By Capt. Casey Allen
When my father approached me this past November with the idea of tarpon fishing in Florida, I was all ears. You see, a lifetime of angling (and a handful of forty and fifty pound stripers) has spawned within me an obsession to tangle with ever larger fish, and the tarpon holds a lofty position on the bucket list. Adding to the prospect, this was to be a three-day marathon expedition into the heart of the Everglades where world-class snook, redfish and tarpon lurk beneath the black waters that snake through a seemingly endless mangrove labyrinth. Our friend and guide, Capt. Joe LeClair of North Eastern Anglers, picked us up from the airport with his Action Craft flats skiff already in tow and loaded to the gunwales with tackle and gear that would sustain us and keep us comfortable in the remote reaches of the Florida back-country. As we drove from the airport to the boat ramp all chatter was drowned out as I envisioned what might be in store for us, but even my imagination couldn’t quite create what turned out to be the most unique angling experience of my life.
It was mid-afternoon, so after dousing ourselves in sunscreen we launched the boat and shoved off. The skiff nimbly and quickly slid through the mangrove-lined creeks, and as signs of civilization diminished to zero I gave up all attempts to decide which way was which. Joe knew these waters like the back of his hand, which is good because we could have been travelling in circles and I wouldn’t have known. We travelled for a few hours, stopping here and there to toss surface plugs to some snook and reds, when finally we arrived at our destination—a wooden platform constructed in the middle of the river with nothing but a flat roof over it and a Porta-John, which to our delight was clean. We arrived at sundown, granting ourselves enough time to set up tents, blow up the air mattresses, have a quick bit to eat and chat before getting to sleep. This was a truly wild frontier, unspoiled by the noise and lights of a civilization that was now more than seventy miles away. The peaceful silence was broken only by the haunting call of a great horned owl in the distance.
It was as if a common force drove each of us as we awoke in unison. The sky was still studded with stars as the first signs of light crept to the tops of the trees, so we quickly dressed and got underway. The water was alive with activity and my neck soon became sore from swiveling my head constantly to observe the birds, fish and the occasional dolphin. This place seemed magical, like somewhere no human had yet laid eyes on. We travelled for a short time before arriving at a point where the river widened to 100 yards or so and forked. Joe slowed the boat and we sat, staring intently upriver to where the first lights began to reflect on the surface, turning it fiery orange. Suddenly, a few hundred yards off I saw a body roll at the surface. Even at this distance I could see the fish was huge. Shortly after another silver body rolled lazily at the surface, so using the trolling motor we crept our way toward the group of fish, closing the gap slowly and carefully. Up ahead we could see a few tarpon had broken from the school and were coming straight for us. Wielding a fly rod I quickly shot a cast a few feet in front of the leading fish and slowly stripped the line. I could see the tarpon (60 pounds or so) make a distinct move toward the fly. It didn’t take, but my heart nearly exploded as I watched it and the others pass. Another opportunity came minutes later when my father expertly pitched a Slug-Go right to a beast of more than 100 pounds. The fish darted for the lure but managed to spit it before the hook could set into its jaw. By this point it was clear that the challenge was in the presentation, which we were executing precisely for the most part, so we were pleased with just getting a sniff.
After a few attempts and near hookups we pressed on, but nearing a bend in the river we saw what we were looking for when a school of monster tarpon appeared. The fish were numerous and holding steadily in this location, near enough to us that we could make out their massive figures below the surface, so we edged over to the bank where I held onto a mangrove branch to keep the boat in place. These fish were enormous, with many easily pushing the 200-pound mark. It was my dad’s turn now, and the three of us held our breath as he repeatedly tossed lures to the rolling leviathans. Just when we thought they all had a case of lockjaw, there was a flash as a fish hit the small crankbait. The line tightened instantly and my father set the hook, causing the tarpon to explode completely from the water’s surface with the fury of an angry bull that had been roped. That seven-foot chrome slab freed itself with a single leap and violent shake of its massive head but the feeling of disappointment was fleeting, replaced instead by wild excitement for the spectacle that had just taken place.
Other chances for tarpon arose and we landed many smaller ones up to 20 pounds, but the giants were giving us a run for our money. We then switched gears to snook and reds, plying narrow creeks and muddy flats in just inches of water. Casts frequently had to be placed over long distances and into very precise locations, so hook-ups were that much more rewarding. The last day of our trip I tied into a snook of at least 30 pounds that slammed my topwater lure and jumped clear of the water three times. I battled that trophy fish on a light setup for five minutes before it threw the hook at the side of the boat. I was truly in agony and thought I was going to puke! It took me a week or so to recover from the epic loss, but I swore to return for another chance at that fish and others like it. My dad and I recently decided to make our second trip in April and have since booked with Joe. Needless to say, I can’t wait to find myself in the middle of nowhere surrounded by untouched scenery and fish that make me weak in the knees.
For information on booking a charter with Capt. Joe LeCLair, visit www.flyfishsalt.com.
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