SCOF - Spring 2021 - Issue no.39

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S.C.O.F ISSUE NO. 39

southern culture

SCOF

MAG

STILL FREE

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Their survival is our angling future. Wild juvenile steelhead jockey for position in Washington State’s Elwha River, which saw the removal of two dams in 2014—part of the largest dam removal project in history. JOHN MCMILLAN © 2021 Patagonia, Inc.

It’s All Home Water.

Fishing Isn’t Free Wild fish and clean water come with a price—activism.

We pay it forward during river cleanups and dam protests. We kick in for conservation, we keep fish wet and we vote for our home water. We organize, show up and raise our voices. We invest in a planet where it will always be possible to experience a wild, beautiful thing.

We Stand for the Waters We Stand In

SCOF spring Fluffer

Photo: Indian River Lagoon, Florida - March 2021, Steve Seinberg

Photo: Alabama, April 2021, Dave Fason

Photo: Watauga River, TN - May 2021, David Grossman

Photo: Indian River Lagoon, Florida - April 2021, Steve Seinberg

8 scof spring fluffer

24 a letter from dave .david

grossman

28

haiku

92

fur and feather matinee

departments

.lindsey

grossman

.flatwing

.brita fordice

96

gas staion gourmet

.deep float

106 bench .nacho

press

fly .robbie powell

144 stratergizing .floatant

vs desiccant: the dry fly fight of the century

160 the

Photo: Steve Seinberg

.paul

back page

puckett and mike benson

32

vol.I - the book of taunts

by jason tucker

40

shad in motion

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chapter II:

by jason tucker

chapter I: david, house karczynski

features

by david grossman photos: steve seinberg

70

alex, house cerveniak

black caddis and ether dreams by david grossman

100 chapter

III:

david, house grossman

by jason tucker

118 chapter

\

IV: thomas, house hazelton

by jason tucker

124 red by

rum

dave fason

148 chapter

V:

jason, house tucker

by jason tucker

no. 39

SENSE

NEW

Shown with Sage ESN Reel

Greater control of fine euro nymphing leaders, tippet and flies.

H a n d c ra ft e d i n t h e U S A

EURO NYMPHING / MEDIUM ACTION

sageflyfish.com

s.c.o.f spring 2021

issue no. 39

scratch and sniff editor co-publisher:

David Grossman creative director co-publisher:

Steve Seinberg

contributors: Dave Fason Jason Tucker Robbie Powell Brita Fordice Deep Float Lindsey Grossman Hank Hershey Knox Campbell Paul Puckett Mike Bens

copy editor: Skynet copy editor emeritus: Lindsey Grossman ombudsman: Rand Harcz general inquiries and submissions: info@southerncultureonthefly.com advertising information: info@southerncultureonthefly.com

cover image: SCOF Sticker Book

www.southerncultureonthefly.com 20

all content and images © 2021 Southern Culture on the Fly

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

southern culture

Photo: Steve Seinberg

Through powerful 1980’s digital scent technology we at SCOF are happy to say we have added a whole new sensual arena to your SCOF reading experience, the sense of smell.

You will find these scratch and sniff emblems throughout this issue. Make sure you scratch each one on your computer or phone to smell what we were smelling as we experienced the content ourselves. If you’re not getting any scents you might have to scratch harder. From spring wild flowers to foul body odor, this issue will tickle your olfactories in new wild and wonderful ways. So please take advantage of this multi-sensory experience this issue has to offer in this radically dated way.

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A letter from Dave, the editor...

Spring 2021 As we begin to unclench our collective buttholes and make the first steps toward venturing back out into the world, I for one am rubbing my hands together in anticipation, my evil laugh hauntingly bouncing off the walls of my prison cell house.

A weeklong road trip will take me in a loop from the Appalachians, to the Florida Keys, onward to the Ozarks, and back home again with plenty of friends to see and gas station toilets to take real gas station roller food dumps in along the way.

I also somehow conned my family into spending all of December in the Keys, with my boat tied up in the canal that will be my rented backyard. I’ve got a few other ideas I'm kicking the tires on that include multi-day smallmouth floats, late evening sulfurs, and flooded grass filled with redfish. Denying myself of these things for a whole year seems to have pent up at least a decades’ worth of desire.

remembered that party I went to in your backyard. That was fun, right?

Your yard was different than my yard.

Not better or worse, just different. I need different. I’m going to come to your backyard very soon. I won’t stay forever, but I might stay awhile. I’m gonna jump on your trampoline, take a nap in your chaise lounger, and I’m definitely going to see what a hot dog tastes like off your grill. Don’t be unsettled by my presence outside your window—I’m a benevolent interloper. In fact I fully invite you to play in my backyard while I’m not around. The Slip ‘N Slide is always up and running. I may be bored with my view, but for you, it’s a whole different view. A whole weird new place to play. I also think we should go ahead and agree neither of us should shit in each other’s backyard.

I know we’ve got a lot of time to make up for, but mutually assured bowel destruction isn’t the right way to go.

I have seen enough of my backyard.

My backyard is fine. Better than fine really, it’s very nice. There are things for me to do, and I don’t have to walk very far in my yard to do them. I’ve been doing them all year. I’ve been wandering around my yard, mostly by myself, occasionally with my one clean friend, doing all the things in my yard. We covered every corner of it, even behind the shed where it got a little weird. But, this spring I

So there you have it. We’re all going to want to get out of the house in the near future. Mixing the greening of spring with the incremental opening of our society is sure to be both intoxicating and exhilarating, like a baby's arm-worth of cocaine to our collective domes. But we have to remember with copious amounts of drugs, comes very little responsibility.

Just joking. Don’t do drugs kids.

Happy spring!

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

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NO. 1 FALL 2011

NO. 2 WINTER 2012

NO. 3 SPRING 2012

NO. 4 SUMMER 2012

NO. 5 FALL 2012

NO. 12 SUMMER 2014

NO. 13 FALL 2014

NO. 14 WINTER 2015

NO. 15 SPRING 2015

NO. 22 WINTER 2017

NO. 23 SPRING 2017

NO. 24 SUMMER 2017

NO. 25 FALL 2017

NO. 32 SUMMER 2019

NO. 33 FALL 2019

NO. 34 WINTER 2020

NO. 35 SPRING 2020

ve A FUN Summer southernHaculture

S.C.O.F issue no. 12

summer 2014

we’re better than them

S.C.O.F

magazine

still free

NO. 11 SPRING 2014 S.C.O.F issue no. 21

Dance Poon...Dance Topwater Timing Totalitarianism Hardly, Strictly Musky Roadside Attractions Fishing the Proper Popper-Dropper

Disco Shrimp Gangsters of the Pond Von Beard Chronicles Linwood Blue Crab ...and more

fall 2016

olde time fudge shoppe

THE

ReJiggering

SCOF

MAG

STILL FREE

southern culture

NO. 21 FALL 2016

NO. 31 SPRING 2019 26

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

Everything that Matters

NO. 6 WINTER 2013

NO. 7 SPRING 2013

NO. 8 SUMMER 2013

NO. 9 FALL 2013

NO. 10 WINTER 2014

NO. 16 SUMMER 2015

NO. 17 FALL 2015

NO. 18 WINTER 2016

NO. 19 SPRING 2016

NO. 20 SUMMER 2016

NO. 26 WINTER 2018

NO. 27 SPRING 2018

NO. 28 SUMMER 2018

NO. 29 FALL 2018

NO. 30 WINTER 2019

NO. 36 SUMMER 2020

NO. 37 FALL 2020

NO. 38 WINTER 2021 S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

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Haiku

with Lindsey Grossman

When will you be home?

You said 5, and now it's 10.

Just sleep on the couch.

CRUSH VARIABLES. Conditions in saltwater environments can slide sideways in seconds. Walloping wind and cloud cover pack the potential to hinder the performance of even the most experienced tropical angler. When favor’s stacked in nature’s corner, level the playing field with fishing tools forged to conquer these, and other common variables.

Rolled with our most advanced compound taper construction to date, NRX+ S provides the power, line speed, and loop stability expected from modern fast-action rods, without compromising “feel” and finesse for short shots when clouds turn the lights down. NRX+ empowers anglers with confidence-boosting control in less-than-ideal situations.

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Volume

1

For millennia it has been customary for men and women going to war to taunt their enemies before battle, and their enemies would taunt them in reply. Sadly, this rich tradition has faded in the modern era. Now, a small but growing cadre of fly anglers are bringing back this proud custom. These are their stories.

Chapter

1

In the year 2020, in the third month, on the seventeenth day of the month, then it was that David of the House of Karczynski, from the county of Kalkaska, in the land of Michigan, went to the river to seek his adversary the brown trout. Upon arriving at the river, he lifted up his voice and, raising his rod to the sky, he did taunt the battle lines of the trout.

“O Trutta, of the House of Salmo, I am coming to you this day with flies and rod to draw you up from these waters! So why should you refuse my flies? Come out and let us do battle so that we may see who is the better. Let your gods and my gods this day cast lots; let them examine the leaves and the currents, and see whose omens shall prevail. What bank will you hide under, or what fallen tree will cover you that you should not see my face? Come out to me and take this hook, or else I call you cowards, eggs still stuck to gravel, parr to be eaten by bass, whose heads are cleaved by herons. May the ravens pick out my eyes and devour my liver if this day I do not make you swim sideways upon the surface of the waters that I might plainly see your spots. I, David, son of Stanislav, of the house Karczynski, do call you to battle this day.”

The trout, having heard this challenge, left his bank and swam out to meet David. Pausing behind a rock, he raised his snout to the surface, and this was his reply.

“O David of the House Karczynski, who are you and why are you here? Has your mother become so lame that she can no longer close her gate? And now you come to me like one of the empty-headed men who quarrel in the public square for crumbs of bread. Will you put your face into the waters like a merganser that you might see me? You would choke! Do you have the tail of an otter that you might part the waters and find me? I would slap you with my tail. Return to your place and leave me, for I have heard that your mother has grown cold. Indeed the kingfisher says she is attended by men not your father, if indeed you know who he is. Take your rod and your hooks and go, or else I shall come out and show you a thing or two.”

But David did not consent to depart from him. Casting his fly, he induced the Trout to take it, and though the Trout did battle fiercely and gamely, but David did bring him to hand. Then David, taking pity upon the Trout, for he did fight well, returned him to the waters that he may swim free, and did retire from those waters until a further time.

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S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

IT TAKES ONLY ONE SMALL CHANGE TO CATCH MORE FISH.

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By David Grossman Photos: Steve Seinberg

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S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

Shad never stand still. They

dip, dart, skitter, daisychain, jump, flow, but they never stop. If you see a shad not in motion, that shad is dead. You will never see a singular shad. There are either a thousand or none at all.

Their communal life in motion reaches its crescendo in the spring as they seek warm hospitable enough water to deposit their futures into. As they gather in their spring numbers moving up river, down river, and around the mud banks, they create a current of shad that runs parallel to the overriding water current until it doesn’t. And the underwater current of shad breaks off and goes in another seemingly random path manipulated by a cost/benefit directional analysis we were never meant to understand. This current of shad does act like a water current in that it starts to pull all things to it.

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It starts with a few curious souls, a white bass, maybe a smallmouth.

These first few explorers are merely the pebbles tumbling down the slope foreshadowing the avalanche. By the time the dogwoods are on full floral display, the river has all the inhabitants of the warm underwater environment swimming in and out of it, guzzling shad with every pass. The spawning of hybrids, stripers, gar, bass, and carp intersect with feasting, and at that intersection exits excess not seen since the roaring banquet halls of the vikings. We as fisherman are left aghast standing on a bank or a boat and watching it all go down at our feet.

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You can get hypnotized by staring at this shad current within the water, usually being snapped out of it by a larger plop of an aquatic predator. Your first thought should be, “Fornicating or feasting?” Either way, an opportunity lies in that direction. Fish that are fornicating often have friends that are feasting, like some sort of swingers party catered by the shad. The usual rule of, “let ‘em spawn” is thrown out the window with these kinds of impulses in the heavy spring air. “Cast, strip, catch” is the only thought now.

Encounters are as numerous as they are varied, all the while the river of shad never stops.

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Photo: David Grossman

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Until it does. This level of motion is ultimately unsustainable. All things must rest. The shad disappeared as quickly as they appeared, and with them the swarming hordes of predators. Bleary eyed and despondent, I show up one more time. I’m not expecting much. It seemed to be tailing off the last time I was here and the calendar is unflinching. Still, without knowing for myself it was over, the doubts of days left on the table will haunt me until next spring. I check every nook, and most of the crannies. The shad are spent and so am I.

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

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Photo: Todd Field

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Chapter

11

In time, Alex, of the House of Cerveniak, did sally forth in the spring of the year that he might seek the bluegill. And he approached a body of water that he might cast his fly, the work of his own hands. Then the bluegills came forth that they might see what his business was there, for every bluegill is constable and councilman wherever he resides. When Alex approached the waters they arrayed themselves against him and spoke “Who are you, and why are you here?”

And Alex replied to them “I am Alex, of the house of Cerveniak. It is the season of Aster. Communion sacrifices to Astarte are incumbent upon me, and so I have come to seek you, the bluegill, that I may offer you up to Astarte that she may grant my garden to grow, and that I may feed my young children.”

But the bluegills replied “What have we to do with you, and who is your goddess Astarte that we must offer ourselves up that your young children may take their sup?” And they did not consent to take his flies.

But Alex was a great magician, and he cast spells upon his flies that he might confuse the bluegills so that they must fall to him, and many began to take his flies. With that they began to cry out to their king, Macrochirus, that he might deliver them from the hand of Alex of Cerveniak.

Macrochirus now heard their outcries, and he left his mat of weeds and swam out to meet Alex. And approaching him he lifted up his voice. “O Alex, of the house of Cerveniak, why have you come here, and why do you trouble my people that they cry out to me?”

With that Alex replied “It is not to these little ones that I have come, but it is to you, O Macrochirus, that I have come, that I may offer sacrifices to my goddess Astarte, that my garden may grow and I might feed my young children.”

And Macrochirus answered him “The servants of Ishtar have become many these days, and many are the men wishing to offer the flesh of my children to Ish-shah. So why should I come out to you? The bass and the pike seek me out—and yet I am not afraid. If you were to pick me up, I would pierce your palm with my fin. So why should I fear you? Are there no perch left in the lakes that you must disturb my people? Have you eaten all the smelts that now you must come to my people for them to be consumed? Your young ones have gone astray; and due to your idleness your garden lies untilled, and must my people fill your empty table also?”

Now Alex was greatly displeased with the words of Machrochirus, and he cast even greater spells upon his flies, and he worked great magic in that day so that even Macrochirus was fooled by his flies. And Macrochirus turned sideways that he might turn away from the fly, but he was hooked, and presently Alex brought him to hand.

But seeing Macrochirus, Alex was moved with pity, and he did lift up his proverbial utterance. “This day I have seen you Macrochirus, and this day I have touched your scales. For you are the most pleasant of fishes, and your scales are the most iridescent of those who swim with fins.” With that he let Macrochirus go, and taking the fishes he had, he went to his home and took communion with Astarte. And his garden did grow luxuriantly, and his young children were fed.

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Black Caddis And Ether Dreams

By David Grossman

Photos: David Grossman and Knox Campbell

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This black caddis hatch has become the proverbial popcorn husk stuck behind my editorial molar. Every year I insert into the edit plan, and every year I am asked, “Why do you even bother?” This year, I no longer have an answer.

If you’re not familiar with the black caddis hatch on the Watauga River in East Tennessee, then you must not be from ‘round here. The hatch has the biggest bugs the tailwaters see, in numbers that cover the water with clumsily fluttering size 12 wings. Every fish in the river knows it’s happening and RSVPs to the party well ahead of time. Brown trout not seen during bankers’ hours lazily chase caddis across the surface in broad daylight for all to see. Fish that you fool will often regurgitate caddis from the swollen gullets as if your boat was an Uber ride on a Saturday night in any major city in the world. At least that’s the way it’s neatly assembled, packaged, and sold by every guide service within a hundred miles. It’s not the guide's fault though, because that’s the way it’s talked about by every person who's ever experienced exactly the right day amidst it.

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Like most things we build up in the most hopeful corners of our minds, it rarely lives up the billing we’ve given it. Predicting the right caddis day on the Watauga is like trying to grab water out of the river with your hand. Variables of generation schedules, spring weather patterns, available days, and solid caddis intelligence must all align at the exact right moment like some sort of Davinci Code fishing puzzle for the thing to happen right. You’ll line up two or three and the others will rotate farther away. You go chasing those and they’ll change the generation. It’s a constant mindfuck only made worse by the always ticking clock in your head letting you know that Mother’s Day is just around the corner and the end is nigh. What’s worse than this anxious monthlong torture? When you wrangle all the elements

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of time and space into their respective slots and you find yourself on the river—the right flows, sun on your cheek, and bugs in your teeth—the fucking fish don’t eat them. Or they eat sulfurs.

I’ve experienced all of this firsthand over the last couple decades. But every once in awhile, like once every four or five years, it’s as good as everybody says it is.

Pure euphoria in a tidy eight-hour float. It really is as good as fishing for trout can possibly be anywhere. I don’t like describing fishing in sexual terms as I find it to be crass, so let’s just say there have been days I have fallen out of the boat into a blubbering heap on the takeout ramp and cried. Actually I wailed like a mother who had lost a child. But these were wails of pure fishing titillation and release.

When it’s good, it’s the best.

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This single-A batting average nature of this hatch is conveniently glossed over in the tales of spring caddis and Tennessee trout. I can no longer play this game with the river gods. This is my caddis story. You are reading it right now. Tomorrow I will go, with two of the fishiest people I know, and try to fill these pages with the pictures of engorged trout and the black caddis on the tip of everyone's tongue. I heard they were all over my buddy’s boat two days ago, but either way, this is it. No more reserved editorial slots for this hatch. I will cast off my Trichoptera shackles and live the rest of my life free of this infernal hatch. Unless it’s good tomorrow. I hope it’s going to be good. I think it’ll be good. I bet it’s going to be really good.

Epilogue: While the fishing was fair to good, none of these pictures have any black caddis in them. We missed it again. Lucky for us, May sulfurs on Tennessee tailwaters rarely disappoint. I would like to thank my friends Rand and Knox for letting me row them all day, while netting all their fish and taking pictures of the good ones. Thanks fellas, that was swell.

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SCOF Stickers as easy as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, pie. Step 1. Click

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FIND A SHOW | T I C K ETS ON SAL E NOW

FLYFILMTOUR.COM It’s Time For A Long Awaited Reunion. The time has finally come to reunite - in person!

Well, sort of: We’re putting our 2021 film in the hands of trusted affiliate and independent promoters who are hosting screenings this spring, summer and fall. So if you missed the Virtual Event, or just want to see it again, you’re in luck!

Join the F3T for unforgettable storytelling, camaraderie, premium giveaways and more as we aim to inspire, feed your fishing addiction and build awareness for conservation efforts around the world, so join our community of like-minded anglers to celebrate 15 years of the largest fly fishing film event of its kind.

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ON A SEMI-REGULAR BASIS, SCOF’S OWN GAS STATION GOURMET WILL PROVIDE REVIEWS ON FOOD, DRINKS, SNACKS, AND VICES AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE AT GAS STATIONS ACROSS THE COUNTRY.

Gas Station Gourmet Presents: Hot Dogs Are hot dogs sandwiches?

This is perhaps the greatest unanswered philosophical question in the history of human thought.

Unfortunately, we here at SCOF are woefully unequipped to provide any clarity or definitive answers to that important question. We’re sure you are disappointed. If you’re a regular reader, that might be a familiar feeling at this point.

and the whirlpool Charybdis. It stands to reason that if sausages are real, maybe Homer’s monsters are too? We may never know.

Of course, those sausages of antiquity likely bear some resemblance to modern hot dogs, but it wasn’t until 1487 that the hot dog, or frankfurter, as we know it was invented in Frankfurt, Germany…at least that’s one version of events. Another claims that hot dogs, known as wieners, were invented around the same time in Vienna (Wien), Austria.

That being said, what we can do Think about that: five years before is take a completely unnecessary Christopher Columbus even set deep dive into the world of gas station hot dogs: Do we love them? sail for the new world, the old world was enjoying a savory snack Should you? Are they actually that may or may not have been made of people? Let’s start with considered a sandwich—and the history of hot dogs, a little bit fighting over its obscure origins. about how to pick the best one, and finish by deciding whether or not gas station hot dogs should be According to the National Sausage and Hot Dog Council, 1893 was an in your snacking rotation. unbelievably important year in the history of hot dogs. It was in that Hot Dog History year that they became the snacking standard at baseball parks. Chris Did you know that sausages in some form have been around since Von de Ahe, a St. Louis bar owner, the 9th Century B.C. and were even is believed to have started that tradition, since he also owned the mentioned in Homer’s Odyssey?

St. Louis Browns Major League That’s pretty sweet, because Baseball franchise. Also, all of the Homer also wrote about the lotus eaters, the six-headed beast Scylla, words in this paragraph are true.

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The Choice is Yours We’ve all encountered the hot dog roller in gas stations. Sometimes it’s chock-full of fresh hot dogs, warm and juicy, ready to be topped with your favorite sides.

Other times, however, the roller is covered in non-hot-dog foods such as taquitos, egg rolls, pizza rolls, and some strange mystery meats that look more like turds than anything edible. How do you know which hot dog to pick?

The first tip here is to use common sense. Do the hot dogs look like they’ve spent the past few decades laying out in the sun without sunscreen? Avoid these.

Do they appear somewhat moist and possibly cold? Also avoid these. No one wants a cold, moist hot dog.

No? Because I have, dear reader, and let me tell you that the stuff you will witness near the hot dog roller will chill your spine. It’s always a great idea to come early and get the best dogs and buns.

You won’t regret it.

Are Gas Station Hot Dogs Healthy?

Of course not. Not even a little bit.

How Much for a Dog? In the grand scheme of things, hot dogs are relatively inexpensive, and you will get a good bang for your buck.

Final Verdict: Gas Station GoTo™

Look, we understand hot dogs in general aren’t for everyone. But they should be! They’re a delicious The second tip, and this is important, is to get to a gas station snack that won’t break the bank.

You just need to make sure you before the lunch rush if you really want the premium dogs. Have you pick the right one, or else you ever stood around in a gas station might be tasting someone else’s from 11-1 on a weekday, watching boogers. what all the people buy for lunch?

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111

So David sojourned to the South to the land of Florida for he heard that its waters fairly teem with Tarpon.

At the ascending of the dawn, they launched their boat and made their way to the center of the lagoon that David might taunt the Tarpon, the mightiest of fishes that follow the shore, and lifting up his voice he said: “Let all the fishes of this lagoon swim forth and hear my voice. Come out to me and take counsel, for I have heard you are ruled by a mighty king, but that he is an evil tyrant, and that if ever you swim forth he harries you from all sides, and if you hide in the mangroves he follows you. Show me your King, and I will harry him, and amongst the mangroves I shall pursue him.

Show me your king that I may catch him, and then I shall rule over the fishes of the mangroves, and to me you must do obeisance!”

But the fishes of the lagoon did not come out to him, nor did they lead David to their king, for they were afraid of the Tarpon and of David.

But hearing this commotion the Tarpon themselves came out to meet him, and Megalops himself swam forth with his courtiers and grandees, and arraying themselves before him they waited for him to speak.

Upon seeing Megalops, his courtiers and his grandees, David of Grossman lifted up his voice in taunt of the Tarpon, and upon Megalops he called down evil.

“O Megalops, King of the Fishes who follow the Coast, I have heard of your might, and your size, your great wisdom and strength, that you fear neither fish nor man. And now I propose a contest between us this day. Swim to and fro before me and I will trick you with my flies. You will fight with your strength and your powerful leaps, and I will fight you with my strong right arm and the power in my legs, that I may lift you from the waters, and you will bow to me.”

And the Grandees and Courtiers of Megalops cried out “Let the man be silent, and let Megalops speak!”

With that Megalops replied to David, “O David of the House of Grossman, I have heard your words and your taunts this day. Why have you left the land of your forefathers, and why do you come here to seek me? For you speak as a man addled by the apothecaries, and as one whose voice is made coarse by incense. You heard, did you, that I am the mightiest of fishes that swim the coast, and so did you not fear to seek me? I have not come to bother you in your land, so why must I bow to you? Is it not so that when I engage with you, and I show myself above the waves that you might see my silver armor—for it is the finest in the sea—it is you that must bow to me? And now let the sun not reach noon if you will not bow before me seven times!”

Now this word was displeasing to David, and in great rage he began casting his flies. With that, Megalops took his fly and, turning toward David, he showed himself above the waves that David might see his silver armor, and Megalops threw his fly back at him so that struck David was in the cheek, and the blood ran into his beard. With even greater rage David again cast his fly, and again Megalops took it, and again he showed himself above the waters that David might see his silver armor, and again David would not bow to Megalops. This time Megalops took the fly, and turning from him, he parted the line and left David staring at the surface of the waters.

Turning back Megalops spoke to him, “David, why do you stand there staring at the waters with your mouth agape like a fool in the circus? Have I not told you, and is it not so that before the sun hits noon you must bow to me seven times?”

Then David took counsel with his boatman and his boatman told him, “If Megalops had come to you in your land, he would have to do your bidding, but it is you that have come to him. So now take counsel, and if it pleases you, when Megalops shows himself above the waters, then bow down to him, and see if you do not prevail.”

Then David again cast his fly, and again Megalops took it and began to engage with him. This time, when Megalops showed himself above the waters that David might see his silver armor, then David did bow to him, and Megalops was unable to throw the fly. Then Megalops showed himself again, and again David did obeisance to him, and Megalops was held fast by the hook. Five more times did Megalops leap above the waters, and five more times did David bow to him so that the word of Megalops came true.

Seven times David was made to bow to Megalops before the sun had reached the noon sky, and in that hour he prevailed against Megalops. And to this day, any man who sallies forth to meet Megalops and his people must bow before him when he leaps above the waves if they wish to prevail, for he is the King.

COHUTTA FISHING COMPANY WWW.COHUTTAFISHINGCO.COM 490 EAST MAIN ST | BLUE RIDGE, GA | 706 946 3044

GUIDED TRIPS AND TRAVEL

bench press Robbie Powell

Robbie Powell

The Nacho fly has been a go to when the fish are acting a little weird and don’t want your normal go to’s for fly selection. This fly can be made very small and slim for those picky fish or you can bulk it up some and have the fish see it from a mile away. This is a great low tide fly for redfish in a creek chasing after small shrimp or for those floating fish that like to hang out on the grass edges as the water starts to fall.

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Material List: • • • • • • • • •

SL12S 1/0 210 Thread - (Red) Mead Bead Chain - Chartreuse Long thin barred hackle (4) Orange Arctic Fox Silly Legs - Clear/Fire Orange EP Senyo Chromatic Brush 1.5” - Emerald Orange Flashabou Hard Mono - 30#

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Step 1: Start with getting a thread base down on the hook shank and taking your thread to the back of the hook just before the bend of the hook. Cut yourself 5-6 pieces of Flashabou about and inch and half long and add to the top of the hook.

Step 2: Keeping your thread at the back of the hook, take 2 of your long thin hackle feathers and attach them to one side of the hook so that the tips are roughly the same length as the flash.

Using your next 2 feathers, attach these on the opposite side of the hook. Cut and trim the extra length of feather going towards the front of the hook while taking your thread to the front of the hook.

Step 3: Attach your bead chain eyes to the front of the hook, while leaving yourself room to add a weed guard and silly legs later. Take your thread back to the back of the hook. Take your orange arctic fox and cut a rather large chunk. I like to roll the arctic fox around the hook as I am tying it on loosely with the first couple of wraps. If rolling does not work for you you can cut a smaller piece and attach it on the top half of the hook and then roll the hook over and attach another small chunk on the bottom half.

Step 4: Cut off the extra material going to the front of the hook.

Step 5: Attach two of your silly legs by making a “V” around your thread. I like to make the color change roughly the same on both sides. Attach these to your hook and as you secure it down, try to angle the legs to display off the sides of the hook rather than the top.

Step 6: Trim just shy the length of your feathers.

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Step 7: Tie on your EP Senyo Chromatic brush and take your thread to in front of your bead chain eyes. Wrap your hook shank from where you tied your silly legs on all the way to the back of your bead chain eyes. Spacing on how tight to wrap your brush is entirely up to you. You can wrap your brush extremely tight and have a very full bodied fly or space your wraps out a little and make the profile a little more “slim”. Tie off your EP brush behind your bead chain.

Step 8: Take a lice comb or EP finger brush and pull out any trapped fibers in your body.

Step 9: Next, your going to want to take your thread to the front of your bead chain eyes and get two more silly legs. I find flipping the hook over makes this next step a little easier.

Attach the silly legs around the thread and create the same “V” from earlier and attach to the bottom side of the hook but don’t take your thread past your bead chain. Trim your silly legs to roughly an inch long.

Step 10: Cut about an inch long piece of hard mono. Bend it in half, pinch with pliers and attach your weed guard.

Step 11: Finish the fly off with Loon and hit it with a UV.

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Chapter

1V

In another time and land, a man of great wisdom and sagacity, Thomas, of the House Hazelton, went forth in search of the Muskie, for he was a man of great sagacity and wisdom, mighty in strength, and the word of Tom was better than all the wise men and magi so that his wisdom was sought by all. Tom had learned all the dark arts of tying flies, and Tom himself had sought all the other fishes of the north, and his flies he kept hidden from other men, for his wisdom is so great and his power is so mighty.

Thomas had become great and wise because he had let his beard grow, for everyone knows that a man’s sagacity is found in his whiskers, and his wisdom is found in his beard. Tom would sit at his vise at nights stroking his beard, sipping whiskey made of corn, devising great flies with the artifice conjured from his beard. Many nights did he sit there taking counsel against the Muskie, and many nights did he consult the scrolls and ancient maps, that he might learn of all its ways, that he might go forth and actually prevail against the Muskie, for he is the greatest of fishes that swim in the sweet northern seas, sharp of tooth, mighty in strength, a great leaper, and an eater of tullabees. He lurks in the shadows, and he lives in the lonely places difficult to approach, and every fish fears him, for every fish does fit in his jaws.

A whole winter had elapsed before Thomas had finally devised a fly of his liking, greater in aspect than the flies of other men, tied of hair and tinsel bound to two great hooks, and the hooks he joined by coated wire with beads in between, and he affixed large eyes to it, that it might go forth and see, and report back to Thomas what it had found, and it was called Double Nickel, a fly of the Muskie shaman Chris Willen. Consulting his scrolls and maps he found a body of water that was reputed to be the home of great Muskies, and at the emerging of the leaves in the springtime Thomas went forth that he might seek them.

Thomas went forth in a launch before the sun had broached the sky, and he sat stroking his beard to summon his sagacity that he might divine a location to find the Muskie. Going there he again consulted his beard that he might know which fly to choose to send forth, for his beard was full, and it had grown luxuriantly that winter. And he chose a fly that was red and yellow and black from front to back, but it had no eyes.

Now Thomas, being wise, had a sign, and his sign was infinity, for infinity is the number of times one must cast to catch the musky, and infinity is how long it takes to catch him, and so when he had retrieved his fly Thomas would inscribe infinity upon the waters like this “∞”, his sign, and it was with infinity that he would induce the musky to take his flies.

So Thomas sent forth his first fly named Buford, that it might return and report to him what it found, but because it had no eyes it saw nothing. Then Thomas chose another fly, T. Bone, and sent if forth across the waters, but T. Bone swam on its side, and it reported that it had indeed seen the Muskie, but because he swam on his side he did not know the direction from which it came. Then Thomas consulted his beard until his wisdom came forth, and from his box he withdrew Double Nickel and speaking to him he said, “Buford went forth in search of Muskie, but because he had no eyes he did not see him. Then I sent forth T. Bone, and he saw the Muskie but he swam on his side so that he did not discern the direction from which he came. And now I will send you forth Double Nickel, and I will make you swim, and when I stop, you must turn to the side that you may see the Muskie and tell me where he is.”

So Thomas sent Double Nickel across the waters and made him swim, but he would stop his retrieve and Double Nickel would turn sideways to see what followed. And returning to the boat Double Nickel reported “I did indeed find success, and now send me back in that direction, for when I turned sideways I could plainly see the Muskie.”

With that Thomas lifted up his voice and addressed the Muskie. “O Muskie, of the House of Esox, come out to me and do battle, for I am a man mighty in strength, and great in wisdom, and my beard does grow luxuriantly that I might catch you in my cunning! Many are the nights I have toiled at the vise that I might trick you with my sagacity, and many are the nights I have consulted the scrolls and maps with whiskey until it did anoint my beard. And now I am here in my waters, and Double Nickel has seen you, and I have come to you with my magic sign, and when I inscribe infinity upon the waters, then you must fall to me!”

Then Muskie replied to him, “What does a man know of infinity? Is it but a day that you have been here and yet you speak to me of infinity? You speak of great wisdom, yet your beard is stained with milk—and would you challenge me?

When I swim forth, the suckers sink like stones, the walleyes scatter, and even the tullabees, a people great in number, vanish before me that they might not follow their forefathers down my gullet, so now why should I fear you?”

Then Thomas sent forth Double Nickel that he might rebuke Muskie for his reply. Upon seeing Double Nickel, Muskie began to follow, and when Double Nickel stopped and turned to the side he would wait for his opportunity. But when Double Nickel approached the boat Thomas saw Muskie following, and with the strength of his arm and the sagacity of his beard, he began to inscribe infinity upon the surface of the waters. With that, Muskie was seduced so that he took the fly and Thomas struck the hook into his jaw and bent his rod to the fight. Then a great battle ensued, and Muskie thrashed the waters and made great waves that struck the shorelines so that the ducklings were unmoored from their nests, and the muskrats hid in their homes and shuddered. Great foam was cast up from the waters, and turning from him, the Muskie ran and made great leaps and showed his teeth, but he could not loose himself, and tiring he swam to Thomas. Thomas then extracted Double Nickel from the jaw of Muskie and let him rest in the net and Muskie himself did curse Thomas saying, “Now we have done battle, and now we have seen each other, and now cursed are you. For your sign is infinity, and infinity you have inscribed upon the waters, and Infinity shall be your name, and for infinity you shall seek me and my people. Night and day you will toil, and three seasons of the year you will seek me, but in Winter you shall rest and tie flies.” And to this day Thomas is cursed, and for infinity he seeks the Muskie, for infinity is his sign.

∞

BOOKING SUMMER TRIPS FOR SNOOK AND JUVENILE TARPON

CAPT. NOAH MILLER

FLORIDAFLYCOCHARTERS.COM FLORIDAFLYCO@GMAIL.COM 321.795.4923

RED RUM

By David Fason

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I’ve always had a soft spot for bass. You can find them in the ugliest

ditches and most exotic waters. They provide endless fun during tough, early spring days signaling that warmer weather is near. For me, there is nothing better than packing a cooler of beer and heading out to a pond. A while back, a good friend and bass lover, Brandon, put me onto his local “Alabama brookies.”

Alabama brookies are the nickname for the redeye bass species. Also known as Coosa bass for their home in the Coosa River Basin of Georgia and Alabama, their small size and colorful bodies remind many of Appalachian brook trout. They’re hidden all over Alabama’s creeks and rivers systems. A cult-like following exists for these fish and rightfully so. He sent me pictures that remind me of creeks I fish in North Carolina and Virginia. The bass are so blue they look like they eat smurfs for dinner with allergy-ridden eyes. He mentioned that they are angry and aggressive, which makes it a blast to fish top water for them. After a brief exchange, we nailed down a few dates. Roll tide, here we come.

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First thing in the morning, we began our drive to the river. Our bellies were full from the night before after eating too many smoked wings smothered in white Alabama BBQ sauce. The narrow dirt road was surrounded by lush forest. We arrived at a section where we could easily pull off to park with a short hike down to the river. We immediately spotted cruising redeyes lurking for dragonflies and other prey. A few casts later, I landed my first redeye. After gawking over each one, we quickly understood why people love these fish. It’s like a mashup of all the best bass, shrunken and stuck in gorgeous waterways. The entire day was full of bent rods and good laughs. We noticed these massive leeches cruising the water and joked about who would have one hidden somewhere.

When I was breaking everything down, I noticed my knee covered in blood. Not because of a fall, but a massive leech chowing down on me. Fortunately, due to Covid, we all had hand sanitizer. A quick squirt of sanitizer killed the damn thing! Next time I’ll be throwing large leech patterns.

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We were all moving a bit slower the next day, but were eager to get out. We had a longer and more strenuous hike down to the water, but once we stepped foot on the bank every “Why did we do this?” thought was forgotten. Huge gar cruised the crystal clear water, small baitfish worked in groups, large crawfish cruised under rocks, and glowing Coosa bass waited for their next snack. The day started slow, but once the water heated up, the bass were on the prowl. Brandon caught the first. A perfect Coosa display of blood-red eyes and a glowing blue body. I never knew Alabama was home to such amazing fisheries and areas. The hike out was brutal, but knowing about this gem made every grunt worth it.

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I decided to stay an extra day to fish the same river we fished the day before.

I wanted to explore further downriver to see what else I could find. I started further down from the previous day, the hike down even more gnarly. I rounded the last turn slightly out of breath and finally saw the river. The moment I stepped foot into the water, I noticed a set of clothes sitting on the rocks with bloody towels. This is not the start I wanted, especially being solo. I am in nowhereland Alabama with a lack of cell service. I immediately started walking down the bank looking to see if I could find someone.

Frantically looking into the water, I found nothing. I started to yell at the same time to see if someone needed help.

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Only the sounds of rushing water and the gentle breeze could be heard. I started to wonder, did someone get dumped down here? Did someone get injured? Are they watching me in the woods?

Every scenario was racing through my brain.

After 30 minutes wondering if I was going to be part of a new horror movie, I calmed myself down and decided to keep going. After all, I stayed an extra day to fish this area again. I continued my path constantly looking over my shoulder to see if someone or something was following me, but it was just my mind playing tricks. This new stretch of the river was equally as fishy. After catching a few solid fish, I rock-hopped over a massive boulder and saw a perfect pool. There were plenty of hiding spots for a giant and glasslike water to see them eat. A large shadow hovered underneath the boulder I had just crested.

I laid a cast within feet of the shadow and watched it slowly move to the popper. In a slow motion reel, a mouth opened and hammered the fly. I hopped from boulder to boulder fighting the fish and then...I ate shit. I looked down, and my legs were wrapped with someone’s old 40lb line with a massive jig. My rod had flown out of my hands and was resting five feet away from me in the water. I untangled myself and quickly scurried to grab my rod.

To my surprise, I found the fish was still on! After a few good pulls, I landed her. The bass filled the net and I escaped any serious injuries. This seemed like an omen to finish the day and head back home. I never found a body, and never heard anyone else in the woods with me, but I still think back and wonder, “What the hell happened down there?”

Roll Tide, baby.

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IT TAKES ONLY ONE SMALL CHANGE TO CATCH MORE FISH.

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Photo: Steve Seinberg

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Chapter

V

And there was another man of the North, and Jason was his name, of the House of Tucker. The hand of every man came to be against him, and he was against the hand of every man. He became a man bitter of soul, and in time he began dwelling in the South in the Land of Fugitiveness, and he did not know where to fish there so that his heart became more bitter. In the due course of time, the idolater Louis of Cahill called upon him and said “Come with me and let us go to the land of the Bahamas, to the Isle of Andros and let us seek the bonefish. And let us eat good food and drink good drink that our hearts may be merry, and there the bonefish are abundant.”

So Jason of Tucker consented to go there to a place called Bair’s Lodge on the Isle of Andros, and they ate good food and drank good drink and they were merry, and by day they sought the bonefish. Many bonefish they did catch until the heart of Jason became haughty, and the bonefish began to cry out to their King Vulpes, of the House of Albula, so that he heard their complaint.

It was on the sixth day that Vulpes approached Jason that he might discern why his people had cried out to him. On seeing him, Jason lifted up his voice and he taunted Vulpes, King of the Bonefish, for his heart had grown haughty.

“O Vulpes, my own eye does see you. You are from the House of Albula, but now I call you La Abuela, the Grandmother, for you have grown old and feeble, your mouth is toothless and your vision is dull. I am a great tyer of flies and caster of casts, so that even the wind does turn aside from me and the proud waves do lay low for me, and as for you, how will you escape my exquisite flies and great casting?”

Then Vulpes replied to him, “O Jason of the House of Tucker, cursed are you, for you are a man of the North, but you have come to dwell as a fugitive in the land and bitter of soul, so why should I fear you? I have seen your flies, that they are ragged and spare, the work of one who stays too long with wine, and your casts are weak so that a mere breath makes them fall at your feet. Now come to me that we shall prevail in this contest!”

So Jason began to cast, and Vulpes took the fly. Jason, in his haughtiness, thought it was because of his greatness that he hooked him, but he did not know that Vulpes had conspired against him. Vulpes swam stronger than all the other bonefish that fell to his flies, and Jason’s rod bent in a great arc, and his reel became hot. Three times Vulpes returned to him, and four times Vulpes ran from him until the sweat began to pour from Jason’s brow. When both were fairly exhausted, then Vulpes swam to him that he might be caught. At that moment in his haughtiness, Jason thought himself the victor, but he did not know it was a trick for Vulpes to curse him. Upon being released, Vulpes swam three circles around him that the curse may be complete.

With that, Jason felt a change and, standing there, he dropped his rod in the water. His very hands and feet began to change into fins, rough like sandpaper, and shedding his clothes he knelt in the waters. Gill slits appeared on his neck and he ceased to breathe the air so that he was forced to lie down in the sea and breathe the waters, and in that moment he became Brevirostris, the Lemon Shark. He is cursed to there swim forever, and forever he seeks the bonefish. Wherever a man or woman fishes for bonefish he is there, and whenever a man hooks a bonefish he is there waiting to take it. The hand of every man is against him, and he is against the hand of man, down to this day.

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Floatant vs Desiccant: The Dry Fly Fight Of The Century

By David Grossman

The science of making a dry fly float both has and hasn’t come a long way. We still use a variation of kerosene and paraffin wax to dip our flies in to coat the materials and make them impervious to water just as fishermen of flies did oh-so long ago in the 1970s.

This concoction proved to have some limitations though, least of which was setting your face ablaze when your cigarette ignited that pocket on your vest made out of and containing highly flammable materials.

Other than its volatility the next biggest problem was that it was only effective on dry flies. This is confusing in a “Who’s on First? kind of way, but I’ll explain it simply. If your dry fly isn’t dry, completely dry, no amount of floatant will make it float. The reason is because dry materials float and wet materials sink.

Floatant keeps flies dry, it doesn’t dry them.

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So now that we know desiccants take the moisture out of your fly and floatants keep the water out, let’s peel back another layer of the onion: CDC flies. CDC stands for cul de canard (French for “duck bottom”).

This particular butt feather of a duck is my favorite material for wings in almost all mayfly dries.

It has amazing natural floating characteristics due to the feather structure (think about how well a duck’s ass floats), and to me at least it gives the most realistic impression of a mayfly’s wings

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on the water. The catch with CDC used to be that normal floatants actually ruined them. This is the case no more, however, as most companies have come out with CDC specific floatants like Loon’s lochsa and others that enhance all the natural buoyancy of CDC we’ve come to love.

Now that we’re all operating on the same frequency, I’ll give you some of my hardlearned lessons on floatants, desiccants, and the things they float.

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Mend your dry flies less. Aggressive mending sinks flies, making floatant needs more frequent. Learn a mend cast. Land your flies with your line already mended.

Sometimes fish want a dry fly that’s floating very high on the water. Other times they want the bug that’s riding lower in the water struggling to break the surface. In this case try to only apply floatant to the wing of the fly. This will allow for the fly to ride lower in the surface film of the water.

When it comes to floatant, less is more.

When it comes to desiccant, more is more.

Openly dusting your fly with desiccant into the wind is akin to pissing into it (the wind).

The only proper way to reset a fly after a fish for maximum flotation is to shake it in desiccant to dry it. Then, apply a small drop of floatant, working it with your fingers gently. The final step is painting it with a finer desiccant brush bottle to remove any last bits of moisture. I call this “shake and bake and brush.” It’s copyrighted.

Don’t smoke near kerosene, with or without paraffin wax.

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You now know almost everything I know. May all your dry flies float like a turd in the community pool for the rest of the season.

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Photo: Steve Seinberg

Photo: Steve Seinberg

AUGUST2021|no.40

The Back Page

with Paul Puckett and Mike Benson So, you have a nice skiff. Built out to your specs, laid out just the way you wanted it. It’s in perfect running condition, with no work needed. What do you do now? Sell it, of course. You sell it so you can by a 25-year-old boat and completely overhaul it, because that’s what sane people do, right? The boat in question is a ’95 Hewes Bonefisher in backyard-kept condition. The wiring was somewhere between rats' nest and active fire hazard. The keel looked as though someone was practicing high speed beach invasion landings on a routine basis, and she overall just needed some love. I’ve spent a few hundred hours de-rigging, de-wiring, sanding, repairing fiberglass, and fairing out the wear and tear of the ages. You learn a lot when you spend that much time alone with nothing but the drone of a sander humming in your ears.

You have a lot of time to think about the things that boat has seen, as you ponder just how in the hell someone took a chunk out of the hull in that spot.

Was it a mishap with an anchor, or did someone bounce her off of a concrete piling? You wonder about all the cool fish that have been brought over her gunnels as you grind out the spider cracks in the gelcoat that obviously came from a jig head coming back at mach speed from whatever oyster rake, tree limb, or dock piling it was stuck on. And as you're filling the myriad of holes in the deck from accessories, pedestal seats, Bimini tops, and god knows what else, you swear to yourself that you’ll never ever add useless shit back onto this boat.

But you probably will.

Eventually, as your “fix-it” list grows shorter and you see her coming back into shape, the blemishes ironed out one by one, your focus changes. Now, you’re daydreaming about all the things you’re going to do with this skiff. All the places you’ll see in her, and all the awesome fish you’ll pull alongside, or over the gunnels. You stop seeing the beaten and battered past and start envisioning a bright and promising future. As you try to scrub the fiberglass shards out of your skin in the shower, you imagine the burn is from a long day on the water, and the pain in your arms and shoulders isn’t from the eight hours of sanding, but from fighting big tarpon all day. The boat is at the paint shop now, the one part of this project I’m incapable of completing myself, and it won’t even look like the same boat when it gets back. But I will always know what’s beneath the new coats of shiny paint and non-skid. I’ll always remember the time, aggravation, pain, and patience it took to revive her. And every time I hear an oyster scrape down the length of the hull, I’ll wince with pain, knowing full well the amount of work it will take to repair that because I’ve done it already. But that only means that it can be done (or undone as it were), and there is something comforting in that ability to undo damage, to revive once great things to greatness once again.

S.C.O.F Magazine | issue no. 39 | spring 2021