I get a lot of odd, questioning looks when friends learn I’m visiting Florida in June, and no small number of snide comments about trying a vacation during winter sometime. Fishing enthusiasts understand my travel plans at once, however, knowing that regardless of the stifling heat, May and June are the months for a Sunshine State sojourn if an angler hopes to fly fish for tarpon. During mid-June, schools of saltwater’s silver king constantly travel the coastline along Sanibel, Captive and Boca Grande, and once a sportsman hooks his first tarpon on a fly, the addiction lasts a lifetime.

Tarpon weigh from 50 to more than 200 pounds in the open ocean along Florida and fight like no other fish I’ve ever encountered. Each and every fish puts up an altogether different fight; they run long, leap high, dive deep and make an angler’s arms ache within the first 15 minutes of a one- or two- hour tug of war. Once a silver king gets close to the boat the real battle begins and 12 weight, 9-foot fly rods often snap like a dry cedar, with the crack of a rifle shot. Hundred-pound tarpon are usually more than 100 years old, they are smart, tough game fish with granite hard mouths where only two out of five hook sets stay stuck. A worthy opponent? In truth the silver king is the perennial champion, and we are just contenders with hope, desire and flimsy rods.

Spare the rod

In the last five years I have broken four rods while fighting tarpon. In each case the fish weighed more than 100 pounds and the pole developed a split personality during the final stages of the fight with the quarry within 10 feet of the boat. Just when you think you have the upper hand, that the tarpon is finally under control, a sudden surge, a half leap and fall away, or a quick dive under the boar hull takes place. I’ve seen one fish try all of these tricks, and more nasty up-close tactics, and sooner or later your rod-tip dip or arm stretch is a split second too late, and-SNAP!

My very first tarpon guide gave me sage advice at the end of our first outing. If I was entertaining the idea of buying my own tackle, make sure the rod had a lifetime replacement guarantee against breakage. I listened and it has saved me a lot of money over the years. In all I’ve snapped three well-known brands of fly rods, two 11-weights and two 12-weights, and last year’s casualty really broke my heart as it was a Powell Tiboron, the most comfortable, long casting big-fish rod I’d even owned.

Fly casting for tarpon is a combination of hunting and fishing that requires sharp eyes and quick reactions. Despite their large size, tarpon are nearly invisible while swimming along due to their color reflective chrome scales, and unless they are porpoising on the surface, fish are often very near the boat when spotted. Anglers balance precariously on the ever bouncing and swaying front casting deck of the flats boat, fly rod in one hand, fly in the other, and yards of fly line stripped out at their feet with eyes constantly scanning, squinting into the sun’s glare off the water. Often there’s only time for a snapshot, one false cast and a lay out, when a tarpon is spotted up close. Quick handling rods with effortless motion and plenty of backbone are a must for precision casting of large 3/0 flies, for solid hook sets, and grueling combat with the Silver King.

My replacement rod from Powell arrived the day before I was to leave for Florida along with a note from Keith Bryan, owner and product developer for the 96-year-old firm. In the short case was a 9- foot. 4-piece, 12-weight fly rod with dual cork grips and a fighting butt. TIMAX rods are built from space age material combinations and handsomely wound and finished, but the real beauty of this rod is in the handling. I rigged it with my tarpon reel and line and headed to the river for a practice session.

In less than five minutes I knew I had a winner in my hand; superior balance allowed pinpoint fly placement, excellent line speed, lightweight but with great lifting power and just a touch of soft flex that would resist breaking when big fish surged. After only a half hour of companionship I decided to nickname my new tarpon rod MAX, and was anxious to put Powell’s new creation to a real test. Now if only the fish would cooperate.

Stormy weather

The week before my arrival in Florida a tropical storm trying to become a hurricane pushed along Boca Grand and up through Sarasota. High winds, wicked waves and curtains of rain put sportsmen off the ocean for three days and severe thunderstorms still pounded the coast for hours the day I arrived. I called my guide, Capt. Austin Lauder, and learned that the tarpon were starting to filter back inshore, but the weather had them skittish. Fish weren’t even taking live bait well, let alone flies, but every day the weather and the fishing should improve so we would fish split days, four hours in the morning and four in the evening. These were the most active times for tarpon.

By 5:30 a.m. we had launched the boat and Austin was buzzing through the pre-dawn darkness for a spot he had seen several pods of fish showing the previous day. Morning’s pink fingers were just pushing the gloom off the horizon when we spotted a school of traveling tarpon and stopped quickly to rig my rod and tie on a long, showy white and yellow Enrico pattern. Using the electric bow-mounted trolling motor we caught and paralleled the school. I made three long casts into the parade of about 25 tarpon without so much as a look, and then they all went deep and stopped showing. There’s almost always a taker in a dawn patrol, but the weather still had the tarpon acting hinky. Not a good sign nor an auspicious start.

I’d used three different fly patterns to entice five more bunches of fish, one containing more than 50 tarpon, by 8 o’clock, all to no avail other than perfecting my casting. We had spoken to guides in four other boats who had also fished various schools, often with live bait, and only one had hooked up. Austin knew of an estuary where the fish go at mid-morning to lay up and rest in the calm water, perhaps there was a taker in that bunch. When in rest mode and not traveling, tarpon suspend in one spot near bottom in 10 to 20 feet of water and occasionally surface to gulp air. The trick is to be close enough to a breaching fish to place a fly near its path as it starts back down.

More than a dozen fish porpoised during the first 15 minutes we drifted about, but none within range. Finally, a bit of luck befell us as a tarpon showed within 15 yards of the boat. I placed the fly right on the bubbles left behind and counted to 10 as the line sank, then made a foot-long strip. Before I could move the fly again the line came taut and I pulled the rod straight back, setting the hook hard. A 60-pound tarpon cleared the water by four feet, somersaulted and jackknifed back into the ocean. A quick run cleared the line from the deck and about 50 yards from the reel, then another spiraling leap sent the fly back at me as the fish made its escape.

About a half hour later I got a solid strike from another tarpon, but when I tried to set the hook the silver king was gone. That evening we visited Boca Grand pass hoping for a crab hatch to bring tarpon to the surface to feed. More than 50 other boats had the same idea, but the hatch never happened and the wind and waves came up, making for a rough 30 minutes of butt bouncing and brain jarring for the ride back to the boat launch.

Pain and pleasure

Day two. Same song, second verse. We appreciate another breathtaking sunrise, locate a couple of early moving schools to cast at, and find they still have lockjaw. About 7 a.m. we spot a daisy chain; a stationary pod of happy tarpon playing, splashing and circling each other. On the very first cast into the frenzy, after only two line strips, a silver flash engulfs the fly and tries to tear the rod from my grip as line sizzles from the deck, and then the reel whirs like a weed whacker. Austin and I are all grins.

A huge, tumbling leap opens a socket in the sea large enough to drop a wash tub into and when the fish finishes its dive I set the hook again, harder. A hundred-yard run and another jump follow, and then more line spools off as my guide uses the electric motor to keep pace. Austin has boated hundreds of tarpon in his 13-year career, and this one is more than 100 pounds. If we land it, he will tell me the weight within five pounds before we release it. For every yard of line I gain, the silver slab of muscle takes out 10.

Forty-five minutes later the pleasure has turned to pain, my wrists hurt, my arms ache, my legs are wobbly and my clothes are wet with sweat in the 90- degree heat. I’m finally back to my fly line, and tightening the drag I pump the tarpon closer, pulling left when he turns right and vice-versa, wearing the big fish down before it wears me out. After 70 minutes, Austin finally grabs the leader and gently works our prize closer so he can grab the bucket-mouth jaw with a gloved hand. Removing the fly he revives the big fish, estimating it at 115 pounds. I drop in the boat seat wishing someone would revive me. No more luck that morning and the evening hours are a frustrating repeat of the night before, no crab hatch and restless seas.

Dawn patrol

Morning three, in the gray overcast of pre-dawn we spotted a pod of moving tarpon when we are only halfway to our intended fishing spot. “They’ll eat if you can put it in front of them this early in the day.” Austin offered as he quietly moved the boat into casting range. On my first cast, a split second after the fly hit the water and before I could even make a line strip, a fish exploded on the surface, engulfing the yellow Enrico pattern. Then without the usual jump, the fish turned and made a line-burning run toward the beach. I knew right then this was going to be a different type of fish.

About a minute later the fish was still melting line from my spool. I turned the sturdy drag up all the way. No effect. My line and 250 yards of backing were gone. Austin abandoned the electric motor, gave a concerned glance at my remaining line and jumped back to start the main motor. As the engine growled to life the 350-yard mark on my backing zipped out the rod tip and precious little line remained.

After five minutes of rapid, wrist-cramping reeling as we chased the tarpon to gain back line, I finally reached my fly line. Five more times the fish ran me deep into the backing and never once did it jump. Ten minutes of boat-side antics and I finally wore the chrome torpedo down enough for Austin to grab the leader and then the fish’s lower jaw. This 45-minute fight had been tougher than yesterday’s tarpon tussle, and this one weighted only 80 pounds!

Each and every tarpon reacts differently when hooked, and every hookup is a new adventure and challenge to the angler armed with a thin line and a lightweight stick of graphite. It’s kind of like hunting bear with a buggy whip, the outcome is always in question. Fly rodding for the silver king of saltwater may just be the ultimate style of fishing, and regardless of the heat, humidity and fickle weather, I can’t wait to be in the presence of royalty again.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com