Getting there

When fly fisherfolk gather, the conversation almost always finds its way (after meandering through sidebars of gear, beer, and the opposite sex) to one universal angling topic; the bucket list. Must-do-before-I-die lineups typically include the classics. Kamchatka, New Zealand, Christmas Island, Alaska, Patagonia, Cuba. They are also, with increasing regularity, expanding to the more exotic. Oman, Bolivia, French Polynesia, the Seychelles. Some of our more adventurous practitioners have secret lists, far beyond most of our imaginations. (Heaven forbid Elon Musk finds something that will take a popper on Mars.) And while my personal desires also includes many of the these places, near the top has long been a more domestic destination. I've wanted to chase big bull reds in the southernmost marshes of Louisiana.

Hello Houma.

Good Morning, Louisiana!

As they say in real estate, "Location, location, location"

Fish Camp

Ambushing from the weeds

Steve Martinez hoists a dump truck black

No bulls for me, but lots of slots

Shut up and cast!

The Other Woman

Looks like my fly line

Schnnider Boy, LA

Bayou pit stop

The fishing was tough during our week in the marshes. I look at the pictures above and wonder where those blue skies were when we were actually slinging a fly. Wind and cloud cover gave us a good fight but that's destination angling. Just because it's on your bucket list doesn't mean it will click when you get there. The hardships are part of the game. A true bull eluded me, this time, but Louisiana remains high on the list with a provisional check.

Who says a bucket list item needs to be a once-in-a-lifetime entry?

The plan was to knock around The Big Easy for a few days. Wander the Garden District, the French Quarter, and maybe a bayou or on the outskirts of town. Eat and drink too much. Listen to some good local blues and jazz. Take lots of pictures. It was a good plan. Hell, it was a great plan.


Mother Nature laughs at my planning.


Shortly after we arrived, unseasonal rains dumped eight-to-ten inches on NOLA in a short few hours, flooding The Bowl and many other low-lying areas within the city. Clubs along the Quarter found waters coming over their steps and seeping into the venues. Travel around town was a disaster, where you could drive at all. It wasn’t pretty. And then it kept raining.


This mess left us to while away a large chunk of our time in the hotel, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. We stayed at The Columns, a gorgeous old turn-of-the-century boutique boarding house, now twenty-guestroom hotel, that offered a dark, mysterious charm. And by mysterious, I mean creepy.

Creepy in a good way.


Adding to the creep factor, for much of our stay we were the only guests in the place. Quiet dark halls. Empty staircases. Rows of closed doors. Were one to be effected by such things, there was some serious malevolence brewing.


Did anyone see The Shining?


But we loved the place. While Mary napped or read in the room (number 25), I happily puttered around the haunting hallways and climbed up and down the incredible spiraling staircase to capture a few images, fully expecting to get back home to find soft spectral streaks in the photos. Ghosts of old New Orleans, peeking through.


They were most certainly there, visible or not.

It has occurred to me that I have been taking myself too seriously for too long and this poor little blog has suffered for it. I've fallen into the trap of wanting, needing, everything I post to be slick, well developed, and (dare I say) publishable. Wanting it to be remarkable. But by adding that pressure, I've throttled things to the point where posts have become few and far between. The twin ironies are that even my best work isn't all that hot anyway and that by holding out for "the good stuff," I'm not writing anything (which doesn't do a hell of a lot to help advance the craft). I've not even kept up the Photo Bins.

Herewith, I'm shaking off the pretension and getting back to just putting it out there. It's that or stop altogether and I don't think I'm quite ready for that. As this is the April bin (and it's August already), there's some catching up to do, so let's get started.

In April, the camera always fills with the extravaganza that is the annual Live Free Cornhole Tournament, a loving fundraiser for the memorial scholarship that we maintain at Georgia Tech in my step-son's name. Friends and family gather to share loads of fond memories, good fellowship, and just a bit of friendly competition, all in Freeman's honor. Together we miss him and keep alive the event he started as a simple gathering of friends to celebrate the arrival of spring. In his absence, we've repurposed it in his memory.

The brave few that held out to the bitter end

That's a start. A slow month, April, but things got a bit crazy in May, June, and July. Their bins to follow here shortly. Then maybe I'll be back on track.

Maybe.

What is a Photo Bin?

Yes, you read the title correctly. Here we are, a week into June, and I'm just getting around to a March photo bin. For quite some time the bins have been carrying the load around here and now I can't even be counted on to do them in a timely manner. Sad. But the good news is that a part of the issue is that I've been busy. Fishing, no less. That can only be good.

Let's go back a bit and catch up, then, starting with an escape to the islands (South Andros, to be exact), the only really significant photo op of the month. And I'll make up for the lack of expediency with quantity.


There's something inspiring about an image framed by an overhead wing, especially when it's taken on your way in. Small aircraft and remote fishing destinations get my blood pumping, especially as the clouds clear and I see miles and miles of salt flats, just waiting to be waded.


And the airports these small planes frequent beat the heck out of the hustle and bustle of the internationals. Here, Jeff struggles through the crowd at the main entrance of Congo Town's busy airport. You can feel the tension.


Our ultimate destination? The Andros South Lodge. Bonefishing. Mighty fine bonefishing.


And we wasted no time getting on the water. Here Steve stands ready, despite a stiff breeze. If you're not ready to deal with the wind, stay off the flats. It's not a question of whether it will blow or not. It's a question of how much. Day 1 the answer was a lot. Damn permit. (Inside joke. Sorry.)


Day 2, and most of the days that followed, started with a run up the Little Creek narrows. As good a wake-me-up routine as there could possibly be. Put it on plane and blow out the cobwebs.

Side note, I'm proud to have this image (along with a couple of others in the bin below) included in The Flyfish Journal's terrific photo essay BahamaCon 17, a fun compilation of the photography, words, and video from our week in the islands, mostly shot by the uber-talented Copi Vojta. If you haven't seen it yet, it's definitely worth the time.


Mr. Barracuda didn't have such a good day, though, fooled by a big, ugly popper. Jason probably saved a few bonefish's days bringing this rascal to dock.


And speaking of coming to dock, at the end of every fishing day as we came off the water, we (and every other South Andros angler) stepped out of the skiff and into (or around) The New Ocean View, the focal point and gathering place of all manner of South Andros social life. Good times, outside and in.


Andrew and Kyle (our hosts at the South Andros Lodge) and Steve and Copi get their first post-fishing beers.


Kyle and Copi retire inside, out of the sun for a bit.


I've come to the conclusion that the best way to chase bonefish is to wade for them. Maybe not the most productive approach, numbers wise, but for sheer immersion in the world of the flats, it can't be beat. Here, Jason and Torrie scope out a promising piece of water from behind mangrove cover. See any tails? Nervous water? Stirred up mud?

And speaking of mud, we walked away from some of the fishiest looking flats imaginable because Torrie shook his head and "too clean." His club (and his incredible fish-finding style) ain't called The Dirty South for nuthin'.


And it's all about these guys. This poor fella slunk away with a sore lip, but he'd get over it before too long.


Perhaps one of the most iconic images of Bahamian bonefishing is the beached skiff out behind the South Andros Lodge, used by legions of anglers to polish up their casting strokes in preparation for the real thing. Painted rocks at 12:00. Moving slow.


After a full day and great dinner, we typically spent more than a fair share of our afterhours here, at the beach fridge, and bar, behind the lodge. A story or two were told. A dark-and-stormy or three were consumed.


And sober, dark-and-stormy, or whatever, this ring swing baffled me. The contest was How many hookups can you get in ten tosses? I played it like How many tens of tosses does it take to get a hookup? Sorta like my bonefishing, now that I think about it.


And the wee hours, back at the lodge. A few kahlik-clad dead soldiers stand guard on the tables, some boots dry before an early departure.


The next morning's breakfast gets planned.


Perhaps my favorite image of the week. The morning after. To steal someone else's line (and if I could remember who's it was I'd acknowledge it, but, with such a crew full of such wonderful writers, it could have been anyone's observation), a caveman theater.


A final look off the bow, the sun rising on our fly out day. The rocks still tailing at 12:00.


A less inspiring aerial view as we return to the continent. Fort Lauderdale sprawl doesn't hold a candle to Andros flats, but it does mean that home's just one more jump away. That's always a good thing.

That'll do for now. Sorry for the delay. But it was fun for me to go back and enjoy the trip, so all is not lost. The April bin should follow shortly with May's shortly thereafter.

So many pictures. So little time.

What is a Photo Bin?