SCOF 50 Winter 2024

introducing...

the SCOFCAST

M ORE FIGHT,MORE TOUCH

SALT

Load shifted closer to the hand prioritizes feel and recovery. 25% greater strength for increased pulling power.

MARSHITECTURE

by Steve Dally

8 marshitecture

a photo essay by steve dally

28 a letter from mike

30 haiku by cola

34 winter fishing by scott stevenson

photos: hank

40 clay pots by hank

photo: chad hoffman

44 SCOFO LIBRE

by john agricola

photos: jonathan kelley

54 Jerry's Near-Mementi Mori by Gerardo Velazquez

transcribed by cola

60 Bluebird Skies in Ascension Bay by Flip McCririck

87 crisis in paradise by Martin Morthland

photos: Alan Broyhill

96 Sniping Reds: Full Circle or Thereabouts by Kirk Marks Jr.

The Emergence Convergence read all about our virtual cicada fly tournament

The Great Southern Brood

recipe by sandra agricola

s.c.o.f

Winter 2024 issue no. 50

SCOF FIVE-0

Managing editor

John Agricola

Editor at large

Michael Steinberg

Creative Director & Chief of Design

Hank

Ads & Marketing Director

Samuel L. Bailey

Merchandiser

Scott M. Stevenson

Media Director

Alan Broyhill

contributors:

Kirky Marks

Flip McCririck

Jonathan Kelley

Evan Lampert

Martin Morthland

Scott Stevenson

Sandra Agricola

David Grossman

Jordan Cissell

Managing editor emeritus: David Grossman

Creative Director emeritus: Steven Seinberg

copy editor emeritus: Lindsey Grossman

ombudsman: Shad Maclean

general inquiries and submissions: southerncultureonthefly@gmail.com

advertising information: sam@southerncultureonthefly.com

cover image:

Alan, Hank, Jonathan Kelley

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photo by hank

Ours is largely a solitary sport. Sure, we often fish on boats with other people, or stay at lodges where we share end of the day stories with newfound friends, but we alone hold the rod and set the hook (even if a guide is in our ear with pointed commands). The solitary nature of our sport is one of the appealing features of it. Fly fishing and the places it takes us often provide an escape where we can connect with the natural world, a place that we hope doesn’t include the stresses found in the “real” world. Some of my best angling memories are of solo trips hiking and fishing my way through Vermont’s Green Mountains. Climbing up plunge pool after plunge pool, dissecting the stream ahead of me, thinking about nothing more than where the next trout waited, and wondering if I was above the brown and rainbow trout “line” and finally into brook trout territory.

However, as I’ve gotten older, I have also realized that while I still enjoy my solo retreats, sharing our adventures with friends has become even more rewarding than a solo memory. Perhaps that shift is a function of having some angling success so there is less pressure to be a bow hog, or maybe my realization came through teaching a fly fishing class and seeing those former students go on to have their own adventures. Or perhaps it’s through social media. Sure, that community is remote and scattered, but I would argue it is a living community where we share our successes, failures, causes, and eventually make connections in the real world.

My shift from proverbial personal bow hog to community organizer is also due to my involvement with SCOF. My partners have introduced me to many within this community of whom I was completely unaware. For much of the past two decades I’ve been focused on the Caribbean, so I was and remain far less familiar with the angling community in the mainland South. It has been a real pleasure discovering the artists, guides, activists, and anglers in my home region through my connection with SCOF. Also, the very partners themselves have become an important part of my community, even though again, we are scattered and sometimes want to strangle one another. Certainly, our little team wants to produce a first-rate magazine, but we also take our role as community members and community creators equally serious. We want SCOF to provide a platform to share information, have fun, make connections, sell our stuff, and expand our growing fly fishing community in the South and beyond. Given the disparate nature of our sport, community can be elusive, but we are working hard to do our small part in our small corner of the angling world.

Cheers to issue 50! MKS

Haiku by Cola

Diabetes Eyes

I eat cuz I’m unhappy

Pissed I don’t see fish

I see dead people

Zombies rent free in my head

The ones conjured, fish

Apparition lies Cicadas persevere life Only to die– “gulp”

Know them by their buzz fish don’t hear any chorus Just the vibrations

PAGE 118

photo by hank

There’s just something about winter fishing. I know there’s nearly a 100% chance we will not see another person much less another angler. I love this. I love this feeling of isolation. I get it mostly when I fish somewhere remote. Maybe that’s why I love floating creeks, because we never see anyone floating creeks. Fishing on a cold blustery day feels like I’m stealing one back from Father Time and gaining one on the field. This day is cold but not too cold. It has warmed up just enough that a layer has been shed and we are warming up a shore lunch. Being the only boat on the river feels like fishing should cooperate and things should really work out. They usually do. But I’ve noticed I’m a lot more forgiving if they don’t. I am just glad to be on the water and not dreaming of spring. The mountain laurel will be blooming soon enough with the shoal lilies to follow. Pass the flask. The bite is sure to pick up.

-Scott Stevenson

photo by hank

photo by hank

Lately I’ve been devouring books by deep ecologists and throwing theories like clay pots. I have a shelf of them almost ready for the kiln, but I’m not sure any of them will survive firing. Theories about why people should kill deer, and why God made the mosquito. Theories about order and balance and why everything always runs away - "I mean you no harm!". Fishing is just another extension of my go-go gadget arms, a fun way to reach out into the world and try to grab something slippery. I think a lot about why I feel the need to reach and grab while I try to find ways to close the distance: sitting still, being quiet, learning ecology, stalking. Sure there’s a primal aspect, but just as surely there must be something of a higher order that drives me to stalk. I’m Moses on Mount Sinai begging God to show me His glory, and all I ever see are back parts: white tails bounding through the hornbeams, silver flashes spooking from my shadow on the river bottom. Why does everything with fur, fins, feathers and scales try so desperately to evade me, and why does it feel so good to ensnare them and arrest them as they flee? Read Chapter 11 of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard and maybe we can get on the same page.

-Hank

photo by Chad Hoffman

El quincuagésimo

Nacho Borracho

by John Agricola photos by Jonathan Kelley

I got out of the beater truck bed with Mexican plates dressed as Nacho Libre. I would not break character for the duration of the futbol game. The crowd of Punta Allen residents chanted “Nacho Borracho.” And the game’s commentator announced over his PA system that Nacho Borracho would be doing an exhibition kick in Spanish. It was incredible. They gave me a free shot on goalie like I was El Presidente, or at the least, Mayor of Punta Allen. My shirt read “I heart poon” and it perfectly matched my Nacho tights. My cigs were tucked into my rojo undies. The deal was I was allowed three dribbles and then had to shoot. The sand was squishy beneath my feet. I could barely see peripherally through my Nacho Libre mask’s eyeholes, but the melange of tequila and whiskey weren’t helping either. Who needs to see when you are taking a shot as a warm-up before the Punta Allen futbol championship dressed as Nacho “Borracho” Libre? It was always about the crowd anyway—just like permit fishing. I was all out of salty air allusions so I needed the gimmick of Lucha Libre mask in Mexico; just as the crowd needed a mascot.

I took two dribbles then booted it to the top right corner of the goal and it slapped the wall just outside. I am not wasted so much as festive. I am not fat so much as plump. My bright rojo cape was flowing in the wind on the way to watch the big game between Palometa Club staffers and the challengers. Because I only dribbled twice I had to try another shot. My second kick I thought I would

try for some redirection in the sand as a screaming crowd of five hundred onlookers hollered, “Nacho! Nacho! Nacho!” I drove with two dribbles then the third was touched with a bit too much cowbell requiring a sprint to kick on the fourth touch. I was still thinking, “cross him up,” but the goalie was now coming out of the box, and then I tried for a strong kick and totally whiffed. Then my momentum and inertia resulted in an absolute faceplant in front of the whole town. I am Nacho Libre for the duration of the contest.

When I dusted myself off, my dignity was left in the sands. My new friends, who were here with me to catch permit on a hosted trip to the famed Palometa Club, had been cheering me on and they sat in the bleachers just above the six-foot stucco wall that I now had to jump over to join my buds. I made a running start to jump this fence and luckily they were there to catch me just as they had been there to console me when the bastard permit failed to eat my raghead crabs. I have wanted to catch a permit for my whole fly fishing life. We were in their capital, or at the very least their hometown. I am 40 and just old or young enough to still catch a permit, but if I injured myself on the soccer field it could preclude a permit, too. I should mention that I planned this trip because my wife said I was too out of shape to survive Disney, so she and my son would go without me. I decided to go to Punta Allen that week. Six days permit fishing is equal to any Disney trip in more ways than one when you bring a mask to wear. It also just might be the anti-Disney. We watched from the stands as guides Charley and Jerry began to play the opposing team. I figured it would be

low scoring, but then a Palometa Club staffer headed in a goal from 70 feet out. And though it was a six-foot drop to the sand from the bleachers, I very gingerly dropped to my feet without rolling an ankle. Then I did a lap of the field as if I were flying and as if I were at a bull fight or something. This was a dangerous precedent for Nacho to set for himself, because it meant having to run onto the field with every score. The fans cheered, the children cooed for Nacho Libre. After about the fifth goal and touchdown celebration, I was again seated in the bleachers and this time I cried, “No mas!”

As a matter of trying for redemption, I ran on at halftime when the fans began to chant. I ran and dribbled the ball to empty goals and barely missed on both ends. As the ball slammed another corner, I ran again to the other goal and took another shot. Then hurdled the white wall. I was border jumping and the crowd was ignited for Nacho. My buddies handed me a beer with a Tajín shaker of salt for my beer’s rim. I was gasping for air, hurting from both my lethargy and COPD. Beer salt was the last thing I needed. This is to say nothing of Nacho’s acid reflux. The kids were encircling us and I surely

did not want to hurl onto the game’s sand. It would have been unforgivable for a gringo to puke into the sand of the championship. I hurried like a honey badger to the parking lot and retched with several Ralph sounding hurls. I discovered the next day that I was right next to the Policia station. No chunks on my wrestler

mask, so I was back in the game. The final score was 13 white wall hurdles to four kicks on goal by Nacho. I wore the mask the rest of the evening feeling as though I had really accomplished something. After the Palometa staffers won, I ran into the center of the fray and did the robot as my buddy’s Turtlebox projected “Stayin’ Alive.” “Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I am a woman’s man– no time to talk.”

I had been gifted four shots at permit in three days, but it was the four shots on goal in Punta Allen that saved my trip. The adulation Nacho received was worth all the journey to get here, and it no longer mattered whether I caught a permit. Punta Allen wanted Nacho. The internet may not get Cola with a permit,

but they did get Nacho doing the robot after the game, and I made them happy for a time. Now my friends, my karma was finally ready to stick a permit. I might even take a hero shot.

* I learned days later that Nacho “Borracho” means Nacho “drunk guy” in English.

Gerry’s Offshore Misadventure and Near Mementi Mori

By Gerardo Velazquez

Transcribed by John Agricola

I was fortunate to be around Gerry Velasquez at the Palometa Club this winter. Not only did he ask me to take a shot on goal, he also showed us his mother’s church in Punta Allen. The fishing was challenging because of stormy weather. Gerry agreed to speak with us about his time at the Club and how he revolutionized fishing for permit in Ascension Bay by cultivating guides and training them in the two guide per panga system. What unfolded was a conversation that beguiled the imagination. Luckily, he took photos of the sharks that swam below him when his vessel sank five miles offshore from the nearest island, and he believed he would never see his family again. This is an excerpt of that interview transcribed. This is Gerry’s most difficult memory to process, so we will let his words stand as they were delivered, rather than synthesizing an essay. Here is this part of the interview.

[...]

JA: My next question is the story of you and a shark that you alluded to the other night? [this allusion was made after guide Charley described being bitten on the head by a crocodile]

GV: Me and a shark [smiles while looking down], well… That’s a hard one. I don’t feel very proud about that one. I was a part of a group of people who were on a research team to find out where the groupers spawn. They were maybe down in 120 ft of water. We knew they were going to spawn during a full moon, and we had a little bad information about

what moon they would do it, but we were told they only do it between February and March, and we find out it’s actually November, December, down to January, February and March. We found the spot and every full moon we are going to the spot with cameras and video cameras and taking notes, and diving. I was in charge of the boat. I was captain. So that day, it was the last full moon of the year. It was March and that day the ocean was really rough. To be honest with you our first mistake was choosing to go out on this day; we shouldn’t go out on this day. [emphatically] It was bad conditions. It was four of us. Big Julio [points to Julio’s picture behind him], one of our guides, Tomas, myself, so three locals, one American guy, he was married to a Dominican girl, and one Spanish man. He was an excellent diver and photographer. So we went there, and on the way in, the American guy got seasick.

So when we got to the place he was totally seasick, and he said, “I am not going to go. I am going to stay. I am feeling bad.” We started getting big waves. And this was Big Julio’s fault. It wasn’t mine. For some reason Julio was using a screwdriver to start the engine, he didn’t have the key. The engine kind of died in that moment and turn off. I said, “Julio where is the key?” Julio said, “That screw driver, that is the key.” I use it so it work, and so I sent them down in the water. They’re supposed to be twenty minutes down there and they come up. [pauses]

Five minutes later, I mean I was watching the bubbles, so five minutes later I see more bubbles, and more bubbles. I sensed something was wrong because no one was coming up. So then this lady,

the Dominican girl, she felt seasick too. She say, “Under the ocean at the bottom the water is moving too much. I felt sick. I want to get back on the boat.” I said, “ok.” So I pull the boat next to her and she had the curly hair, the messy curly hair, and she was trying to take the jacket off, but her hair got tangled in the jacket, so then I approached her trying to get the hair off the jacket, and then the engine died again in that moment. So then one wave came and slapped the boat sideways. Half of that wave came into the boat. So it was a matter of seconds, probably five seconds later another wave came and I went looking for the screw driver and the screwdriver was gone. SO the next thing I’m seeing we are sinking,

water is at my knees and I tell the guy: “hey, wakeup. You got to put your jacket on.” Ten seconds later we are floating in the middle of the ocean, like four or five miles from the coastline. Big waves and I still have three divers down.

In my mind many things were happening in that moment, like what is going to happen to me? First we are going to split; three of us here, and the other three would eventually come up and we would be gone. I knew this after everything happened but they saw the boat, and when they found out the lady quit the diving they started coming up. And they saw the boat going down. I mean they were there and they saw the boat going

down, and they were like, “f[expletive] something is not right.” A few seconds later the six of us were all together making a plan. This guy, the American guy, he was worse. Me and the guy from Spain started collecting everything we could. Gas tanks, a cooler, food, drink, whatever we could. We had a piece of rope so we put it together. So we put the man in the tub, and we tried to explain what happened, but we made a plan. We said, “It is 11 in the morning. We need to start swimming back. So we started swimming back to the island. And I had no fins, no mask, nothing. The only thing that saved my life was I had a suitcase of tungsten, and I grabbed my rod tube and made a float. To keep the rhythm with those guys, they all had dive suits, I was pumping my feet very fast. So then Julio and I were leading the group, and these guys were a little behind the group. One hour later Julio said, “you know Gerry? I dont think you should move your feet that fast.” I said, “why”?

“Well, for like thirty minutes there have been about thirteen sharks and they are circling below you and around you underneath and they are watching you.”

In the first moment I said, “thirteen [shaking his head negative] I mean bullshit.”

He said, “no, it is true. I did not want to tell you, but it is true.”

He took his diving mask off and throw it to me. So I put it on. But I couldn’t watch behind me because I was holding the suitcase in front of me. [shruggs] I saw nothing. I said, “bullshit. There is nothing there.” [throws the goggles back gesturally]

He said, “they are gone maybe.”

So then we keep swimming, swimming, and swimming. Two hours later he says, “The sharks are back.” He says, “you should stop moving your feet so fast.”

I didn’t want to take the mask in that moment so I said, “that’s ok.” But in my mind I was like: “I dont want to die like that.”

I think in one moment I accepted that I was going to die.

But I didn’t want to be eaten by a shark. And the reason why is because I had a wife and a family and I wanted them to find my body. But if I am eaten then they will not know what happened to me. There would be no trace. They would wonder what happened to me.

I kept swimming. I just try and forget about the shark.

Our plan was to try and reach the reef, and to spend the night on the reef. Because people were going to find out we were missing and we’d then get back. About 3 pm, I saw a big wave that lifted us up and I saw a merchant fishing boat like a mile from us. I said, “Julio, there is a fishing boat right there [points]. You’ve got to reach them. I am so tired. My legs were cramping. Julio gave me his jacket and start swimming, swimming, and swimming. He said he would be back. In one moment I was by myself, and Julio was going for that boat. and the rest of us were spread out by 100 yards. Then I saw that boat turning [points]. And I saw them picking up Julio. That’s how they saved our lives.

The Premier Fly Shop in Blue Ridge, GA

Bluebird Skies over

BY FLIP McCRIRICK

over Ascension Bay McCRIRICK

48 49

THE SCOFCAST

EPISODE 20 NOW AVAILABLE

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Crisis in Paradise

by Martin Morthland photos by Alan Broyhill

Time certainly passed, yet didn’t. As I watched, three mammoth trout lazily appeared out of the shadows and drifted down the run in front of me, only to cycle back into their respective pools.

I was convinced that at this point I had become delirious, was in fact hallucinating, and started humming ‘Spill The Wine’ by War. With a maniacal grin that would have made Kubric proud, I took a couple of low, creeping backsteps back into shadow. Any friend who has fished with me will tell you. I live and die by the saying, “You don’t leave fish to find fish.” In other words, there was no way in hell I was going anywhere, save a spontaneous forest fire...probably. Remember the video of that short-haired Pointer in LL Bean? I was absolutely locked-in. So, thinking of Kelly Galloup, I began the hunt. The clarity of the water meant that presentation had to be light and exact. I started drifting naturals, two at a time, right on the seam of the pools and the run. After the adrenaline had mostly worn-off, and still no take, I thought of Joe Humphreys. I remembered that the difference between a good day and great day is often one split-shot. Of course, depth is key. I adjusted, got a better drift, and watched as this behemoth of a trout continued it’s staging, cycle back down the seam, returning to its staging spot. Hell, it looked like it was happily eating. At this point in the hunt, I was actually truly happy. This is what I love, figuring-out the puzzle. I know I can catch. I know I know how to fly fish. My head is absolutely stuffed

with nuanced information involving this species and how it behaves. Granted, the barometric pressure had dropped last night (that’s what it’s like in my head), but I was confident that as long as my fly didn’t offend it, that my presentation was on-point, I was going to be metaphorically accepted into Valhalla any second now. After easily four hours of methodically going through my fly box, adjusting weight, adjusting color, adjusting subclass of insect-imitation, I realized that I should have paid more attention to how I learned of this spot. I knew it at the time, but the information about huge trout clouded my ability to appreciate it at the time. The fact that that guy told me about this, meant that he must have hammered-away at trying to catch them yesterday. No one speaks so cavalierly about where huge trout are unless they themselves have been beaten-down to the point that they know for a fact, no one can catch them! These fish were simply ‘put-down.’ Anyone who considers themselves educated in the way of trout knows that there are certain conditions where you simply...move-on. Rationally, I knew this. These fish were in fact not eating, or at least nothing over the size of a 24 fly (no, I don’t tie that small). They had been recently pressured. This was in fact the one condition where you leave fish to find fish. And yet...the trout of a lifetime... was...right...THERE!

For a few hours, I had what would be considered an acute mental health crisis, albeit in paradise. For hours, I hunted those huge trout. I caught several 12 inch variety trout. I even caught the ‘grand slam’ for that area. Each time I hooked-up, I quickly moved them down stream and away from my quarry. There

were several times where I turned the monster’s attention with my flies, only to have it turn and flash away at the last second. These episodes only added to my furthering break with reality. I realized that the issue may be tippet size. I was not thinking straight at this point. I put on 6x with a dry-dropper tandem from my euro set-up. I rationalized that I could quickly work anything I caught into submission without tiring it to the point of exhaustion. Again, I wasn’t well at this point. I took a few test casts well down stream in order to figure out just how obscene my cast would need to be for things to land orderly. Let’s just say the Jensens would not hit ‘Like and Subscribe’ had they seen my cast. Nonetheless, I assume just from the sheer absurdity of what I rigged-up, and Zeus’ sense of humor, I eventually saw the white of the beast’s mouth as it tookin the size 20 hare’s ear dropper. I was truly synched with the universe. All things coalesced on a quantum level as I hookset down stream. All hell then immediately broke-loose. There were roughly eight seconds of screaming reel, palming drag, quick reposition of rod-tip direction, and... silence. Luckily the 6X broke at the knot. I knew better. I had been found wanting by Walton’s ghost for trying such nonsense.

My acute mental health crisis reached it’s peak at that point. I was definitely ‘in my feels’ as the kids say today...probably...anyway, it had been an emotional rollercoaster. Had you walked by that spot in the woods, at that particular time, you would have heard primitive guttural sounds coming from bushes, with the occasional clearly enunciated, fervently shouted, suggestions of what the universe could go do to itself. It was roughly at this point that Mephistopheles

and his hound from hell came crunching through the rhododendrons. He asked in a bemused tone if I had been there all day, that he and Maggie had just completed a day-hike. I told him in my most eloquent way...”Yeah.” He seemed to have pick-up on my general demeanor and looked more somber saying, “Yeah, I’ve been there before.” I said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I wish you hadn’t told me they were here.” I mean seriously, he should have known the dangers of speaking so casually to another fly fisherman about huge trout, plural, being right down there! I’m pretty sure I communicated that what I needed was to be left alone at that point. He and Maggie graciously left me to the ‘acceptance’ phase of my mental health episode and returned through the brush. I spent a few moments on breathwork and reminded myself that the fish get to win sometimes too...and that’s just and right in the universe. I took a few pictures of their shadowy shapes, and even without references for perspective, you can clearly see just how damn big they were! At this point the light was fading. I had maybe 15 minutes of daylight left. And yet...I couldn’t walk away. They were right there, the trout of a lifetime! How could I? I could easily never see this again. I’ve only seen them on videos of fly fishing New Zealand or Patagonia. Now, just to make sure you know I’m not completely delusional, I know these were stocked. Again, I’m at that stage of fly fishing...How the unicorns got there, I DON’T CARE! So, back to my dilemma. The sun’s going down big guy. What to do? I decide that continuing to fish had to happen in order for me to leave this spot. I remember that it always seems to surprise me how attractive another piece

of stream becomes once I’m there. And so I fish.

I continue downstream, pocketcasting and feeling better about myself. I have my euro-rig back in place, I have a fairly weighty stonefly on that I tied for just this trip, and my drifts are tight. I see a tasty looking run, perfect for nymphing up ahead...and look at that, I’m at least a 100 yards down from that circle of hell I just escaped. I position myself a quarter down from the head of this particular run and cast just like it’s any other day and I didn’t just have a breakdown. And, surprise, like a walking into a spider’s web with your face...Immediate snap of the sighter material, taught, with the rod getting doubled-over before I could comprehend what sick twist the universe was throwing me now! Almost from a detached mental space, like watching myself from a branch above, it occurred to me that I had hooked into one of Zeus’ own after all, and with 4X tippet! Like, this was f-ing happening! Now! What came to mind was a memory of when I lost a large fish years ago because I was so juiced-up, trying to get it on the reel, etc. So now, I played it. I knew the tippet would hold (that black-labeled Courtland stuff is legit!) and I just focused on staying down-stream of it as it gave me its best impression of an aquatic version of Bodacious. I stayed on for way past eight seconds, and eventually got its head up, surf it briefly downstream to where I could stab-plunge my net under its head. The second third of its body hung out of my net. I quickly draped my forearm over the net to keep it in, peeled line off my reel with my teeth to give slack, and slogged to the shore looking like an absolute homeless maniac who had won the lottery. Fish...

of...a...LIFETIME! I set my phone on a rock and began a video. I would love to have said that I had the emotional fortitude to not care about evidence, that I kept the trout submerged and didn’t mug with it like Hemmingway and his marlin. I would have loved to have said this. Truth is though, unless you’re sponsored to travel to places like New Zealand, or simply just live in those places already, these are typically once-in-a-lifetime moments. Oh, and by the way, public land moments. So yeah, holding that hen took two arms to cradle it and it was just short of 30 inches. When I released her, she gave one strong kick back into the depths of green and black, and I felt like I released something mythical back into nature. Time snapped back into place. I fell back onto a rock and just stared at that spot in the river. Now, I could go home. I felt like the universe just released me [an overfed, long-haired, leaping gnome] back into my own stream.

Sniping Reds: Full Circle or Thereabouts

Kirk Marks Jr

“He has to see it, right?” I wondered aloud while giving a short, sudden strip.

“If not yet, any second now,” I was reassured.

“Yup, he’s turning, he’s right behind it!”

There I stood, legs shaking, caught in the suspense of an outcome now beyond my control. This was the exact moment I’d daydreamed about. Yet, there I found myself, smack dab in the middle of it, and craving nothing but closure.

“What a difference 39 degrees and two-and-a-half hours can make,” I thought as the humid Orlando air hit my lungs for the first time. No need for defrosting windows or donning gloves down here, but I knew those cold weather rituals would be patiently awaiting upon my return home. Now, I might be playing up the theatrics a bit. The truth is I don’t mind the cold all that much, and let’s face it: genuine cold is becoming a rarity in my home state of Maryland. It isn’t abnormal to see several 70-degree days each winter, but today is certainly not one of them. The contrast is striking and it remains a welcomed treat—the ability to bask in December warmth without a twinge of guilt that the balmy relief is only on account of humans and our rapacity.

Sun-soaked days have their charm, but they weren't the only thing luring me to Florida. We have two additional culprits to thank for that: Wilson’s snipe and red drum. Some may argue these critters are totally unrelated. Perhaps a biologist, geneticist, or someone who hasn’t frequented the marsh would agree? That said, I’ve found that nature often transcends the confines of mitochondria and Punnett squares. This trip is about connecting the dots between air and water—a feat, if you ask me, that’s

best achieved with a shotgun and a fly rod.

“There she is,” Pat, my good friend and host for the next few days, said as we pulled up to his recently purchased New Smyrna rancher. It’s a cute, Southern home with light blue siding and a red door, a 16-foot Carolina skiff (“Skinny Dippin’”) perched in the drive, and a live oak draped in Spanish moss, with arms spread wide. The last time I visited Pat, he was renting an apartment, and I was pulling couch duty. Now he's got himself a house and a fiancée. I've even scored my own digs in the guest room. It appears we’re both moving up in the world. A quick tour and we’re off, this time with scatterguns and that scandalous Carolina in tow.

After snagging the necessary provisions—fuel, ice, and gas station pizza—we dipped the boat at a local ramp and headed downriver. With the skiff ashore, we began walking through flooded agricultural land, guns loaded, eyes hypnotically fixed on the horizon, waiting for a snipe to flush. It’s an idyllic scene of lush grasses, chattering sandhill cranes, and swaying palm trees. Cattle graze in the distance. Pat calls it “Old Florida”; I call it picturesque.

Over the years, I’ve chased my fair share of game birds. But when it comes to snipe, I’m a certified newb. Pat does his best to articulate their appearance, flight pattern, and song, but it's a nuanced display that requires witnessing it a few times before feeling confident enough to pull the trigger.

“Is that one?” I muttered while shouldering the Stoeger Pat lent me to avoid the headache of flying with a firearm. “Nope, that’s a meadowlark,” Pat urgently replied, “similar look, but definitely not a snipe.”

Just as I started to entertain the thought that maybe there's some truth to that old saying about snipe hunting, one burst out from right between us.

“There you go. See that long beak and how erratic it’s flying?”

“Oh yeah, looks like a zigzagging woodcock,” I responded.

Lost in the details of the show, I never fired a shot. But I was better off for it; I still needed to establish a rapport with my prey and shake off any uncertainties.

“He landed a couple hundred yards ahead of us. Hopefully we’ll get another shot,” Pat yelled confidently.

Sure enough, we got that second shot, but still questioning my target, I never clicked off the safety. Several more birds whizzed by scot-free, but by the fourth or fifth flush, my indecision gave way to assurance, and steel began to fly.

Snipe are funny. On the ground, they're practically invisible; it's only when they take flight that wing-shooters like us get a crack at them. Evolutionarily, it's a smart move. More often than not, approaching footsteps signal danger, and the best way to dodge terrestrial threats is to take to the air. No fox, weasel, or raccoon will cover 20 yards of airspace. But throw a bunch of 12-gauge-toting gunners into the mix, and suddenly, that aerial escape plan becomes a bit counterproductive. If snipe stopped flying tomorrow, I’d bet sportsmen would come up empty-handed, but four-legged hunters probably wouldn’t complain.

Luckily for us, snipe haven’t hung up their wings yet. In no time, shells in the chamber were exchanged for birds in the vest. Pat and I traded shots, and when the smoke settled, we tallied eight snipe between us. With shadows growing long and feeling pleased with our haul, we

made for the ramp.

“You mind backing the trailer down?” Pat inquired as we approached.

“No problemo,” I replied. I always appreciate when a buddy seeks assistance with the operation of their boat or trailering vehicle. It communicates a level of trust in your abilities and shows they’re not a total control freak, which is always nice.

Boat pulled and tailgate dropped, we began cleaning our birds. Breasts in one bag, feathers in another. We weren’t only gathering the protein for a backwoods hors d'oeuvre; we were also collecting the materials for tonight’s arts and crafts project.

Snipe are alluring to us, no doubt; but could we convince a redfish it’s worthy of pursuit? Better yet, could we make snipe feathers on a hook look as appetizing to a fish as meat sizzling on a grill looks to us? I suppose that largely depends on our dexterity behind the vise and who’s appointed grill master. Either way, our goal was to tie a fly using nothing but snipe feathers, crafting a dinner invitation that even Sciaenops ocellatus couldn’t refuse.

“Yessir, I’ll take another,” I answered as Pat opened the beer fridge on his screened-in porch. What a beautiful concept: one fridge indoors for the usual stuff and another out here, curated for the degenerates of the world. We had been uncharacteristically responsible up until now; I’d say we practically earned a few.

Cans cracked, Pat pinched a hook into his Renzetti and walked me through his New Smyrna snipe special. He anchored two striped wing feathers to the shank, then began Palmer-wrapping a tail feather towards the eye of the hook. A few wraps in and it was already taking shape.

“It’s kind of crabby, kind of shrimpy; either way, I think a redfish will crush it,” Pat predicted.

I was sold, but then again, I wasn’t the arbiter in this situation. We’d have to wait until morning to receive the final verdict.

This marked my third visit to see Pat since his southern migration. While I still call the Old Line State home, Pat has taken a liking to the Sunshine State, and who could blame him? Although he and I didn’t fish together as kids, we grew up in the same town and fished in similar circles, always about a dude or two removed. As it turns out, our angling journeys followed a parallel evolution. On the Chesapeake Bay, at least in those years, trolling for striped bass, or the colloquially dubbed “rockfish,” was king. Unsurprisingly, that’s where we both cut our teeth, but it didn’t take long for us to trade (dare I say upgrade) those cumbersome trolling outfits for lighttackle spinning rods. This shift ushered in a new, more engaging version of fishing that allotted us more control over the outcome. The next adaptation was inevitable.

As the hues of pre-dawn intensified, we loaded a day’s worth of fly fishing paraphernalia into a canoe and began paddling toward a familiar slough. En route, Pat shared stories of 50-fish-schools tailing without a care in the world in this very spot a few weeks prior. “Happy fish,” he called them. Just seeing one would’ve made me happy, let alone 50.

“You see those ripples about a hundred yards ahead of us?” Pat asked.

“Is that what I think it is?” I replied. “Yeah man, pretty sure that’s a school of reds.”

We closed the gap, and it became obvious. It wasn’t just a school of reds; it was a school of happy reds, wagging like dogs with their noses in the sand. All in all, we’d guessed it was about a dozen fish. While Pat eased our momentum, I stood up, grabbed my 7-weight, and stripped out a pile of line. For all intents and purposes, his paddle had transformed into a push poll, nudging us forward with a gentle,

calculated approach. One more push, and we’d get to ask that burning question.

Now within range, I reassessed the situation. Going straight for the center seemed a bit dicey. It could work, sure, but it could also send the entire school darting away. Instead, I opted for a more conservative delivery, aiming for the periphery, with the hopes of peeling a fish from the sideline. Another false cast and I’d have the distance. I pulled back and let it fly:

A. Short

B. Sloppy

C. Shitty

D. All of the above

Let's be candid here. If "all of the above" is on the table during multiple choice, it's usually the correct response. No point in sugarcoating it—my cast was short, sloppy, and well, akin to crapola. Even worse, it wasn’t so off the mark that the school was unaware of my attempt. It was somehow just close enough to put them on edge while still remaining outside the pocket. Go figure. For the first time, their movement had a defined trajectory, left to right, quartering away. It felt like I was in a deer stand at full draw, watching a Booner saunter off.

“Aim small, miss small,” I thought. I’d have one chance to recast before they’d be out of range; it had to count. My loop unfolded, this time just as intended. The fly hit the surface, dead nuts, three feet in front of them. A wake pushed forward, out of aggression, not aggravation, at least I’d hoped. A single strip, a single strip-set, and just like that, life occupied both ends of the line.

“Let’s go! He dumpstered that thing!” Pat exclaimed.

Unfamiliar with the term, but in that moment, I knew that’s exactly what my fish had done. He’d absolutely dumpstered it. No explanation needed.

A couple spirited runs and the bronzeback was boatside, scales reflecting in the sun. He wasn’t the biggest drum in the pack, but he had style. Everything an angler could ask for was there: the bluerimmed tail, the notorious black spot, and most of all, the feathery lip piercing.

“Right off the bat!” I proclaimed, popping the hook free.

“Full circle… or thereabouts,” Pat answered with a satisfied grin.

I lowered the fish back into the water and watched him kick off, annoyed I’m sure, but free nonetheless. Roughly 16 hours ago, those feathers propelled a snipe through the air. Just a minute ago, they coaxed a redfish into striking. Even out of context, within an entirely different medium, nature’s patterns resound.

We spent the remainder of the day and the subsequent one shimmying back and forth from bow to stern, trading casts to meandering fish, some of which were more incredulous than others. We made the same offer, indiscriminately, time and time again, and the results were staggering. At one point, Pat and I doubled up with two upper-20-inch reds. Small craft gymnastics ensued, but in the end, both fish were landed and safely released. It felt like we were living the good ol’ days in the here and now.

Angling is complicated, but it’s mostly thanks to the angler. As with any trip, a multitude of factors—ripe for contemplation—swirled before us. Even shedding one felt like a welcomed respite. There was still plenty to mull over, but fly pattern? Well, no need to waiver there— our allegiance was with the snipe.

THE EMERGENCE CONVERGENCE

May 10th, 2024 - June 21st, 2024

A 221 year Brood Convergence, and The Way SCOF Builds "Everything that Matters"

After 2024, Brood XIII and Brood XIX cicadas won’t emerge together again for another 221 years.

Well y'all, we have decided to do something together. Consider this your call to action. It isn’t traditional activism. Rather we hope that you can be engaged this Spring and early Summer by a virtual tournament we call– the Emergence Convergence– where your participation is both reflected and transmitted by social media. We at SCOF feel a decentralized approach to dual emergence of cicada broods will bind more of us together as a familia. I am not your pater familius, so don’t ask me for sh!* The diversity of events welcomes most, dare I say, all comers. SCOF views “everything” in our mantra (“Everything that matters”) to be the ligatures that bind us as a species of angler. But we are not some collectivist State (though much of our angling gear hails from China, but I digress). We are a community bound under the mayfly emblem for every year but this one. This is the year of the cicada, because this event won’t happen again for 221 years. In Atlanta, we spoke to an entomologist about life cycles and emergence and the magic of the season; we served fried cicadas (but since they

were really gizzards, this merely signaled our culinary intent with the shrimpy-nutty flavored bug). We thought about a virtual tourney with a series of categories as diverse as our following of anglers. Finally, we sold cicada stickers and koozies with our circadian rhythm tourney emblem. Because the community that doesn’t use koozies is too basic for us in the winter. Accuse us of being too much bass and not enough treble and we won’t disagree. It is like blues guitarist Bo Diddley might have punned, “Before you akooz me, take a look at yourself.”

We want y’all to be as creative as you can be with the buzz around The Emergence Convergence. Some guidance though on how to participate in the virtual tournament is available on the opposite page.

Where: everywhere

When: Sun-up May 10 ‘til High Noon June 21

How:

registration opens feb 26 link in issue

1. Sign up online 4 free

2. use a cicada fly

3. catch a fish

4.send a pic to us

5. post the pic with #emergenceconvergence

6. repeat steps 2-5

7. Win Prizes

ways 2win: catch the biggest fish* carp, cats, brim, bass

*

RULES:

write a cicada song make cicada art eat cicadas tie a cool cicada fLY just do your best

1. gotta be signed up

2. gotta email us the post

3. gotta use the hashtag

The hysterics of cicada fishing will have you speaking in tongues when you trout set those gulping carp lips with a cicada popper. Or strip set (I have not had enough experience with this naturally occurring phenomena to be an expert by any stretch of the imagination). I’ll have to play with it, and I’ll do so with the frivolity of a child. The buzz of cicadas remind us of classic films where the cinematic aesthetic is atmospherically noisy with natural humming insects as in Fried Green Tomatoes and To Kill a Mockingbird. We hope you will squeal with delight over the possibilities for your own expression as an angler. There really is something for everyone, but participation is key. Let us know you care about “everything that matters” by taking part in these scaffolded moments throughout the spring, and we will reflect your efforts back to you on social media. Win some really cool gear and merchandise by carving a balsa wood popper cicada, or cooking a cicada cupcake for public consumption. In the South, God and science rarely speak to one another. Ask the ghost of Clarence Darrow, or the ghost of William Jennings Bryan, and some surly evolution monkey sticker will be flipping you off in a rear window of a Jetta in the middle of the church parking lot. The varying scopes of this Carpalooza will help us all see nature and God’s might as it is understood by scientists. When you hear these broods buzzing, we hope you will revere a Creator while still prizing the scientific knowledge that underpins this miraculous natural occurrence of alien orange creatures. We at SCOF cannot wait to meet our

congregation of scientific-irreverent anglers who love humor as much as the poetic motion of fly fishing with flies that replicate nature. See ya in church. Or temple, or wherever you worship at the altar of community. The Assembly of Fishermen, united by love of cicadas, can be a transformative event, and it is a natural one. How will you engage it? How will this artificial binary crack like the balsa wood slapping docks in the spring and summer? We look forward to seeing you all out in the wilderness.

more than

$10,000 in prizes

The Great Southern Brood

Dr. Evan Lampert, Entomologist, University of North Georgia

They’ve waited. They’re coming. The fish are ready. Are you?

Periodical cicada emergences, with billions of bugs singing and mating over a few weeks every year, are Eastern North America’s premiere insect spectacle. In 2021, Blairsville, Georgia, police had to ask residents to stop calling in noise complaints. Also in 2021, swarms of cicadas near Washington, DC, grounded a presidential press plane. These outstanding insects remain underground for either 13 or 17 years before surfacing en masse in spring to sing, mate, and die, all within a matter of weeks. Periodical cicadas are an unforgettable sight, with their black bodies, orange wing margins, and striking red eyes.

Periodical cicadas get their name due to periodicity, in which preposterous numbers emerge simultaneously in specific years. Some studies have estimated over a million cicadas per acre. Periodicity is thought to be an evolutionary strategy to “mismatch” predator and cicada life cycles in a changing, challenging environment. All the periodical cicadas that emerge in a given year are referred to as a “brood”. Adult cicadas surface en masse in spring, sing, mate, lay eggs, and die. Eggs are inserted into plant stems and hatch in late summer. The hatchlings, called nymphs, dig into the soil and settle down for a slow, lengthy – 13 or 17 years – childhood of sucking

sap from tree roots.

The “Great Southern Brood”, Brood XIX, is predicted to emerge in midApril through mid-June in 15 US states. Brood XIX cicadas will emerge all over the Southeast; Brood XIX is the largest, by geographical area, of the 15 existing periodical cicada broods. The vast range

of Brood XIX spans from southern Georgia to Virginia in the East to northern Louisiana and southern Illinois in the Midwest.

Periodical cicadas have evolved into three groups, called “decim”, “decula”, and “cassini”. Amazingly, both 13-year and 17-year life cycles have evolved in separate species in each of the three

groups. A single brood will have a mixture of species from all three groups. Brood XIX has a 13-year life cycle and last emerged in 2011.

Like in many insects, adults exist mostly to mate and disperse. Adults also play an important ecological role as a major link at the bottom of food

webs, connecting the energy absorbed by trees to a variety of other animals. Predators, parasites, and scavengers at the site of a periodical cicada emergence enjoy a bottomless (if temporary) cicada feast.

Periodical cicadas do not live long and when they expire their remains litter the environment. When cicadas end up in water bodies, fish exploit these plentiful food items. Bluegill, bass, trout, and even carp rise to the surface to pick off these large, conspicuous, and plentiful bugs. Cicada emergences can be thought of as nature’s fish food delivery service, dumping food onto the surface of the water.

It is well-known that large insect emergences, think caddisflies and mayflies, are ideal for anglers. Opportunistic feeding frenzies by fish means the best fishing for opportunistic fly fishers. Previous periodical cicada emergences have led to excellent fishing. Cicada patterns with wings, black abdomens, and orange stripes have been proven successful and tying

species distribution model showing the most likely places the Great Southern Brood will be found. Anywhere RED is where you should probably be fishing in May/June.

guides can be found be found all over the internet.

With the Great Southern Brood emerging soon in a location near you, 2024 should be an outstanding year to fish with cicadas. In 2011, cicadas were first reported April 19 near Columbus, GA. The emergence should start the same time, if not earlier in 2024, and last through the first week of June. In general, cicadas should emerge earlier in the southern edge of their range compared to the northern end.

All Southeasterners, anglers or not, should check out this once-in-a-decade wonder in 2024. If you fish Brood XIX cicadas in 2024, you are invited to email Evan with locations and photos.

evan.lampert@ung.edu

Blackened Cicadas

"Lobster's introverted first cousin."

INGREDIENTS:

• 30-40 cicadas, gathered as they emerge from the ground. Remove heads, legs, and wings.

• 1 red bell pepper, thinly sliced

• 1 green bell pepper, thinly sliced

• 1 Tbsp. olive oil

• 1 1/2 Tbsp. blackened seasoning

• 1 Tbsp butter

• Grits or polenta prepared for serving

2024 is the year Cicadas emerge from the ground en masse. If you fancy yourself a daring foodie, or you’re ready to amp up your survivalist skills, learning to catch, blanch and fry these protein-rich morsels will be right in your wheelhouse. “Some call these tasty critters the shrimp of the earth” (Cicada Recipes for the Zombie Apocalypse). But first you must catch the little rascals. This shouldn’t be too hard since most of you reading this fish. But instead of catch and release, we will catch, cook and eat the yummy anthropoda.

(Disclaimers first—please check with your doctor before ingesting cicadas as they may not be safe for all people. Some individuals may be allergic to the little creatures.) Okay, now back to the reason we are here—catching and cooking. “First make sure you find a wooded area away from older homes to lessen the chance of potential lead absorption. Steer clear of well-manicured lawns due to the potential for lawn chemicals and other contaminants the cicadas may have absorbed” in their long time underground. ( Jim Warner, Program Director of Food and Nutrition at The Ohio State University Medical Center) According to Warner they are most tender out of their shell so be patient. Lucky you. This you already are since you spend hours on the water avoiding duties like guttercleaning and childcare.

As you watch them emerge from the ground or climb up a tree and molt out of their outer shell, gently grab one. Remove the legs and wings before blanching them in boiling water.. Then you can use them immediately or save and freeze in a ziplock back until you’re ready to cook with them. You have now entered the realm of entomophagy, the practice of eating insects. To be more specific—Cicadamaniacs.

Cicadas are not grasshoppers or locusts; they don’t damage crops. They, do, however, assault the ears with their shrill thrumming sounds. Twenty years ago to coincide with a 2004 emergence of cicadas, Jenna Jadin Ph.D. from the University of Maryland put together an online cookbook for an entomology

SOUTHERN CAMPFIRES

WITH SANDRA AGRICOLA

class. Her cookbook is free and readily available online—Cicada-licious: Cooking and Enjoying Periodical Cicadas. Jadin suggests using immature grubs, which can only be caught after dark on the night they are emerging. They can also be found climbing anything vertical. Think Tree. Females full of eggs contain more fat and protein.Male bodies have hollow abdomens for making sounds and are therefore the least nutritious. (Think Ken in Greta Gerwig’s Barbie movie ).

Directions

1. In a small saucepan, bring 2 cups of water to boil.

2. Add cicadas and boil 4-5 minutes.

3. Drain and set aside.

4. Grill peppers and onion until al dente. Set aside.

5. Heat saucepan until hot.

6. Add olive oil, then cicadas. Saute 1-2 minutes.

7. Add blackened seasoning, onions and peppers.

8. Saute 1-2 minutes more. Finish with butter.

9. Serve over grits or polenta.

Author’s Note

If you are still skeptical about insect eating, remember this—according to Jadin “Americans are probably already eating a pound or two of insects each year. Insects are a part of all processed food from wheat meal for bread to tomato ketchup.” Jadin’s introduction to Entomophagy in her cookbook is an edifying treatise on not only protein scarcity around the world but also pesticide concerns—“Fifty years ago, it was common for an apple to have worms inside, bean pods with beetle bites, and cabbage with worm eaten leaves. While this might seem initially unappealing to the average consumer, the consequence was that fewer pesticides were used on these products, making them an overall safer and healthier food to eat.”

Find your Oasis

By Scott Stevenson

I thought about writing some fly fishing lingo on some 3x5 notecards (Remember those? They still make those?) and handing them to the folks at my local guitar shop. That way they could read back to me the latest on the R8 Salt rods or some specs on those new Skwala waders. I could close my eyes and listen while they told me about some new tying products or that new Lamson reel. I‘d smile as they talked about that striper so-and-so caught and what “they think” about the new boat ramp at Chigger Ridge.

My local fly shop doesn’t keep normal hours. They aren’t very friendly nor helpful. They don’t offer you a beer when you walk in the door, and they won’t stay open late to answer your questions. And they never remember your name. My local fly shop doesn’t exist. You see, I live in fly shop desert. My local guitar shop and the record shop are the only two places I kinda get the fly shop fuzzies. A good local mom n pop hardware store can do in a pinch if I’m really feeling the withdrawals. But none of these places can compare to a fly shop, the cultural hub for the little niche world we all live in called fly fishing.

I have a great group of fishing buddies in my area, and we always talk about who’s going to be the one to open a shop. We need one. I think our area can support one now based on the population growth, but if you have ever owned a fly shop or even worked in one you know how tough it is to become successful. The closest one to me is two solid hours. It’s a shop I have been patronizing since they opened the

doors in the 90’s. There’s a couple more if I drive one more hour. I try to support all these when I am traveling. I have ordered over the phone and had friends bring me gear. It’ll do when I need something, but nothing beats that “impulse buy” when you’re hanging out having a beer talking fishing. Nothing. I miss it so much.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, if you happen to live somewhere that has a fly shop, I hope you support that business. If you do, great. Keep it up. If you don’t or you quit for whatever reason, then I urge you to go back and restart that relationship. Bring the guys in the shop a sixer. Go hang out. Buy something small. Try and buy a rod every year or so. Go get that badass reel you’ve been dreaming about. Life is short. That reel will bring you joy for a long, long time. It is probably way past time to replace all your lines. That Cortland 444 from 2002 doesn’t have another year left in it. It just doesn’t. Go take a tying class. Book a guide. Don’t take these shops for granted. If they don’t get adequately supported, they will go away. And then you’ll be like me staring at the wall of foam material in a Hobby Lobby crying. I live by an unwritten code that I will buy something at any fly shop I walk into and have done so since I got into the sport thirty plus years ago.

Am I being a little preachy about all of this? Maybe. But sometimes you need to listen and then be fed. Plus, it is so much cheaper to go hang out in a shop, drink a beer and buy some gear than therapy sessions. You’ll save money. No brainer. Please don’t be that guy or gal who tries out gear at their local shop and then orders online to save a few bucks.

photos by greer gunby

Those dollars you spend in a local shop stay in that community. You’ll support a network of families and more importantly you’ll keep that cultural hub alive that we all need these days. Otherwise, you’ll end up in a pro shop at some golf course popping your collar and talking about the bond market. Think about it.

photo by chad hoffman

SHEP IS COOL. SHEP WEARS SCOF MERCH. BE LIKE SHEP.

The Manhattan Midge

by Forrest Dorsey

I was born and raised in Colorado where I spent countless hours fishing the South Platte River with my dad, Pat Dorsey. After working in other fields, I finally decided to follow my passion and launched Tailwater Junkie, an online fly company, in 2017. Since Tailwater Junkie’s launch, I have become an Umpqua Feather Merchants fly designer and a Regal Pro Staff member all while traveling around the world to fish, including in Argentina and Alaska.

A few years ago, I moved to Asheville, North Carolina where I began working at Hunter Banks Company, Asheville’s premier fly shop founded by the late Frank Smith in 1985. Today, I am honored to be a co-owner of Hunter Banks and to have the opportunity to continue sharing my passion for fly fishing and photography in western North Carolina for many years to come.

The Manhattan Midge is a pattern I developed to fool finicky Rocky Mountain trout, particularly those found in tailwater fisheries. My goal was simple: to create a midge imitation that was easy to tie, durable, and, most importantly, consistently fooled technical trout.

The Manhattan Midge is a souped-up hybrid of some of the Dorsey family’s favorites—the Top Secret Midge, Mercury Black Beauty, and Mercury Blood Midge. The Manhattan Midge has a finesegmented body like the traditional Black Beauty, a flashy wing like the Top Secret Midge, peacock collar, and a clear, silver-lined bead to imitate trapped air bubbles in the thorax prior to emergence.

The Manhattan Midge has been fooling trout for nearly a decade on western tailwaters and is quickly becoming a staple on eastern fisheries including the Davidson, Tuckasegee and South Holston rivers.

More often than not, when I’m fishing, I use the original Manhattan Midge (black), but I’ve found the pattern to be successful in brown, olive, red and purple as well as a flashback variation. Each variation has its time and place, and I encourage you to think outside the box from time to time and mix things up!

An angler can be confident that midge feeders will feed on the Manhattan Midge yearround, but should recognize that the size and color of the pattern should vary depending on the

time of year. For instance, in the dead of winter, I recommend using a size 22, but during the spring months, especially in March when the big spring midge hatches, I suggest using a size 18. The best way to determine which size will be most successful in fooling a tricky trout is to observe the adults flying above the water.

• Hook: #18-22 Tiemco 2488

• Bead: Clear, silver-lined glass bead (extra small)

• Thread: Black Veevus 10/0

• Abdomen: Black Veevus 10/0

• Rib: Copper Ultra Wire, (small for #18-20) & (extra small for #22)

• Wing: Glamour Madeira

• Thorax: Peacock Herl (from a peacock eye)

FORREST DORSEY

The following is a letter John wrote to Dave and Steve on August 10th, 2017.

Dear SCOF,

Maybe you will consider publishing this fan mail I am about to pen.

In all honesty, I heard murmuring in the fly fishing community but I guess I have to be honest and say I had not read much of your publication before submitting my sheepish attempt at Sheepy 2016, though I had occasionally watched one or two of your films on vimeo. I am pretty isolated from hipster fly fishermen here in Northern Alabama, and I do not want to come off like a flat brim either. [image should be of me in a flat brim hat holding a fish]

In the last few weeks I have poured over issue after issue and found myself admiring what you have accomplished in the last six years. The content you provide is informative, funny, and is actually creating a culture to be considered as uniquely southern. I feel as if I know the southern imaginary canon as I have an MA in Southern Studies and an MA in fly fishing from the University of Wyoming.

In the golden years of my relationship with fly fishing I viewed it as a collection of really good friends who became more and more mired up with life's responsibilities and began fishing less as a result of their honey do’s and honey dont's. Maybe if I had been armed with knowledge of the "blood oath" I could have prevented their disappearance. My passion for

the sport was always about the fish, but it also was about out fishing my nearest buddy. "Good on them," I used to say when they achieved a marriage or fathered a child. All I cared about was shaking their confidence to take that next level job, or add another child to their brood by shaming them with my superior fishing skills. I do this one grip and grin photo at a time. Make ‘em say, “that Cola. He is so free.”

Grossman's writing is best when I am opening the next editor's notes and I learn something. He may be older and wiser than me, Hell, he probably has caught more fish than me. Grossman must be the man.

Now that a very chosen, loyal few, are the only ones who will fish with me because I hurt their feelings with dripping fish pictures sent to group texts, I have been feeling even more isolated. Anyway, in spite of the attrition of good friends along the way, people do not ever really change, but now that I have learned in the last few weeks that I myself am going to be a father, I am hoping for a certain maturation. God help me if I start sending group text baby photos. Needs to happen quickly as I am full of fear that my life will begin to suck if I stop guiding for carp and start a factory line job, or even worse, something in sales. I actually attended an info session for a company called Signtronix. As you may have guessed this pyramid scheme was not tenable, but I did realize in those moments about l. e. d. lighting that I may need to narrow my vocational horizon. "So long as I can still occasionally wet a line,” I tell myself.

But my story is really about how I hope and strive to maintain a fly fishing life when my pregnant significant other hates fishing. This new year's eve my sister is getting married in Medellin, Columbia, and I plan to go looking for some jungle bass in Puerto Inirida on an expedition of sorts after the ceremony. I hope I can still afford the trip and I have been hearing something about a Zika virus. As a concerned future father I think I'll manage to fish in Columbia without the missus. That sounds like mature thinking to me.

Sincerely,

John Agricola

P.S. I did not know you guys had already covered the Sheepy in 2016. My bad. If there is any room for a piece in a future issue I plan to write one about the carp cup as well. I fished in it last Saturday. Thanks for making me aware of the competition that I took not so seriously by promoting it in articles, as well as the Marc Crapo film. Even if you are not interested in one more new voice, I do appreciate the articles you publish and the community you are building.

On February 22, 2024,

Dave Replied.

Dear John, First let me apologize. I am very bad at the timely reciprocation of correspondence. It’s not an excuse but I did have the flu there for a week or so, and you know I think there was a season of travel soccer, but that is neither here nor there. I hope these seven years have found you well, and still fishing. I have to admit that this is the first time I have seen your letter. Steve was very controlling with information back then. I was locked away from the world, left with nothing but an iPhone, an iPad, a MacBook Pro, and a full fly tying bench. I was forced to produce content at a horrifying rate. I’m pretty sure I was in one of those databases for missing Daves who flyfish.

But now that freedom fills my lungs, and the albatross of a marginally successful regional digital

fly fishing magazine has fallen by the wayside, I’m getting caught up on my inbox. I imagine you were 12 or 13 back then (the average age for an expectant father in North Alabama) so that must put you somewhere around drinking age now, and your child working in a field during harvest time as I imagine children in Alabama do—congrats. I have given your letter the old Grossman onceover, and I really feel at its essence, its rich creamy center, what you’re trying to say is a universal truth, my writing was amazing seven years ago, I was the man, and I caught more fish than most, some, if not part of the time, so thanks. As far as the less important rest of your letter; Where you were in your life seven years ago is a weird time for everyone. Old fishy friendships give way to baby bullshit, which in turn leads to toddler time sucks, and eventually stealing your adolescent’s Adderall just to feel something, anything. As you probably realized in the time between your

letter and this one, children, and marriages are just the catalysts that eventually separate the fishy wheat from the not willing to stand up to your significant other spineless chaff. The friends you have cast aside like a dildo from the window into a river in E. Tennessee are not people you need in your life anyway. By this time your crew should be lean, mean fishin’ fucking machine. Roving the countryside in a Mad Max-esque Winnebago, having your way with fish and fly alike, counting your victories in the drips, and your defeats in mugshots. Oh what it must be like to be you. I can see your bulbous head adorned by a trucker hat and your nonexistent neck framed by flannel print, Huzzah! young man, Huzzah! My own journey over the past seven years finds me far from those heady days. No, I have fallen down the hill of my arc, and find myself squarely within the role of retired sporting gentleman at the ripe old age of 45. Death will be here soon, but not before I buy myself an English

side by side shotgun to match my 7’ 4 wt bamboo fly rod with nickel ferrules, that I only fish dry flies with. I now also wear tweeds while both casting and blasting my way around the south. What I’m saying is don’t fret young man, wherever you were in your fishing story—then, now , or in the future shit changes in a very predictable way. You too, like me will develop a bloodlust in your midforties and forgo all fishing in the winter, and fall to quench it. Trust me, just as your son will eventually become you, and you your father, this sporting transition too shall pass. But I digress, in conclusion I hope you did go to Colombia without your wife, and I also hope you don’t have a tiny headed Zika baby—hold on—Is this John Agricola? Who bought the magazine? Shit, my bad man. Glad your son has a normal sized head, dude. Tight lines?

Dave Grossman

photo by alan broyhill

JESUS LOVES MUSKY

BENCH PRESS balsa cicada

by Shannon McCurley

• Grooved sanding blocks

• Small flush cut saw

• Fly rotator (for epoxy)

• tiny hand drill (for electronics)

• Floss threaders

• Disposable craft brushes

• Assorted paint brushes

1. Start with a long piece of balsa (12-plus inches). Use blocks to send the overall desired profile to the top, bottom, and side for the entire length.

2. Use the blocks to sand the rear taper on one end of the balsa.

3. Cut body to desired length (cicada 1 ¼” ).

4. Sand face of body.

5. Repeat (I recommend doing at least six at a time due to the time invested in this process).

6. Use saw to cut hook groove in the bottom of the body.

• ½”x ½” balsa

• Size 2 popper hook

• Super Glue

• 30 minute slow-cure epoxy

• Acrylic craft paint (white, orange, black, red)

• Medium round rubber legs (orange, black)

• Congo hair (orange and cream blended)

• Midge flash (pearl)

7. Apply a thin thread base to hook (optional). Use super glue to glue the hook into the groove. Make sure the hook is straight and square to the body. Let it dry.

photos by john vanore

8. Mix a small amount of epoxy. Use it to fill the remainder of the hook groove flush and smooth to the body. Place in rotator and let set. Tip: A couple strips of painters’ tape on your desk or table makes a great spot to mix small amounts of epoxy. When done, just peel and toss.

9. Mix a slightly larger amount of epoxy. I usually start with about a quarter-sized puddle each of epoxy and hardener. Add about 4 drops of white acrylic paint. Mix well. (This will be a durable shell and white base for painting.)

10. Paint the entire body with white epoxy. Place in the rotator and let it cure.

11. Using craft paint, paint the body with desired pattern. Start with lighter colors first (except eyes and highlights). Let dry.

12. Mix another batch of epoxy. And paint a clear coat over the entire body. Place in rotator and let it cure. Tip: Heating the epoxy under a light bulb or other source of low heat while you paint it on, will thin the viscosity of the epoxy resulting in a smoother finish.

13. Using the small hand drill, drill two holes through the body: one for legs, the other for wings (holes should be just slightly larger than one rubber leg).

14. Cut one small diameter length from each congo hair and blend. Add 3-4 pieces of midge flash (pieces must be small enough to pull through the hole, large enough to remain snug once pulled through).

15. Using a floss threader, pull wing material through the hole. Do the same for three legs. Trim the legs to 1 ¼” on each side. (Don't glue them in. You might need to replace them later.)

16. Pull the wing material towards the back. Cut to length about ½ inch behind body.

“Crafting balsa bodies, whether for cicada, frog, or other insect patterns, is a time-consuming task. However, you will be rewarded with a durable fly. As long as you don’t lose it to a fish, or beat it on the rocks, it will last for years. Just change the legs when they dry rot and the feathers when they get chewed up and keep on fishing!”

~Shannon McCurley @northalabamaflyfishing

photos by john vanore

Conservation Corner with dr. professor mike and Dr. Jordan Cissell

I doubt I have to explain my love of mangroves to this audience. Fly anglers and anglers in general understand their importance to our craft and likely to the larger tropical and subtropical environments. Sure, they can be a little foreboding when your skiff squeezes through a mangrove tunnel and branches, crabs, spider webs, and sometimes spiders find your face. Or when you are forced to enter their tangled roots and associated muck on foot. It’s a little eerie. But, even standing in thigh deep muck one can appreciate the life they support, the very life we anglers are after.

So it came as a shock to visit the Bahamas after Hurricane Dorian damaged or destroyed a sizeable portion of Abaco’s mangroves in September 2019. We were there to help Bonefish and Tarpon Trust (BTT) to map and quantify the damage. Dorian was no ordinary storm of course. It was the most destructive natural disaster ever recorded in the Bahamas with more than 70 confirmed deaths, more than 200 people unaccounted for, and more than $3.4 billion dollars in damage. Overall, 74% of the mangroves on Grand Bahama and 44% of the mangroves on Abaco were damaged or destroyed.

Talking about mangroves may seem a bit trivial compared with the gravity of the grim statistics, but mangroves and their importance to the larger Bahamian environment and economy can’t be underestimated.

Flying into the Bahamas the aerial scene at 10,00 feet looked like

any approach to a tropical paradise with the various shades of blues and greens, but the view changed quickly as we approached the airport. One could clearly see the scars left behind from the recent hurricane. What was once green was now brown, both on land in the areas previously home to pine forests and on the shoreline fringe previously home to mangroves. Cars, boats, buildings, all destroyed and tossed about like toys. The near shore flats housed several (that I could see) submerged cars that resembled a bad joke of an artificial reef. It truly boggled the mind to stand amongst mangrove skeletons in a beige landscape, seemingly devoid of life. No leaves, no frigate birds, no insects, no mangrove crabs, no spiders, etc. Gone. However, while I paint a bleak picture of the damage, and it was shocking, the adjacent flats remained intact. If one simply waded or poled directly away from the mangrove shoreline (and didn’t look back), you could be convinced you were on another far away island, unaffected by the storm. While our observations were cursory given our short visit, we saw plenty of bonefish, rays, a couple of permits, a lot of queen conch, and a big lemon shark while cruising around the island during our mangrove surveys. In fact, I played hooky from our work for a couple of hours and thanks to BTT’s Justin Lewis’s expert guiding, caught a couple of nice bonefish that were traveling by in pairs.

So, the good news was the flats and fish were seemingly ok. But our simplistic observations bely a more complicated environmental situation. In areas where the mangroves were destroyed, without living plants, it was a matter of time before

the nutrient rich mangrove peat began to erode, which would damage or destroy nearby sea grass pastures and coral reefs. That would obviously impact the fishery and deliver another blow to the Bahamian guides and tourism economy. So the race was and is still on to restore mangroves before erosion exasperates the larger hurricane damage.

To mitigate a potential ecological and economic disaster, BTT has partnered with Bahamas National Trust, Friends of the Environment based in Abaco, and MANG Gear to replant 100,000 mangroves in the hardest hit areas. This large-scale, multi-year project is targeting Abaco, Grand Bahama and surrounding cays. Multiple mangroves nurseries have been established on Grand Bahama and Abaco, and to date more than 60,000 trees have been planted. This is one of the biggest mangrove restoration projects in the world, indicating the importance of this ecosystem in the larger Bahamian economy. Although restoration is a long-term process, the response has minimized the risk of a potentially largescale flats fishing collapse.

This restoration project is highlighted because it serves as an example of the power of our community and related allies to address natural and unnatural (I see you Florida) environmental disasters. Given the pressures on the resources we cherish, this will not be the last time our community will be called upon to support mitigation and restoration projects. For our fisheries to thrive, our community needs to be just as committed to conservation and where needed, restoration, as we are to catching our first or 500th bonefish. We really have no choice.

The Back Page

King Kong was released in 1933, originally a natural beast cast as more than it was in the sum of its monkey appendages. The symbolic beast running amok in a metropolis is about the untamed power of nature and the hubris of human civilization to try and shackle it to man made moorings. Nature always wins. A fact that makes 1933 a pivotal year for the South is that the whole of the Tennessee Valley found itself electrified when a series of large scale hydroelectric dams were constructed to obstruct the movement of water and the ordinary flooded terrain with controlled dam lock releases. It meant a general rise in prosperity for those living in the Valley. Sometimes friends of mine, usually older gentlemen, feel as though it is their duty to instruct me that our Surly Monkey is juvenile. “No one likes being flipped off, son.” They might chide me. Last week my father, from his prone, recovering position, was trying to listen to our first podcast, and a floor buffer machine kept making a ruckus as it shined his hallway at the old folks home. My father, 74, raised his skinny arm and flipped the machine off with a dangerously long lasting bird. I now am the parent because rather than have the buffer man see him flipping him one, I said, “Now Dad, put that down.” I’d hate to unleash my father on a metropolis.

-Cola