weight fly rod, still snug in its case, like a sword waiting to be unsheathed. This wasn’t your average spinning rod; this was a hi in declaration. A bold move for a place where live shrimp and cut bait reign supreme. As soon as I popped that case, traffic slowed. A truck idled, window down, the driver rubbernecking like he’d seen a ghost.

“Fly fishing, huh?” the man hollered, his voice gruff but carrying a peculiar reverence. “Ain’t seen that around here in years.”

He parked on the shoulder, and then another guy pulled over. Before I knew it, I had an audience. They weren’t gawking; they were remembering. One by one, they approached with stories of striped bass and bluefish—legends from a distant past in some northern estuary, tales thick with nostalgia and the kind of sadness only fishermen know. They spoke of runs that don’t come anymore, of casts they hadn’t made in decades, as if my 9-weight had cracked open a forgotten door.

But I wasn’t here for their ghosts. I was here for the Gulf.

The flats stretched out like a shimmering desert, dappled with turtle grass and sunlit shallows that whispered promises of fish unseen. I waded into the warm, briny water, a quiet communion between man and nature. My first cast was clumsy—par for the course—but soon the line arced beautifully, slicing through the humid air like poetry in motion.

Then came the tug, that unmistakable pull that turns a fisherman into a wild-eyed believer. Redfish, with their copper scales glinting in the sun, made me work for every inch of line. Sea trout darted with elegance, as if mocking my persistence. Needlefish flitted by like silver needles lost in a blue tapestry, uninterested but ever watchful. And then, the tarpon—ah, the tarpon. When one rolled near my fly, my breath hitched. These aren’t fish; they’re silver kings. Landing one wasn’t guaranteed, but trying? That was the point.

Each fish was a lesson in patience, a reminder that nature owes me nothing. Triple tails lurked under drifting debris, cautious but curious. Barracuda cruised in like living missiles, their gaze cold and calculating, daring me to tempt them. The Gulf wasn’t handing out trophies—it was offering a challenge, and I was here for it.

By the time the sun began to dip low, turning the horizon into a blaze of oranges and pinks, my hands were calloused, my line tangled, and my heart full. I stood in the shallows, the scent of salt heavy in the air, and glanced back toward the road. Those guys who’d stopped earlier were long gone, but I’d like to think they were out there somewhere, remembering the thrill of their own casts, their own fish, their own waters.

This is Florida’s west coast—not the white sands or tiki bar version, but the salty, honest, mud-on-your-boots kind. It’s where men and fish meet in a silent agreement: one wins, one loses, but both leave better for it. And me? I’ll be back, rod in hand, to wade again into that endless promise of water and hope.

Fly Tying Season

 Why We Tie

There’s a curious kind of peace that settles over you when you sit down at a fly-tying bench. The world slows. The phone stops buzzing. The to-do list, the email inbox, the traffic—none of it exists here. It’s just you, the vise, and a bit of fur and feather. Fly tying isn’t about efficiency. If you’re in a hurry, you’re already doing it wrong.

My bench is simple, sturdy, and smells faintly of cedar and old coffee. On it sits an assortment of tools: a bobbin, a pair of scissors sharp enough to shave a gnat’s beard, hackle pliers, a whip finisher, and a ceramic half-empty cup I refuse to wash because it holds memories as well as it holds coffee. The materials—deer hair, pheasant tail fibers, peacock herl, rabbit fur—are stored in a chaos that only I understand.

When people ask me why I tie my own flies, I don’t try to explain it outright. I could say it’s cheaper than buying flies (it’s not), or that it’s a practical skill for a serious angler (questionable), or that it guarantees I’ll have the exact pattern I need (until I lose it to a low-hanging branch). But none of that gets to the heart of it.

The Ritual of Creation

To tie a fly is to participate in an ancient tradition. Long before modern anglers started chucking graphite rods, people were sitting down at benches like this, turning scraps of feather and silk into something that looked alive. There’s a kind of poetry in that.

You start with a bare hook, a tiny curve of steel that looks more like a problem than a possibility. Wrap some thread around it, and you’ve taken the first step. Maybe you’re tying a woolly bugger or a blue-winged olive, something to tempt the trout into thinking it’s getting a free meal.

The materials matter, but the spirit matters more. A pinch of squirrel tail doesn’t just mimic a mayfly; it carries the memory of the hunt or the hike where you found it. A feather clipped from the wing of a pheasant is more than an imitation—it’s a story, one tied into every wrap of thread.

Why We Tie

We tie because there’s something deeply satisfying about creating a tiny, fragile work of art that serves a purpose. A fly is beautiful, yes, but it’s also functional. You don’t hang it on a wall or display it in a gallery. You take it to the water, where it might last five minutes or five hours, depending on how clever the fish or clumsy the angler.

There’s joy in imagining the moment a trout rises to your fly, its body cutting through the cold water to inspect the lie you’ve spun. And when it takes the fly—well, that’s something you made. You didn’t just fool the fish; you connected with it, through art and craft and patience.

But here’s the truth of it: We tie because we love the doing. The act itself is the reward. Wrapping thread, folding feathers, clipping and trimming until the hook becomes something else—it’s meditative, an antidote to the modern world. It reminds us that good things take time, that creation is its own kind of joy.

A Life in Feathers and Fur

I don’t tie to save money. Lord knows I’ve spent more on materials than I’ll ever recoup. I don’t tie to impress anyone; most people look at a fly and see nothing but a glorified hairball. I tie because it grounds me. It connects me to something older and quieter, something I can’t quite name but feel in my bones.

At the end of the day, fly tying isn’t about the fish. It’s about the ritual, the tradition, and the satisfaction of holding something in your hand and saying, I made this.

So, I’ll keep tying, even when I have more flies than I could ever use. Because every time I sit down at the bench, I’m reminded of the kind of life I want to lead: one that’s patient, deliberate, and made beautiful by the little things.

A Cold Tradition Revived

 The Last Swim

The pool was a ghost of summer. Chairs were stacked in neat piles, the snack bar shuttered, and the once-bustling deck lay silent beneath a sky heavy with late-November clouds. Normally, the last swim came on a golden September afternoon, when the air still carried traces of summer’s warmth. But this year had been different. Repairs delayed the pool’s closure, and now, against all reason, I found myself standing at the edge, wearing an old swimsuit and a hoodie, with steam rising faintly from the water’s surface.

It was the week of Thanksgiving. The air was cold enough to sting my cheeks, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones if you let it linger too long. My breath came out in visible puffs as I peeled off my hoodie and tossed it onto a chair.

Behind me, my family laughed and hollered encouragement. “You’re crazy!” someone shouted. “You’ll freeze!”

Maybe I was crazy. But there was something about the ritual of the last swim—something about the transition from one season to the next—that called to me. I had never missed it, and I wasn’t about to let a little cold stop me now.

The Plunge

The water, heated just enough to prevent freezing, shimmered like a promise. I stood at the edge for a moment, toes gripping the damp concrete, my body tensed against the chill of the air. Then, without overthinking it, I jumped.

The first sensation was a shock: a clash of warm water and icy air, a confusion of temperature that left me gasping as I surfaced. But then came the thrill—an electric current racing through my body, waking every nerve. I swam a quick lap, cutting through the still water, and felt more alive than I had in weeks.

By the time I reached the edge, laughter had turned to cheers. My brother kicked off his boots and cannonballed in after me, followed by my cousin and, surprisingly, my dad, who hadn’t swum in years.

The Fun of It

We splashed and played like it was July, shouting and laughing loud enough to wake the sleepy neighborhood. The cold seemed irrelevant as we chased each other, racing from one end of the pool to the other. For a while, we forgot about the holiday preparations waiting at home, the deadlines and the stress of the season.

There was something liberating about swimming in November, as if we were breaking a rule no one had thought to make. It was absurd, ridiculous even, and that’s what made it perfect.

The Warm Glow

Eventually, we climbed out, shivering and exhilarated, and wrapped ourselves in oversized towels. The air seemed even colder now, biting at wet hair and damp skin. But it didn’t matter. The warmth in my chest—the glow of shared laughter and the satisfaction of keeping the tradition alive—was enough to carry me through.

As we headed back inside for hot chocolate and dry clothes, I glanced over my shoulder at the pool, its surface calm once more. It felt like a proper goodbye, a farewell to the year’s last swim, made all the sweeter by its unexpected timing.

And I knew, no matter what, I’d be back at the edge next year, ready to take the plunge once again.

Remember to watch your step when wading the November waters are cold!

Happy Thanksgiving

Not a Time for Panic

 In the end all will be good, time will change everything!

Quote of the day:

"A lie will travel half way around the globe while the truth is still putting its shoes on."

attributed to Jonathon Swift 1667-1754

Looking Backwards to See Forward

 Remember back to a simpler time, gas under a dollar, loaf of bread 29 cents, bus fare a nickel and milk 65 cents a gallon. Wow you have some memory. The world is changing and one can argue for better or worse. Accepting the new and adapting to change is how the first caveman (or woman) survived. People come and go, demigods rise and fall, trends fall in and quickly fall out. Only thing that's guaranteed is things will change. How can one survive or at least not be affected by changes? One get off your collective asses and voice an opinion, secondly don't buy into those looking to permanently alter what is good and true. (By whose definition ?) Is it an objective, subjective,  rationalization analysis or an emotional charged reaction. Are you part of the solution or part of the problem?

Art recently gave me his list of what was important to him and another list of major problems he has seen recently over the last decade. It's his list, your list should be different, but you should have a list. take that list and take a good long look at it. Is it based on fear, beliefs and emotional reactions. Or is it a list based on an ethical analysis of facts and social norms? Remember that beliefs and ethics are two different things. If you don't think they are, then maybe an examination of what those are is needed. Not to be judgmental.

Recommended reading:

A Sand county Almanac

Deep Future

Desert Solitare 

Last Child in the Woods

Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for a Delicious Life

The River Why

IT'S GOING TO BE A LONG WINTER!

Good News!

Climate crisis over by proclamation. Inmates to run asylum and all's good. Billionaires know best.

So think about what's important as we enter or return to a new era. Cheap gas, no constraints on power, saving money on taxes and throwing up our hands in full surrender. 

Those who don't study history tend to repeat it. Sure mistakes were made, but how many times do we need to repeat those mistakes. What will happen over the next 2years will take 20 years to reverse and may never restore what would have been. Feeling nostalgic, take some pictures of those fish and have them mounted for your grandchildren's children to see. They won't ever see a trout sip a bug off the top or watch a mayfly spinner fall. Our denial of the obvious has doomed them and us. 

Anger Never Makes the Best Sauce or How and Why things happen?

 Old Sicilian saying or at least attributed to: " revenge is best served cold". Funny saying, but not true, in MHO. Lashing out at people or things that we have no control over, blaming others for our own mistakes, misjudgments and biases is really counter productive. 

Fact we all think we are the most knowledgeable, skillful and extremely correct in every thing around us. Fact is most of us haven't spent the time on any particular item, issue or discipline to even have a tiny insight. We are incredibly lazy in this regard. Complacent is a good word for it. 

For example we are just coming out of a period of inflation and increased interest rates. Notice I didn't use the word or words like high or higher, I have lived through much higher and more troubling times. Experience and studying the past tells me this is a reaction when the good times aren't so great. Oops, didn't mean that better to say fabulous became ordinary. Years ago as I left college and got out into the work force, I made almost nothing. To me home ownership was a dream out of reach, interest rates weren't  7% they were 18% and inflation was at historic highs. Our appointed president took to wearing a button that had WIN on it whip inflation now. His press secretary turned it upside down to read NIM no immediate miracles. Ford was blown out of office by another man who couldn't quite solve the problem and was also blown out of office. Morale is everything changes, make no promises you can't keep. Things out of your control, aren't yours to change. 

So what can we all control, our habits and judgements. Our beliefs and our ethics (not the same). Read A Sand County Almanac for some helpful ideas and quotes. Do random acts of kindness, pick up the stray piece of litter, hold a door open for someone, smile more, complain less, greet strangers with a hello. 

 

Renewed Energy to Fight for Clean Air and Water

 If you believe in these values, you gotta have a game plan. Sucking in the political cocaine only goes so far. Climate Change will be abolished soon. Does that mean it will go away, with a campaign slogan like drill baby drill. Seduction by slogans will not change the course of events. So yesterday was just another day, planning for a better tomorrow should have already started. Now do your part and get off your asses!