Some Dads are with us from the beginning. the stepdads, the adopted father figures, life where we were not. All three are part project into our own. In America we are all immigration, some pioneer industry, some are the folks who taught us to be who we are and the people whose beliefs became our Dedicated to the memory of
John "Jack" Disque
January 16, 1950
Fatherless Future
beginning. Sometimes parents are added later: maybe who were wise in seasons of our part of us forever. The principles in their life all pioneers by our ancestry. Some pioneer have family that were farm people. These are – anglers. We must remember our roots our own. It is truly “Everything that Matters.” of Jack, Guy, and Kenneth.
Disque Agricola - June 24, 2024
February 14, 1959 - June 18, 2024
Guy Thomas Franzen
MAVERICK
Designed to maximize quick-shot presentations, the MAVERICK makes the most of saltwater’s finite opportunities.
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Drawers and Drawerings
Charlie Hicks
My name is Charlie Hicks and I'm a 23-year-old Georgia native. I come from a family of artists and fishermen, so it only seemed natural to combine the two into my subject of choice. I currently work with pen, ink, and colored pencil to create works that commemorate the beautiful fish we all chase.
follow Charlie @charleshicksart
Crouching Carp, Hidden Dragonfly by cola illustrations by cola
Prehistoric Beasts and Where to Find Them: a Conversation with Capt. Matt Simpson, Gar Wizard by Mike Tapscott illos by James Cadbury
s.c.o.f
Summer 2024 issue no. 52
Ascofalypse Now
Managing editor
John Agricola
Editor at large
Michael Steinberg
Creative Director & Design Chief
Hank
Director of Advertising
Samuel Bailey
Merchandiser
Scott Stevenson
Media Director
Alan Broyhill
contributors: Charlie Hicks
Wes Frazer
Josh Broer
Colin Sutherland
Flip McCririck
Peter Taylor
Capt. Sam Glass
Paul Puckett
Casey Callison
Seth Fields
JD Miller
Capt. Matt Simpson
BJ Poss
Luke Bissett
Nick Williams
Daniel Roberts
Sam Sumlin
Managing editor emeritus: David Grossman
Creative Director emeritus: Steven Seinberg
copy editor: Lindsey Grossman
ombudsman: Shad Maclean
general inquiries: southerncultureonthefly@gmail.com
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SCOF WEST
photo essay p96
by Alan Broyhill and Peter Taylor
Dear Reader,
Issue 52 marks the shift to a new season. I’m ready for the fall even though it means back to school, tedious meetings, and students who use the same tired excuses as to why they missed the last exam. People claim spring is the season of birth or rebirth, but I think fall fits that bill well on some other levels. Yes, there is a die back in the natural world, but new possibilities present themselves with fewer mosquitoes and water moccasins. As the days grow shorter and the nights cooler, angling opportunities do shift, but they certainly don’t die. For example, I rarely think about bass in the fall. Instead, it’s brook trout in the mountains and redfish on the coast. Sure, those species are available year round, but an autumn brook trout in spawning colors is hard to beat. So, I’ll contradict one of our products and declare that bass are not better than trout, especially in the fall.
I also like the seasonal shift because shorter days make it more contemplative. Shorter days force you to slow down. It’s easier to take stock in what you did or didn’t do all summer when the days seemed almost endless. Of course, I try not to focus on the regret of things I didn’t do or the fish I didn’t catch. Focusing on missed opportunities truly leads to a heart of darkness. If anything, missed opportunities should strengthen our resolve for next summer.
Issue 52, while not necessarily focused on fall fishing, does provide a shift in some of the topics. This one includes everything from Mayan cichlids and white bass, to alligator gar. We are fortunate in the larger South to have such a plethora of angling opportunities, no matter the season. When I lived in Maine, most of the rivers officially closed in the fall, so there was a hard deadline, a true end of the season. I much prefer a shift to new species, locations, and methods, rather than an abrupt end. That abrupt end, usually followed by ice, snow and 3:45pm sunsets, felt like a death grip around my throat. Not so in the larger SCOF universe.
Enjoy Issue 52—hopefully it will inspire some adventures, even in one’s mind, as the days grow shorter.
Haiku
by Cola
My Dad rests in peace
No more two man kayaking
The cove is quiet
No more poppers cast
The bluegill still bust surface
Gear guys don’t know them
Lucy so fancy
Lying quiet on her dock
Looks cross the harbor
My rudder in soil
His spirit is everywhere Willowflies’ summer
dispatches
ESCAPE FROM LA
Escape from LA (Lower Alabama)
by Cola
photos by Sam Glass and Sam Bailey
The car ride home was marked by a mix of natural beauty and torrential, electric disturbances, reminiscent of the tempests we faced on the flats of Mobile Bay. It was from this underrated fishing destination that I placed my hopes of breaking the curse on my tarpon fishing—a curse that began around the time I last hooked a tarpon but hesitated to grab her by the mouth, not wanting to shred my hands on her sandpaper-like jaw. That refusal felt like a curse, preventing me from landing another tarpon since. Recently, even a mere lean from a fish was the best I could hope for, and the inevitable refusal of my fly seemed guaranteed by this "poon pox" curse.
The day began at the crack of dawn as we piled into our guide’s truck, eager to launch into a day of tarpon fishing somewhere in Alabama. I had heard that tarpon could be found outside Florida during their migration, though it was unusual to find guides specializing in this fine art in other states. However, I had met Sam Glass years earlier at a boat launch, just before a DIY jack crevalle mission with a buddy. In June, I struck a deal with Sam to stay at his place—aptly named “the shed”—and to embark on a fishing trip in Mobile Bay. Days before our visit, he texted me, saying he’d spotted several tarpon cruising through. But once again, the curse struck during a full moon phase, where the fish were feeding nocturnally and likely spawning in deeper waters.
We started the morning with an opportunistic approach, a trait of Sam’s guiding that I found both exciting and refreshing. Unlike typical guides who focus on a specific target—be it redfish or tarpon—Sam gave us shots at triple tail hiding under buoys, and we even threw heavy sand flea and shrimp patterns at pompano. For the first few hours, we tried to get in line with the tarpon, but the choppy seas made it difficult to track their movements. We saw a few singles, but could never put a good cast on them. We did, however, manage to catch a few small cobias off the backs of stingrays.
As the morning progressed, we spotted birds diving on massive pods of blood minnows, practically boiling in the water. The birds were our signal to strike. Among the frenzy, we saw tarpon, spinner sharks, and the overwhelming slashing and crashing of jack crevalle. It wasn’t long before Sam Bailey, my fishing companion, accidentally hooked a bird by the feet while casting into the chaotic smorgasbord of fish. After the bird flew off, Sam quickly recast into the frenzy and hooked into a massive 30-plus-pound jack. The first two popped off for him, but when my turn came, I felt the trepidation
that accompanies any angler standing on the slick bow of a skiff rocking in turbulent waves teeming with sharks. When my line went taut and I felt the power of the jack, I made sure to keep three points of contact and held on for dear life. After a grueling 15-minute fight, I whooped the first jack, and then it was Sam’s turn—this time he landed one.
My next turn came when we approached another bait ball. I cast my fly into the fray, and another jack struck. After nearly subduing the fish, a bull shark circled the boat several times before slamming into the jack, leaving my line limp and a pool of blood in the water. It was a stark reminder of the ruthless principles of natural selection. The jack disappeared so quickly that I couldn’t help but worry about my own slick feet and shaky sea legs.
I stayed down in the hull, satisfied after wrestling two big jacks. Meanwhile, Sam Bailey remained determined to catch a spinner shark. He eventually hooked a large one under the pectoral fin, and we watched in awe as the fish flew through the air like a silver Simone Biles after a dismount. Even Sam Glass got in on the action. As we crept up to the edge of the bait, he carefully selected a particular fish he wanted. His excitement built to a crescendo as he shouted, “Oh shit, cobia!” He expertly placed his fly directly in front of the cobia’s flat head, and the fish’s mouth opened wide, inhaling the fly. On the way back, we took a few more shots at triple tail, but our efforts went unrewarded. That night at the shed, we enjoyed a barbecue prepared by Sam Glass’s wife, Jessica, a woman as fishsavvy as her husband. We drank and made
merry with a small, close-knit group of fishing friends who gathered at the shed. The next morning, we set out again, this time targeting bull reds. Despite plenty of shots, the previous night’s downpour had turned the flats’ waters turbid, making close-range casts difficult. We also had opportunities at sheepshead and black drum, though those proved equally elusive.
I was struck by the diversity of the estuary near the “American Amazon,” the Tensaw Delta. We ate well at the Bluegill Restaurant for lunch, and I felt healed from the pox on my tarpon game. As I furiously drove away from the land of easy living, I reflected on Sam Glass’s life, recounted to me in biopic fashion. Originally from Virginia, Sam had moved to Mobile around 2004. In nearly 20 years, he had mastered the local fishery and built a life for himself and Jessica, one they could be proud of. In my humble opinion he is one of the most knowledgeable and skilled fly anglers in Lower Alabama, and his excursions in the bay were the cure I needed after a summer devoid of tarpon fishing. The “poon pox” was lifted, and I felt like I had truly “escaped from LA,” just like Snake Plissken in the 1996 film played by Kurt Russell.
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survival kentucky
By Hank
Kentucky Survival
IBy Hank
am a treble hook buried in the sunburned skin of the South. Someday I may be snatched away, but it won’t be because my barbs weren’t sharp enough. Part of me is snagged firmly in a patch of soft flesh called northern Kentucky. My wife and I got married there, and visit her sister’s family as often as we can. On these trips, my angelic niece and nephews are hard to sneak away from, but I’m too easily enticed by the water to play human jungle gym (Uncle Gym, I’m called) all weekend. My friend Ben in Louisville enables my escape artistry.
The day before my marriage in Lexington, I called Ben (at this point still a business contact) to help me shake some nerves off in the creek. We met at a gas station country store off the Bluegrass Parkway for bologna biscuits and coffee, which is I guess his way of vetting new fishing buddies. We bought ice and beer and spent the rest of the morning skating frogs and crayfish over shale beds. We watched 18-inch smallmouth swim on their sides like flounder under ledges in the hot, shallow water. It was Labor Day weekend. We got along just fine.
The next time I met Ben was around Memorial Day, and we missed all the signs telling us to stay home. If we had checked the weather before making the two-hour drive to the Green River in the dark that morning, we would have seen that 12 people had died in the night from a series of tornadoes in Arkansas that were headed in our direction. On arrival, Ben’s truck battery died while unloading his
drift boat at the put-in. We tried jumping it with my wife’s Sonata to no avail. I went to town and found a white beard named Mr. Robert, who came to help after he finished his breakfast: a Lucky Strike and gas station coffee. He bought another two packs and cranked the old wrecker, jangled his way down to the boat ramp, and jumped Ben’s Tacoma in two seconds. By 10am, we were finally fishing.
As the atmospheric pressure dropped, the river became an upside down shadow-realm version of itself. The fish were nowhere to be found and the air turned cold. Suddenly, we could see our breath. Drizzles turned to a downpour and we sought shelter on the bank. Not five minutes later, the tree tops decided they would rather be in the next county, and the wind took down two massive cottonwoods right next to Ben’s Clacka. Branches went flying. One hit me in the head. We panicked and cranked the trolling motor, deciding we’d rather risk getting thunderstruck in the middle of the river than crushed by a tree. Of course we smashed a rock immediately and lost power to the motor, so we just rowed like our lives depended on it. To hell with fishing.
Then there was a lull. We got the 10 weight out and swung some musky flies, joking about trauma-bonding. I learned about Ben’s past, and we talked about religion. His mother was sick for most of his childhood and passed away when he was young. Ben listened courteously to my confused, near-blasphemous jabbering about why I have such a hard time with faith. I don’t know if I’ll ever have such a galvanizing moment as Ben did, but people like him make me feel okay with my religious procrastination.
We had to hitchhike back to town to get another jump when we finally got off the water. The saving grace of the day was the only dry thing on my person: an oatmeal cream pie that managed to maintain most of its integrity in my soggy jacket pocket. My third trip with Ben was on an unplanned jaunt back to Lexington at the end of July. The rivers were low and he didn’t have much time to fish, so I drove to Louisville to meet him at the Falls of the Ohio. I’ve spent a lot of time around Army Corps structures, so this type of infrastructure wasn’t unfamiliar to me, but the expanse of this tailrace was like nothing I’ve ever seen before. It was a blood-soaked battlefield of exposed bedrock, studded with Devonian fossils, caked in mud and rotting algae. Bodies of dead carp and buffalo were scattered everywhere, buzzards picking flesh from ribs and throats. In the rapids, gar, white bass, and carp of all nations were holding in the current waiting for God to tear the big wall down. Waiting for a way to the promised land, blocked from their ancestral migratory path. My doctoral dissertation on fish migration at Auburn could have been titled “Let My People Go.”
We swung Clousers in the fast stuff, and wrestled with massive fish until Ben had to go to his meeting at 10am. On the way back, we kicked some buffalo back in the main channel, traced fossils with our fingers, and tried to piece together some gar skeletons we found scattered among the rocks. Forrest Pass at Quest Outdoors (the only indie fly shop in Kentucky) later told me that he caught a sturgeon and a paddlefish here. The massive dam and the impossibly fast current all make Life seem the least likely inhabitant of this festering
exposed patch of the planet’s skeleton. We slipped back to our kayaks to cross back to the ramp, and right before we got in the boats Ben said, “I came here the day my mom died.”
My brain short circuited. How could anyone find solace in this place? It is a mile-high pile of bison skulls at a frontier railyard. It’s downright disturbing.
He said “Anything can happen here”.
He was right of course, and then it all made sense. The chance of a sturgeon, a 50-pound carp, a fossil discovery, a paddlefish, a trophy white bass, that’s the stuff of miracles. That life can persist on this marred hellscape is a testament to the sheer power of a will to survive. There’s inspiration in the vigorous, throbbing pulse of biomass trapped in this place. There’s Jeff Goldblum in his own creepy brand of sex appeal saying, “Life… finds a way.” Where else would a kid with a giant wall of grief in his path go to try to believe that?
"My brain short circuited. How could anyone find solace in this place? It is a mile-high pile of bison skulls at a frontier railyard. It’s downright disturbing."
Hard to Look in the Mirror, Carp: A Descent into
Part I: The Call of the Wild
The river is an enigma. A vast, slithering entity that breathes with the pulse of the land, more alive than the fish it harbors. To fly fishermen, those brave souls who seek its hidden treasures, the river is both a lure and a warning. They whisper tales of the carp, an elusive golden beast lurking in its depths, a creature as enigmatic as the river itself. To seek the carp is to embark on a journey into the unknown, a quest not unlike Marlow's descent into the Congo, into the heart of darkness itself.
The carp, they say, is not native to these waters. It is an interloper, brought here by hands that did not belong. Like the great colonial expeditions, the introduction of the carp was an imposition, a declaration of dominion over the natural world. The fish was meant to feed, to
Part II: Into the Abyss
The fly fisherman, much like the colonialist, enters the river with a sense of superiority, armed with tools designed to conquer. He has heard the stories, seen the signs—carp corpses shot and left to rot by the boat launch, and the severed head of a gar speared through its cranium, a macabre warning that not everything belongs in this darkness. For the fly angler, the rod is his spear, the fly his deception, crafted to mimic life but devoid of it. Yet the carp, unlike the gullible trout or the aggressive bass, does not easily fall for such tricks. It is a creature of the mud, of the depths, a ghost from another world that refuses to yield to the new.
As the fisherman stalks his prey, he begins to understand the futility of his endeavor. The river, once thought to be his to master, reveals itself as an unforgiving force, indifferent to his ambitions. The carp is no mere fish; it is an idea, a manifestation of resistance against the colonial impulse to dominate.
Each cast into the murky water is a journey deeper into the unknown, a confrontation with the self, and the realization that the true struggle is not with the carp, but with the river, with nature itself. The river, in all its wildness, is a mirror reflecting the darkness within, the blind arrogance of those who think they can conquer what they do not
into the Heart of Darkness on the Fly by
cola
Part III: The Horror
When the carp finally takes the fly, there is no triumph, only the grim realization of what has been unleashed. The fight is brutal, raw, and exhausting, a battle of wills that drags the fisherman to the brink of his endurance. The carp is a force of nature, a living testament to the world that existed before the arrival of man, a world that has not forgotten, nor forgiven. It fights not for survival, but out of a primal instinct honed over centuries of resistance—a resistance that the fisherman now realizes he is powerless to overcome.
In the end, the fisherman stands on the bank, holding the carp aloft like a trophy. But the victory is hollow. The fish, a symbol of all that has been lost and all that has been imposed, stares back with lifeless eyes. The river, indifferent to the struggle, continues its eternal flow, washing away the footprints of those who dared to think they could conquer it. The fisherman, now drained and disillusioned, releases the carp back into the water, understanding that the pursuit was never about the fish. It was about the river, the darkness, and the stark realization that colonialism, like fly fishing for carp, is an exercise in futility.
The river reclaims what is hers, and the fisherman walks away, forever changed by the journey into the heart of darkness. He understands now that the river, much like history itself, cannot be tamed or rewritten—it simply is, and always will be, a force beyond human control.
Epilogue: This Is the End, Beautiful Friend (Cue the Helicopters)
Fly fishing for carp is not a sport; it is a pilgrimage, a journey into the unknown where the line between hunter and hunted blurs. The carp, like the indigenous peoples of colonized lands, resists the imposition of foreign power. It survives, adapts, and in its persistence, it teaches the fisherman a harsh truth: that to conquer is to be conquered, that to fish is to face the darkness within.
The river flows on, indifferent to the struggles of man, and the carp swims in its depths, a reminder that some battles are never truly won. The fisherman, like Marlow at the end of his journey, must return to the world above, haunted by what he has seen. But the river remains, a silent witness to the folly of those who believe they can master it.
The Premier Fly Shop in Blue Ridge, GA
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Trading Gas Money for Pain
by Hank
photos by Wes Frazer
Trading Gas Money for Pain
by Hank photos by Wes Frazer
I’ve really only ever been an observer of pain, having only felt the worst suffering vicariously. Sometimes I feel like my lack of scars makes me childish, uninitiated. Back in high school I was jealous of all the kids that could write juicy college essays about suffering and hardship. Now I realize how lucky I am that all my creative energy comes from joy instead. I hope that doesn’t make me sound uncompassionate.
While John, Sam, and Alan were all at funerals this week, I selfishly decided to stick to my plan to go fishing in Fairhope, Alabama with a couple of solid ringers to fill in for the grieving. The town was founded by anarchists, but you wouldn’t be able to tell now. In stark contrast to the working shorelines west of Mobile Bay, Fairhope is an idyllic little village on the eastern shore full of bank executives, little league coaches, and etsy shoppers. Dolphin statues and folksy ornaments still decorate the live-oak-shaded lawns with bay boats parked in the barn, and there’s plenty of undeveloped land left, but you can tell it won’t be long before new cookie cutter neighborhoods have swallowed up the remainder. Nevertheless, I always get the sense that people are genuinely joyful in Fairhope, anarchist or not.
The Tripletail Classic, hosted by the Eastern Shore Fly Fishers, is still a few years away from earning the name “Classic”, but I heard the Red Hot Chili Peppers on classic rock radio the other day, so maybe it’s classic anyways. At the last minute, we managed to scrape
wes
hank
up a team to represent SCOF for our second year of participation. Wes Frazer, our photographer, still has the feverish eagerness of a new fly angler so naturally I found him casting a Ribbit Rhol in the ditch behind the hotel when I arrived on Thursday night. We admired the alligators under the boardwalk for a minute and drove to Gulf Shores to meet Sam Sumlin for a slice of pizza and a fishing report. We talked about snook reproduction, shark attacks, and vintage pinball machines. Wes and Sam were cast from the same mold: the one that magically transforms skate park kids with scratched up Fugazi CDs in their walkmen into obsessive fly anglers with fish tattoos.
In the morning, Wes and I waited out the rain and drove across the Mipsy Pipsy line to fish with our captain Bryson Hatcher. Bryson found a tripletail in the first 10 minutes, and we cast at it just to prove to ourselves it was possible. To my surprise, it took the first fly it saw on the first cast. So we put the rods up and spent the rest of the day scouting trap lines. We ended up trading a lot of gas money for a lot of pain. If I believed in chiropractics, I would have made an appointment after that afternoon because we all got our spines compacted bouncing across the blustery chop. The 15 foot Super Skiff handled it a lot better than I did.
At the captain’s meeting that night I reintroduced myself to all the people who tried to remember where they knew me from, and pointed out all the characters I thought Wes would like to know as they filtered in. Spike McCullough, Sam Glass, Rob Elam to name a few. Everyone talked about the wind, but everyone was hopeful that it might still be good fishing the next day. A little chop is actually great for tripletail fishing because when buoys
bryson
rise up on the peaks of waves, you can see under them better. That’s the most reliable way to find fish, although Bryson says he caught one under a floating bag of Doritos one time. Tripletail are such weird little idiots. They remind me of hipsters with trust funds cosplaying as white trash.
I’m a bit of a chameleon myself, so sometimes when my credentials don’t measure up to the members of a group, I find myself uncomfortable that I can’t relate. Luckily, tripletail fishing can be so random that even the most experienced anglers get skunked. That’s why the tournament is so fun. Everyone is on an equal playing field, and everyone is always equally baffled by the behaviors they observe on tournament day. We managed to boat two fish, one for Wes, one for me. Wes’ eat was textbook. Stripped a fly right past the buoy, the fish turned and smacked it, we netted it and rejoiced. It was the third fish caught by any angler that day at 7:37 AM. Our next fish was one of many that we didn’t think would play the game. We had to revisit it a few times, but on the last try, I managed to hook him AND the buoy line he was on. Like a child white knuckling the swing chains begging his nanny for five more minutes on the playground as she tries to pull him away, this fish wrapped himself in his buoy line and would not let go. So, we just scooped him up with the buoy too.
Back at the “weigh-in” we compared notes with other anglers and found ourselves comfortably in the middle of the pack. Some saw none, and some saw several but none willing to play the game. Others saw and even caught giants, but the winning team managed five or six little guys and squeaked out the victory. That’s
the name of the game here. After closing time, Wes and I drove off with our loot from winning the blind casting competition and third place in the First Fish category. Something I realized after feeling so much joy with such joyous people is how rare it is to get to stand around with dozens of folks and just talk about how awesome your day was. Even in the shadow of grief, just celebrating joy like that is not common experience. Danielle and Noble Davidson now have five years under their belt, making a home for that feeling with the Tripletail Classic. Come next year and see what it’s all about.
photo by sam sumlin
Mayan Cichlids on Fly
Another Feisty Exotic For the Buggy Whip
by Josh Broer illustrations by Colin Sutherland
So there’s tilapia, snakeheads, peacock bass, lionfish, clown knife fish, armored catfish, green iguanas, and others that have found new homes in Florida and other parts of the southeastern United States. They all have one thing in common— they’re not native to the United States. Some of these invasive species have proven to be quite a menace; the lionfish mostly, as it dominates our saltwater reefs and wrecks, and eats up limited resources. The green iguana is equally bad, as it bores nesting holes in docks and seawalls. Another invasive not nearly as destructive is the Mayan cichlid—a colorful, smart, super hard-fighting fish, originating in Central and South America. This exotic creature has created an addiction that I simply can’t overcome— nor want to—as it pertains to tricking them on the buggy whip.
The Mayan cichlid, or Mayaheros urophthalmus, scientifically speaking, is native to the Atlantic slope of tropical Mesoamerica, ranging from eastern Mexico southward to Nicaragua. In the United States, it was first recorded in the Everglades National Park in 1983, moved its way up through Lake Okeechobee and the St. Lucie Canal, and is now commonly
THE ATOMIC PERCH
ATOMIC PERCH
seen throughout Florida. You’ll see them in canals, rivers, ponds, and lakes, including brackish water.
With a diet of mostly grass shrimp, baitfish, snails and insects, it’s no surprise that these fish will attack both live baits and artificial lures. It is not a large species, comparatively, with the average length around five to 10 inches, and a weight approximately a quarter to one pound. But what they lack in size, they make up for with aggressive behavior and unmatched fighting power.
I first noticed these fish showing up in some of my local freshwater haunts a few years ago. My immediate thought was to break out a three weight fly rod, something I would typically use for smaller largemouth bass or panfish. I studied their movement and feeding habits and put a small black streamer in their path. It took a while to figure out the bite. These clever fish will simply not eat a fly if it stops moving. They love the chase!
You’ll usually find these cichlids in groups of two fish or more, roaming shallow areas. From time to time I’ll see a solo fish, usually much larger, and make that my focus. When you get the eat, hold on, as they make blistering runs again and again and seem to never tire. When I realized how hard these fish pull, I bumped up to a stiffer, four weight fly rod. Pound for pound, they proved to be the hardest fighting freshwater species I’d come across in years, maybe ever. I was addicted.
When I first discovered the angling joy I got from this unique species, I fished them hard for an entire summer. I couldn’t wait to get back out on the hunt to find bigger and bigger Mayans. And the more I looked, the more I began to find them in places I’d been fishing for years. Typically, they’ll have a broken lateral line and turquoise ring on the tail, with six to eight black bars on the body that can be faint or dark. The body color varies greatly in intensity with bright red on the chin, throat, and breast. They have both spiny and soft dorsal fins and a rounded caudal fin. At first glance, they sometimes look like small sheepshead. So, in addition to their fly-smashing, drag-screaming behavior, they’re one of the most beautiful fish on the planet. Their color tones vary from fish
to fish, much like a saltwater reef species. Each one is different and stunning. My fly of choice for these small but feisty fish is a dark streamer. They’ll kill a black or olive wooly bugger, but they also like topwater presentations. A small popper moving quickly in front of them can entice a bite. Scale down your leader as much as possible, as they can be extremely picky.
Sometimes, getting an eat can be downright frustrating. Occasionally, I’ll catch one blind casting an area, but what I’ve become fascinated with is sightfishing. Their peak spawning months are May and June, so during that time it’s common to see two large adults near or guarding a nest. These are the fish I’m after. They’ll usually stay in one place, whether still or moving water, for extended periods of time. Often, they’re just not interested in the fly. But don’t give up! Show it to them again and again, and eventually they’ll crush it purely out of anger.
Finally, if you want a great meal, put some in the cooler. They have delicious white flaky meat, and no bag or size limits (in Florida in any case). Mayan cichlids are highly praised table fare around the world. I put a few on ice after my last outing, and they proved to be one of the sweetest, most mouthwatering fish I’ve ever cooked up. You’ll find endless recipes online for frying, baking, and broiling them to perfection. So, whether you want to add an exciting new fish to your angling repertoire, or enjoy a spectacular meal, this feisty exotic can’t be beaten.
Easter Baskets and White Bass
by Casey Callison
Eggs had been found in the yard. Candy was eaten. The leftovers from the family lunch were put away. My Easter duties were done. I opened my journal to consult years past. From the patterns I saw, this was the perfect day to chase white bass.
Springtime in the Ozarks marks the annual run of the white bass, a temperate bass species that can be seen in droves running up rivers that connect to some of our lakes. Depending on the weather and water temperature, that can mean anytime from early March, all the way until the end of May. Some years we get longer runs thanks to warmer temperatures and drier weather. Other years the run only lasts a couple of weeks. That’s part of the fun. The chase of the white bass is something of a science. Some fly fishermen keep a detailed journal, so they know exactly when to go. Some good ole boys look at the dogwoods blooming, stick their finger in the air to check wind speed, don their overalls, and drag their 5-gallon buckets to the river.
Truth be told, I didn’t wait until the end of my Easter dad-duties to text Garrett that we needed to hit the river. Hell yes! Let me check first though… His reply was one that anyone in a relationship has sent before, making their friends await confirmation. He called me at three to say he was trailering the boat. I was at his house an hour and a half later, fly rods, a five-gallon gas tank, and beer in hand. I’m pretty sure it’s illegal to fish for white bass in the Ozarks without beer. Check your local regulations.
We launched at 5:30pm at the
crowded ramp. We ran up around a few bends of the James River, a tributary of Table Rock Lake, and immediately started seeing jet boats lining the river. None of them had bends in their rods. We made it up to McCord Bend, a local conservation access, to see a mix of jet boats and shore fisherman jockeying for rights to their desired hole. We found a spot without cutting off our friends on the water and my size 12 Clouser minnow went for a swim. After 20 minutes, there were no fish. Frustrated, Garrett threw behind us to a gravel bar and landed a small male white bass. I casted right after and found another. We discreetly beached the boat to walk the shoreline without alerting other fishermen to our success. Not that we didn’t want them to succeed, but we wanted some fish tacos.
After landing fish for 30 minutes straight, we saw a few other boats and folks noticed on the opposite side of the river at the public access. A boat nosed its way just above us. The driver sheepishly glanced at my direction, and I gave a I know what you’re doing wave. He puttered on down. Someone from across the river asked what our secret was. The scene from The Mummy flashed in my head where Brendan Fraser yells, “You’re on the wrong side of the riiiveerrrr!”
I set the hook on a fish that slowly rolled along the bottom. The flash of a brilliant reddish orange told me it was a carp. Bonus species! Half an hour before dark I set the hook on what felt like another carp. It was pulling slow but steady. I saw the white flash of a three-and-a-halfpound white bass, my biggest to date. We decided that was the perfect stopping point as we still had to beat the dark and get back to the ramp. Garrett turned the
boat key. The motor turned over but never started. We exchanged a worried glance but didn’t dare utter a word. It roared to life on the second attempt.
“You gonna keep all those fish?” a couple of teenagers asked from the far shore as we pulled away.
“Yeah, sorry. But if you get to that side, you might have some luck,” Garrett hollered back.
“That’s it,” one said as he stripped his cowboy boots and jeans, “I’m going in!” He grabbed his old cooler and rods and dove into the 62-degree water.
The old, faithful jon boat sputtered quickly after we left. After emptying the five-gallon can into the gas tank, Garrett cranked the keys. And cranked. And cranked. He cracked open another beer as he dropped the trolling motor to get us back.
Darkness sets in fast on the river. The sycamores and tall oaks block out the sun at an expedited rate. At least our headlamps worked and there were still a couple of beers in the cooler. What should have been a 15-minute trip turned into 20 with the trolling motor and we still had a mile to go. We sent sheepish texts to our significant others to let them know we messed up. We heard a sound of hope in the distance, though. The sound of a working motor, one on which a fisherman could comfortably rely. It was strong. Confident. As they rounded the bend, we waved our flashlights for help. Sure enough, it was the same fisherman I had waved off the shoreline earlier. As an apology and token of good faith, I offered them $20 and two beers. They declined initially, but upon asking if they were sure, they partook without hesitancy. Those
glorious, forgiving, salt of the earth river folk pulled us back to the ramp where we trailered the boat just before nine. We cleaned 20 fish by headlamp, accompanied by Garrett’s dad, who was sipping on moonshine and not missing an opportunity to provide us some feedback on filleting practices. He has cleaned many fish in his time, so we listened. I drove back home to a quiet house. The children were put to bed, the Easter baskets were put away, and the dog was snoring. I quietly slipped into bed and heard, “You’re awful late,” from the other side.
SCOF WEST
a
by Alan Broyhill and Peter Taylor
double teamed photo essay
Club
Tarpon by Flip McCririck
In my youth I was a caddie in south Florida. There was an amazing amount of wildlife on the mangrove backed golf course. I soon learned there were tarpon in some of the ponds that connected to the ocean. Lots of other wild creatures as well. These inland lakes are almost always somehow connected to the sea. Florida is ancient coral, the marl is porous. The water is brackish, almost fresh, maybe 10% salt.
As my mother lived in the community and I was friends with many folks, they were not surprised to see me on the course with a fly rod rather than golf clubs. I would dress appropriately and go early or late. Usually late as there were less people on the course. Nobody seemed to care. No sneaking, no hiding a fly rod in my golf bag. The manicured banks made for easy casting. I would catch snappers and barracuda and the occasional tarpon. Watch for gators. After hurricane Andrew the tarpon were prolific.
Micro tarpon go ballistic when hooked, completely berserk. Even when targeting bigger fish the micro’s would be on it first. Kinda like trying to get to a big trout. Small fish are hungry. But the micro’s are the funnest as they are the hardest to get to hand, jumping 10 times and almost always shaking the hook. I felt ridiculous “bowing to the king” with these fish but my catch rate went up if I did it right. I fished these places well into adulthood. Freshwater poons!
caddie shack
OCTOBER 11-13
Wetumpka, AL
In a public harem known as Foxy’s Lounge, a fly angler walked in for a cup of ale. He explained to Baby, “I am surrounded by endless sorrow after my meditation by the Locust Fork River below Sand Mountain led me to a place my master never
Baby, a portly concubine using an iPhone as a fan, replied, “My grandfather blushed, noticing the man’s pole—a beautiful rod case adorned with intricate carp
An even more robust "dancer" flopped on the stage like a dead fish. When she grew tired, and no warrior anglers cared to watch her piscatorial movements, she lay on the table, flexing her arse muscles, merely paying lip service to the parlor’s dance detached Baby “I want you to deliver this Green Destiny rod, known in the west as the ‘Sage
Titavius was relaxing at the Golden China Buffet when Baby Mu strolled through the door, phone to her ear and rod case in hand. Her dishonor had brought her to him because he was Katt Williams to her Demi Moore. Te was surprised to see Mu with the rod. “How did you come to carry Shad Maclean’s rod, the Sage Excalibur? It glows green like Benjis and G13 broccoli. Surely he didn’t give it to you. He is one of the rare anglers worthy of carrying it.”
She popped a bubble of gum that smacked her nose and lips. “He asked me to bring it to you, but if you believe he is the only one worthy of casting it, then I’ll sell it on Facebook Marketplace for a bundle of Benjis to some schmuck willing to overpay.”
“Please, I know someone who might want it. Let me phone Sir Scott, Merchant of Waverly.” Te slurped lo mein from a box in a peculiar way. After finishing the noodles, he took the rod and led Mu to the bathroom, where she reluctantly complied.
“Yo, Merchant of Waverly, this woman brought me Shad’s Sage rod—the green destiny/Sage Excal. It is the finest glass I have ever held, and when I felt its cork, I became hard as a warrior angler.” Scott stood from his desk job and abruptly quit to drive to Gadsden to receive the rod from Sir Te.
Te, usually a custodian for the school system, also made enough from his side business to call himself the rod’s custodian. Scott laughed out loud and blew milk through his nose simultaneously. He would soon be on his way.
Sir Te told Mu that he thought maybe the warrior angler was trying to tell her something, like perhaps he was willing to stop fishing so much if she would be his wife.
Mu laughed, “That would make him a fool.”
“Go ahead, Governor, and unsheathe it from its rod holder,” Titavius said to Cola, a stout golfer who could also cast well, but was no warrior-angler like Shad Maclean.
“Wow, it is nine feet long and light as a feather. It feels sturdy enough to fight poon, but also delicate enough to stalk the Locust Fork.” Cola looked down at the emerald green rod, which shone back with a certain magical light. “A rod by itself is nothing, Te. It comes to life only through skilled manipulation,” Cola said gruffly. His true stead was a Spear skiff, and he envisioned using the green Excalibur glass rod on the flats of the Coosa.
Meanwhile, Baby Mu started hollering about the rod going to Cola for free, with the Merchant of Waverly on his way for the adventure of a lifetime—the green destiny Excalibur. Scott left his logistics business in Auburn for a life on the road. Roadside adventures were dangerous for men of his and Cola’s stature, best accomplished as single men. But this is how badly the merchant coveted the rod.
Baby Mu walked out to Cola’s truck and smashed a passenger window in the parking lot of Golden China with a cinder block. She absconded with the Excalibur,
fleeing the scene before the police arrived. She was unhappy with her man, Sir Te, and decided she would join the Alabama Women on the Fly. They were the most inclusive warrior-anglers in Alabama and would welcome her, given that she possessed the green Excal rod.
“She stole the rod,” Cola said to Sir Scott of Waverly.
“Good, the fox is out of her hole,” Shad said, referring to Baby Mu.
“Check Facebook Marketplace,” Sir Te suggested.
Shad had returned upon hearing from Cola that the rod had been stolen. Yet there was nothing on Facebook Marketplace. It was as if the rod had disappeared into the thin Sand Mountain air.
The men drove the cove roads and found Baby Mu. She had Hello Kitty pink stickers all over her Kia SUV, parked by the river. An older man with a Santa Clauslike white beard and a Veterans of Vietnam hat sat in a plaid chair, holding the glass rod. He couldn’t manipulate it, and the artistry was lost on him. The rod’s fly line was tangled in the canopy above him.
“Granddaddy thinks the pot leaf on my right butt cheek is a palm tree,” Baby Mu said, looking back at the men.
Shad reclaimed the rod from the old man by explaining his indigenous heritage. “My people were Sioux many years ago.”
“Yeah, my people were Cherokee,” the old man said.
“Why don’t you let me show you how to wield a rod of this status?” Shad suggested. The old man handed Shad the taut line and rod. Baby Mu leapt away from his side in a move that looked like she had been trained by the Wuhan martial arts league, but she was really just agile from pole dancing. Shad pointed the rod at the branch and freed the old man’s bug. “I want to teach you, Mu,” Shad said, hungry for the company of this particular lady of the night.
“I want the rod,” Cola said.
“Why do you want to teach me?” Baby Mu asked Shad.
“I don’t want this life anymore,” Shad confessed. “The fried chicken lunches are giving me severe hypertension, and the fish seem to mean less without a good woman by my side.” Shad stared hard at Baby Mu with wolf eyes. “I will give up my fishing for a life of marriage to you, Mu.”
Te interjected, “Brother, you can’t make a ho a housewife.”
Shad had never felt this way before. Mu said, “Man who stands on the toilet is high on pot, and I want to fish like my granddaddy,” from atop the branch she stood on so majestically.
“Baby, I only use stink bait,” her granddaddy said.
“Then that is all I will use,” Shad promised. He handed the rod to Cola. Cola cast the rod with a perfect sidearm flick, the bug landing lightly on the water's surface with minimal rings. A spotted bass inhaled it like a toilet bowl flush.
When Scott arrived, Cola and Hank were on the porch of headquarters. Hank played his banjo like a Chinese musician playing a metal harp, slow and twangy. Scott walked the many steps to the top of the porch—at least five. Out of breath, he said to Cola, “I seek the rod of destiny. Tell me I have not traveled all this way for nothing.”
“The rod is here, Merchant of Waverly,” Cola said calmly. He handed it to Sir Scott. “Please sell it in the store.” Cola’s face appeared solemn.
“Yes, Master Cola,” Scott said, disappointed in his life choices.
Shad and Baby Mu were down by the river, passing out like Buster who wanted to fish, both with red asses, and her with a palm tree or a pot leaf emblazoned green like the rod of destiny—the Sage Excalibur glass rod.
SHOP THE SCOF STORE
GO HEAD. AXE ME.
Prehistoric Beasts and Where to Find Them
A Conversation with Captain Matt Simpson, Gar Wizard
By JD Miller
Deep in the heart of the Texas marsh, dinosaurs still roam the Earth. They navigate the brackish creeks, ponds, backwaters and up the rivers of the Lone Star Gulf Coast— probably much in the same way they did over 100 million years ago—looking like something straight out of Jurassic Park. What they don’t look like, to most, is a viable target on the fly. But that’s exactly what Atractosteus spatula (a.k.a. alligator gar), mean to Captain Matt Simpson, or as I like to call him, the gar wizard. Armed with a TFO rod in one hand and a lasso in the other, Captain Matt tangles and wrangles with these marsh monsters from the early Cretaceous in modern day Texas waters.
I started following Captain Matt, who runs a fly and light tackle guide service on the Texas Gulf Coast, on the ‘gram a while back and became curious when I started seeing gar-gantuan (pun intended) fish in my feed caught by Matt or his clients. Everything about this endeavor, from the how to the where to the why, intrigued me. It eventually intrigued me to the point where I took the slide into Matt’s DMs and asked if I could pick his brain about fly fishing for gator gar. He was kind enough to indulge me and dished on the magic of chasing these prehistoric beasts on the fly and where to find them.
Q: Matt, thanks for doing this. For the readers who may not know, tell us what you do. How long have you been guiding? Where are you based out of? What are the primary species you chase?
A: I’ve run a fly fishing and light tackle guide service in the Galveston/Surfside area since 2019. The area I guide out of is awesome because the Texas Coast is such a special place and a diverse fishery. I also can get to Cocodrie, La., or South Padre Island, Texas, in the same amount of time, so I’m in a good spot geographically. As far as primary species we chase, I’d say that both alligator gar and redfish are the main targets depending on the time of year. Year-round, it’s redfish but February through October it’s alligator gar.
Q: When did you start targeting alligator gar? When did they become part of your guide program?
Q: What type of environment are you finding them in and how common are they?
A: I’ve been fishing since I was young, like ever since I could hold a rod. I remember catching gar in high school and thinking, like, man this is cool, but I’m kind of scared of that thing. How am I even going to hold it without getting slashed by its teeth? Back then I would just cut off my lure or try to shake them off. 2021 is when I really started targeting them on the fly. I’d dabbled a bit before that fishing for them with conventional gear. After I started fly fishing for them, I started showing some of my friends how awesome they are as a fly rod fish and they were shocked. They are very similar to arapaima, but you don’t have to spend 20k to go and fish for them.
A: I find them everywhere from the saltwater creeks and bayous, to way up the rivers where the water is completely fresh, and they are common in both areas. Although I would say that they are smaller and more frequent in the salt, and as you move inland they get fewer and fewer, but they get bigger—a lot bigger.
Q: How big are we talking?
Q: What’s considered a trophy gar?
A: YYou’re more likely to see the sevenplus footers upstream. Now there are some big ones like that in the saltwater, but they aren’t as common.
A: There’re very few people that are chasing alligator gar on the fly, so I would say the standards are different than what they would be in the conventional world. In the conventional world if you catch one over six feet then that’s a really good fish. On the fly, I would say a five-footer is a good fish. A five-footer takes a bit of work to get into and not a lot of people have caught that.
Q: JD Miller A: Capt. Matt Simpson
Q: What’s the biggest difference between finding gar versus finding reds?
Q: What makes them a badass fly rod fish? Why do you love them?
A: When looking for redfish, I’ll cover more water. When I’m looking for gar, I’m trying to find out where they are holed up. They like to congregate. They will find holes in the bayou or the river they are in, or even in the marsh they’re usually kind of in the same area. When I find an area with a good concentration of them, I will literally zigzag that section of water, versus redfish where I’ll literally cover miles and miles of water between time spent on the trolling motor and the poling platform.
A: The fact that you can sight fish for them. Their eats are heart-stopping. Insanely aggressive. You usually kind of dangle the fly right in front of their face and kind of hop it. They will sideswipe it or just gulp it in with so much force that it will literally make a sound in the water that is similar to the sound that a black drum will make, if you’ve ever heard that. And when you set the hook, you have to do it several times like you would to a tarpon because they have such bony mouths. And then the fight is just incredible. They don’t typically run super far, although you’ll have some that do, especially in shallower water. Typically, they will just bulldog you and try to wrap you up in logjams. They love to jump and when they do, they fully breach the water, even the big ones. You bow to them just like you do for tarpon. But the thing I love the most about them is that you land them with a lasso.
Q: Yes! I’ve seen some of your pictures with the lasso. Why do you use that?
A: They don’t really have a wrist on their tail you can grab hold of, they are too heavy to lift a lot of the time, obviously you can’t lip them and they will absolutely destroy a pair of fish grips when they go to thrashing, so it’s really the best way to land them in my opinion. And the use of the lasso is just Texan. It makes them an iconic Texas fish on fly.
Q: What type of conditions are ideal for chasing them?
Q: So, you’re saying they are still fish?
Q: Are they a spooky fish?
Q: Do they compare to any other fish that you’ve caught, as far as how they react and fight once you’ve hooked them? How long does it take to land one?
A: I’ll fish them no matter the conditions and no matter the wind, because usually in those places where you find them, you can get away from the wind. The biggest thing I’ve noticed is that the gar like to suspend more on cloudy days, which is ideal for sight-fishing and how we catch most of them, but it’s a double-edged sword because it’s also harder to see them until you are right on top of them. On sunny days you can see them better, but they are more likely to come up, roll, and then go straight back down out of sight. Some days, of course, they break both of those rules and do whatever they feel like.
A: Yes, some days you have to throw the textbook out the window.
A: It depends where they live and the type of pressure that’s on them. Some places they get a lot of pressure, especially from the bowfishing crowd. But if you can get away from those places and find unpressured fish, then you can get pretty close to them. Some places I’d call 20 feet a far shot.
A: Tarpon. Absolutely tarpon with the way they freak out when they are hooked. The only thing is that tarpon will run further into your backing. You might fight a gator gar longer because they aren’t going on those long runs and what’s crazy, too, is that gar breathe air, so during the course of a fight, if they get a gulp of air, they gain a lot of energy back. You’ll bring them to the boat several times before they are actually ready to be landed. I use straight 80lb mono as leader, so for a five-foot fish I’d say about five minutes or so, a six-foot fish, five to 10 minutes. I caught a sevenfooter that took me 25 minutes.
Q: Why do you think they aren’t as popular as some of the other species that you fish for?
Q: Let’s run through the gear. Rod weights, line and leader type, flies, et cetera.
A: I think it’s because they are intimidating. They are scary looking, and a lot goes into safely handling them. It’s a total rodeo handling them, and I don’t think a lot of people want to go through that on their day off when they are supposed to be relaxing. You’re going to get muddy and you’re going to smell like gar slime. I had a friend of mine get bit one time and a gar tooth broke off underneath his fingernail. So, it’s definitely more adrenaline-packed fly fishing and that’s not everyone’s cup of tea.
A: 10 to 12 weights, fast action. 9-10 weight reel with a beefy drag to stop the fish before it pulls you into a log jam. My favorite set-up is a 9ft 10 weight TFO Axiom II X paired with a 9-10 Redington Grande reel with Rio Flats Pro 10 weight line. I like to undersize my rod usually, so most people would probably want a 10 to 12 weight. With fly line, I like to go with full intermediate or intermediate tip to help get the fly down and hang at their face level. For leader, I go straight 80lb mono, six to eight feet long with a 15-20 lb hard mason class leader as a breakoff section, so you don’t lose a finger if your hand gets wrapped up. My favorite fly, I actually don’t have a name for yet. It’s similar to a redfish crack pattern, but it’s articulated, about six inches long. The hook is the most important part of the fly. You want a hook that’s beefy, something that’s not going to straighten out. I tie my flies on Gamakatsu SL12’s from 1/0 to 4/0. That being said, sometimes they will still straighten out SL12’s which is crazy because that’s usually what folks use to tie marlin flies. Oh, and I typically use white, chartreuse or black, because I’m typically fishing pretty muddy water and their eyesight isn’t that great.
Q: When I think of gar flies, I think of rope flies. What are your thoughts on rope flies?
A: Don’t use them. If you inadvertently break one off, often times their teeth are so tangled in there that the rope fly is stuck in there for life. That can lead to a slow painful death by starvation because they can’t open their mouth to feed. I would stay away from rope flies for sure.
Q: Talk me through the handling of the fish once it’s caught? Like what are the best practices for not losing any digits and safely releasing a healthy fish?
A: It’s smart to wear rubber gloves to help get a grip on the wrist of their tail a little bit and control them a little easier. Regular rubber gloves or even chainsaw gloves aren’t a bad idea. The biggest thing is getting them on the lasso. It’s tricky, but once the fish is close enough, you’ll have to feed your rod through the lasso and get that rope just behind its pectoral fins before tightening up on it. And be ready, because they might still have some fight in them once you slide the rope on. Once you have the lasso tight around it, you have decent control and you can handle them boatside or preferably, if you have a decent bank, you want to get them on the bank. When you get them on the bank, you usually have to sit on top of them because they thrash so violently. When they thrash like that, they are dangerous, obviously because of their sharp teeth, but also because they are so big, strong and bony. If they hit you with their body, it can do some damage. I like to get on top of them up near their head like you see people do on actual alligators on those reality shows. I will do it just like that and use some fish grips to pry its mouth open to retrieve your fly. Or you can get part of the lasso and loop it under their top jaw and pull it back to hold their mouth open to unhook them. They are a really tough fish. I like to keep them in the water as much as possible, it’s good practice to keep them wet. But they aren’t nearly as sensitive to being out of the water as other fish species are. They have lasted a long, long time on this earth for a reason.
Q: There’s something badass about a fish that can survive in a variety of different water types, from brackish water to freshwater rivers to mud holes, and you fly fish for them in all the above. Is there a difference between a gar you catch in saltwater versus one caught elsewhere (i.e. size, fight, etc.)?
A: Yeah, I’d say the ones in freshwater spend more time on the bottom and don’t suspend as much. The ones on the coast seem to suspend in the water column more than the fish do as you move inland, which obviously makes them much easier to fish. Like I mentioned above, there are more fish on the coast in the three- to five-foot range, and they seem to actively chase bait like mullet and menhaden versus most of your huge fish, like your world record fish, are going to come from further inland. Those big inland fish seem to like to sit on the bottom and let their food come to them and ambush it. They don’t suspend up in the water column nearly as much as the coastal fish. There are still plenty of seven-footers and some eight-footers in the salt though to keep you busy.
Q: Two-parter…what’s the biggest alligator gar you or a client have ever caught? And what’s the biggest alligator gar you’ve ever seen?
Q: Alligator gar are Native to Texas. What attributes about this fish make them undeniably Texan?
A: I put a client on a six-and-a-half footer in February of 2023, and for a while that was the biggest until I caught my sevenfooter. Eighty-four and one-half inches to be exact. I’m pretty sure if I wanted to submit it, it would be the world record for alligator gar on the fly. I’m not sure I want to submit it though, because I want to protect that spot. That was my absolute favorite catch on a fly I’ve ever had. In my lifetime, I’ve seen a few eight-footers but they are harder to come by. They grow upwards of nine feet, but I haven’t seen one that big.
A: I would say because they are tough as nails. They are 165 million years old. Living fossils. They’ve been through a lot, but they are still rowdy and full of piss and vinegar. If that ain’t Texan, then I don’t know what is.
Q: Why do you think they don’t get the respect that they deserve, not only as a native fish, but as a fly rod fish?
Q: What are the most important things to know about fly fishing for alligator gar before you go?
A: They have a historical stigma associated with them that they are detrimental to the bass population and are a dangerous fish to humans. That’s been shown to be largely untrue, yet the stigma still persists and that frustrates me. They are a native fish, an extremely long-lived fish, and a fish that not only deserves our respect, but also our protection.
A: You have got to have perseverance. Don’t get frustrated. It’s not easy fishing. Your hook-to-land ratio is not going to be the best. I probably land 1 out of every 5 fish I hook. Even doing everything right, sometimes they just don’t get hooked in the right spot. Also, Get the fish in quick and practice good, safe handling for you and the fish. Bring long shark-pliers and a lasso.
Q: What are your personal goals as it pertains to fly fishing for gar?
Q: We’ll wrap it up with a fun one…. If alligator gar listened to music, what genre are they jamming to?
A: I want to catch an 8-footer on fly. I’ve had one legit shot so far, but it didn’t happen. Shots at those monsters are few and far between, so you have to make them count. I just want to keep catching bigger ones. I want them to get more recognition and respect as a gamefish. More respect from anglers leads to more respect from wildlife agencies which leads to protection for the species.
A: Oh, definitely metal. They probably mess with something like Slayer, hell even some Slipknot. Something like that–they are definitely into metal.
LYDIA IS COOL. LYDIA WEARS SCOF MERCH.
BE LIKE LYDIA.
Climate Resilience Means
Fishing Resilience Means
Business Resilience
by Luke Bissett President AFFTA
The American Fly Fishing Trade Association (AFFTA) is the sole trade association for the fly fishing industry. With that position comes the responsibility to be at the forefront of issues affecting the businesses of fly fishing; everything from taxes, tariffs, trade, and yes, conservation. While AFFTA isn’t exclusively a conservation organization, it is undeniable that if our industry wants to continue to grow sustainably, we must be able to prioritize and address conservation issues because the consequence of turning a blind eye to consequences is inviting them to come knocking on the doors and windows of our businesses.
AFFTA knows that alongside the ever-present and ever-changing
photo by Ed Sozinho
challenges of business, we must continue to look forward, for ways to help our industry adapt to and mitigate for what is no longer just an existential environmental crisis. This realization led to an internal change within AFFTA that strategically weaves conservation into the fabric of the organization. AFFTA as a trade association is in a unique position to fight for the sustainability of our businesses while demanding our fisheries management practices address climate change. Our fishing businesses are not sustainable if the rapidly changing environment isn’t addressed in our fisheries management regimes.
All of our fisheries are being affected so, we are all in this together. No matter where you enjoy your days on the water, you can’t make a cast without seeing the effects of climate change. Whether you are on the front of a skiff in Louisiana casting at the orange glow of a floating redfish, mending upstream to keep your hopper on the grass line in a river, or keeping it together while you double haul to a daisy chain of silver kings, climate change is the fishing partner no one invited. There’s no way around it. Of the myriad serious threats United States fisheries face, the impacts of climate change on fish, and fishing, are the greatest and therefore, by direct connection, the greatest threat to our communities and businesses. Many of us got into this industry because of a passion that went beyond a Saturday on the water. The only way AFFTA knew to give back was to make it our 9 to 5. Climate doesn’t clock in and out for work the same way most of us work around the clock. Asking anglers to step up and take the lead on what we care about more than anyone is what makes the most sense.
AFFTA realized a leader was needed, so it started doing something about it by uniting the fly fishing culture: anglers, industry, and nonprofit stewards. AFFTA with the help of the AFFTA Fisheries Fund (AFF), guides from around the country, and engaged advocates released a first-ofits-kind blueprint named For Tomorrow’s Fish. Written by anglers, for anglers, For Tomorrow’s Fish outlines how without any doubt, our changing environment is warming ocean water temperatures, causing a general decrease in the abundance of our beloved game species, as well as changing the behaviors we as anglers are tapped into. Climate change is intensifying natural disasters, and erasing vital habitats, all of which, are changing angling opportunities, and threatening the communities built upon them. For Tomorrow’s Fish recognizes that these direct impacts on the beloved pastimes of more than 70 million Americans is the proverbial squeaky wheel that will proven impossible to ignore.
It is now impossible to advocate for the businesses of fly fishing without simultaneously addressing the fact that our fisheries are suffering greatly.
The For Tomorrow’s FIsh report was the blueprint, and it was just the beginning of a much larger effort led by AFFTA to create a campaign that in the long run creates the political will to address and mitigate Climate Change in the anglers who are seeing it and dealing with it in real time.
The campaign is a call to arms for anglers, brands, outfitters and guides, and not-for-profit organizations to work together to instill climate resiliency in our fisheries. To put it clearly, we’ve focused on the funding, policy, and proactive
management climate resiliency will require in order to establish sustainable fisheries, intact and functional habitats, and resilient communities. AFFTA has the unique perspective of looking at the economics of fly fishing and using that angle to implore our policy makers to do the right thing for the business of fly fishing. Economy is the driver not only of our businesses but also of those who represent us in our local, state and federal governments. AFFTA through this lens, will maintain the steady drumbeat of information and education.
If this all sounds like a pipe dream, there's a very real and historically supported reason for hope. The principal acts responsible for America’s fisheries management, including the Clean Water Act and the original MagnusonStevens Act, were the political will of the conservation-minded angler. Collectively, anglers have made history before, and they will again.
There’s just no way around it. The business of fly fishing is taking place in our natural places, so AFFTA believes climate resiliency in fisheries is climate resiliency for the future of our brands, partners, and supporters. Any angler knows a successful day on the water is about real-time problem-solving, and this is no different.
Just like the time of thinking of climate change and fishing as separate is over, the idea of recreation, business, and policy as siloed, must be left in the past, For Tomorrow’s Fish.
Fur and Feather Matinee
click to watch
Umpqua Signature Tier Daniel Roberts ties the Pop's Shad
Pro tip: Don't forget to peel your marabou off the stem! Grip it and rip it, baby.
Double Feature! another fly tying video by Sam Sumlin
by sam sumlin
photo
Outpost Report Number 2 –
Long
Hot Summer
by Dr. Professor Mike
I enjoy being in Belize during the transition from the dry season to the rainy season – late May into June. By the end of May, the roads are chalk dust and rainfed water tanks are running dangerously low, and a little putrid. Everyone looks to the sky in anticipation of the rains. Beginning in late May this year, clouds began to build, but the rains and lightning somehow seemed just beyond reach. It was damn frustrating watching a lightning storm at night that never seemed to pass close enough to bring relief or danger.
This year it was particularly brutal. Southern Belize, which geographically is labeled as having a tropical rainforest climate, was dry as a bone. Even the dry season in this part of the world produces occasional showers. But not this year. I have never, ever seen coconut palms collapse because their pith literally dried up. Mature cacao trees, a major source of income in southern Belize, simply turned brown and died. I’ve spent a lot of time in the tropics and never have I seen so many fires and haze, even in old growth tropical rainforests. How the hell do tropical rainforests burn? And creeks literally ran dry. The only bright spot were the mango trees, which somehow produced a bountiful harvest.
Around my island outpost, water temperatures on the flats exceeded 90 degrees, which was hotter than normal for May. While snorkeling, the water had a hazy sheen from the temperatures, and I suspect increased salinity near the surface where it was hottest. I kept
clearing my mask thinking it was fog, but alas, it wasn’t. It was akin to swimming in brine while wearing someone else’s prescription glasses. Coral certainly showed the effects of the temperatures. Bleaching and other diseases such as white band and black band were rampant. The differences in coral health compared with just last summer were astounding.
The fire coral was gone, dead. And it was hard to find any sizable stand of elkhorn without disease.
And the fish, where were the fish? I saw very few permit on the flats, and my anecdotal observations were confirmed by local guides who complained that it had been the worst season in years. I was told the flats had been empty for
weeks at a time, as in they saw no fish. The bonefish were still around, usually along the fore reef, where cooler water from the deep spilled into the shallows, but the flats were quiet. And the bonefish seemed pickier than normal. That could have been the result of bad casting, bad fly selection, or just bad luck, but everything seemed off because of the early season
hot water. At least I still had triggerfish, whose presence and disdain for my crab fly were consistent.
It was also a big year for sargassum weed. While guides like to target the edges of the weed because fish feed on the crabs and shrimp hiding inside, the flotillas eventually lodge against mangroves or the shoreline, sink, rot, and foul the adjacent water killing sea grass beds, and possibly even mangroves (in the longer term). It was a perfect storm of bad timing and bad weather. I felt bad for some, not all, of the visiting anglers who envisioned a different trip when they booked it a year ago.
HOW TO GYOTAKU
PRESENTED BY IKO PRINTS
UPSHIT CREEK
Folks imply they'd do all sorts of heinous acts for the chance to tug against a slab brown trout. Have you ever gotten electrocuted into a pile of fresh cow dung for one? It’s not a contest, but it's worth considering.
There's this one spring creek that runs through the foothills of rural Virginia that I hate: single hook artificials only, no booze, no wading, no fun. To abide by the unwritten rules of spot dropping whose relevance fades with every GIS app development and ill-cropped Instagram post, we'll just call it Shit Creek. Anyone who has sniffed I-81 can guess where I'm talking about; they've even got a fly shop named after it.
Shit Creek has been a real prick ever since the first day I trekked through its tick-littered shoreline. Its history is honest, at least—a string of private water that some years ago, the folks all locked arms and let vested fellas with phony bugs falling from their chest pockets loiter up and down the bank for the chance at a decent enough trout.
I got word from one of the area's Trout Unlimited reps that one of those tilty farmhouses still has a two-foot brook trout
in the freezer. The old man is holding onto it just to show up any uppity naysayers. I haven't seen it, and I haven't seen a single speck pulled up or down Shit Creek. But like the other fables of Bigfoot, non-crony politicians, and the “no additives” label on American Spirits, I choose to believe it.
That good faith deal was made a long time ago, and as time drips along, so do the hands and interests of said landowners. Some portions are under new tutelage and have yet to come out to say it, but I bet they have no interest in anything resembling foam drifters, sinking yarn, or lazily tied hackle. How do I figure? By the highway of cattle that they've let bathe, shit, and trample their portion of a stream that, at one time, was the spring creek capital of central Virginia trout seekers.
After all, what is the fight for conservation, if not a planned, constructive habitat rehabilitation 500 yards downstream from the hoof-eroded beef bath?
It was my first day with my first fly rod, a light-gray Fenwick something or other. And like any hopeful romantic, I had
built up quite the first outing in my head. Sure, fly fishing takes skill, experience, teeth cutting, and all that jargon. But what if I was just a natural? Or even fell face first into a steaming pile of beginner’s luck and hooked that two-foot ghost of a brook trout?
My cell phone coverage dropped as I dipped in and out of the nulls of sheep pens and church steeples. There was one other truck in the parking lot when I pulled in, and much to my delight, that angler was packing up to head out, "There are a few feeding under a big branch up the way," he suggested.
Decked in canvas everything, fanny pack filled to the brim with brand name bullshit and dreams, bone dry net dangling from my side, I waved my crisp, new seven-and-a-half feet of graphite every which way—my size 18 caddis shot, fluttered, and nose-dived like a soggy paper airplane behind the half dozen rising trout. I'd reload and fall to the litany of expected fly fishing frustrations: backcast caught in overgrown thistle, spooking half the fish in the batch, and finally adorning the overlaid branch with my contribution to the “leave a fly, take a fly” Flybrary log.
This would be the last moment before I jerked and snapped my beloved graphite. My maiden voyage would end with only one cast touching the water, and a sad one at that.
When you get to Shit Creek, you walk over a little bridge where they dump all the fingerlings. Downstream fishing is generally easier, but you have to get past
the Flybrary branch and, depending on the day, a herd or more cattle muddying the creek. But upstream, there's creekside cattle wire.
On another particularly unpleasant day, I found myself at Shit Creek after work. I took a left and fished a badly overgrown bank for a while, no luck. For stockers, these bastards are infamously
picky. Only enough space to roll cast, too much structure to get a good sinking drift, they've seen every fly in your box every day of their lives, and so on. After sweating through my overalls, I had given up and was looking forward to at least a summer sunset drive home.
So, along the bank, I stomped through high weeds and high cow pies. To
dodge one particularly impressive splat, I teetered a bit and instinctively reached out to break my fall. A barehanded gasp of a hot cow wire sent wobbles through my whole body. I shook and spazzed to the ground in a manner that would absolutely tickle the Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote. When I came to, I looked up to find a pie not two inches from my nose, fresh enough that the flies hadn't gotten to it.
I got up slowly, unsure if any other landmines were looming. I eased up but neglected to consider an aerial attack. The bottom rung of the cow wire spazzed through my neck and sent me back to the ground, this time in a hot tub of stinking cow relief.
That evening, I considered a lot of things. Are petri dish trout worth sitting on a bank stripped to your underwear? Are they worth stinking up your hatchback or eating window food for dinner? Are they worth the agony? I considered all of this, tummy spilling over the waistband of my under-trousers, flipping a foam beetle over the same four feet of water as the lightning bugs began to string their lights across Shit Creek's dusky sky.
In time, my twirling sparkle laced beetle was slurped into the belly of the creek. My line towed upstream toward the cowpie with a Carhartt bib pattern pressed on its top. I let him run for a bit; though noticeably slender, he ran proudly. He'd be no two-foot brookie; he'd be no two-foot anything. But when he came to hand, he was spotted nicely, and his blue hue reflected the early moon's glow. Sitting in my skivvies atop my muddled thistle throne, he served as a gentle reminder that it's still whate's in the creek that matters.
Everything else is just water weight.
F&%# A TROUT
by Nick Williams
“Trout are among those creatures who are one hell of a lot prettier than they need to be. They can get you to wondering about the hidden workings of reality.”
- John Gierach
Much has been made of trout in the last hundred years. Books have been written, paintings have been commissioned, crusades have been launched, and pilgrimages have been made in their honor. Something about the colorful little bug eaters and the places they inhabit invokes a strange fascination in certain subsets of the population. Every angler enjoys a day on the water, and will tell you all about his favorite pastime if you make the mistake of encouraging him. But trout chasers? Well, if you’ve had the misfortune of being stuck in conversation with one, you know what they’re like.
I think part of the nigh-religious fascination trout inspire in people is due to the fact that they’re uncommon. Diamonds, orchids, Picassos, really good whiskeys, and pretty women who are paying attention to you are fascinating largely because you don’t run across them too often. Eighty percent of Americans live east of the 98th meridian, and since most of us never leave our hometown that means we’re unlikely to ever see a wild rainbow trout in all of its native splendor. And we’re of course even less likely to go home to the motherland and sit beside a wild brown trout stream. Even brook trout are uncommon to most people, living as they mostly do at inconveniently high elevations in waters far upstream of farm and subdivision runoff.
Heaven is “way over yonder” for most folks. Even “heaven on earth” is usually a long drive or an even longer trip back the way you came down memory lane. That mountain top you sat on that one time with your fiancé. That beach on the magazine cover. Mee-maw’s back porch 40 years ago. The little ski resort town you said you were going back to “next year.”
The fascination with trout is also, I think, inseparable from American reverence for the west. If the west is God’s Country, trout are very much his fish. A desire to become a fly fisherman and chase trout is the angler’s equivalent of a Mississippi deer hunter’s dream to chase elk, or an east coast painter’s wish to one day paint the Rockies. The west is our Mecca, our Mount Kailash, our Brahma Sarovar.
While I’ve been thunderstruck by the sheer scale of the west myself, and hope to one day be struck again (hopefully with a rod in hand this time), I have misgivings about the adoration we feel for it and its fish.
A quip from a friend of mine neatly summarizes my feelings. “What’s wrong with the fish we got?” he asked rhetorically when we discussed trout stocking programs in the Southeast. What’s wrong, indeed, with the hundreds of fish we got? Tennessee’s Duck River contains more species of fish between its banks than all of Europe’s rivers put together. Alabama has more freshwater fish and mussel species in its waters than any other state. Yellowstone River, much praised by outdoor writers, is home to 11 native fish species. The humble Conecuh River, in contrast, is home to 84. But it’s hard to find a good magazine article on
"Diamonds, orchids, Picassos, really good whiskeys, and pretty women who are paying attention to you are fascinating largely because you don’t run across them too often."
Familiarity breeds contempt, and colors, as Lao Tzu says, blind the eye. To describe macrochirus’ gills as “blue” is as inspired as describing a sunset as “orange.” Photo by Nick Williams
the Conecuh, much less a book. You damn sure won’t find it on a list of “must visit” rivers in lifestyle fishing mags.
No, the Conecuh, as well as the Cahaba, the Flint, the Perdido, the Sucarnoochee, and the Escatawpa remain unsung by outdoor writers. As do their many little bug eaters, who are all happy to hit dainty dry flies and plenty colorful enough to “get you wondering about the hidden workings of reality.”
Humor me for a moment. Close your eyes, take a breath, and forget everything that you know about fish. Now picture, as clear as you can, a spawning bluegill. Take your time with it. Got a good image? Now tell me, what color are that fish’s gills? And don’t tell me they’re blue. Go back and look again. Are they cerulean? Indigo? Aquamarine? Turquois? Cyan? Sapphire? What about the bits that aren’t blue? Can you see the emerald and jade? What about the hues of burnt amber and butterscotch on its throat?
Lepomis macrochirus, or the mundane bluegill, is not just a pretty fish, it’s a transcendently beautiful one. The only reason we don’t compose haiku and write novels about them is because, wherever you are as you read this, you’re less than an hour away from a river or stream that they live in. Probably much less than that, if you know how to look for water. You’ve gotten used to them, just as you’ve probably gotten used to the way traffic lights look reflected in puddles at night, or the way bread smells, or the way your spouse calls your name. It’s a shame, because as common as these things are, they’re all profoundly strange and impossible to satisfactorily explain.
L. macrochirus is still one of the more modest Lepomids to inhabit my local waterways. I appreciate him for his relative size and ferocity compared to his cousins, but come spring I leave the “big water” creeks and rivers behind to wade the countless small streams that lace the Southeast. Most of the really beautiful fish live in places somewhat removed from power boats and lake houses. Too small to be eaten by the local characters sitting on buckets, and just a tiny bit too big and
Observe, for instance, the fish shown in the sidebar: Lepomis miniatus, or the redspotted sunfish. In defiance of biology textbooks that describe him as subsisting on “benthic macrofauna” (little crawly things that live in the muck), he hit an electric blue BoogleBug drifting along the edge of a weedline in a stream that flows, ignored by most people over the age of 14 or so, through the middle of Mobile, Ala. I’m not sure what pleases me
While some trout anglers may sneer at such an offering and insist that part of the magic of trout is their snobbishness when it comes to flies, some Lepomids can be quite tricky. Lepomis marginatus (the dollar sunfish), for example, is rather difficult to catch because of his size. Pictured is one of the largest I’ve ever caught.
He ate an honest-to-god trout fly, a size 16 Parachute Adams. These
Dollar sunfish won’t strip drag, but their psychedelic breeding plumage has been known to melt the minds of the feeble.
Photo by Nick Williams
diminutive little DMT flashes know that they’re small, and will spook instantly if they see you wading the clear, shallow creeks they usually inhabit. They’ll also scatter if they see or feel your fly line hit the water, same as a wary trout. Instead of relying on rippled water to hide your approach like you can on a mountain stream, stalking dollar sunfish requires lots of crab walking and hugging close to wax myrtle and swamp titi bushes that probably have a few red wasp nests hidden in them.
I fish for a lot of fish for a lot of reasons. I fish for catfish because I like to pretend that I can get out from under the military-industrial-agricultural complex by stocking my deep freezer with snowy white fillets. I fish for bass because they’re there and they jump. I recently started fishing for trout because I’d like to think I’m sophisticated, and I fish for crappie because deep down I know that I’m not. I fish for saltwater species a little, but only occasionally, because they remind me of what my local beaches used to be before we realized we could whore them out for a buck.
I fish for Lepomids, counterintuitively, because there’s no good reason. You can’t eat ‘em. You can’t brag about them. Heck, you really can’t even write stories about them for outdoor magazines. They’re one of the few little pleasures that haven’t been seized upon by marketers desperate to reduce every good thing to a lifestyle brand. Panfish are an afterthought at most to angling businesses, and I like that. The only reason to wake up at 5am to go wade a knee-deep blackwater creek in search of four- to six-inch green, redbreast, or spotted sunfish, is because you like the way the smell of
DEET mixes with the smell of coffee on a humid morning, and because you need something to keep your hands and mind busy while you listen to the Pine Warblers sing.
And because, as a wise old man once told me, “F—— a trout.”
One of the best-kept open secrets in the freshwater angling world, longear sunfish like this one can be found mere yards from civilization in suburban creeks throughout the Southeast.
Photo by Chris Smith
Red Spotted Sunfish. Photo by Chris Smith.
The Livery
Spicy River Margs
by Kendall Mayers
Ingredients:
Juice of 1 whole lime
Juice of ¼ orange
2 oz. silver tequila
1 oz. Cointreau or Triple Sec
1 oz. agave nectar
Soda water
Fresh jalapenos
Historically, there tends to be a lot of debate about when and where the margarita was actually created. This, of course, leads to debates about who created it. The most widely accepted opinion is that the margarita was created some time in the late 30’s or 40’s, somewhere between Tijuana and Ciudad Juarez. The rest, as they say, is history. The bastardized versions of the drink have been making people puke uncontrollably ever since. A large majority of the population would definitively assert they do not like tequila, but most of the time, it’s not really the tequila’s fault. (When you’ve taken 12 shots of tequila, it’s your fault, not the tequila’s) Most of the margaritas you can order in restaurants nowadays ignore the one non-negotiable ingredient: fresh lime juice. More often than not, this leads to a rotgut combination of ingredients that will turn your insides to jelly. People tend to overthink the drink, when in all reality, it boils down to four main ingredients: fresh lime juice, tequila, orange liqueur, and soda water. For our purposes, it’s going to be necessary to add just a touch of razzle dazzle to keep it interesting.
River margaritas are a thing of beauty. There is absolutely no good reason to go out on the river catching smallmouth and carp while drinking fresh margaritas on a Tuesday afternoon, but then again, I guess there are a million good reasons to go out and do such a thing. This margarita recipe spices things up a little bit, and can easily be made fresh, boatside. All of the ingredients can easily fit inside a
boat bag or a cooler, and you can easily make larger batches if you find yourself in a situation that would require such measures.
Mixing the Drink:
1. Mix juice of 1 lime, juice of ¼ orange, a dash of tajin seasoning, and jalapeno slices in a cocktail shaker/random container/old beer can. Muddle together. For those of you who are not good with fractions, ¼ of an orange means to cut it in half twice, and then squeeze the juice of that piece. For those of you who don’t know what “muddle” means, just mush it all together real good with the handle end of a screwdriver.
2. Add 2 oz. tequila, 1 oz. Cointreau or Triple Sec, 1 oz. agave nectar, and a handful of ice to the shaker. Shake well with ice. This step is absolutely necessary.
3. Use agave nectar to coat the rim of your preferred drinking apparatus, and dip the coatedrim into the Tajin seasoning.
4. Pour margarita into coated glass over fresh ice, and top with soda water.
Note: For our more tender-tongued amigos, feel free to make the margarita without jalapenos or Tajin. A regular salt rim will work just fine. If you don’t use the jalapenos, put them on a saltine cracker with some potted meat from the nearest gas station and float home to glory.
Tea Time With Johnny
By Scott Stevenson, Merchant of Waverly Illustration by Paul Puckett
Gonna hop on my scooter and go down to the store
The Back Page
Taking a 49 divine day vacation
From reality and all else in between Gonna transmigrate to my destination Far beyond time in an eternal dream
Those lines in “Just Let Go” from 2014’s Metamodern Sounds in Country Music are what I immediately thought when I first heard “Scooter Blues” from Sturgill’s latest: Passage Du Desir. Sturgill, I mean Johnny, was on a 49’er getting totally lost and immersed somewhere far from home. And that is what Sturgill’s, I mean Johnny’s, music does for me. He serves up a universe to analyze, and lots of space to search for all the layers and meanings. Sturgill has said he was going to put out five albums and call it quits, so most folks thought it was over after he released The Ballad of Dood & Juanita in 2021. I am guessing that is why he released the latest under a moniker he got from a doorman back in Kentucky during his younger days. It is his loophole to continue. I also think he has a sense of honor about things, and probably never expected to still want to put out music eleven years after releasing High Top Mountain back in 2013. So if I have to buy albums from this Johnny Blue Skies to get more from Sturgill then I am totally on board.
I suppose I should write a breakdown of each song on the new one and properly review it. But I’ll spare you all that. Johnny gives us a lot of variety and sounds on this one. You get hints from all of his albums on Passage Du Desir.
When people say ‘are you him?’ I'll say ‘not anymore’
With the wind in my hair I'm gonna scooter my blues away
My favorite track off the new one is “Mint Tea” and judging by the streaming numbers I am not in the minority on this opinion. I have really backed off drinking the last couple years. I guess it's an age thing. Plus I like sleeping soundly. My wife doesn’t drink at all, so we find ourselves brewing up some tea every night as our nightcap. That's why this one hits close to home, literally, not to mention sonically. It is just magical. The drums and the bass really are standouts on this track.
“One For the Road” is the perfect album closer. I usually love long tracks and this one gets a bit spacy and jammy as it gets to the end while making the listener longing for more and more.
Laur Joemets is back playing with Johnny and I couldn’t be more excited about it. Last time I saw Laur he was playing with Drivin N Cryin and doing a damn fine job. But he belongs with Sturgill and crew. I first saw Sturgill on his High Top Mountain tour. Pretty sure there was no Laur. Just Sturgill, his band and 12 of us in the crowd. About a year later, on the Metamodern tour, I saw him play to a packed house in the same venue but this time he had Laur. Laur is as good as it gets on a Telecaster.
So here’s to Johnny and hopefully many more releases to come. The music world needs someone as diverse and interesting as Johnny Blue Skies. Johnny Blue Skies. That is something I am going to have to get used to saying.
