The Logic of Bonefish Leaders

  • By: Chico Fernandez
  • Photography by: Jim Butler
Casting Bonefish Leaders

For the third day in a row I had set my alarm for 5 a.m, and after a quick cup of café con leche I drove across the then-small city of Miami (this was in the early ’60s), over three bridges and onto Key Biscayne. Then, after a left turn onto a narrow, partially hidden, sandy road, I parked under a large seagrape tree, a tree I had parked under many times before. From there, just a quarter-mile walk along the beach brought me to the northeast shore of the key, where I looked out on a large, open flat facing the ocean.

South Fork

  • By: Maximilian Werner
  • Photography by: Maximilian Werner
South Fork Moose

The last time Greg and I fished together was in 2008 on the Fremont River (see “On the Lower Fremont: Part II”), and I had been trying to get him to come back ever since. Despite a handful of conversations to that effect, 2009 came and went. Then 2010 rolled around and the ritual of half-promises and unfinished phone calls started all over again. Understandably, Greg was noncommittal: He was up to his elbows in teaching obligations, and as a recent divorcee, he was busy reorienting himself to the new world and juggling love interests. But when the infernal hand of July came knocking, he did what a lot of Arizonans do: He looked for a way out.

Tiny Dubbed BWOs

  • By: A. K. Best
  • Photography by: A. K. Best
Tiny Dubbed BWOs

I prefer to use stripped-and-dyed rooster-neck hackle quills for all my mayfly imitations. Since the advent of Asian bird flu, however, strung Chinese rooster-neck hackle has not been easy to find. And our own domestic quill-body capes, although very good, are not always…

Saltwater Destination Planner 2011

Bonefish on Fly

I WAS TAKING ADVANTAGE OF THE beauty of the low Mexican morning sunlight to shoot photos of my friend Dave casting toward the white-sand shoreline…when Dave paused his cast. Our guide quietly, very serious now, said “Si.” About 50 yards down the beach appeared a dark shape hovering over the sand—a piece of driftwood? No, it was a snook. A huge snook. Dave, a lefty, was having a hard time loading the rod with the cross-wind. As the guide poled our skiff closer to the dark form, Dave told me to step up on the casting deck. I put down my…