Samuel D. Ehrhart, Puck’s greeting to the new year, 1898, from Puck, v. 42, no. 1087, Keppler & Schwarzmann, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division
We fished a bunch this year. We fished for cutthroat in Idaho and pike in New Hampshire. In Mississippi I caught my largest fish ever, a black drum, and after fishing for tiny brook trout spent an hour in a peculiarly pleasant Vermont laundromat (which still sends me friendly emails–how did it get my email address?). In the Catskills Joan Wulff told me to relax my shoulder, I jumped a tarpon in the Everglades, and we floated past suburban golf courses near Chicago. I spooked bonefish just outside the fence of the Honolulu airport, while military and commercial jets alternated use of the runway. We stood on ladders in Nevada. It was a good year for for fishing.
Honolulu with Jake Brooks. That’s Kris in the picture, not Jake.
This will start the third year for this blog. Before I kept a blog I kept journals, but a blog is harder. Someone might read it, so the writing needs to be better. My journal now consists mostly of baseball scores and random notes. The last journal entry was during the World Series, October 30. Nationals won. Dammit.
One of the blog’s sideshows is the statistics page. I can keep up with how many people are reading stuff and what country they’re from. I had more than twice the number of lookers this year than last, and I figure not all of those were me reading myself. There’s not a lot of specifics in the statistics. I can tell if someone goes onto the blog on a particular day, what they looked at, and what country they’re from, and there are daily, monthly, and yearly totals. Most visitors are from the States, with Canada a distant second. China is third, but I suspect that most visits from China have more to do with bots than reading. Namibia? Bangladesh? Jordan? I think my kids stopped reading, but I can’t really tell that from the scorecard, so they still got Christmas presents. Where is Moldova?
New Hampshire with Chuck DeGray.
It’s gratifying when someone reads several items, and it’s always fun to see something that I wrote for purely personal reasons, that has nothing to do with fly fishing, get read. Why did that South African read my post from last year about True Grit, and who in England is reading that post about Zurbarán’s Crucifixion? The most popular post for the year was about Ocean Springs, Mississippi, which is a wonderful place and a place I’d encourage anyone to go. My April Fool’s post about buying Pyramid Lake ladders got plenty of traffic.
Early in 2018 I posted a blog that included a lie a guide had told me, about his background as a Navy seal. He wasn’t. He apparently wasn’t any kind of military. In 2019 somebody who knew the guide found the post and it started to circulate. I suppose the guide told the story to work a larger tip, or maybe to justify his wacko right-wing politics. He wasn’t a bad guide, and he told a good story, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to fish with him again. I did leave him a good tip though.
With Richard Schmidt, Pass Christian, Mississippi.
Of all the places we fished last year, the place that surprised me most was the Talapoosa River in Alabama, and the fish that surprised me most was its redeye bass. I had never been on a pretty Southeastern river, so that was some of the surprise, but the fish fit the river. Redeye weren’t the river’s only fish: we caught Alabama bass, bluegill and long-ear sunfish, but it was the redeye that charmed.
They’re a small fish: they rarely weigh more than a pound, but they need clean water and, one supposes, pretty places, because they themselves are so clean-lined and pretty. They have a fine shape, well proportioned scales, fins, and jaws, and a bright iridescent turquoise belly and lower jaw balanced by smallmouth bands of warpaint on the face and olive green horizontal lines rising to their back’s dark mass. Lovely.
Tallapoosa River with East Alabama Fly Fishing
Mathew Lewis is an Auburn-PhD candidate geneticist who studies redeye and has written an excellent small book on fly fishing for Redeye Bass, titled, appropriately, Fly Fishing for Redeye Bass. I’ve fished for river bass before, smallmouth in Virginia and Illinois, Guadalupe and largemouth in Texas, and there’s a commonality to it. Cast to the banks. Cast the slackwater next to current, cast to faster current for smallmouths and slackwater for largemouth. Matthew and I traded some emails, and I meant to come back and write specifically about the redeye, but I never got around to it. I think about those fish and that river though, and it’s a place I would go again.
Catching the five subspecies of redeye should be a thing.
In addition to Matthew’s book there are good things on the web that discuss the redeye:
We spent a great two days fishing with Chuck DeGray as far north as we’ve ever been, and Silver Creek lived up to its hype, but my favorite place to fish–and I suspect Kris’s–was Everglades National Park. It is so alive, so beautiful and isolated, and I promise it wasn’t just because I jumped a decent tarpon. I did jump a decent tarpon though.
Happy New Years! I hope your 2020 is as good as our 2019!
We took five rods. We took my 7 weight G. Loomis Asquith with a Tibor Everglades reel and a bonefish line. When we weren’t fishing for big tarpon that’s the only rod we used in the Everglades. It’s a little known fact, but Lord Asquith was the commander of the British forces in Florida during the Revolutionary War, and made a pile selling swampland to British loyalists escaping from New York and New England.
We also took Kris’s 8-weight Helios 3 with an Orvis Hydros reel, a 10-weight Helios 2 with a Tibor Riptide reel, and a 11-weight Helios 2 with an Orvis Mirage reel. All of them had floating lines. In the Everglades we used the guide’s 11-weight H3 because we needed an intermediate line and because H3. We used the guide’s 10-weight H3 out of Key Largo because the guide didn’t like my leader and because H3. My leader was tied with lots of bits and pieces of fluorocarbon and his was a simple 40-20-40 or thereabouts.
It rained out of Key Largo, so our rain gear came in handy. I wore my Converse high tops. Kris kept wanting me to go barefoot so I’d feel the line under my feet, but I never did. Together with my blue sun gloves, blue Buff, blue cap, and blue eyes I was very color-coordinated, and going barefoot would have ruined the whole ensemble.
Unfortunately my boat bag was orange. I need to work on that.
We also took Kris’s 5-weight Helios 3 for the Miami canals. More on that later.
Flies
We only used a few. For the bonefish it was a lead-eyed root beer crazy charlie, probably size 8 or 10. The tarpon fly we used was a black toad, not very big, only a couple of inches long, tied on the the usual sized hook for tarpon, 1/0 or 2/0. For the smaller fish and the baby tarpon we switched to an orange and white baitfish pattern, size 4 maybe. it wasn’t a fly I knew, but any clouser variant or baitfish pattern would probably have done. These were all guides’ flies.
The Canals
I wanted to fish Florida canals on our first trip to Florida, but we didn’t have the time, or at least the energy. This time we did, but only for an hour because of a luggage snafu. ProTip: Don’t try to late-check a bag of food and expect TSA to get it onto your plane, and if you do be ready for the recriminations of the lady at the Southwest baggage claim who feels wronged because you late-checked luggage. Also, buy the Coke Zero when you get there. When one explodes in the plane and mixes with the instant oatmeal it’s a real mess, even when you bag is waterproof. Maybe especially when your bag is waterproof.
At the canal it was too windy for Kris’s 5-weight, and it was hot. We were fishing on the side of the road in a warehouse district. It wasn’t a transcendent outdoors experience.
Hotels
We had great luck with hotels. We stayed at The National in the heart of Miami Beach. The National was built in the 50s, and is immaculate. I wanted to spend the weekend floating by the poolside bar and drinking mai tais, and if I’d done it the other guests could have gone home and told their friends that in Florida they’d seen the Great White Manatee.
In Key Largo we stayed at Popp’s Motel. There are nine cottages with a beach. There are palm trees and hammocks. Nobody was there but us, though in-season my guess is it’s packed.
Restaurants
On the way out of the Everglades we stopped at Robert is Here in Florida City. I had the mango and strawberry milkshake, Kris had the blackberry. There is a low-rent zoo in the back where you can sit at picnic tables and watch tortoises and goats and the other customers while you drink your milkshake. There are parrots and motorcyclists with tattoos and The Great White Manatee. It’s a fine place.
In Miami we went to Joe’s Stone Crab for lunch. I had expected something close to Felix’s Oyster Bar in New Orleans, something with a formica counter and twirly stools. Instead it was white table cloths and waiters in tuxedoes. A waiter who spoke tourist gave great guidance, and there was crabmeat and key lime pie. The waiter had a good Houston story about being stuck in Houston during Hurricane Harvey, and volunteering at the George R. Brown shelter.
The guy behind us had stories too, and he announced them with unflinching gusto. Here are his stories.
He was raised right here in Miami, and every time he came home he came to Joe’s, and he especially wanted to bring her to Joe’s.
He loved her, and that story she told about her parents was funny, and her family must think he was robbing the cradle.
Don’t worry about how much food he was ordering, because he could eat it all. Gusto!
People come for the crabs, but really it was the coconut shrimp that he loved.
These weren’t local crabs. These were west coast crabs. He could tell, he was raised here.
She would love the key lime pie.
Ok, she hadn’t loved the key lime pie. They’d order the chocolate cake.
She was so funny. He loved her.
He loved her.
My back was to them, but while it was impossible to see I could hear him fine, more than fine, more than I wanted. Whether or not raised in Miami his accent was Jersey, and she was 25 (or at least he said she was 25) and her accent Asian. She didn’t talk much.
When we left I got my only glimpse of them. He was closer to 60 than 25, a bit rotund, a bit worn, a bit sagging. If he’d been a fish he would have been a gizzard shad. She was nondescript. She could have been 25 or 30 or 40, a bit rotund as well, and not glamorous, nor seemingly striving for more glamour than any of us might seek. Was she Korean? Vietnamese? How did these two meet? Online? Was there some sort of matchmaker? Would things end well? I wished them well if well was in the cards, but I guess didn’t really think it was.
That evening we went to The Surf Club at the Four Season’s Hotel. The blurb promised nostalgic cuisine and the Thomas Keller touch. That sounded fun, expensive what with Thomas Keller touching our bank account, but fun. And nostalgic cuisine! 50s-60s cuisine! It sounded just right for Miami.
Here is what I learned: you can’t high concept authenticity. You can high concept all you want, and if the concept is good it will travel, but if a restaurant is concept and the concept is authenticity (and that’s really what you’re at when you’re grabbing nostalgia), well, you can’t Make America Great Again. It doesn’t matter how good the service, how finely sourced the beef, how excellent the dang-that’s-really-expensive wine list, a $46 soft boiled egg is still a soft boiled egg, even if it comes with caviar and a buckwheat blini.
I was dressed in my finest fishing wear, including my bright blue Converse high tops, so I didn’t exactly fit the space, but I figured nothing said 1960 like Converse high tops. Kris told me not to get the oysters Rockefeller, but I’m a sucker for roasted oysters. It never works out though. Except for the Oysters Gilhooley at San Leon’s Gilhooley’s (cash only, you can smoke at the bar, and be sure and stop and admire the Harleys out front) I’m always disappointed. The oysters were surprisingly fine, still plump and fresh, but how do you make bread crumbs bitter? Were they scorched? And why ruin an oyster with a slather of spinach? I ate the oysters anyway, just so Kris wouldn’t know she was right. They needed some hot sauce, but so did much of the 50s.
Kris didn’t do more than taste her lamb chops and said they were over-salted and overdone. They took them off the bill. Great service, and the crudite and martinis were magnificent. They cook magnificent crudite. My steak was a steak. It was a bit over salted in pockets, but I didn’t tell Kris.
Just like lunch there was an old man with a much younger woman, and this old man was frightening–if he wasn’t Miami mafioso he had missed his calling–while Kris was certain that any woman that tall and with arms that thin was a young man in drag. She was so coiffed and painted that you couldn’t tell what she’d begun as, male, female, beautiful, plain.
She had a mass of frosted hair over a dark underlayer–there were a lot of women in the room with a mass of frosted hair over a dark underlayer, and there was a magnificence in the complexity of it. How did they do that? In more innocent places you’d just guess their roots were showing, but this was so planned, so well-executed, and so universal that it could be nothing but premeditated. Did they dye their hair dark, then dye it again light? It had to take hours, did it take days? I wondered why Kris didn’t do the same, but she’d have to add more hair to get the effect. I like her hair just fine.
I don’t think she was a young man in drag, but I didn’t ask. When I was leaving the maitre d’ asked if I’d enjoyed my golf. Our kind of place.
South in Key Largo we ate at The Fish House. Its concept was to throw fishy looking bibelots on the wall and serve the same menu they served last year and the year before and the year before that, with whatever fish was fresh that day. The couples at the tables next to us got into a heated argument about the President until one stormed out. My nose was so far into my plate that I couldn’t tell who took which side, but the remaining couple, the couple immediately to our right, lived in Manhattan on the Upper West Side, and guessed from our intro that we’d dined with Thomas Keller the night before. They were younger than us, but not by much, and said that they’d had dinner the night before at the Trump Doral, the one that had made all the headlines for the G7 conference, and that there had been a woman in a sequined Make America Great Again dress that wasn’t meant to be ironic.
At the fish house the oysters were from Texas, just like us. There was no slather of spinach. On our way out of the Keys the next day we stopped again for a second lunch.
Our final night in Fort Lauderdale we found a red-sauce Italian place, Il Mulino, and ate comfort food. We didn’t talk to anybody. We didn’t watch anybody or overhear any conversations. We split a pair of Apple Airpods and streamed the Astros beating the Nationals in World Series game 4 through Kris’s phone. Those were more innocent times.
Donuts
No donuts. We didn’t eat a single donut.
Playlist
I’ve covered my Florida playlist before, and there’s nothing more to be said except this time I liked it. I liked Mel Tillis. I liked the Adderly Brothers and Ray Charles and Arturo Sandoval and John Vanderslice. Not a single Jimmy Buffet song cycled through, and I liked that. I’ve made my peace with Florida. I’ve caught my Florida fish.
It’s easy to make fun of Florida, it’s such an attractor of poor judgment and other shenanigans, but this trip I liked Florida. I don’t know if I liked Florida because I caught fish, or caught fish because I liked Florida, but it was our first trip where nothing else drove the show: no Disney World, no baseball, no conferences. We were going to see Miami and the Everglades, and when I got there I liked them. I liked driving around Miami Beach. I liked where we stayed in Key Largo. I could have spent days poking around the National Park.
And I jumped a tarpon, a big tarpon, the tarpon of the world. And while we were in Florida the Astros tied the Nationals two games to two in the World Series. Ok, that last had nothing to do with being in Florida, but it certainly affected my mood.
We’ve now fished twice in the Keys, once out of Key West, and this time with Duane Baker out of Key Largo. It was uncommon windy, more like March than kinder, gentler October. We fished Duane’s heavy 10-weight rods instead of our lighter gear, not because of the fish but because of the wind. Kris spent as much time as she wanted on the casting deck, which was fair since I’d held the deck for tarpon most of the previous morning. If we’d been home I’d have made a mess of poling the boat and given up, but Duane was poling and I was happy enough to drift along and watch the big boats heading east to blue water. I napped some, daydreamed some.
Duane’s Maverick had no GPS, but I guess over 30 years you can learn a place pretty well. Duane certainly knew the place pretty well. We were at the edge of the Atlantic over foot deep flats, a mile or so from developed shoreline, protected from breakers by the Florida Reef. Duane let the skiff drift in front of the wind over hard sand and turtle grass while he watched for fish and we tried to watch for fish.
Duane would say 30 feet, three o’clock, or 20 feet or 40. He had started the day with a lecture on what his directions meant, and while usually he was soft-spoken and quiet, when there were fish his directions were urgent, intense. Maybe we’d make that 20- or 30- or 40- foot cast in the right direction or maybe we’d wrap the line around our head, but what we usually wouldn’t do was see the fish Duane saw. Between the urgency and the wind and line management Kris had trouble casting, some days are just that way, but I caught my bonefish casting to where Duane told me to cast, retrieving the fly the way Duane told me to retrieve the fly, playing the fish the way Duane told me to play the fish.
And while I’d caught bonefish before, I’d never caught so large a bonefish, so fine a bonefish, and just like it was supposed to do it ran the line on my reel into the backing. Few things in this life are as good as advertised, but that fish was as good as advertised. This was a fish built for getting out of the way of sharks and it was doing all it could to get out of my way. Thank goodness for all those pushups.
Maybe after the cast and during the retrieve I saw the fish follow my fly, but then again maybe I convinced myself later that I had seen the fish. It didn’t matter. I followed directions and caught my bonefish. Earlier in the day I had hooked another, and that time I saw the fish and saw the take, but it was small and immediately came off the hook. Except for the couple of times I hard-smacked the back of my head with the fly I cast well enough, certainly as well as any fish could have reasonably expected, and no one was injured, not badly anyway.
The Keys are a crowded place, but October is the slack time and I suspect that maybe it’s the best time. Even if Kris insists she never saw a fish there were fish a’plenty. There was boat traffic, but on a Saturday we only saw one other boat on the flats. I can’t imagine what those flats must be like with crowds. No wonder that in every novel about Keys fishing, guides end up in violent encounters. No wonder Duane is so low key. If other anglers get on your nerves then in the crowded season urgency could be dangerous.
The day before we’d fished the Everglades, and if the Upper Keys were as advertised, then the Everglades were a revelation. We fished with Jason Sullivan out of Flamingo, as far south as you can go on U.S. soil without either getting in an airplane or island hopping down the Keys. From the Hotel National in Miami Beach we drove 90 miles, two hours, through the dark down and around South Florida, into the National Park, nearly from the Atlantic to the Gulf of Mexico. To get there by the 6:30 put-in we left Miami Beach at 4:30. That’s 3:30 central.
Jason seemed astonished that on our earlier trips we had failed to catch Florida fish. He said there’s so much life in the water. Of course that’s a problem with somewhat random fishing. We’d snatched days or parts of days, and fishing days and parts of days can always be ruined by weather, the wrong bit of beef or blot of mustard, or just bad luck. We’d had some of all of that, even with so much life in the water.
But the Everglades is such a miracle, it’s no wonder Marjory Stoneman Douglas waxed poetic and then became its defender, and it’s not a miracle because I caught a fish, or at least not only because I caught a fish. It’s a miracle because it is. It just is.
Jason ran us north and west out of Flamingo, all the way to the Gulf of Mexico. He ran a Hell’s Bay skiff with a 90 HP Suzuki, running at times 38, 39 mph on protected water. Over the course of the day we covered what must have been 70 miles, maybe more. If Jason had told me we’d covered twice that I’d have believed him.
We ran fast through the mangrove channels, narrow curving rivers of dark water bordered by densely packed roots and trees, and then the channels would suddenly open into saltwater lakes—Jason called them bays—still outlined with the same 15-foot mangrove walls. These were big open areas of water, thousands of acres of flat water. On that day the water wasn’t clear, but Jason was right: it was full of life. I cast and caught my first fish, what we Texans call a skipjack and everyone everywhere else calls a ladyfish. It was a raggedy little fellow, but after three fishless trips to Florida it was the best beloved fish in the world, the noblest, grandest, trophiest fish ever. Take that IGFA. I know what the world record ladyfish looks like.
And then in a few more casts I had my second fish, a Spanish mackerel, and now I was jaded. Florida is the easiest place in the world to catch fish. Anybody can catch fish in Florida.
We spent most of the rest of the morning following big tarpon using Jason’s 11-weight Helios 3 with an intermediate line, a line that sinks under the surface of the water, on an Orvis Mirage reel. Good stuff. We floated at the opening to the Gulf, now on the west coast of Florida, watching for the big fish to roll. I have to admit, I hogged the platform, but Kris was ok with it. Her previous tarpon experience had not been a good one, there was some terror and a lost thumb nail involved, so she was happy enough sitting on the ice chest and giving me directions. I had one hard pull that I failed to set, and one jumped tarpon that I didn’t set well enough.
The jumped tarpon took the fly and ran and then came out of the water, fast and explosive, determined to be rid of both the hook and me. I was thinking how do I play it? Can I? Then it came out of the water twice more so fast that I couldn’t think any more—maybe 50 pounds? It will certainly grow larger in my head in time; even now I’m thinking it was 60 pounds, minimum, maybe closer to 70. The tarpon was standing, four feet vertical to the surface out of the water. Then it shook the hook. Then it was gone.
I get it now. Tarpon. I jumped a tarpon.
In the afternoon we fished baby snook hard against fallen trunks and the tangled red mangrove roots. The small snook were everywhere, like sunfish. Jason said that if we caught one we would fish the same place because others would head to the commotion, and maybe we’d have a chance at bigger fish. We were fishing my 7-weight with a floating line, and after wearing out the baby snook we fished baby tarpon against silty, deoxygenated banks. We found them when they rolled into air above the surface to fill their swim bladders, protected from predators by the silty water. Their odd lung-like bladders let them take oxygen from air, and even the big tarpon breach the surface and roll for air. These were two and three pound fish, but just as certain as their elders to come out of the water when hooked. I hooked four, brought two to the boat before they came off, and finally late in the day landed one.
Even baby tarpon, there’s nothing like tarpon. Kris landed her own juvenile tarpon and then I think she wanted nothing more in the world than to go back after the big guys. I may never get to fish for anything else again. I may never get to stand on a casting platform again. Kris will be out chasing tarpon every time we fish.
That afternoon we drove east over the park road that we’d driven west that morning. In the daylight we saw what we’d missed: the dwarf cypress, the great glades of sawgrass, the walls of mangroves along the road, the birds . . . Just like in the bays it was full of life. There were signs announcing the elevation above sea level: one said four feet, one said five. You can get headaches because of the change in elevation.
Driving past an expanse of grass I said to Kris: that’s all covering water. She didn’t understand me until we stopped at the visitor center and could see the water everywhere. At the visitor center I read the captions on the placards a little carelessly, a little reverently. It didn’t matter. Everywhere there were details to forget but something big to remember: it is all full of life. Even the grass grew from the water, and all of the water is full of life.
Fielding Lucas, Jr., 1817 State Map of Florida, A General Atlas, Of All The Known Countries In The World.
This will be our fourth try to catch a fish in Florida. Florida is as famous for its fishing as its sunshine and orange juice, as its bizarre WalMart behavior and its retirees. And I can’t catch a fish.
We’ve had bad luck, bad weather, missed chances, and no fish. We’ve tried. No fish. We’ve had great guides and gone to interesting places. We’ve drunk rum with escapading Midwesterners in Key West in winter. We’ve been yelled at in West Palm for casting against a bulkhead from a boat by a well-coifed New York lady in yoga pants. In Tampa we’ve watched the Astros lose to the Tampa Bay Rays at Tropicana Field and then fished all night. All night. From 9pm until 4 the next morning.
No fish.
Nothing works, and there’s no reason to think that anything will work this time. Maybe I should take up golf, or alligator wrestling.
This time we’re going to Miami Beach. Neither of us have ever been to Miami, or Miami Beach, but Kris keeps hinting that we should go to the Panhandle and fish for redfish, but I still want to go south. I want a shot at a tarpon or a bonefish or a snook or a permit, fish that are different than what we have in Galveston.
We’re fishing one day with Jason Sullivan and one with Duane Baker, both guides with excellent reputations, both completely innocent as to the lousy Florida luck they’re in for fishing with the Thomases. We may also make it to the Miami canals, finally, but there really is a lot of stuff to see in Miami, and we’ll only have one day to see something other than water. There’s water surrounding Florida. Water where people go to catch fish. Not us though. No fish.
*
God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.
New Revised Standard Version, Genesis, 1:28.
I’ve been reading again about the Everglades. I’ve been rereading Marjorie Stoneman Douglas’s 1947 classic, The Everglades: A River of Grass, and the more recent The Swamp by Michael Grunwald, published in 2006. The Swamp ends with the defeat of Al Gore by George W., and lays the election of George W. at the feet of Florida environmentalists who voted for Ralph Nader. He’s probably right. Gore lost Florida by 537 votes, and when he lost Florida he lost the electoral college. Nader got 97,488 Florida votes. The environmentalists were angry at Gore because he wouldn’t scuttle the proposed Miami International Airport, the Everglades jetport, before a final Air Force report was published. When it was published, after Gore lost, Clinton killed the airport. Irony is so ironic.
I listened to another book too, not about the Everglades specifically but Florida generally, Oh Florida! by Tampa Bay Times writer Craig Pittman. The central Florida themes, flim-flam, violence, real estate cons, grotesque misadventure, transience, environmental destruction, golf, hanging chads, and over-consenting adults, bring to mind the old joke about Arkansans: that they’re glad Mississippi exists so somebody else can be last in every category. Reviewing Oh Florida!, a book by a writer who is very fond of Florida in a shell-shocked-sort-of-way, the New York Times likened Florida to America’s grease trap. It’s certainly a memorable comparison.
I’m currently reading A Thousand Mile Walk to the Gulf by John Muir. From what I can tell Muir’s first name was Sierra-Club-Founder, because you never see one without the other. Grunwald writes about Muir at length in The Swamp, and Thousand Mile Walk is a short, readable thing.
Muir is writing after the Civil War, only 10 years or so after Mr. Orvis opened his shop in Manchester, Vermont, and Mr. Thoreau published Walden. America’s opinion about nature seemed to have been changing, or at least in the Orvis shop’s case America had discovered it needed better dog beds. Muir walked south from Kentucky to Florida to look at plants and whatever else in the natural world he might come across, and planned to go on to the Amazon. In Florida he fell ill, probably malaria, and scuttled the rest of the trip.
Before he got sick, when he first arrived in Florida (via a short hop from Georgia by boat), his description of the Florida coast is brilliant, but it is also a bit surprised. There are plenty of mangroves, but no flowers. It’s Florida! Where are the flowers! Where are the golf courses! Ok, skip that last.
Grunwald uses nature’s malice, Muir’s malaria, to establish another theme for Florida. He posits that in Florida Muir, a religious man who sees God everywhere in the natural world, discovers that the Biblical imperative to go subdue may not be quite the thing. I’m not quite sure Grunwald is right, Muir sees no malice in nature, and he always seems to have preferred it to people. But in other ways Grunwald’s aim is true: no place better epitomizes environmental overreach than South Florida. That’s Grunwald’s real theme. As a Houstonian all I can say is thank goodness for Mississippi Florida
Meanwhile chances for progress on Everglades restoration seems to be improving. There’s a good article summing up the current state of affairs in the latest issue of Garden & Gun.
And meanwhile the weather reports for our fourth fishing trip to Florida forecast thunderstorms. Are there fish at Disney World?
*
Back in Houston, it’s my favorite time of year to fish salt water in Galveston Bay. The water is high, and there’s no clarity, but the prevailing south wind has finally died and with kids back in school and college football there’s not nearly as much boat traffic. We’re blind casting, but that’s ok. Saturday I caught a small but particularly beautiful speckled trout, and a couple of weeks ago Kris caught a sheepshead–neither one of us had caught a sheepshead on the fly before. I still haven’t.
Plus the Astros finished off the Yankees for the American League pennant last night, and there are few things better than that. I’ll be ok with Florida even if we catch no fish.
And I might as well be, ’cause we’re certain to catch no fish.
