Permit from the boss of the boss . . .
Steve works for Al, Pablo works for Steve, Pablo guided Al, Permit ate Al’s fly, everyone celebrated, except for the permit. Congratulations Al Degrange on catching a nice permit on your first week of saltwater fly-fishing!!! He deserved it after working year around for the last several years running Gunnison River Expeditions in the Black Canyon (www.gunnisonriverexpeditions.com). Steve guides the stonefly hatch in June for Al. Al caught this pernit on a Kung Fu a few weeks ago and we finally got the picture . . .
Noah and Steve Consecutive Permit
Noah and Steve have been fishing together for 10 years, starting in the Black Canyon and now in Guanaja. Noah is here with his friend Robby and they are helping pioneer future students groups to Guanaja. Although community service and outreach is part of their trip, they are managing to crush elusive fish on the fly. Noah caught a permit yesterday on a Kung Fu Crab, and Brownie caught one this morning in front of the lodge on a home-tie kwan. Back to back, Noah and Brownie, two for the books!! The permit fishing has been off the hook lately, we are seeing dozens a day and they are hungry!
Also check out this nice bone Noah caught on Easter.
Permit fishing in fuego
The full has got permit all over the flats. Last week Al Degrange, owner of Gunnison River Expeditions, caught his first permit on his second day ever of saltwater fly-fishing, on his second cast of the day!!! Picture is on it’s way . . . His client Allen Sullivan grand slammed the next day. Home tie Kung Fu patterns with long claws have been unlocking permit in both Guanaja and Roatan. We are seeing on average 30+ permit a day, and they are hungry.
![Photo-0003[1] - Copy](http://www.flyfishguanaja.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/Photo-00031-Copy-150x150.jpg "Photo-0003[1] - Copy")
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Grand Slam
Little did Baker Gentry know that when he stepped into our boat “Grand Slam” that he was to fulfill it’s name! He caught his permit before 7 am and finished the slam with a nice bonefish and tarpon, all before noon, still with time to complete two dives! His whole family has been crushing it, check out a few photos . . .
Update
Hello everyone! The adventure of Guanaja has been rich with experience worth sharing. We are approaching our fourth season and are almost booked for the spring. 4 years ago we had a vision. Now we have 4 boats, 5 experienced guides, 3 highly trained chefs, and a private key located in the middle of the flats surrounded by bonefish and permit. Our lodge is a sweet beach house with mahogany finish interior, comfortable beds and bathrooms, hot water, and a deck that is hard to leave, especially when you can catch bonefish, barefoot, from the deck.The Guanaja team is full of all-stars, from the staff to the anglers. My clients/friends who blindly trusted me four years ago and visited Guanaja for the fist time are signed up now for their 4th season in a row. So far we’ve been practically the only anglers in a wild and pristine fishery, learning how to catch some of the most challenging fish in the world. We’ve come a long way. Permit are not only getting hooked, but landed, we’re seeing double digit bonefish days, and catching tarpon of all sizes, every week. And holy triggerfish! Our triggers get BIG and are a blast to cast to. From what our clients tell us, we have some of the best trigger fishing in the world. We catch snook whenever we choose because the river mouths are full of them. We also catch jacks and bonita, casting clousers and gummy minnows into boiling explosions of fish on the surface. The variety grows each season.
The fish brought me to Guanaja, but the people are making me stay. 4 years is enough time to watch our guides grow into young adults with new skills and watch our cooks grow from family cooks to gourmet chefs. We basically have one family working for us and the trust goes deep, every thing in the lodge is cared for, especially us.
Although all of our clients are all-starts, we had the pleasure of hosting President Jimmy Carter, his wife Roselyn, and 3 of their friends for a week of fly-fishing last April. I guided the President in the Black Canyon of the Gunnison River the previous June for stonefly hatch. Our conversations circled around fishing, writing, teaching, and inevitably the fly-fishing lodge I started in Honduras. To my surprise, a few weeks after our float, the President booked a week with Fly-Fish Guanaja.
I was first overwhelmed with plans of 18 secret service agents, Honduran navy boats, charter planes, and all that could possibly go wrong when hosting President Carter and the First Lady on a primitive island in a foreign country.
All that could possibly go right fueled my ambition to step up to the challenge. Destiny brought the Carters and Guanaja together, and for some reason, I was in the middle.
Here is one of my journal entries from their visit:
The way he looks at her, the way he speaks to her, and how he puts her first every-time is a true lesson in love and chivalry. President Carter’s first concern every morning was getting a fresh cup of coffee to her. When I asked how long they’ve been married, he smiled with twinkle in his eye and said, “Not long . . . 64 years.” Their love shined with youthful antiquity, timeless, seamless, and infectious. Being in the presence of these two is an honor I will cherish forever. I believe that 64 years felt like a short time.
Day 3 during Carter’s visit I was running around the lodge putting out usual fires when the secret service stopped me, “Mr. Brown, Mrs. Carter would like to practice fly-casting, would you please help us facilitate this?”
“No problem.” I dropped everything and hustled to the dock where we hang our fly rods to find one for Roselyn. Because all the boats were out fishing with the President and his friends, and because we already had a few rods break early in the week, the only rod left was a fast action Scott 10 weight–not ideal for a petite woman. It was our only option.
“Mrs. Carter,” I said, “unfortunately the only rod we have at the lodge now is a 10 weight, have you ever casted one? It’s pretty heavy.”
“I think so, lets give it a try.” I walked her out on the concrete pier jetting out from the lodge where she could cast over the flats with nothing to hang up on, and with a slight breeze at her back. I pulled off a bunch of line and handed her the rod. The sea was peacefully still and she began to cast. I’d spent the last 12 years of my life guiding fly-fishing. I think of guiding more like teaching and am always ready to instruct.
I watched in awe as Roselyn handled the 10 weight like it was a breeze, casting rhythmically, with a perfect loop. Her cast was like a heartbeat, a breath of fresh air, a metronome, in other words, perfect. For the first time in my guiding career I had no advice, nothing to say but, “Wow, that’s incredible, don’t change a thing. You have obviously put some time into this.”
She proceeded to make perfect cast after perfect cast until I broke the meditation. “Mrs. Carter, there actually some bonefish tailing right now on the other side of the key. How about casting to a couple of fish?”
“That would be fine,” she said.
Followed by secret service, I led her off the pier, onto the deck, and onto the concrete wall that wraps around the southeast side of the key. From the wall we could see 15 large bonefish tailing aggressively 20 feet into the flat. The only problem was the wind picked up and was right in our face, making it impossible to cast, even for her.
We stepped down the small ladder into the flats and circled the bonefish step by step, getting the wind at our backs for a shot. My heart raced and mind reeled, trying not to think of the potential triumph we would achieve by catching a bonefish in back of the lodge. I was reminded of fishing with her husband in that I’d never wanted a fish so bad; in fact, I’d never wanted anything so bad.
I reminded myself of a quote I’d made up several years ago about fly-fishing, “the more you want, the less you get; the harder you try, the harder it is.” I pushed down my excitement and tried my best to remain cool in the presence of greatness and potential history made. After all, it was just a fish we were going to release and we were just having fun, rule #1 of the lodge!
“Do you see the tails?” I whispered to Roselyn.
“Yes,” she nodded, “I see them.”
The fish moved toward the concrete sea wall, where a secret service agent hovered. I waived him back; afraid he would spook the fish. He sheepishly cowered back into the shade of a grape tree.
“Go ahead and cast a few feet to the right, 1 o’clock about 30 feet.”
She peeled off line, started her rhythm, and let the fly land exactly where I said. The bonefish faded the other direction, never saw the fly, and nervously moved away from our sight, into the vast reaches of the flat–our chance was over. It hurt, but she seemed unaffected by our chance lost.
“That was close,” she said with a smile.
So went my chance to get the first lady into a bonefish, and so went a life experience watching a perfect fly cast from an amazing woman.
I retired to my hammock and reflected on what an epic day it had already been. It started with hunting permit at sunrise on the same flat with President Carter . . .
Early that morning I was on the vice quickly tying much needed bonefish flies for the day. The bonefish were off the pinks, whites, and even olives. They were eating an off white and olive combo with a root beer body. I turned Willie Nelson on the I-pod player and the President sat outside on the deck, scanning the flats with binoculars.
“Steve, check this out,” I heard the President say from the dock.
I walked over as he handed me the binoculars. “I think I see permit out there,” he told me.
I looked through the binoculars and sure enough, big silver-black tails surfaced the flats about 300 feet away from the deck. I pulled the binoculars away and could still see the tails.
“Those are permit Mr. President, we’d better move fast.”
We climbed off the deck, onto the concrete sea wall, and down the ladder into the backyard flat as secret service agents hovered on the wall. Standing next to one of the most genuine and helpful people in the world, while hunting the most elusive and rewarding fish on a fly in the world is a moment that put me in the moment. We walked slowly and I told the President that seeing tailing permit in the Caribbean flats is perhaps my favorite thing to see in the wild. He said he understood as we watched 4 tailing permit vigorously work the flat, headed straight towards us.
Large fork tails punctured the Caribbean surface, glistening in the sunrise. We got into position and the President made a perfect cast, displaying incredible execution under pressure. Many people forget how to cast altogether when confronted with the holy grail of fly-fishing, including myself. The President was cool, calm, and collected. I was shaking, but doing my best to hide the excitement. The crab pattern landed softly a few feet from the large permit. They competed towards the crab.
“Leave it,” I whispered.
Time stood still.
An average day in Guanaja
5:00 am and the Caribbean sun lasers its first pink rays into my consciousness. Rising naturally with the sun has its advantages. This morning the advantage is waking before everyone else and getting to the river mouth. DW Conzleman hears me rustling around and joins me in the quiet preparation of for a morning session of salt-water fly-fishing. We quietly walk past our snoring friends, get dressed, and grab the binoculars. From the deck I spy the river-mouth alive with fish. We skip coffee, the time is now. DW is, besides my Dad, my oldest fly-fishing accomplice. We spent most college days renegading the South Platte and other rivers, learning more on the river than in the classroom. The challenge of keeping up with each other and technical waters propelled us into instant guide material. Destined to guide fly-fishing regardless of the college degrees we sought. For the record, I don’t wish this life upon any student with such opportunities as a degree from Colorado College. Beware the irresistible call of the river! Beware the endless joy experienced in pursuit of fish! I even went on to graduate school, earned a Masters in English, taught kindergarten through college, earned a real estate license, and still earn most of my income as a fly-fishing guide, and so does DW. The lifestyle is hard to beat and the money is dangerously good enough. Good enough to get by with a little style.Cool mist rises from the flats, clouds hanker low on the water, rain-drops are suspended in mid-air. Hungry birds dive bomb the sea, fish tails ripple the surface, sardina fly out of the water – explosions everywhere. Fire-star sun slips into view, filtering the scene with shades of paradise. DW and I kayak to the river-mouth with our 10 weights. At any given time the river mouth holds every species of fish we are hunting: bonefish, permit, tarpon, snook, barracuda, jacks, and even sharks.
We tie off our kayaks to the mangroves and step into the river mouth. Hues of pink shower the sky and the water is glass, reflecting light in shades of diamond. Fins are everywhere, baitfish is everywhere–conditions are perfect. DW ties on a gummy minnow and I tie on a white Gotcha, both flies imitating the sardina. Within the first couple of casts DW and I both are hooked up with baby tarpon pushing 20 pounds. Side by side we laugh and watch our silver medals jump clear out of the water and shake their prehistoric heads. This is what it’s all about. This is why we are here. This is why more people are coming. For the next hour, we can’t go wrong. Every cast over active fins produce a tarpon, snook, jack, or bonefish.
Off in the distance, from the open sea, from under the rising sun, we notice a canoe slowly creeping our way. The silhouette of a man holding an old wooden paddle illuminates against the golden sky. Standing up and alternating strokes on each side, he paddles towards us, towards the river mouth. It is Ernan the fisherman coming to catch sardina in the river mouth for his daily fishing voyage beyond the reef. Ernan’s dugout canoe looks more like a tree trunk than a canoe. His presence on the ocean looks as natural as a tree in the forest. We, on the other hand, look like a bright orange North Face tent in wild jungle. In his dugout canoe Ernan has a throwing net, two hand lines with hooks, a bucket, a glove, a filet knife, and a bleach bottle cut in half to bail out water. His is wearing a ripped-up tee shirt, oily shorts, no shoes, no sunglasses, and a sun-dried ball cap. His dark skin, crow eyes, leather face, leather feet, and toothless smile show he has endured the tropics. All in all, his stuff couldn’t cost more than 10 dollars.
DW and I, on the other hand, are sporting Simms flats boots, quick-dry North Face pants, quick-dry Columbia shirts, polarized Action Optic sunglasses, straw hats, Scott Fly Rods, Ross Reels, Scientific Angler fly lines, dozens of flies both home-tied and store-bought, and water-proof Pentax cameras. All in All, our stuff adds up to about $3000. I forgot to mention the new, state of the art kayaks we rolled over in, make that $4500.
I land another nice tarpon as Ernan rolls into the river mouth. Holding the fish half in and half out of the water I show it the old fisherman. Ernan answers with smile and a nod. He knows what we are doing, he has seen us before. The previous Spring he would come by Black Rock every couple of days with fresh fish to sell us. He fed us several different kinds of snapper, tuna, wahoo, barracuda, google-eye, jacks, and fish I could never identify or translate. Ernan speaks English, but it’s like the English of so many islanders throughout Central America–chopped up, re-arranged, slowed down, sped up, and often directly to the point. Islanders don’t say words unless they have to, at the inconsequential expense of English grammar.
I release the tarpon, waive at Ernan, “Hello there, we’re back at Black Rock to fish for a couple of weeks. How are you man?”
Ernan gets ready to throw his casting net and answered, “Right here.” ‘Right here’ is how everyone on Guanaja answers the trivial question we always seem driven to ask: How are you? Right here. This is a more truthful answer that we usually give each other. How often are we really fine, or good? Life is far more interesting. We don’t want to know the answer to this question. We usually don’t have time to listen.
Ernan casts his net into the river-mouth, pulls in an arm load of sardina, and tosses them into his bucket. Every fish in the ocean eats sardina, or eats fish that eat sardina–his day was just beginning, again.
Locals tell me they see Ernan fishing in his little canoe everyday, rain or shine, and it rains a lot. They say he knows fish around the island better than anyone. Sometimes he goes out for a couple of days at a time, and just when everyone thinks they’ve seen the last of him, he comes paddling in, with a canoe full of fresh seafood. He told me about hooking a sailfish with his hand line and staying out all night until he finally dragged in the next. No, it didn’t get eaten by sharks, and no, I don’t think he’s read Hemmingway’s Old Man and the Sea–but Ernan is Martiano.
Before Hurricane Mitch in 1998, Ernan was one of the wealthier natives on Guanaja. He owned the biggest store and hotel in Mangrove Bight. In October of 1998, Hurricane Mitch hovered over Guanaja for three days and changed the island forever. Over ten years later, not a day goes by where I don’t hear about Mitch several times a day. The village of Mangrove Bight was completely destroyed and along with Ernan’s lifetime of work. His store, hotel, and house were all washed into the sea. Everything he owned was stripped clean by the raging storm. Ernan now lives under a little thatch with a dirt floor, but spends all of his time in his dugout canoe. He’s often spends the money he makes from fishing on rum.
As Ernan paddles away on his venture outside the reef I yell to him, “Ernan, I’ve got some more friends here at Black Rock, if you catch a fish today, bring it on by and we’ll take a look.”
Ernan smiles in confirmation and slips into the last glow of sunrise. Our friends, who also tend to spend their hard earned money on rum, are awake now, watching us from the dock of Black Rock, drinking coffee. DW and I catch and release a few more fish and join our friends to make plans for the day.
DW lands a fat bonefish on the North Side.
This is one of many large bonefish landed by the young crew from Telluride.