Flylords- An amazon Adventure

The days you Doodle about

Anyone who surfs on the east coast knows damn well that you get let down more than you get rewarded. You stare at the surfline forecast a week out with desperate hope only to find a sloppy, weak mess when the "swell" arrives. You win some, you lose some - but you have to keep showing up with the same stoke-filled optimism.

The typical east coast weekly surf forecast

In high school, my Dad and I drove three hours the morning of my senior prom to chase waves and drive three hours back just in time to figure out how to tie a bowtie. In college, my buddies and I would concede pop-quizzes, attendance checks and homework assignments just to be let down after driving to the Lake Atlantic. The morning of my wedding, my buddies and I surfed 1-3 foot South Carolina mush and were over the moon thrilled just to have a bump to stand up on.

While on my cross-country drive two weeks back, my good friend Wilds lofted the optimistic idea of scoring waves in the Outer Banks from a long range surf forecast. As a surf-deprived, land-locked, has-been surfer, it does not take much to amp me up. As time got closer to the fluctuating yet forthcoming Hurricane Tammy that was well out to sea, our hopes ebbed and flowed daily. One day it was "ehh not looking doable" then the next it would look promising, even potentially glorious.

We finally set sail on our pilgrimage to the wave-rich, yet equally volatile stretch of sand that lives in my daydreams rent free. The Outer Banks of North Carolina is legitimately a spit of sand off the mainland of NC where the continental shelf is much less gradual than that of other Carolina beaches. This allows for the raw power of the Atlantic ocean to dump directly onto the shoreline of the Outer Banks. It also causes some serious erosion issues and hurricane concerns to those that call OBX home.

When we drove across the Virginia Dare bridge over the Croatan Sound, the water was glassed out with the lack of a prevailing wind. Wilds and Bre had already set up camp on the beach but had shared no surf information. I had not truly surfed since June and my anticipation was about to explode like a shaken up soda can. Emily and I aired down the truck tires and bought the ORV permit to drive along the Hatteras National Seashore sand. We wobbled our way a few miles down the sand to find the undeniable F550 Drake X rig parked right in front of what seemed like a mirage. Glassed-out, uncrowded 4-6 foot pitching wedges just a short paddle out from the truck.

I could not put my wetsuit on fast enough - a lousy, futile battle with neoprene in the back of an overpacked truck camper. I paddled out to Wilds in the lineup overflowing witih stoke. That stoke was soon brought down by the reality that my landlocked shoulders had forgotten how to efficiently paddle into waves. Wilds effortlessly two stroked into every wave he wanted while I fumbled around on my new 5'8" fish (shoutout Russ - RAD shapes). I finally relocated my groove and we traded waves back and forth with a few snack breaks in between until the Harvest moon rose over the horizon. After five hours of building perfection, I took a wave in and traded in the board for the camera to snag a few photos of the moonlit landscape. This truly was a scene and a day that you would doodle about in your textbook as a kid.

We capped off the night with seafood nachos, beers and key lime pie at a local restaurant. After filling our bellies, we posted up at camp in Hatteras and went to bed before 9PM. The perfect day.

The next morning we drove up and down the coast looking for a spot that could handle the swell that had doubled overnight. To no avail, we settled in to patiently watching the long period swell try to make sense of itself from the beach for the day. The dogs did not mind the down time as they scoured the beach for treasure and new friends. After a late lunch and some resounding restlessness, we went searching for a working sandbar again. Finally around 3:30 we settled for a spot a bit further North that was breaking better than anywhere else. The paddle out was much further than the easy shorebreak waves of the day before and the current was gradually trying to sweep you to Virginia. Nonetheless, we surfed until the sunset amongst a mellow crowd catching some good 4-7 foot waves with varying shape.

That night back at camp, Wilds cooked up scallops, tuna and veggies on the camp stove followed by some surprise ice cream sandwiches from the Surfin Spoon for dessert (thank you Bre). We stayed up later that night, settling in past our bedtime at about 10PM with the plan of a sunrise surf the following morning.

When we rumbled our way down the beach to the X that morning, the sky blindingly erupted orange hues over the Atlantic, still alive from Hurricane Tammy making her past. Wilds and I agreed that it looked small from the beach but were happy to see that the Day 1 spot had come back to life. The dogs attempted to paddle out with us only to be rejected by the breaking waves. Once we got out, we realized that it was not small at all. In fact, it was 3-5 feet , hollow and glassy. With no one out but us, we were in hog heaven. Wilds made the comment that summed it up well - "This is like a scene out of a magazine." You know - the magazine shots with the firey sunrise and the empty barreling waves that you never actually believed could exist. Wilds again, effortlessly late paddling into what looked like closeouts - only to sneak under the pitching lip with his driste fingers pointing toward the exit.

Wilds the barrel magnet - shot by Bre Drake

For four hours, seemingly every wave held the potential to get barreled. Sure, there were a lot of unmakable sections but it felt like a conveyor belt of perfection. We surfed until our arms were more like boiled noodles. Harvesting every little bit of perfection that we could muster.

That session overfilled the proverbial cup. A day that exceeded the hype and made you feel like you were living out a Surfer magazine cover. A trip will live on in my daydreams and notebook scribbles. I will surely attempt to chase that perfection for the rest of my life with more losses than wins as it typically goes. But just the chance to relive something like that, fuels the endless search for more.

Me, on a left I probably didn’t come out of - shot by Bre Drake

The banana curse

There is a widespread superstition in the fishing community that bananas and fishing are a cancerous combination. Some avoid consuming bananas entirely, before and during a fishing trip. Most know to leave the bananas behind on the boat. A few confidently choose to debunk the superstition by intentionally bringing the cursed yellow fruit along for their angling adventure. I certainly believe that you can have an incredible day on the water with some bananas in the cooler, but I now know that the curse always finds a way to create some semblance of chaos.

On a recent group trip down to the Bahamas, I had two firsthand experiences with the curse of the banana. Back to back days of superstitious activity. 

One morning when lunches were being made, I decided to stuff two bananas in my buddy, Henry’s lunch. Tucked under a napkin blanket with a sandwich and chips on top, he would never see this one coming. Henry is no stranger to scheming up pranks of this nature plus he had been in the Bahamas for an entire week before we arrived, so he was the obvious target. 

Giggling over my mischievous prank and scrambling to get my fishing shit together, I took no mind to what may lie within my own lunchbox.

We stuffed our rods under the gunnels , lunches in the cooler and off we went. The day’s plan was to motor a long ways away to the “West side” where the fish were supposedly dumber (they were).

With an incredible morning of fish seemingly everywhere, we staked off for a lunch break. “Son of a bitch.” There sat two bananas in the bottom of the glad container. Was I spared from the curse ?? I mean, we had a killer morning with bad luck seeping from the innocent cooler.

Fast forward a few hours and more uneducated bonefish. I asked our guide, Percy, “so, you ever get stuck out here?” Percy very confidently says, “ No, never.” “Really, never?”, I ask. “Never.” 

The run out to the west side is so long that the guides bring an extra tank of gas to refill for the long trek back. As we’re within sight of home base at the end of the day I hear the motor begin to sputter.

We had ran out of gas. The curse is real. 

The following day was our last day of fishing. I had convinced Emily the night before to each take separate boats for the last day (hallelujah, more bow time). We had new guides and were planning to explore a new area, another long run out to the South bite.

My guide for the day was a character. A lively dude named Douggie with plenty of one-liners and beaming with optimism. Douggie was stoked on the day ahead and even promised a tarpon sighting (no tarpon had been seen all trip). 

The morning was slick calm and hot, by far the best conditions we had been dealt. Douggie was sporting a big grin and humming tunes while we cut through the clear, glassy channel. 

His expression changed and the motor cut to an idle. “You hear that?” Douggie asked. Being the absolute opposite of a motor expert, I did not notice a damn bit of difference in the sound. “The motor is shot. I don’t want to push it, we’re gonna have to stick around here.” I honestly thought for a second that Douggie was messing with me. Then I noticed a subtle, weirdly consistent gasp coming from the motor and realized we were fucked. 

I turned to Douggie and told him of our misfortunes the day before and how I attributed it to the bananas in my lunch. Douggie laughed, turned to the back hatch , pulled out a well-bruised banana and started snacking with a big shit-eating grin. Dammit, Douggie. He then explained that he brings one every day and is a firm non-believer in the curse.

We proceeded to idle around, staying on the flats within a stone’s throw of our motor crisis. Douggie poled me around as we shot the shit and made lemonade (banana-ade?) out of our travel limitations. We laughed, solved the world’s problems and caught some bonefish along the way. 

Moral of the story: bananas are in fact, bad luck. But, life is full of bad luck and shitty circumstances. Why let a fruit ruin your fishing?

THE froth puppy

You’ve never seen a more stoked-out dog than Peach stepping out of the backdoor after some fresh snow. There is always a brief moment of hesitation - she’ll look back at me as if to express gratitude for providing this new wintery playground. Then she bolts off in full zoomie mode. Frolicking, snorkeling and absolutely cake-faced with snow. I sure-as-hell can’t make snow but I can always open the door to it.

The first time I ever took her splitboarding (backcountry snowboarding) was more struggle-fest than smooth sailing. After a relatively snowy week, we ventured into this mellow meadow area and her big ass self was crawling around, sinking in the snow the whole way up. Not utilizing the skin track, mind you (skin track = compressed snow = easier to walk on than powder). On the ride down, I had to stop every 50 yards just to let her catch up. My girl was visibly struggling her way through the snow from start to finish. We got back to the truck and I remember thinking that would likely be one of her last backcountry outings.

Two weeks later, I threw my gear in the truck and there she is, jumping up and down with a big ol’ smile. Being the habitual victim of short-termed memory loss, off we went. This go round, she used the skin track to her advantage on the uphill and while still slow, she was stoked from top to bottom. Ok, that’s a win, maybe she’ll figure this thing out.

Fast forward a few weeks and a few more mellow outings, avalanche danger had subsided and it was time to go for a bigger mission. To bring the dog or not to bring the dog? The funny thing is, Peach usually answers that question more than I do. When your dog is frothing (read: bouncing, licking, making noises) when you’re preparing your gear the night before, it is hard to say no.

8 miles and 3,300 feet of vertical later, Peach is chasing other trailhead dogs around the parking lot while my buddies and I are huffing and puffing with soggy feet and sore legs. I think I might have created a little powder hound.

Disclaimer: I do not take the dog on every adventure. Too cold (10° or less) and it’s a no go. Too steep and it’s a no go. Too long or remote, no go. Dogs need a little help on these adventures too. Extra water + collapsable bowl, first aid kit, musher’s paste for their feet. If you’re taking your dog up to a ridgeline, you need to be very aware of their lack of understanding on how cornices work. Peach is 80 pounds, plenty big enough to drop a cornice in the wrong spot and send the whole slope off.

winter’s glaze

Ah, the off-season. The most glorious time of the year (*most of the time).

For western fish bums, this is a 5-ish month period of time where one experiences refreshing sanity, utter boredom and varying forms of, “oh shit, I’m running out of money.”

For some, enduring winter requires channeling your focus into a new, seasonally available hobby. For others, it’s laying low - tying flies, chiefing exorbitant amounts of pot and waiting for the sun to shine again. And for the weak, it’s simply migrating to warmer waters (just kidding, kinda). These over-simplified categories are not mutually exclusive either. I am at some points, a combination of all three.

Winter is a mind game. There are the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. When it gets dark at 4:30 and the wind has been blowing for a week straight, you begin to lose your mind. For some, it straight up gets lonely. The energy from your surrounding environment seems to deflate as winter progresses. It can gradually take a toll on a man. But it sure can be relaxing after a busy year.

So, go pick your buddy up and buy him a beer. Tie some flies with friends. Go skiing. Go hunt. Go ice fishing. Stay connected with your fishing amigos because you aren’t the only one battling the highs and lows of winter. Embrace winter for what it is, because it’s super rad with the right mindset.