Experience a specific outdoor adventure a number of times and it’s possible to become a bit blase about the entire outing. Even adventures such as rock climbing, whitewater rafting, big-game hunting or deep-sea fishing for huge marlin or sharks may be viewed with nonchalance after a dozen years of expeditions. Don’t get me wrong, the adrenaline spike still occurs when a big fish strikes or a trophy animal is spotted, but the unique sights and sounds that kept us thrilled and on edge for the first few junkets are now sometimes taken for granted.

Often a sportsman doesn’t even realize that complacency has set in. That was certainly my circumstance with regard to my annual fly fishing trip for tarpon, the silver king of the Florida flats. Nothing rekindles the excitement and refocuses attention to splendid scenery and wondrous wildlife like a rookie on the boat. Last month for the first time in many years, I took a fishing partner along on my tarpon trip. Despite only mediocre fishing, my boat buddy’s fresh infusion of awe and enthusiasm and his effervescent companionship renewed my own angling ardor and boosted my enjoyment as well.

Tarpon tales

Throughout my many years of casting flies I’ve hooked and played a wide variety of game fish. Pound for pound, inch per inch, none tests equipment, casting skill and an angler’s fish-fighting ability like the Silver King. Add in 90-degree heat with the sun reflecting off the ocean, breath-gasping humidity plus wave and tide movement, and 30 minutes into battle with a 100-pound tarpon the question of who’s trashing who is sure to cross a sport’s mind.

Tune in your television to one of the outdoor channels and at least a couple of times each week there’s a tarpon fishing show. You’ll see the guide and fisherman cruise the shallow water flats, eyes peeled for a wake in the water, a fin in the surf or even a shadow. How such huge fish can be so difficult to spot is part of the challenge.

This is why casting flies to tarpon is as much hunting as fishing. Once sighted, the next feat is to pole within casting distance without spooking the fish. Finally, enticing a tarpon to strike after a perfect presentation is always a crap shoot. I’ve cast into a school of more than 60 tarpon up to two dozen times offering six different fly patterns with nary a look. An hour later – hot, dejected and frustrated – I’ve whipped a spur of the second, imperfect cast to a single ‘poon passing by and watched the chrome cruiser turn and rush to engulf my fly. That’s the never-ending, ever- altering mystique of tarpon fishing, most of which you never get to see during the 22 minutes of action on a TV tarpon fishing show.

Mike Wallace is married to my cousin Cindi, and over the 30-plus years since we met, a myriad of rod-and-gun ventures have been shared. After hearing of my tarpon tales for a decade or so and promising to join me one day, three weeks ago he fulfilled that pledge. From the moment we boarded the plane this experienced, world-traveled outdoorsman was just like a kid on Christmas morning. Mike’s eagerness, anticipation and elation were contagious and from that point on I too began to view every aspect of the trip in a new light.

On the water

After landing in Sarasota, we picked up our vehicle and headed south toward Englewood and our condo. June is off-season for tourism in the Sunshine State so prices are more reasonable on everything from rooms to rental cares. Most folks consider me crazy for taking a Florida vacation during June’s oppressive heat, but that’s peak tarpon season and enduring stifling weather is worth the silver-scaled reward. Just sighting a pod of ‘poon is sure to elevate a fly rodder’s blood pressure to hazardous levels, but that sudden surge of a strike, a boat side, head-shaking leap followed by a line-burning, reel-screaming run, and all ambient misery is forgotten.

Thirty minutes later, when the silver slab of finned muscle is still leaping, cavorting and generally kicking your butt, sweltering heat and aching muscles suddenly engulf an angler like a collapsing building. You never beat a tarpon, you endure, and as you grip the huge fish by the lower jaw at boat side and remove the fly, a sudden tail flick shakes your body like a cat shakes a mouse. And just as you release the fish that large, opulent eye stares through you as if to say “You got lucky this time, Bub!”

Due to tide conditions we fished from early afternoon until dusk. When Capt. Austin Lowder picked Mike and I up at The Inlet dock at 1 p.m., the news was less than heartening. Winds were from the wrong direction to fish the beach, a productive stretch along Sanibel and Captiva islands, so we would have to work the back country and passes. Hoping to demonstrate how to hook a tarpon, I took the first half-hour shift on the bow’s casting platform. One small passing school gave me a shot and on the third cast a fish flashed at my fly, but turned away at the last second. Another hour of scouting and scanning produced not a single sighting of silver scales.

Scarcity of tarpon didn’t bother Mike a whit. He was too busy enjoying the other fish, fowl and miscellaneous wildlife. He was thrilled at the constant bird activity as terns, gulls, pelicans and osprey dive-bombed the ocean surface, successful in their own styles of fishing. A huge brown sea turtle surfaced near the boat and paddled within five yards to check us out and a manatee breeched the swells nearby to watch us watch him, but kept a safer distance. A group of more than 50 brown manta rays with two- to three-foot wingspans finned up to the boat’s bow then split to pass along each side. Mike was aghast and I was elated as well.

Motoring to Captive Pass we found the beach still awash with heavy swells, but the presence of a dozen boats alerted Austin that some crabs were hatching. After watching a few minutes we spotted several tarpon busting crabs on the surface, simulating a grenade exploding just under the surface. We tied on flies that imitated small crabs, a tarpon delicacy, and began floating with the tide along a 500-yard stretch of the pass between the lagoon and the ocean.

With the tide running it’s impossible to see the fish in the water, so Mike and I made long, blind casts off opposite sides of the boat, allowing our flies to swing with the swift tide flow. Each float took about 15 minutes, then Austin would motor us back into the bay for another pass. Halfway through the third trip a flash of chrome split the surface and my line snapped taught. Never raising the rod tip, I pulled the line in my left hand one direction and the rod butt straight back. A grand slab of silver hurtled skyward, somersaulted and headed for Cuba.

My tarpon refused to leap again, running hard and boring deep instead of wasting energy jumping. I’d grunt, groan and strain to gain 10 yards of line, then the fish would take back 20. Fifty minutes later, a wash of sweat and panting, I finally forced the fish near enough for Austin to secure the leader with a gloved hand. Mike had been a great cheerleader throughout, but finally being able to view this 130- to 140-pound trophy on its side along the boat, he began to point and chatter like a parrot. No more had Austin gripped the 20-pound-test leader when the big fish thrashed outward and an audible pop of parting monofilament ended the battle.

Half an hour and two passes later, Mike got his first introduction to the silver king. Busy chatting with Austin and I and gawking at the sky for birds and the ocean for fish, Mike was caught completely off-guard when his line tightened with a surge. All the stories of how difficult it is to set a fly into a tarpon’s rock-hard mouth flooded his mind at that startling strike.

Mike reared back with the line in one hand and the rod in the other, and with the fish already turned and speeding away the leader broke like a length of thread. Elation turned to dejection in a heartbeat. Despite having had experienced several similar debacles, I felt worse for my buddy.

Eye-opening events

Later that afternoon I hooked and got one leap from the largest tarpon I’ve ever hooked, and then the fly pulled free. Austin estimated the monster at somewhere between 175 and 200 pounds! The next morning while we fished the pass again a leopard ray with a seven-foot wingspan leapt six feet clear of the water, flew several yards through the air and crashed down within 10 feet of the boat. Still later, several porpoise swam past and one broke away to investigate our boat. When Austin leaned over and splashed his fingers in the water the svelte creature came right to the boat, rolling, cavorting and bumping the hull with its nose in hopes of a snack.

Despite the wind we tried fishing the beach. Mike danced and staggered around on the bow like a drunk on roller skates. The comedy continued when an occasional tarpon showed up and he attempted to cast while hopping about. When a fish did finally take his fly, Mike was so discombobulated he tried to set the hook as if fishing trout, lost a grip on the line and of course the tarpon was gone. A short while later Austin suggested that if Mike were going to fall overboard, now would not be a good time. We looked where he pointed, and a sleek dark form materialized into a seven-foot bull shark so close we could have poked it with the fly rod.

That evening Mike and I both got several chances at a school of tarpon and I hooked up after four casts. Six acrobatic leaps and many arm-cramping runs later Mike got photos of Austin and I releasing a 100-pound tarpon. Thunderstorms drove us off the water early that night.

Day three was misery; high winds, waves and overcast made it impossible to spot fish and difficult to even stand up in the cockpit, let alone on the bow platform. Thunder and lightning drove us to cover for an hour. We were only back out a short while when I spotted a funnel cloud forming a mile away. One glance and Austin had us on the move from the approaching fast-forming tornado leading to another long break on shore. With our final day pretty much in shambles I grinned at Mike and said, “Not quite like the fishing shows on TV is it?”

“Not even close,” he replied in what I thought to be a defeated tone. “By the way, when are we coming back next year? I’ve got to put in for vacation time early!”

bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com