Archives

Edition Four Homepage Row One Archives - FFI Magazine

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.

Today 90 percent of anglers use worm flies when fishing Keys tarpon. It doesn’t seem to matter if there’s a hatch going on or not— a worm fly gets more strikes than any other pattern.

            Bahia Honda channel, in the Middle Keys near Marathon, is the deepest cut connecting the Atlantic and Gulf waters, and the location of the famous palolo worm hatch. The hatch occurs three or four days after the new and full moons in May and June, but you also need an outgoing tide and calm winds at sunset. Lesser hatches occur throughout the Keys, within days of each other, and some channels are more active than others for no apparent reason. The palolo worms swim with the current towards nearby reefs and the tarpon take advantage of this opportunity for an easy meal. The sight is amazing; hundreds, if not thousands, of tarpon going ballistic, rolling and “sipping” worms from the surface. The frenzy starts around 6 p.m., and continues until shortly after sunset.

            As June arrives the tarpon’s migration pattern stays the same, except the direction they travel reverses from south and west, to north.

This is what a bad cast does to a school of tarpon in the Atlantic. If one fish panics, the whole school blows up.

           There are major differences between fishing tarpon on the Atlantic side versus the Gulf side. In the Atlantic you may see huge schools of tarpon, long “strings” or single fish. You may cast at over a hundred or more fish a day and be lucky to get two bites. Many times I’ve thrown a live crab on a 40-pound fluorocarbon leader, ahead of and right through the middle of a school of 30 or more tarpon, only to have them swim right around it. Atlantic tarpon are tough! Still, strange as it may seem, tarpon on the flats respond to flies better than live baits. The fly of choice these days is an imitation of the palolo worm. It takes about 30 seconds to tie and consists of two inches of red Zonker strip with the hair cut off, and a chenille head on a small, short-shank hook. Years ago we only used worm flies during hatches. Now palolo worm imitations are used almost exclusively on the oceanside, all season long.

Tarpon in deeper water tend to roll fast and then head straight back down to the bottom. These are not happy fish and rarely bite.

            The tarpon in Florida Bay and up Florida’s west coast are different. There are very few schools of tarpon. Typically, anglers see a few short strings of fish and many singles just laid up in water so muddy it would make a catfish uncomfortable. But . . . tarpon on the Gulf side eat. You may only get to throw at a dozen fish a day, but half of them will eat the fly, if you put it in the right place. If the tarpon are moving along either coast, the fly needs to land ahead of them so that it seems to be fleeing. Sometimes you can let the lead fish swim past the fly so it appears that the first fish flushed the worm, and the following fish may jump on it. The rule of thumb is, as long as you can reach the school, keep casting. I’ve had lots of bites from the last fish in a school.

            By definition, a laid up tarpon is a fish that’s not moving somewhere or feeding. For all we know, a laid up tarpon may be asleep. When casting to these tarpon, presentation is everything. The fly needs to be gently stripped in front of a tarpon’s nose. These fish are often found in muddy water and if the fly is moving towards the fish, or if it is moving too fast, that tarpon likely spooks. When the presentation is perfect, and the fish responds, the strike can be spectacular.

To the left, you can barely make out a school of tarpon, one rolling fish giving away their location.

              You can fish tarpon on your own, if you have a boat, but it’s next to impossible to do it effectively without a guide. A guide trailers their skiff up and down the Keys, basically following fish. They’ll know whether tarpon are moving along the oceanside or if they are in the backcountry. That knowledge pays—it’s advantageous to know where the fish were yesterday. There are times when the Gulf side is dead, and other times when it’s on fire. Some days when fishing the oceanside you might see a thousand fish. Other days you may only get a couple shots. Guides know what’s going on, so your money invested in them pays off.

A right angle shot, like this, is the most difficult presentation. Tarpon follow the rule that food runs away. A fly “charging” them gives reason to spook.

           I prefer fishing Florida Bay. I find the oceanside fish to be extremely difficult. On the oceanside you need to lead fish by 12-to 15-feet. In the backcountry you can put it within three-to four feet of them. I’ve spent so much time in the backcountry that I habitually fail to lead the oceanside fish enough. On the other hand, the guys who spend most of their time on the Atlantic side have difficulty in the back because, subconsciously, they lead fish too much. Everything depends on where the fish will be the day you are on the water.

Not all tarpon are gigantic. The babies are plentiful around Big Pine Key and are great fun on a 9-weight rod.

             You got to be where the tarpon are. It’s as simple as that. When I ran the LOOP Golden Fly Tournament, everyone launched out of Lorelei Marina at Islamorada. From that central point, anglers ran south to Sugarloaf Key, north to Shark River on the Gulf, and even all the way to south Biscayne Bay. Others fished 10 minutes away from the dock. Everyone had their spot and expected fish to be there. They put in their time and paid their dues for that knowledge, which is why, again, your best bet for tarpon is to find a really good guide.

Three hours after breakfast I poured my fifth cup of coffee and stepped outside into the milky glow of a drizzly Alaska morning. There was little to see. The mountains I’d stared at all week were guillotined at the shoulders by low clouds, and I barely made out the floatplanes at their moorings just 50 yards away. Down on the dock, the lodge’s two pilots were each busy in their own way, the first wiping invisible spots off his plane’s windshield like a latter-day Macbeth, the second mouthing an unlit cigar and whittling at something in his hands. It was a cigar box he was fashioning out of driftwood—his second of the morning.

“On days like this,” he nodded sagely, “a pilot must have hobbies.”

            When visiting Bristol Bay’s array of great lodges, the fishing is almost always exceptional—except when low clouds ground planes. When that happens anglers and guides play a waiting game, with pilots radioing back and forth until conditions at departure and arrival sites are acceptable for flight without instrumentation—that is, by human eyes alone. That was the situation on the last full day of a week-long trip to the Bay—waiting for an “all clear” that might or might not arrive. We’d enjoyed good fishing and fair weather for five days, and most of the lodge guests were in high spirits and happy to exchange their coffee for cocktails, to embark on fish stories instead of fish sorties. But I wasn’t so keen to call it a day. Rather than donning my Crocs and pouring a Seven&Seven, I slipped into waders and grabbed a 7-weight. Dress for the job, they say.

             It worked. A few minutes later a guide named Bryce came up and mentioned that there might—might— be a char crash underway across the bay. It was the right time of year and conditions were ideal. We could get there by boat, he explained. No plane required.

            My response: “Char crash?”

            “The salmon smolt come out of the river into the lake in waves,” he said, swimming his left hand at eye level to illustrate. “And the char”—he tilted his body and held his other hand down low at his knees, as if grasping a giant accordion—“wait at the first deep drop.

            “Once the smolt push out into the bay,” he said, now straightening and violently smashing prey and predator together,“it’s one fish after another. Wave after wave. All day.”

            I mulled it over. Deciding how to spend one’s last day in Alaska is not so much a major decision as an existential quandary. My inclination had been to try for the one thing eluding me on my bucket list—connecting on a king salmon of a lifetime. The run was late that year and the only chance I’d had, with a fish that yanked my shoulder with the strength of a draft horse, hadn’t borne fruit. So what to do? Hold out for a break in the clouds and possibly an 11th hour king? Or head out for char that may or may not be there?

            I looked down the dock where the pilots were now sitting side by side. The long-haired one had taken the portentous step of actually lighting the cigar. Above his head, a plume of rich smoke widened prophetically.

            “Char it is.”

            We hopped in an 18-foot aluminum flatbottom with a plywood floor—the classic Alaska workhorse—and jetted out across the lake, the cold drizzle prickling my face as the miles ticked by. No matter what happened, I told myself while cinching my jacket tighter, it had been an excellent week. I’d twice come an inch shy of the world record catch-and-release grayling. I’d skated up a dozen big rainbows that chased a Muddler like it had emptied their 401Ks. I’d seen how surreal the world looks at 200 feet. I’d eaten reindeer sausage biscuits ‘n’ gravy for six mornings in a row. Whatever happened next—or didn’t—it had been a great week.

            “There!” Bryce yelled over the motor, pointing into the foggy distance where the river met the lake and seagulls massed in the hundreds. “It’s on.” We edged up on the crash, with birds bobbing placidly in our wake. I stood—very deliberately—and stripped out some fly line—very slowly. I’d seen this Hitchcock flick before.

            “Don’t cast yet,” Bryce said. “Just be ready.”

            A minute passed. Then two. All was quiet. Night-before-Christmas still. And then, out of nowhere, as if I existed in a great snow globe, the gulls erupted in a blizzard of white. Shrieking, they flung themselves skyward in all directions, gathering above us before breaking off and funneling toward a spot in the bay roughly 200 yards away, where the water was boiling with char.

            The jet roared and soon we were in the thick of it, gliding into a murder scene. I ripped off a cast and stripped it through a froth of tails and fins, backs and snouts, setting the hook once, twice, three times before the line came tight with an angry chrome char on the end of it. There was no horsing this fish on a 7-weight. By the time we netted it, the bay had gone quiet, the water still, the birds preening and aloof. I could hear my own heartbeat.

            Then it happened again, a couple hundred yards away.

“Char!” Bryce yelled while firing up the jet, almost knocking me over trying to quickly get on plane.

            We did this over and over again, landing solid char with each crash, so many that we started calling our episode, The Great Bristol Bay Char Crash, 2106. Sometimes the fury lasted long enough for two fish, sometimes three, but most often we’d land just one before the smolts would ebb and shift, and the char and birds would reassemble in an entirely different part of the delta. I’d experienced plenty of hand-over-fist fishing in my life, but this was entirely different. It was gold rush and ghost town in a minute-long window, as many fish as you could catch followed by such an empty calm you wondered if it hadn’t been a hallucination. It was a cosmic clash of primal element, land versus air versus sea. It was, I realized as the tally reached 10, 20, 30 fish or more, the greatest fishing afternoon of my life.

            At one point a Beaver roared overhead and the lodge manager’s voice cracked through the radio—the weather was clearing, and did I want one last chance at a big king?

            Now, it’s true that my brain had stopped working properly a dozen char ago, but even in its addled state I knew this: You do not leave fish to find fish, and you sure as hell don’t leave a thousand fish to find one. “We stay,” I declared, and reared back into another fat char.

            We fished the rest of the afternoon, trading off crashes until we neared physical collapse, then went ashore to eat a few of the fallen. As the ruby fillets simmered in oil and garlic, I thought what my own home state of Michigan looked like five or six generations ago. Grayling by the thousands packed in train cars bound for restaurants in Chicago and Detroit. Sturgeon stacked like timber on the banks of rivers. Passenger pigeons so thick they darkened the sky. Extinct. Endangered. Extinct.

            But Bristol Bay Alaska still seethes, so bountiful the fishing you never heard of becomes the fishing you can’t forget. And I wondered, as I put aside a plate and looked out at the diving gulls and crashing char, what other secrets are out here hiding in plain sight—if you only take a day to look for them—in what remains, The Last Frontier.

If you want to catch tarpon it helps to cast like Andy Mill. Unfortunately, no one casts like Andy Mill . . . except Andy Mill.

Fly fishing for tarpon is unpredictable, often frustrating, usually super challenging, and always mucho expensive. It’s also addictive.

            In my mind, it is the perfect combination of all things that make fly fishing magical—sight-fishing to huge animals in shallow water; when in the mood tarpon eat flies with abandon; this fish is scary-strong, hard to keep on the hook, and when hooked they put on breathtaking arial displays. Summary: casting to a 100-plus pound tarpon, getting the bite, setting the hook and experiencing an immediate series of gill rattling jumps and line simply burning off your reel, is the best 90 seconds in fly fishing.

            Migratory tarpon first appear in South Florida in December. They hang out in North Biscayne Bay and Government Cut in Miami, and they frequent the mouths of rivers leading in from the Gulf and in Whitewater Bay on Florida’s west coast.

Just before a worm hatch, huge schools of tarpon leave the 7 Mile Bridge area and cruise down to Bahia Honda Bridge. Hooking a fish from these giant schools is not as easy as you would think. All you can do is cast and pray, then cast again.

             As far as I know, these are separate strains of fish. They appear when the weather calms and warms, then disappear when temperatures drop. Some of the best tarpon fishing I’ve experienced has arrived in February. If you are lucky enough to be on the water when conditions aline, the tarpon fishing can be spectacular. But, planning a late winter trip is easier said than done . . . you can’t predict when all the elements might fall together, and the good days are few and far between.

            Weather and wind continue to be problematic through March, but come April things begin to settle down. The tarpon migrate south along the eastern Atlantic and Gulf coasts, through the flats of Florida Bay, all the way down to the Marquesas Keys, west of Key West. They travel in huge schools or in singles and pairs. They cruise the edges of flats and prefer a certain water depth, which varies depending on wind and tides. The trick is to find what Captain Bill Curtis calls the “tarpon highway” and then pick a spot to ambush those fish as they cruise by. Ambush points are areas where the bottom contour forces tarpon to swim around a shallow bank. The first sign of an oncoming school can be rolling fish or just a faint surface disturbance. Once detected, a guide will pole you into position for the cast.