We launched the canoe down an embankment and began the paddling down behind the narrow islands towards the flats there. Back there where nobody else really ventured, or even bothered to look, was a world like no other. There, just mere feet from the main waters of the Mosquito Lagoon, were fish that had not yet seen every lure and fly known to man and fish, fish that were not educated, fish that were big and hungry. We paddled quickly, but quietly, anxious to get on the flats.

We paddled into another world, taking it back into the backcountry of Florida, past flocks of roseate spoonbills and white pelicans. Past many kinds of herons and egrets. Past alligators, hogs and deer. Past bobcats, otters and mangroves. It was as if we were taking it back in time as well. The sound of the nearby ocean calmed even the most tense nerves.

We approached the opening to the flats and stopped. Our first casts would be right there. I sat in the back, positioning us and giving my partner the best possible position for a cast. No sooner than did his fly hit the water than did the water explode. We watched as a large wake took off away from us. He had lined the fish and spooked it. Not a problem, there were plenty more where that one had come from.

It was spring and the days were just getting warm. We paddled onto the first flat and sat there in the canoe bewildered. Everywhere around us fish were cruising, busting bait and wallering along the shorelines, their backs halfway out of the water and baitfish scurrying away from them. It was difficult to know where to cast first. Redfish just didn’t act this way on the flats in the river. Rarely did they so openly bust bait and tail and cruise so nonchalantly. It was an amazing thing to see.

With so many opportunities, we decided to anchor the canoe and split up. The bottom is solid in most places, but mucky enough to suck you in and hold you there until someone can pull you out in others. My fishing partner decided to target his favorite kind of reds, the tailing ones, and I wanted to go after my personal favorites… the shoreline reds.

I waded slowly and silently over towards the shoreline and found my first target. I watched it for a while. Redfish tend to move in big circles, and if you watch them long enough, you can tell where they are going to go next. This one was milling around in a pretty tight circle. I waited for my opportunity and when it came back towards the shore, picking up speed for the attack on the small baitfish pushed up along the shore, I made my cast. Once again, the water exploded in the attack. First several small minnows were engulfed by the red, and then my fly. I set the hook and moved my fingers away from the reel, not wanting bruised knuckles that day.

The red took off and pulled line off of my reel in a screaming run. I reached down and palmed the reel, then began to play the fish, trying to get it in as quickly and safely as possible for the release. I turned and my partner was not too far away. He made a cast near my red, hoping that there was another one following, and was not disappointed. Within seconds we had a double on. Once again, though, he lost his. Minutes later, I landed a beautiful dark redfish and released it.

It went on like that all day. We stalked the fish, made the casts and hooked up time and time again. When they stopped biting there, we moved the canoe down to the next flat, or the next hole and started all over again. We found a lake like structure behind one island and pulled several large gator trout out of it. All of them were dark fish; the trout had almost no spots on them. They were all big fish.

Our next outing was after a different quarry, but in the same kind of place. Paddling out to another flat a few miles north of the first one, we tied on our favorite black drum flies and braved an oncoming thunderstorm nearby to catch a few drum. Large gray tails waved us on and beneath the shallow murky waters, we saw their striped bodies moving slowly along.

Once again, we split up. I was going after the tailing fish this time, leaving him in the canoe to chase the black drum we knew were holed up alongside the shore. I waded along the shore, unable to go out more than about 5 feet without sinking hip deep in the black muck. I had seen a small disturbance on the water and had been slowly making my way towards it. When finally I got close enough to see it, only one thought went through my mind… "I think I need a bigger boat". Actually, I needed ANY boat. I knew I should not have made the cast. It was only 15 feet away and coming right at me slowly, but the eyesight on those fish are not the best. I made the cast.

My partner jerked his head around when the water thrashed and splashed and I nearly jumped right out of my shorts. I began to yell for him to hurry up and get over to me with the canoe. By the time he got the anchor pulled up and the paddle in his hands, though, I was looking at the last few turns of my backing on the reel and the fish was showing no signs of slowing down. Without thinking, I reached out and grabbed hold of the line to break the fish off. I should have just palmed the reel, but ended up with a bloody hand instead, and was lucky to get away with all of my line. I lost the fly.

I got back in the canoe with him and we took turns casting and catching fish. The thunderstorm missed us by a mile or so, and we continued to have one of the best fishing days of our lives. The fish were feeding and we were there for them.

Another time, we took the canoes in the other direction, down into a cove that cannot be accessed by a boat with a motor. Our quarry there was a bit different. Here we were after tarpon. They aren’t big. They only go up to about 15 lbs on average, though I have seen them take ducks off of the top of the water before. It’s always a challenge to hook up and fight a tarpon, even a small one, in tight quarters and from a canoe. We got our flies ready, my partner using a Dahlberg Diver, and me going beneath the surface with a deer hair head mullet pattern, to push a lot of water.

His first cast was rewarded with a massive hit and a miss. Mine was rewarded with a jumping tarpon and me climbing into the mangroves to get my fly back. Soon though, he was hooked up again and this time it was staying on. It was a nice solid 8 lb tarpon. We never did land another one, though we jumped several.

We never saw another soul back there in any of those places. The fish are still uneducated, the birds move around freely, thousands of them… of all kinds. Things are a little bit different in the backcountry. There are no boats, only canoes and kayaks. It’s just too shallow behind the islands for boats to get into. There are no people. You can fish an entire day and never have to worry about anyone spooking your fish or crowding you. It’s a whole different world, true backcountry flyfishing. It still exists. There are still many more flats to be explored, many more lakes to be probed with a fly, many more miles of water to learn. I hope to hit them all.