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By Joe Doggett
Originally published in Tail 39 – January 2019
“I know how to tie 50 knots and these are no good,” stated Costa Rican guide Guinder Edwin Velasquez-Clark. The subject of his scorn was the tarpon leader that I had manfully labored over during the noon siesta break at Archie Fields’ old Rio Colorado Lodge.
During the spring of 1982, my tarpon game had more hackles than the nearest streamer. The serious fly fishing market was just starting to gain momentum around my home in Houston.
“How can you say that, Guinder?” I protested, eying a lumpy spider hitch and giving the 16-pound class tippet a tentative twiggle. Unfortunately, tarpon do not twiggle.
“No good, not snug, poor knot strength.” Guinder was young and cocky, and it was understood up front than the opinions of anybody with four names and a hyphen would dominate the confines of a 16-foot aluminum skiff. He grabbed the leader in both hands and gave a sharp jerk and the tippet snapped. With a shrug, he tossed the unworthy ruin of monofilament into the olive-brown flow of the Rio Colorado.
“If you want to catch tarpon on a fly nothing less than 90 percent will do.” Guinder grabbed several spools of mono and, using hands, knees, toes, and teeth, whipped out a leader system consisting of a perfection loop, a Bimini twist and an Albright special. He tested with the same quick jerk and the sections held.
I was impressed. This unseemly villager in his faded T-shirt and torn shorts wrapped connections that looked as good as the ones illustrated in the sweat-stained and oft-cursed bible of knots back in the cabin.
“I have learned from the best. Chico Fernandez, Lefty Kreh, Stu Apte—they have all come here to fly fish for tarpon.”
Many saltwater masters rate the tarpon as the king thrill. And, during those early years, I would never have a better chance than amid the tarpon-rich tides of Costa Rica’s rainforest rivers.
Guinder cranked the crusty outboard and we ran several hundred yards from the dock. The motor abruptly stopped and the skiff drifted.
Great, I thought, engine trouble.
“We’re here; start fishing,” Guinder announced.
“Here? The dock’s right back there!”
“Well, Señor, if you prefer we can run an hour to a spot I know upriver, but this hole is filled with big fish.”
The river opened into the boil of the Caribbean and, back then, the main channel served as a funnel to draw schools of milling tarpon. As Guinder slipped the anchor, several fish surfaced in lazy rolls, intimidating brutes with thick backs stamped with heavy scales and poured from liquid aluminum. I was a long way from Houston’s Hermann Park duck pond.
Scattered skiffs dotted the wide river. The nearest was a Casa Mar boat close enough to hail. It held a pair of pro-class anglers from California. They carried high-end Fenwick rods; one was fitted with a golden, gleaming Seamaster, the other with a golden, gleaming Pate.
I glanced smugly at my cutting-edge Orvis boron 11-weight and golden, gleaming Fin-Nor. The reel was spooled with a sinking line backed by 200 yards of “9 thread” 27-pound Dacron. Rookie status aside, I felt “armed and equipped as the law directs.”
Guinder noted that the lanky, salty guy fishing solo across the river was Harry Kime, a legitimate Big Name. As we watched, Kime yelled as a great green and silver fish twisted into air, hanging suspended against the jungle canopy before crashing back to the flat water. The shout was followed by a groan as the fish pulled free.
I held my fly box open for inspection, displaying the pride of the new Houston Orvis. Prominent was a lineup of proven Cockroach patterns. From Key West to Islamorada to Homosassa, tarpon specialists would nod approval. The guide’s fingers ran a quick parade and review through the assembled hair and feathers. “No good.”
“Say, what?”
“We use a special fly here. I tie them—like this.” Guinder fished from a pouch a bushy lashing with fluff and fullness rivaling that of a well-fed, white-winged dove. It sported a thick collar, flashy Mylar strips, and a pair of bright bead-chain eyes. It lacked only a beak and feet for an audition in a Disney cartoon.
“Get away from me with that thing! What’s wrong with these?” My Orvis masterpieces looked wilted and withered alongside.
“Better do what he says, Houston,” called the California pro on the bow. “This isn’t sight casting on the flats. Those big Whistler streamers are the ticket. They push a lot of murky water, easier for fish to sense. That’s all we’ve been using.”
“What pattern?” I asked, pro-to-pro.
“Red and yellow’s been hot.”
“Black and red’s the call,” confided his partner.
“Pay no attention,” said Guinder, the voice of reason. “Green and orange is best, but I can let you have all three for only $3.50 each. American.”
Armed with three new killer flies, I waited for Guinder to affix the green-and-orange Whistler to the 80-pound shock leader (nobody said “bite tippet” back then). He handed the fly over for inspection. It had been secured with a trim Rhode loop knot and the big 4/0 hook gleamed with white-hot sharpness.
Guinder held up a small file (nobody knew about chemically sharpened points back then). “They are never sharp enough from the box for tarpon. I have triangulated the point the way Chico Fer—“
“Never mind about Chico Fernandez.” I stepped onto the flat bow and started stripping generous coils of shooting line. I worked a cast into the air, getting the feel of the big outfit. The outrageous fly buzzed back and forth like a persistent parakeet, and the uncertain guide crouched behind the bulk of the outboard.
Gathering confidence, I let drive with a decent double haul and shot the line about 75 feet across the river. The short leader turned over and dropped the fly with a light touch. Guinder said nothing but once again sat upright on the beer cooler.
The current caught the sinking line, creating a growing weight as the length bellied to straighten. I pointed the rod tip low and started a slow retrieve, stripping a foot or so with each pull. The dark line fell in random coils on the deck.
After 15 or 20 minutes of steady casting, a tarpon struck. The take wasn’t that dramatic but the fly stopped against heavy life. I pulled straight back, a proper strip strike to set the hook. The weight of the startled fish transmitted like a charge of electricity through the fly line.
I hit again, reacting to a gathering force of uncontrollable power. A 6-foot tarpon twisted high, heaving a fan of spray. The bold gills were wide against the shaking head and the fish seemed to vibrate like a tuning fork.
I felt like a sorcerer’s apprentice waving the master’s wand. I stared in shock and awe. Steppenwolf had called it: “Fire all of your guns at once and explode into space!”
Then the hooked tarpon was running and outgoing line seared an arc across the surface.
I glanced down to see the coils tangled underfoot. The terrible-looking wad of fly line was in a frenzy against my clamped fingers. The snarl of twisting loops bounced and whipped and fired straight at the rod. The knot slammed into the stripping guide and the rod sprang slack. I stared at the fouled guide and the diminishing wake of the largest fish of my fly rod career.
“Hey, Houston,” laughed the Californian. “What are you doing over there—working on your Junior Woodchuck Basket-Weaving Merit Badge?”
Tarpon Number Two was a mondo-giant house-wrecker. Guinder guessed it at over 125, a thick “yellow belly” grouchy with age and furious at the insignificant fly. The fish came straight up, looking high enough to walk under, and toppled back against a prehistoric welter.
Remarkably, the rod still pointed the way and the tarpon was on the reel as line hissed smoothly from the spool. The fish blasted for 50 yards, then the fly pulled loose. Dejected, I reeled in and discovered that the hook had opened against metal-plated jaw pressure. Guinder’s hooks maybe weren’t the best.
Tarpon Number Three tried to choke me. It struck during an unguarded moment—“Guinder, another icy Imperial, por favor”—and once again a billow of maniacal shooting line flew about the bow. I raised the rod high, trying to take up slack, and the last of the up-rushing coils fouled in the line clippers dangling from my neck.
The snagged lanyard sprang tight and I screeched and sputtered with visions of bold headlines in the Tico Times back in San Jose: “American Fishing Writer Found Garroted on Rio Colorado: Embassy Demands Investigation.”
The tippet broke and I was zero for three and out of killer flies. When Guinder stopped laughing he offered another jazzy, snazzy trio. “Because you are such a good customer, a discount. Only $10 for all three. American.”
“The fly-tying business seems to treat you well, Guinder.” No doubt he had a palatial estancia high in the mountains and built on a foundation of broken tippets.
Tarpon Number Four was on for four Roman-candle jumps before it fell against tight line and broke free. “Too much pressure,” critiqued the guide. “You must give controlled slack on the jump by bowing to the tarpon. Chico Fer—“
“Guinder, I don’t want to hear about it.”
Tarpon Number Five was never hooked. I couldn’t get tight to the fish. It sucked up the fly and ran straight at the boat. I was watching the pile of inert line and kept trying to push a busy handful through the stripping guide. The rod didn’t want it. A hideous sag of slack kept falling to the deck.
No way this is going to end well, I astutely judged.
The incoming tarpon jumped alongside, almost hitting the outboard on the way down as Guinder held the stick gaff like a riot club. The unset fly sailed free.
“Too much slack,” he said, a master of understatement.
At least the tippet was intact. The hook point was good and the long rod shot a cast across the afternoon shimmer. The line swept deep and the fly snagged bottom, forcing a break-off.
“I have more flies and at a special price,” announced the guide, reaching for the pouch.
“I still have one.”
The final Whistler drove 85 or 90 feet across the river. If nothing else, the full afternoon of casting was improving the double haul. The line bellied and swung—and pulled tight against a solid grab. The strip stabbed the point and bent the rod.
A tarpon-cascade raged across the surface and coiled line spun from the deck and through loose fingers. The fish hit the reel and the Fin-Nor took the jolt without balking. Fly line shot through the guides, followed by the trim backing knot as Dacron raced after the run.
I worked the fish hard, fearful of a break-off but knowing that toying with a tarpon is a poor tactic. The idea is to pressure the fish to whip its spirit—and hope that Lady Luck joins the beach party.
After six or eight jumps and 20 minutes of give and take, the tarpon was wavering and plodding. The big tail broke the murky water and the low 11-weight put side pressure to turn the fish and keep it on top.
A boat motored slowly past—the California fly masters going in early after a pair of catch-and-releases. An arm waved, lifting a longneck. “Hey, Houston, I think you’re going to do it!”
As if hearing, the shining fish turned on its side, spent. Guinder reached for the shock leader and glided the tarpon close. The big eye rolled as the stick gaff snatched the gaping lower jaw. The fish wallowed and bucked, pinned to the side of the skiff and going nowhere.
Guinder looked up and smiled. “A 50-pounder. Small fish.”
“That may be, my guide—mi guia,” I said, “and Chico Fernandez no doubt has caught many larger ones. But I’ll bet he’s also caught many smaller ones.”
We posed the tarpon for a quick photo then slipped it back into the river. Guinder held the lower jaw and worked the chromium fish back and forth in the flow until the gills flared and the fins bristled. He opened his hand and with a confident swirl the tarpon was gone—the conclusion to one of the pure angling experiences.
I snipped off the victory fly as a trophy and studied the glowing clouds above the shrouded mountains. The calm jungle air felt wonderfully cool. “We’ve still got 30 minutes of good light. Let’s try for another. What’s the going rate for a new fly?”
Guinder fingered through the pouch and held up a tropical beauty. “For you now, Señor pescador—free.”
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