It’s easy to like Budge Hintz and wish he was your fishing buddy, but there are a few things in this book that illustrate how much things have changed since it was written—and we’re not just talking about the fishing. One change is that catch-and-release had yet to make its way to New Zealand when Hintz was fishing Taupo, and nearly every fish caught in these pages was killed. Another is that every fish was either a “he” or a “him”; as far as Hintz was concerned, there were apparently no females. Yet another is that a lot of cigarettes get smoked in Hintz’s prose. Thank goodness all those things have changed.
Others, thankfully, have not. “I have the faint hope that I may be writing for a wider public,” Hintz says, “that this book will find its way into the hands of anglers in older lands and that some chance passage or anecdote will persuade them to pack bags, organize passports, gather up their favourite rods and tackle, and set forth across the world to a small country of insular but warm-hearted people who will bid them welcome cordially.”
That’s how they welcomed me. I hope it may happen to you.
Hintz went on to write a later companion volume, Fisherman’s Paradise, that’s just as pleasant to read as this one. But that’s another book and another story.
CHERNOBYL TOMATO
IT’S CALLED Lone Lake, but don’t let the name fool you—it’s anything but lonely. There are lots of homes around it, many with nice lawns extending down to the shore. There are also several farms where cows, horses, and alpacas graze. The lake is always busy with fishermen and boaters, and swimmers in season. It’s far from a wilderness angling venue, yet for me Lone Lake has two important virtues: It holds rainbow trout, some of large size, and it’s only about fifteen minutes from my home. That makes it a handy place to drop in for a few hours of fishing.
That’s what I was doing one spring afternoon when large chironomids were hatching and trout were nosing through the surface to take them. I tied on a chironomid pupa imitation to match the naturals and cast to a subtle rise tight against the weeds where big trout often cruise. I gave the fly a little twitch, felt immediate resistance, set the hook—and this THING began moving ponderously toward the center of the lake, taking my fly line with it. It wasn’t the swift run of a rainbow, but more of a strong, slow, steady pull, as if I’d hooked a power lawnmower.
Muskrat? Beaver? Somebody’s escaped pet alligator?
None of the above. When the thing finally came to the surface, I saw I had hooked a hugely fat, hideously ugly grass carp, Ctenopharyngodon idella. When I saw how big it was I knew I’d have to handle it carefully on the light tackle I was using.
The carp made several short, strong runs, taking line each time, then headed for the bottom, where it grubbed around like a pig rooting through a landfill. After about ten minutes of this it finally returned to the surface, rolled onto its fat side, and came obligingly to my boat.
It was built like a garbage bag, which made it difficult to estimate its weight, but my guess was somewhere between five and ten pounds. Grass carp are supposed to be vegetarians, but this one obviously hadn’t gotten the memo; it had clamped down hard on my chironomid pupa imitation, which was stuck firmly in one of its thick, disgusting lips. I didn’t want to touch the ugly thing, but I did want my fly back, so I reached out and managed to twist the barbless hook free without even touching the fish. I watched the carp swim slowly away, then threw up.
Just kidding. I didn’t really throw up. I sure thought about it, though.
It wasn’t my intention, but I had just proven grass carp can be taken on an artificial fly. Keep that in mind as you continue reading.
How the carp got there is an interesting story. Lone Lake has long been a popular place for people to empty their goldfish bowls, and God alone knows what all is swimming around out there. At some point, one of those goldfish bowls contained Brazilian elodea, a fast-growing invasive weed that quickly gained a foothold in the lake. It spread so rapidly that within a few years vast areas of the lake became clogged with weed and were no longer usable for fishing, swimming, boating, or anything else. The lake was on the verge of becoming a marsh, the next-to-last stage before it would become a meadow. Something had to be done to stop the weed’s spread, and the Lone Lake Homeowners Association, the county government, and several local fly-fishing clubs banded together to seek a solution.
Once nuclear weapons were ruled out, the groups decided to treat the lake with an herbicide that kills Brazilian elodea but is harmless to fish and insects. The results were immediate and dramatic: Great clots of dead weed floated to the surface and washed ashore, and suddenly all of Lone Lake was again open for fishing, swimming, and boating.
The effects of the herbicide were only temporary, however. Something more was needed to keep the weed from coming back. Grass carp had been used for this purpose in other settings, with mixed results, but they appeared to offer the most promise, so the county applied for a state permit to plant sterilized Ctenopharyngodon idella in Lone Lake. State fisheries managers understandably weren’t thrilled at the idea of introducing a new exotic species, even if the carp were sterilized, and denied the permit. Twice more the county applied, and finally, in the absence of any other remedy, the state reluctantly approved.
The next step was to figure out how many carp should be planted. The available scientific literature was sketchy, lacking any established stocking formula, but biologists eventually came up with a figure of eight fish per acre. Since Lone Lake has 101 surface acres, that meant 808 carp.
I don’t know where they got the carp—Mars, maybe, or some equally alien venue—but 808 sterilized grass carp were planted in Lone Lake in the spring of 2007. At the time of planting, they averaged about twelve inches in length, but they can live up to ten years and reach weights of forty pounds under optimal grazing conditions.
The carp wasted no time doing what they were supposed to do, chomping every weed in sight. Periodic sampling of the lake showed steadily declining levels of aquatic vegetation. In fact, after a couple of years, sampling showed no aquatic vegetation whatever. That explained why anglers had begun to notice declining insect hatches; there was no longer any aquatic weed habitat for insects to breed in or feed in. It also explained why the trout in Lone Lake were beginning to look skinny.
Worse was to come. Removal of the aquatic vegetation allowed water-borne nutrients to become concentrated in blue-green algae, resulting in thick blooms toxic enough to kill house pets.
It was obvious things had gotten seriously out of whack, as often seems to happen when one exotic species is used to try to control another. Something had to be done to reduce the population of super-efficient carp in order to restore a balance between weed growth and carp numbers; otherwise it probably wouldn’t be long before Ctenopharyngodon idella started hungrily eyeing the well-kept lawns of lakeside residents.
How do you thin a population of grass carp? Easy: You just ask anglers to catch them. State fisheries managers invited members of the Whidbey Island and Evergreen Fly Fishing Clubs to join in a special carp-fishing season with a goal of reducing the carp population by about 160 fish.
But there was a catch: To reduce impacts on non-target fish species, such as trout, carp anglers would be required to use “barbless hooks baited with baits attractive only to grass carp. These include lettuce, spinach, alfalfa, sunflower sprouts, grass clippings, cherry tomatoes, and fresh fruit.”
That’s an actual quote. I’m not making this stuff up.
Why anyone thought fly fishers would be interested in a fishery requiring the use of fruits and vegetables for bait is beyond me, especially when I knew from recent experience that grass carp could be taken on an artificial fly. If they’d take a chironomid imitation, why not imitation fruits and vegetables?
That idea, however, apparently was never considered, and as this is being written the special fruits-and-vegetables-only carp season has been under way for several months. From what I hear, it’s not going very well. Not very many angl
ers have participated and not very many carp have been caught, even though various combinations of garden produce and ripe fruit have been employed. One determined local fly fisherman, obviously not a purist, even tried chumming with grass clippings.
Too bad. Just think what might have been: If anglers had been allowed to use artificials, every fly tyer in the state would have descended on Lone Lake, anxious to try his or her own hand-crafted fruit and vegetable imitations. Imagine the new flies we’d all be talking about: Lefty’s Lettuce. Skykomish Sunripe. Woolly Rutabaga. Sparse Grape Hackle.
The carp wouldn’t have had a chance. By now the weeds would be growing back in Lone Lake, the bugs would be hatching again, and the literature of fly fishing would have a whole new genre of patterns to celebrate: Beet-head Nymph. Crazy Chardlie. Eggplant-sucking Leech. Kale Morning Dun. Chernobyl Tomato.
“GET THEM BACK ALIVE!”
AFTER A ten-year hiatus, I returned to Christmas Island a third time. The first thing I noticed was the sign about no tipping was still missing from the dining room at the Captain Cook Hotel. That told me the guides had finally gotten their priorities in order, and this time I wasn’t planning to write anything about them; I was there just to fish and have fun. My son, Randy, was with me, along with my old friend Dave Draheim, a veteran of my first trip to Christmas, and his son, Chris.
This would be Randy’s first exposure to bonefishing, so when we drew our guide assignments for the first day of fishing I made sure he was paired with the more experienced of the two assigned to us. His name was Neemia and he was a thirteen-year veteran.
It was a good choice. Under Neemia’s tutelage, Randy landed four bonefish that morning, including one Neemia estimated at about seven pounds. Not a bad start!
After lunch we traded guides so I had a chance to get acquainted with Neemia, who turned out to be probably the most low-key guide I’d had at Christmas Island. He also spoke better English than most of the other guides. When I blew shots at the first seven or eight fish we saw—a performance I attributed to chronic rustiness—he also displayed admirable patience. Eventually I was able to salvage a little self-respect when I connected with a big fish that ran far into the backing, not once but four times, before I managed to bring it to hand. Neemia estimated that one also weighed seven pounds—maybe that was his favorite number. I didn’t think it was quite that big, but it was still big enough to please me.
Bad weather kept our catch to a minimum the next couple of days, but Neemia earned his keep by spotting fish I couldn’t see in the poor light and heavy chop. I hooked several, including a five-pounder that ran over the edge of a flat and fouled my line on a coral head. Neemia dashed after it, freed the line, and I got the fish.
After several days of fishing with guides, Randy wanted to try his luck without one, so he went alone while I went with Neemia again. We both had a good day— for me, seventeen fish hooked and fourteen landed, including another five-pounder; for Randy, fourteen hooked and eight landed, including a grand fish of eight pounds or more, with photographic evidence to prove it. I was highly pleased at the way he seemed to be taking to this fishing. Maybe it was the genes.
Dave and Chris, fishing with different guides, weren’t doing as well, although one day Chris hooked a big, angry bonefish that spooled him. That also was the day we came in from fishing and found our truck stuck up to the axles in muck. Two of the guides were sitting on the hood, hoping their weight would give the truck more traction; they didn’t realize the drive wheels were in back. We acquainted them with the facts of truck life and several of us piled into the back while everyone else got behind to push, and the truck finally broke free. I suppose it was too much to expect Christmas Island fishing guides would be automotive experts, too.
It’s a long way from Christmas Island in the Pacific to South Andros Island in the Bahamas, but that was my next bonefishing destination, at a resort called Andros South (don’t ask me why the owners turned the island’s name around). Randy was again with me along with three friends, Keith Robbins, Steve Sunich, and Dave Schorsch.
Most of the fishing at South Andros was in a labyrinth of mangrove-lined saltwater creeks and bays dividing the southern part of the island from the rest of it. Flats boats, each carrying a pair of anglers and a guide, were used for transportation and for most of the fishing, due to limited wading opportunities. That meant Randy and I would have to take turns fishing from the bow of the flats boat, which also meant we’d have only half the fishing time we’d had at Christmas Island.
The guides were experienced and competent, save one who had the worst attitude of any guide I’ve met. If he’d ever known fishing is supposed to be fun he’d obviously forgotten it, and he spent most of his time criticizing and pressing us to do things his way and do them better and faster. Fortunately, guides were rotated daily, so Randy and I had to suffer his company only once. The other guides were uniformly friendly, cordial, and helpful.
We spent two days fishing in weather ranging from marginal to impossible, with minimal results. The third day dawned equally unpromising, with continued wind and overcast, but our guide that day was a laid-back fellow named Charlie who took us up Deep Creek and poled around the lee edges of the mangroves, searching for places we might be able to see fish and cast to them. Randy and I each got a pair of bones, though nothing larger than three pounds. We ended up wading a flat we had fished the day before in horrible weather. This time we could see things better and I managed to zero in on a fair number of fish, but most fled before I could get within casting range. Charlie stayed with Randy and caught a pair of bones on a rod I loaned him so he also could fish. Then he teamed up with me and pointed out several fish, but I managed to blow every opportunity, including almost literally bouncing my fly off the head of one of the biggest bonefish I’d ever seen. Randy, fishing alone, landed a single two-pounder.
The next day was spent with the ill-tempered guide mentioned previously, so the less said about it, the better—except, with gallant help from Randy, I did land a single big bonefish. It ran into a tangle of mangroves and wrapped my line around a root as thick as a firehose, but Randy jumped in, waded into the tangled roots, freed the line, and I got the fish. The ill-tempered guide estimated its weight at five pounds; I’d have said six. Randy took its photo and showed it to our friends back at the lodge; they all thought it would have weighed eight pounds.
They were good friends.
Long overdue sunny and calm weather greeted us on our fifth day. With a guide named Norman at the helm, we ran through saltwater creeks all the way to the open sea on the west side of the island, where we encountered a mysterious thicket of sea haze that blotted out the horizon between sea and sky. It looked as if we were about to disappear into the Bermuda Triangle, never to be seen again, when Norman turned back toward the island and we entered a large, shallow bay.
Norman was a great guide, very helpful, and put us into places where we saw many bonefish—singles, doubles, sometimes a whole posse or more. We each landed eight, including the biggest bonefish I’ve ever caught. Randy saw it first and pointed it out, I covered it with a cast from the bow. The fish took immediately and ripped off at least one hundred yards of backing, and after a long fight that left me weary from reeling, I brought it alongside. Randy immortalized it with his camera, Norman said it was a good ten pounds, and I didn’t argue. It was the kind of day, and the kind of fishing, we’d hoped to find in the Bahamas.
On our last day we requested Charlie for our guide because he and Randy had gotten along so well when we fished with him earlier. The morning was mostly clear with a gentle breeze. We ran up Little Creek and ended up poling apparently endless flats somewhere in the maze of interior waterways. The weather slowly deteriorated, however, and by afternoon the wind was twenty knots and we were being hit with sporadic rain showers. Nevertheless, Randy and I each managed to score a single bonefish, both at the same time—the first double-header we’d had. One of us—I don’t remember which—had h
ooked a fish and stepped off the bow to play it while the other got up on the bow, made a cast, and hooked the second fish.
On our way back we saw some other fish and I hooked and landed one. Randy mounted the bow to take his turn, and that gave me a chance to tell Charlie there was a question I wanted to ask him. “I’m serious about this,” I said, “so don’t laugh.” He grinned hugely and told me to go ahead. I said we’d heard he was a deacon in the local Baptist church, and he nodded affirmation. “OK, then, my question is: When you’re out fishing like this, do you ever pray that your clients will catch fish?”
His grin got even wider; then he burst into laughter. “No, mon,” he said finally. “I just pray that I get them back alive.”
My kind of guide.
We gave Charlie our usual daily tips, but then I added $20 “for the collection plate at your church.” His face lit up like a Christmas tree.
Two years later Randy and I made yet another pilgrimage to Christmas Island, this time just the two of us. By then macular degeneration, a common ailment of old age, had cost me most of the sight in one eye, so I wasn’t sure I’d still be able to see bonefish as well as I could when younger.
It didn’t take long to find out. The weather on our first day wasn’t especially conducive to seeing fish, but it was good enough for me to realize I couldn’t see them—at least, not like I always had. My guide, Naurio, a veteran of more than twenty years, had good vision, however, so his eyes became my eyes. He would see a fish and tell me where and how far to cast, and with his help I hooked thirteen bones that morning. Randy went with him in the afternoon and got only a single fish, but it was a big one, seven or eight pounds. Fishing the afternoon by myself, I saw and caught nothing.
A Fly Fisher's Sixty Seasons Page 14