The Return and the Beginning of Upper Florida Keys Bonefish

Words By Sam Wike

It’s only the beginning for me. The beginning because I recently bought a middle-of-the-road skiff with a friend, Orlando Garcia, who lives in Miami, with a goal to figure out the Florida Key’s bonefish scene on our own.

It’s a daunting challenge; I’m from Montana and a novice saltwater fly-fisher. I’ve caught a lot of bonefish in the Bahamas, Belize, and Mexico, and hosted saltwater trips through our House of Fly shops. However, in the past I’ve always fished with an established guide who already knows the spots, understands the tides, and has all the flies dialed in. So, basically, I have a lot to learn.

Like other obsessed anglers, I’ve listened to most, if not every episode, of the Millhouse podcast, read The Big Three by Ted Williams, read Lords of the Fly by Monte Burke, watched all the old Flip Pallet Walker Cay Chronicles reruns. . . and I well understand that Islamorada, Florida and the surrounding area to have been the big bonefish capital of the world.  However, several guides in the area say it’s been 15 years since Islamorada has really been worth looking at for bonefish.  While the southern Keys and the flats near Miami’s Biscayne Bay have shown signs of a comeback, after each suffered pronounced bonefish population declines, Islamorada has been nearly void of them. And that’s the issue: That’s where I fish for them.  

On a recent trip to Florida, I joined, Rob Bolke, product developer for The Fly Project; Orlando Garcia, head of House of Fly’s apparel sourcing team; Calvin Fuller, fly-fishing buyer for House of Fly; and his dad, Jim Fuller.  Jim has fished saltwater all his life and appreciates the history of saltwater angling. He wanted to stop into Sandy Moret’s fly shop, Florida Key’s Outfitters, and we made that happen. Once inside, Jim stopped at a window display featuring a replica of a giant Islamorada bonefish. I assumed it was caught by Moret, one of the Godfathers of the Keys fly-fishing scene. Jim gawked for a moment and said, “If I catch that, I’ll be done”.  Calvin, meantime, was still coping with the loss of a 25-pound permit earlier that morning. With a confused look, he pointed at other bonefish replicas and asked, “Sam, so you would rather catch that 12-pound bonefish than a 20-ish pound permit?” For reasons I can’t explain--and I am fully aware that the permit is more “holy” within our fly-fishing circle--I replied, “That’s a yes for me, dawg.”

I know the Florida angling scene cringes when Montanans come down to fish on their own, without understanding the culture and proper etiquette of running a skiff and being respectful of the habitat. My greatest fear is to go about it wrong, which is part of the reason I fish in the middle of July and again in winter, after the major tarpon scene has faded and I can stay out of people’s way. When I think about it, the reason I like chasing bonefish in the Keys is the same reason I like fishing trout on my homewater, Montana’s Missouri River. If you can snipe those picky ‘bows and browns on the Missouri, you’ll get them anywhere in the state. From what I’ve heard, read, and experienced, the Florida Keys bonefish game is much the same. You get them in the Key’s you can get them anywhere. I like challenge and find it rewarding to learn. So, while I love other bonefish destinations, in my book the Florida Keys version of a bonefish, permit, or tarpon is more appealing, each capture being worth double points.

Part of the learning equation is answering a simple question: Why did bonefish leave Islamorada?  There are a lot of theories and many articles backed by ongoing research from Bonefish and Tarpon Trust and Captain’s for Clean Waters, among others, but the common theme is population growth and habitat degradation in south Florida. While there is a litany of threats to the Florida Keys’ habitat, it’s encouraging to hear that conservation efforts have increased the growth of turtle grass, which provides shelter and forage for juvenile bonefish. And most importantly, there are consistent reports of more bonefish spawning activity in the region.  

If you have little to no experience in navigating the Florida Keys backcountry, you have a steep mountain to climb. That’s me.  I took the Everglades National Park Boater Certification Program, read books, studied Google Earth, and I’m always on the lookout for someone at the bar who’ll take a free beer in exchange for a free tip. However, there’s still much to know.  You need to understand your GPS like the back of your hand. You need to know contour maps and learn how to properly run your skiff in shallow water without harming habitat. You must be aware of tides and incoming weather. There’s a lot that can go wrong. After poling the flats all day without seeing anything but rays and sharks I’ve often thought, I have no idea what I’m doing.

This most recent trip was different. We’d caught some snook and marked some new spots where we saw bones. We even found spots to set up on tarpon and actually stuck one.  On the second to last day, we found a massive turtle grass flat with small schools of fish moving across it, or as everyone likes to say, pushes of water or nervous water.  They were not sharks. We’d seen plenty of those and knew what that “push” looked like. And they weren’t mullet. It was the kind of flat we thought bonefish would be on. However, we were covered with a massive thunderstorm and had to go in early before we ever made a solid identification.   

That afternoon, back at the marina, Calvin and his dad were off the water, hanging with their guide, Eric Lund, who is an ambassador for The Fly Project. I showed Eric the flat, hoping to get Eric’s opinion on the area. When I found the waypoint on my iPhone, he smiled and simply said, “I hang out there a lot.”  

The next morning, we all ran to that area and set up on different sides of the flat. Not long after poling around in the shallows, shallow enough for the turtle grass to show on the surface, we saw the same pushes we’d seen the evening before. And now we knew: these were Islamorada bonefish. Bolke was poling our skiff and the school was quartering at us.  I made a very long cast leaving only a few loops of line on the reel. The lead fish, in a pack of six to eight, saw the fly and moved towards it. The rest of the school followed, searching for the fly, making a wake coming straight at us. I’m not sure which fish ate, but it was game on. Soon after, we held that fish in the water and removed the fly. Once released, we watched it swim away, it’s colors in contrast to the turtle grass. If you’ve caught bones, you understand that no image can capture how cool a bonefish looks in the water. I feel like it’s a sight that every fly-fisher owes themselves.

As the other skiff pulled near, Orlando chucked us beers and some Grillos pickles. We accepted and just sat there for a while enjoying the moment, savoring sweet success, giving that fish the merit and discussion it deserved. It was nothing more than an average-size bone, a fish that guided anglers catch every day. But it had been a chase for us, and it was our bone, through and through. I sat in the water for a while, hanging out in that moment with Orlando and Rob, two people who have been in the bonefish game with me from the beginning. They, too, had felt the pain, had wondered if it would ever happen, and now could appreciate the reward. Across the flat I heard Calvin holler that he was hooked up. Later Rob would land his first bonefish.

During this trip we made long casts on skinny flats with bonefish tails poking out of the water.  We found new turf, on our own, and made our research pay off. We took time to treasure each fish, letting them go and then thoroughly taking in the moment. We talked about the legends who came before us and the current guides are keeping the faith and protecting these waters. For us, it’s never been about numbers; it’s about making progress. Islamorada is a very special place, and we couldn’t have asked for more. Except this: maybe one day the big ones will return.

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