Ascension Bay November 2005
We
all need a break from time to time. Even though it still sort of counts as
that bad four-letter W word for me, I've enjoyed taking a few shop friends
to
the
flats. You might have known. This year we were supposed to go to Ascension
Bay in early October, but a little storm they named Wilma blew through the
area and blew us - and all of Cancun's visitors - out. We rescheduled and
went about two weeks ago.
The trip was for seven day with six of fishing. We left Denver at about
10:30 and got to Cancun at about 3:30 their time. It was an easy flight;
there were not many flights landing at the airport. We could see the
disarray when we landed and people were working to fix things up. After
clearing customs we easily found our driver, loaded up and headed south.
The trees were bare of leaves and often bark. We could tell there had been
lots of water; landscaping along the road was washed out and piles of stones
and debris remained along the edges. Power lines were down; billboards were
destroyed and scattered about; roofs were missing and some building were
simply gone, remembered by their footprint of a foundation.
People were all over, working to make things better.
After about forty miles - maybe less - things started to change. There were
more
leaves, less damage and apparently happier people buying, selling, riding
bikes through the rain and smiling, holding a child's hand. A few miles out
of Tulum, after and road narrows, things looked pretty normal, for a jungle.
In
the dark we turned off the paved road and drove on what must be one of the
flattest, straightest roads ever engineered. I think the Mayans did it
originally. The road was probably pretty good then, too. Still, we made it.
About 8PM we arrived at the pickup spot. It was the end of the road. The
road ended at Ascension Bay. Punta Allen was across the way. Manuel, Jose
and Juanito met us, loaded the boats and piled us in on top of our stuff.
Riding in a skiff across the flats in darkness is a treat, especially after
two hours of jungle canopy, flat, straight road and total darkness. When we
got to the beach several others met us, unloaded our stuff and welcomed us
with warmth and lovely smiles. I took my shoes off, put on shorts and a
t-shirt and didn't put any shoes on until we left. There.
We
were hungry; we ate; we visited for a few minutes, and then we went to
sleep. Breakfast was about 7AM and everyone was bright and bushy-tailed - or
as much as could be expected of a bunch of old fat guys on a flats fishing
trip, that is. We ate; gear was assembled and Sonny and his nephew Kelly,
and Joe and Chuck headed out with Manuel and Jose, respectively. I decided
to stay in and gab with the owner of the lodge, take a nap and do some
writing and reading. I'm always up for that.
Reports came in; fish were caught; sunburns attained, and a fine time had by
all. Sonny felt his guide moved a little too fast. Of course his guide was
young. Joe and Chuck saw lots of permit and didn't hook any. Joe landed a
tarpon.
Dinner was great. Two new guys showed up. They were fishing together over
the next week, and we'd share meals and stories with them. One was Dennis
and the other went by Slim, for some reason; he may have been a menace, too,
but the votes are still out on that one. They were great, loved fishing and
had common love for the Texas flats with Kelly, who lived and guided there
for a few years.
We
began settling into a basic routine: Fish. Eat. Sleep. And not always in
that order. Eating was done before and after fishing, but also during
fishing, and fishing was also done during sleeping. At least it was for me.
My first day out I saw a large tarpon roll.
"Did you see that?" I asked Juanito and my new friend, Miguel.
"No." they answered. I asked more about the fish, but had to wait until I
spoke
with Jose that evening to find out the big tarpon were hanging around there.
The guides didn't seem that interested. I was.
We
continued to the bonefish flats. "Are we fishing for bones here?" I asked
Juanito. One should always ask the guides and listen to what they say.
"Si, Diablo de los peces solamente," he said. "We may also see permit,
barracuda or jacks."
Well, that meant setting up more than one rod.... I was ready to go.
When I stood up and looked off the boat and toward the bank there was a
permit sitting right there. I had a bonefish outfit in hand. One thing I've
learned about flats fishing is this: cast whatever you have, unless you have
time to adjust. No time to adjust; cast. In front of the fish. Strip. He
turns. Strip. He follows. Strip. He follows again. Strip. He's close to the
boat. Strip. He's gone.
Ah, flats fishing. Isn't it fine?
We
started poling. We saw a few fish. They ate the fly. The clouds came in. It
was windy. I've been reading too much Hemingway.
The sky glistened with fresh air, reflections of water on clouds and clouds
on water reminding me to reflect on life, on my writing, on why I'm so silly
at times...
We
continued on around a corner and through a break in the mangroves. There was
a big bonefish just through the cut, and he took the fly, then broke me off
immediately. I tied on another fly. We poled along for a bit, but the cloud
cover precluded our seeing anything until we drove over it. The sky cleared
a bit. We were near lots of little mangroves mixed in with small pods of
mangroves in the water, which was very shallow and clear. There were schools
of mullet scattered all over the flat, breaking the surface and occasionally
jumping for joy - or out of fear - out of the water. All of the nervous
water they created caused problems in identifying nervous water from
bonefish; that was fine. Most of the bones we saw were singles - one fish -
with a double or triple once in a while, at best. Single fish are fun; you
have to aim more accurately and take your shot. The fish will tell you right
off if the cast was good, and then if it likes the fly or not.
At
this time, the fish liked my casts and my fly. Every fish I cast to I
hooked.
Most tried to run into the mangroves to break me off, but I beat them to it
by simply breaking them off first. They could have the fly and bit of
tippet, but they were not winding my fly line around the roots of mangroves,
which are covered with sharp barnacles that will destroy a fly line before
you can say "Whoops." Or, something else as the case might be.
We
moved around. We looked for tarpon, but didn't see any. We thought we might
find snook, but didn't. So, we went back to the bonefish flats. Juanito
liked this spot, and we were all enjoying the company of one another, the
birds, the fish, rays, sun, clouds and so on. Lovely.
We
didn't move, however, until I'd hooked a very nice snapper - the largest I'd
caught till then - while fishing along some mangroves, blind casting for
tarpon. The fish fought very well. It was beautiful and full of color. It
seemed to like my tarpon fly. The guides and staff at the lodge ate it later
that night. It's a big ocean, I'll tell you that.
We
found a few more bonefish, but went for long dry spells. The cool thing
about the day for me was that every cast I made was good, on the right spot,
accurate, fast and delicate enough regardless of wind and the direction in
which I made the cast. That was way good, I'll say. And the fish ate, too.
Sure some of the bones flew the coop - they must be part bird, or something
- because bonefish spook themselves when they see their own shadow. Imagine
a group of small children who just finished drinking four cups of coffee
each to wash down their big chocolate bars when one of them announces a
spider in their lap.
Everyone
gets a little jumpy and starts yelling, right? That's only a small
percentage of how flighty a bonefish is, mon.
I
told the guys we could head back anytime they wanted to go. They wanted to
keep fishing. Fine. Then we spotted a lobster trap. We were all hanging over
the boat looking at it, trying to see if there were any lobsters under it.
We couldn't see. It was getting dark. Juanito then announced that some
permit were coming. Miguel and I jumped up, I grabbed the permit rig and
tried to find the fish in the glare of a setting sun. Tough. I didn't see
them. Juanito had a hard time telling me where they were. They fled. We
started poling, and saw a few more bones and permit, but didn't get any real
shots at them. Finally it was dark, so we left and headed back.
So
it went for several days. The other guys caught fish and had a fine time.
We had some rain showers. Depending on where we were on the flats we either
had sunshine or got wet for a few minutes. I did hook a larger snapper while
blind casting for tarpon on the reef. We saw tarpon roll, so I made some
casts. Something very large took the fly and Juanito and I both sort of
thought - maybe we hoped - it was a tarpon until I realized it had not
jumped one time, and then when we saw it as it got close to the boat.
I'd hook another anytime. This one fed all of us that night.
Here are a few more pictures. Tell your own tale - tail.
of
course, or so I'm told by girls and so on - I'm an expert on girls, you see,
with my beautiful wife and three lovely daughters, who agree with the turkey
moniker as it applies to me, that is. I'm very thankful for all four of
them, and so proud too boot.
they were strutting their stuff, too!)
80+ cents which is about 27% by my basic math yet I haven't seen front page
headlines about it, nor has it been the leading story on the rare occasion I
watch TV. Hmm. Seem it was only recently that folks were hearing each time
the price rose by a few cents - or more - at a lick.
family
and friends - do you come back and tell people about how much money the gas
was? If so, please reexamine priorities and go fishing soon. (I don't think
my friends on the cabana's porch are discussing the price of gasoline.)
Maybe I need to be clearer on the home page with some of this; there are
probably other solutions to it, and I'm open to your thoughts. I have had
some very encouraging feedback from web designers who say I've done well,
considering I'm a music guy and fly fishing low life.
Open 9AM - 4PM
orked
for me at the Estes Angler several years ago. He was - and remains - a
bundle of energy. One of Grant's goals was to own his own fly shop. The
first of November, 2005 I sold him the Estes Angler. He is now the proud owner of the shop and
looks forward to continuing the great tradition we've set of fulfilling fly
fishing dreams in Estes Park and in and around Rocky Mountain National Park.
You can reach Grant at 800-586-2100.