Cannonball Run

 The doom of winter has set upon me. It started with the end of elk season, then the end of deer season, then the end of duck season, then the end of goose season, then the end of squirrel season. Now there’s nothing left to hunt and it’s long since been too cold to fish. This is the time of year that sportsmen and women should probably rest, but the out of doors is a tonic that cures what ails me. Soon the whitetail bucks will start to drop their antlers and that adds another worthy reason to begin scouting. Until then, I deal with the doom of winter.

Adding insult to injury, the legislature is in session. I find myself dealing with brilliant men and fools, with honest men and scoundrels. I was asked by my fellow sportsmen to help sort out legislation, policy and regulation nearly three years ago. To help make sense of it all, so that the common man, the working man, can figure out where he stands on bills important to the outdoor community. Dealing with legislation is not a hunting season. It’s not a fishing season. It’s not a trapping season. It’s a season of sanity and insanity.

Mercifully, it comes to an end soon. I’ve been researching bill after bill. Posting position statements for my fellow sportsmen and women so that they can make “heads or tails” of bills important to our heritage. But after nearly sixty days, I’ve had enough. I’m ready to both humbly accept my lot and simultaneously, “let slip the dogs of war.”

“If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles,” Sun Tzu. Well I know myself and I need a break. While filing away some notes on House Bill “Who Cares What Number”, I come across a file labelled, “Vacation Ideas.” In that manila folder is unveiled the genius of my organizational skills. I find notes on trips from the west coast to the east coast. There are ideas I’d forgotten I’d had and inspiration I needed. As I flip through the folder, I find notes on how to take a kayak fishing trip in the Florida Keys. I’ve left myself like a pirate’s treasure on where to go, where to camp, and how to fish it. By the time I closed the file, I’m resolved to leave as soon as possible.

A week later my kayak, my bike and my fishing poles are secured to the racks on the roof of my truck.

First a stop in Georgia, then the next day I arrive at Key Largo and set up camp. Simplicity is the order of the day. Download the kayak and the bike first, then hang the hammock. In a few short hours camp is prepared, the kayak is rigged, and all that’s left to do is drink a beer and wait for the sunrise that’s sure to come the following morning.

The sand is wet and abrasive between my toes. The sand is welcome between my toes. I stand quietly and exhale as I double check my rig. The boat is ready and so am I. The eastern sky is well lit, but the sun has not yet shown itself. There’s more than enough light to shove off and start paddling southeast. I’m gone. I intend to paddle out of the mangrove lined creeks to a bay east of Key Largo. That bay is open to the Atlantic Ocean. The bay is dotted with mangrove islands. I’ll paddle out to one I like, throw the anchor and fish. That’s the plan.

I lean into the kayak paddle. Anyone whose used one knows, it’s a long ambidextrous affair. It’s also a tool that takes rhythm to make work. My rhythm is good. I clear the matrix of mangrove creeks. Suddenly, I’m am spit out into the bay like so much water from an orca’s blow hold. The water goes from placid and welcoming to choppy and decidedly against me. I lean into the kayak paddle again. An hour later I’m soaking wet, exhilarated and at my spot. The anchor is set. The chum bags are out. The menhaden oil is flowing. The trap is set.

I’m an old school live bait fisherman. The plan is to use the current to take the chum and the menhaden oil to the fish. They’ll come to me. First will be the small fish. Some I will keep. Some I will chop up and add to the chum slick. Some I will let go. I had hoped to take a sleigh ride behind a tarpon. It’s early in the season for the Silver King, but friends from south of here have caught them already so I’m hopeful. My hope was made greater as I scared one with my boat on the way out.

In short order, a dozen small fish are fooled by my tiny hook baited with squid. My priority is to find a lively candidate to be used as bait on the heavy rod using a simple balloon rig. The first to dance under the balloon is a simple grunt. Then a school of ballyhoo show up and two are fooled by my little squid trick. I switch the ballyhoo and the grunt. Now the balloon dances a sweeter dance, as most anything in the sea loves to east a live ballyhoo. I cannot take my eyes off the balloon and I’m ready for it to run away like a thief in the night.

An hour goes by and I’ve caught maybe twenty small fish on my light rod, nothing’s hit the big rod. The small mangrove island behind me is doing a yeoman’s job of breaking the ocean swells to the east and providing a strong current to carry my chum slick to the northwest. The water below my kayak is crystal clear. It’s as if I’m fishing on top of an aquarium and I’m reminded why I went through all the trouble to get here.

After the long paddle out my arms and shoulders were on fire. I was wet and cold. I chugged a V8 and started about my business. Now an hour has gone by and the sun has shown its face wide and brilliant. I’m starting to dry out. I take a break and sink my teeth into a tart green apple. As I eat my breakfast, I stare at the balloon rig, some thirty yards away. I’m long past staring at a bobber in a pond with my father and brother, but the feeling of waiting for the balloon to go under is just the same as it was forty years ago. I chuck the apple core and watch it’s green and white skeleton tumble across a brilliant blue sky, then it happens…zvvveeeee!

Something has hit the big rod so hard that the balloon is dancing across the bay in front of me, while the drag on the Penn reel is signing its brilliant song. My boat is small. There’s room for me, my rods, my survival gear and my tackle. When the big rod goes off, I’ve got to be cool. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. Let the fish pull against the rod and let the circle hook do its job. Relax and get the deck cleared and then, only then, pull the big rod from the rod holder.

It’s the most satisfying feeling you can have on the water. You’ve done all the work. You’ve made your plan. You’ve got yourself into a position where you’re going to catch fish. Then it happens. A sea monster grabs your bait and decides to go due east toward Africa. I lean into the big rod and feel the power of the fish on the end of the line. He’s certainly there. He’s certainly strong. I contemplate popping off the anchor for the sleigh ride I’d been dreaming of…crack! The rod pops straight and the line goes limp.

Just as soon as I’m lost in the euphoria of a monster bite, I’m humbled by the dead silence and the slack line. The monster is gone. The line is slack. I must begin again. There are millions of fishermen on this big blue pearl we call Earth. I’m one of them and count myself to be of average skill, but above average work ethic and daring. My tarpon rig had been cut clean through by something with teeth, that made short work of the thirty-pound fluorocarbon leader. I’m in a kayak. It’s obvious that my snapper and tarpon plans have become barracuda or shark plans.

I’m ready to take what Mother Ocean gives me. I re-rig the big rod with a steel leader. I put the second ballyhoo on the circle hook and send the balloon rig sailing through the air down current. The balloon dances over the swells in a most gratifying way. I continue to fish the small rod, with my squid chunks on the end of the line. A dozen more small fish of multiple varieties are caught throughout the morning, each serving its purpose. I console myself that if I were subsistence fishing, I would have long since been done. Two dozen of these little grunts and snappers would have fed me and my family.

I’m dry now. The soaking I took paddling out against the wind and current has dried. The cormorants and pelicans have joined me. They sit like old friends in the mangroves behind me, taking their late morning rest before hunting for their supper. Their chatter is welcome and gregarious. I’m so relaxed it’s dangerous. I put down the small rod and simply marvel at the ocean floor below my kayak. The bottom is teaming with life. The sky is a brilliant blue. Just then, the big rod shakes me out of my meditation…zzzvvveee!

The drag is singing off the reel and the balloon is dancing across the water’s surface. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. I put up everything and clear the deck of my little boat. I get the big rod in both hands and reel tight. The circle hook has done its job. I’m buttoned up to whatever fish is on the end of the line. Being mindful of my situation and realizing a monstrous fish will require me to unclip, drop the anchor and use the boat to help me win the fight, I’m gauging the combatant on the other end of the line. I’ve no idea what it is, but I don’t think I’ll pop off the anchor.

Five minutes seems an hour. Ten minutes seems an eternity. Just then I see it, it’s a shark. It’s not a monster, but shark fishing from a kayak is a special kind of fun. I have yet to see anything other than a dorsal fin, but I’m in love. My combatant in this fight is worthy of my praise. I can see what I’ve got. There’s a bonnethead shark on the end of my line. It’s a smaller species of hammerhead, this fellow is about five feet long. What a beautiful animal.

In short order, I’ve got the shark alongside the kayak and secured it by the dorsal fin. It’s tired and that’s a good thing. Any fisherman worth their salt will remind you to never, ever, bring a green shark into the boat. I’m not going to bring him in the boat at all. I leader him. I put the rod in the rod holder, and I pull the hook.

A feeling of pride rolls over me. Nothing is easily done with a big fish from a kayak, especially in saltwater. I
marvel at the beauty and strength of this fish. I slide my hand down from the dorsal to the tail. Minutes, maybe seconds go by and this handsome fish pumps two hard tailbeats into my hand. I let it go. It’s gone like a rocket. My trip’s been made. If nothing else goes right, the trip is now a success.

I exhale and take a pull on my water bottle. Sitting still for a second and soaking in the scene I’m reminded that anyone can do this. This is public water. There are no barriers, except one’s own confidence and willingness to try. Just a few minutes go by and the guttural burping call of a cormorant shakes me from my happy trance. I grab the small pole, bait it with a bit of squid and go about making bait once more. A grunt is the first candidate and in short order he’s flying through the sky below a balloon, which falls with a splash thirty yard to the northwest. Once again, I watch the balloon like a five-year-old watching a bobber in a farm pond. I remind myself to continue fishing with the small pole to “make bait.”

I stop to take a pull off my water bottle, just as the balloon starts running away from me as it’s stolen something and I’m a cop. Once again, I calmly put the small pole in the rod holder. I clear the deck of my little boat. That sweet sound every angler longs to hear delights my senses. The line rolls off the reel and the drag sings...zzzvveee!

I secure the big rod and lean back. I’m buttoned up to something big. Bigger than the bonnethead. The line is pouring off the reel as the drag sings. I am using my free hand to find the snap link that holds the anchor line to my kayak. I’ve not even touched the reel. The seven-foot long heavy pole is bent in half and the braid is still dumping off the reel when I find the snap link and free myself from the anchor. The sleigh ride begins.

I’ve not moved the length of my little boat…crack! The rod snaps back to attention. The boat rocks hard as I try to find my balance. The line goes slack. It’s gone. I reel it in, astonished, the whole rig is gone. I sit stunned. Upon inspection it appears the toothy monster, either a bigger shark or very big barracuda, somehow got the braided line above the steel leader in its mouth. I’m terribly disappointed when my sleigh ride is denied me, but it’s only the first day. I’m tired. I’ve got an hour to paddle back to camp. I gather my things and paddle in.

My arms are burning and I’m ready for a beer by the time I nose my kayak onto the beach. An hour later, I’m walking to the nearest restaurant for some seafood and another beer. After a fine meal of blackened mahi, I hike back to my camp and collapse in my hammock. In very short order I’m lost in dreams of big fish that will take me on a sleigh ride tomorrow.

The feral chickens in the Keys are both loved and despised. Their ancestors were jungle fowl in Cuba and across the Caribbean. Now they’re a feral species of marauding bantam sized chickens that believe they own the place and we humans are pests. The cock fowl start crowing an hour before sunrise. For the party people and the drunks, the roosters are hated. For the fisherman, the roosters are old friends that make sure we are up, no matter how many beers we had the night before.

I would love nothing more to be in a backcountry camp, but no such place exists in the Florida Keys. I move like a stalking mountain lion as I make my coffee, eat my breakfast and prepare for the day in quiet regard for the late sleepers all around me.

I shove off into the mangrove lined creek in the grey predawn light. The Good Lord has granted me even fairer seas and mellower winds. My paddle out takes just under an hour and once again, I’m soaking wet. The morning is breaking warm and welcoming. By the second cast on the small rod, I’m making bait. Shortly thereafter the big rod is out and I’m watching the balloon again, filled with anticipation. Some tarpon rolled in the channel as I paddled out. So, once again I rig for tarpon. The sun is fully up and providing his dutiful warmth when the balloon dances across the water. A silent voice in my head screams, “Silver King!”

The braid begins to bleed off the spool…zzzzvvveee! Before I can clear the deck and lean into the big rod, it goes slack. I never even got my hands on it. Upon inspection I find the thirty-pound fluorocarbon leader cut by teeth. “Barracuda or shark for sure. They’re here early today,” I tell the gregarious cormorant sitting in the mangroves behind me. If you’ve never sat with these fisher birds and heard their calls, if you were unaware of what was making the sounds they make, you’d believe yourself to be in the company of gorillas. I re-rigged the big rod with a steel leader and set back to making bait with the small rod.

I’m still lost in wondering what just cut the line on the big rod. That’s the allure of fishing in the ocean. There are sea monsters in the water. I am not really thinking straight, and I put a big chunk of squid on the small rod. I cast it and realize it only as I watch it fly. “Ah well, let is sink, never know,” I say to myself. My attention drifts back to the balloon.

”Oh no!” the small rod is almost yanked from my hands.

“Okay gotcha, what’s this?”

ZZZZZvvveeeee!

The small rod is spooled with six-pound test monofilament and baited with a number 8 bait keeper hook. This fish is more than it’s designed to handle. This is no sleigh ride, but it’s certainly fun and I have to actually pretend I’m a better fisherman than I really am. Probably, only five minutes go by as I work hard not to lose the fish on my ultralight small rod.

“Well hello!” I hear myself say out loud. It’s about a two-pound mangrove snapper.

I just had a ball landing this fine eating fish on a rod that was challenged to help me. A small contented smile rolls across my face watching the snapper flap around on the floor of my kayak. I whisper a small thank you, not sure if I was thanking God or the snapper…zzzzvvveee!

The big rod has decided to give me no respite. I leave the snapper on the deck. Slow is smooth and smooth is fast. I get the small rod put up and everything out of the way. With both hands on the big rod I lean back and apply pressure, then two pumps of the rod to make sure the hook is set. One of the most glorious things about fishing saltwater, especially saltwater that’s open to the Atlantic, is that you have no idea what is on the end of your line. This hook up was no different. I had no idea what I was buttoned up to. It only took only a minute or two, as the big rod and reel is heavy machine, for me to see what was on the end of the line, a barracuda. I was able to land the toothy marauder, free the hook from his maul and let him return to Mother Ocean.

The day becomes calm and nothing bites, not even the little fish that have been nonstop. I’m lost in the aquarium I’m sitting on top of. One of the marvels of kayak fishing is that you’re intimately close to the water. I can easily see all the life eight feet below my little boat. A few more small fish come and go over the next two hours, but it’s obvious the morning to midday lull has arrived. Only the gorilla like grunts of the cormorants keep me company and that’s okay.

My stomach begins to ask if my throat’s been cut. I’m aware that I’ve got an hour paddle back to the beach. My stomach encourages me to leave, but I decide to stay and take a pull on my water bottle. I find myself wishing it was beer and have second thoughts. I collect my gear and pull the anchor. I paddle back to the beach in an hour, not unaware of the wonderful workout I’m getting. I hook the kayak trolley to my boat and drag it back to camp. In another hour I’m back on the beach cervesa in hand. Turns out I wasn’t hungry. I was thirsty. I sit and watch the world go by for a few hours, pondering the genius of the German monks who invented beer to get through the Lenten season.

While I’m lost in silly thoughts about the brilliance of monks, the wind starts to blow cold and from the north. “Aw no… really,” I hear myself say out loud. I haven’t checked the weather all day. A cold front is predicted, but not for another two days. I should get two more long mornings of fishing in. “Well hell,” I hear myself complain to no one. The weather report when I left Kentucky gave me four days to fish. I check the weather. There is a cold front coming. It will be here by dark. The trip is basically over. I soak in the afternoon a little longer and finish my drink.

Back at camp I batten down the hatches for inevitable wind and rain. I’m sleeping in an expedition grade hammock, so all that is required is tightening the rain fly, tacoing it down tighter and making sure the lines are tight. Then I police up my camp, securing anything that could be ruined by the rain. Camp chores done I hike to the closest seafood joint for an early dinner.

Back at camp and closer to the water, I can feel the change in temperature and air pressure. It’s coming. I belong to so many conservation organizations that I cannot keep up with the magazines they send. I bring stacks of them on trips like this to get caught up on my reading. As the rain starts, I fill a cooler full of beer and grab a sack full of magazines. I head for the campground common area. The common area has a roof and three picnic tables. It’s way too early to sleep, so I’ll pass the time reading.

In an hour the common area is full of tent campers like me. The interesting thing is, I’m the only American. There’s a couple from Sweden. There’s another couple from Holland. There’s a group of young men I think are German, but I’m corrected later and told they’re from somewhere else I cannot remember. Reading is set aside for storytelling and camaraderie. The ancient entertainment in hunting and fishing camps is now the main attraction. We all drink and tell stories until one by one the common area is empty. I pack up and head through the rain to my soaked little camp. After securing my things in the truck I dive into my hammock, which is dry as a bone. In short order the rain on the roof has lulled me to sleep.

“Those damn feral roosters!” My position on feral tropical poultry changes dramatically when I’m not going fishing. They’re no longer a welcome alarm clock, but a plague on polite society.

I shake loose of my hammock to find the ground underneath dry, but everything else in the world is wet. I make a mental note that this hammock might be my new sleeping system in the Rockies next elk season and get moving. My camp is still in one piece. The storm ruined nothing.

The coffee is warm in my hand as I walk slowly down to the beach avoiding the water in the road. I’m lost in the thoughts I’ve had lately about coffee, “Do I really enjoy the taste anymore or is it just a ritual?” I’ve been thinking that the warmth and aroma are really the two things I like most for a long time now. In short order, I find myself standing on the beach. I’m no longer in shorts and a T-shirt, but in pants and a Patagonia Nano down jacket. The wind is whipping out of the north and the clouds are moving across the top of the mangroves like thoroughbreds at Churchill Downs. I say out loud, “There’ll be no kayak fishing today my friend,” as if someone is there with me.

When my coffee cup is empty, I make a somber walk back to my little campsite. “Two-day drive down here…two-days of fishing…two-days yet to drive home, damn weatherman is the only guy who can be wrong every damn day and still keep a job.” Big boats can fish whenever they want, but when you’re paddling it’s a whole different scenario. Paddling a kayak in water that’s open to the swells of the Atlantic is no joke, you’re going to get wet. Getting soaked on a cold day like today, in rough seas is not fun and it’s even dangerous. I know better than to even try. As the old saying goes, “There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity.” My trip is over. I pack up and head home.

Recipe –

This is a very good, simple and inexpensive recipe -

Ingredients:

____ A willing soul, a semi-stout heart, good shoulders and elbows to paddle – priceless

____ Time Off – up to one week including travel, maybe less

____ Florida saltwater fishing permit $33

____ Campground in the Keys for 5 nights $282 (no refunds dammit)

____ If you’ve got a heavy catfishing pole and a bass/panfish pole you can do this with that gear. Just
add some appropriate terminal tackle: hooks, balloons, sinkers, leader material and a 1lb of squid < $50

____ Gas $180 from Louisville, KY to Key Largo, FL and back

____ Food, Beer & Water – $285 (I went out for good seafood dinners 3 times)

Total Cost of this adventure: $830

Directions:

This trip is “easy peasy”. If you’ve got a decent amount of kayak experience, some saltwater light tackle experience, understand tides and currents a little bit – then you’re good to go. There’s no real backcountry in the Florida Keys, not that’s reachable by kayak. There’s plenty in the Everglades, but there’s also gators and it’s hard to relax and fish with a stringer of fish off your kayak in gator country. So, it’s the Keys for me. So, the way to get access is to find one of the many campgrounds in the Keys that has ocean or gulf access. The campground I stayed at had two small manmade beaches that made it entirely too easy to launch a kayak. Then I had about an hour paddle to clear the mangrove creeks before the fun of paddling across open water started. Paddling across open water, even near shore open water like this, is not easy. There are “oil slick” calm days in the Keys for sure, but they’re rare. Most days, even a mild wind and tidal current mean that your paddle out or worse, your paddle home, will be a workout. So, be prepared for the workout. Also, the weather affects your ability to fish a kayak in open water more than you’d think. A small change in air temperature, accompanied by wind means you’ll get wet and won’t get dry – you’ll get chilled and that could be bad. There’s simply nowhere to hide or rest on a kayak, so plan accordingly. If you’re going to stay in the mangrove creeks and channels, life is much easier, and the mangroves hide you from the wind and current. You won’t catch as much, but you can have some fun and it’s safer. I’m a live bait fisherman. I use an ultralight rig to catch small fish and then use them as bait for bigger fish on a 30lb class serious saltwater spinning rod and reel combo. I also use chum and/or menhaden oil to attract fish to my spot. I almost always find the lea side of a small island and anchor up, then use the current pushing around the island to move my chum slick and my chunk bait. I always wear a regular PFD, not an inflatable PFD in saltwater, because remember you are going to get wet. Some inflatable PFDs will self-inflate when they get wet. That can ruin your day, so consider a good traditional PFD for saltwater adventures. I also keep my Garmin inReach Plus Satelite Communicator handy. Even if I have cell phone connection, the Garmin inReach is waterproof and has the SoS button. When you’re out there by yourself, you’re one bad decision from needing help. If possible, get a friend to go with you, but that ain’t as easy as it sounds. I also have a dry bag with a hand-held marine radio with fresh batteries in it. Again, you just never know. Fishing tackle for me consists of a series of small baitholder hooks for the small rod I use to make bait, a series of larger circle hooks I use for big game on the big rod, some heavy fluorocarbon leader, some pre-rigged steel leaders with hooks, some sinkers, swivels and balloons. I usually anchor up, start the chum slick, and make bait with the light rod. As soon as I catch a lively little fish or any variety, I nose hook it with a circle hook and put it about 2ft below a balloon on the heavy rod and launch it into the current. Then I keep fishing with the small rod. Bait I take out with consists of 1lb of frozen squid, that’s it. This is really a very easy and doable adventure.

If you enjoyed the story and found the recipe at the end useful, you should check out my book, “The Hunt of a Lifetime: The Practical Guide to Planning and Executing Your Dream Hunt.”

You can purchase it on Amazon at this link - Get the Book.