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Fly-Fishing From A Kayak Not So Easy

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By RICK FOLSTAD, Tribune correspondent

Published: November 2, 2007

I'm snagged. Again.

I should have seen it coming, the cattail reeds suddenly showing up behind me like street thugs, quietly swaying in the breeze, patiently waiting for me to make a cast, a mistake. Daring me.

Maybe if I ignore them.

This time, I got snagged on my back cast, hooking a long, slender reed about five feet above the water while fishing for bluegills and bass in Lake Park in Hillsborough County.

Jerking my fly rod to snap the popper free didn't work. Cursing didn't help. Neither did obscene gestures. Nothing.

Unfortunately, something was going to break if I forced it: the rod tip, the leader, the popper. The only thing that wasn't going to break was the cattail.

So everything stopped and I paddled my kayak over to the reed and pulled it down and reached up and unhooked my popper. But before I paddled away, I snapped the reed in half. Take that.

Sometimes, I hate cattails.

It wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't already snagged my popper on my balled-up T-shirt, a strap on the front of my kayak, my thigh, a dead branch sticking up out of the water like a boney hand and a half-dozen lily pads.

But I knew the risks before I made the trip. Fly-fishing from a kayak in a lake full of lily pads on a breezy day is like trying to thread a needle in a windstorm while standing on your head. Blindfolded. Wearing mittens.

That doesn't explain why some of us have been doing it most of our lives.

I've been fishing with poppers and fly rods since the early 1960s when I used to sit in a 12-foot, leaky wooden row boat with my dad and grandpa and catch 60 bluegills and three or four bass in the hour before sunset. All three of us would use fly rods and poppers.

We lived in northern Wisconsin, and we'd pull our fly rods out in the early spring right after the ice melted and before the lakes got too weeded out in late May or early June.

Back then, we had to wax our fly line to make it float, the wax coming off on your fingers as you stripped the line.

We also had to occasionally bail the boat out with a rusted Folgers Coffee can.

It's a little different now. Fly line floats on its own, and you have weight-forward line, or tapered line or whatever kind of weight-adjusted line you want.

And instead of leaky wooden row boats, we have kayaks now, streamlined fishing machines without moving parts. Or coffee cans.

But if fishing technology has changed, the challenges haven't.

Start with the lily pads. Sure, they're nice to fish around, and they're pretty when the yellow and white flowers bloom. But don't be taken in by their good looks. They can turn ugly pretty fast when you hook one by the stem. Or six. Don't break anything. Paddle over and unhook your popper by hand.

Also, if you paddle back into the tiny bays of a lake, there is a good chance you will hook a cattail reed on your back cast like I always do. The best way around it is to either use a roll cast or not fish in tiny bays near cattail reeds.

Another thing you have to watch out for when you fly fish on lakes is a breeze.

Breezes come and go in all sizes. They speed up and slow down, change directions every few minutes, swirl, dance, spin a few times for the fun of it, and toss in a nasty gust of wind every now and then just to really mess you up.

A breeze also will produce a light chop on the water, which is pretty much a popper killer. That's because you have to actually see your popper to make this whole popper thing work. When a fish hits - breaks the surface - you have to immediately set your hook.

But if you can't see your popper because of the chop, you don't know when you get a hit.

Also, don't attempt to cast into a stiff wind. Unless you've been fly-fishing for a long time, it doesn't work very well.

That's how it is when you fly fish from a kayak.

Here's a little secret. The best way to guarantee yourself a hit on your popper is to: A, set your rod down and have a sip of your favorite beverage; B, set your rod down so you can adjust your kayak with your paddle; or C, look at the red-winged blackbirds and the coots instead of keeping your eye on your popper.

Those are the three times fish hit most often. Unfortunately, that fish is already gone by the time you pick up your rod and try to set the hook.

That's how it is when you fly fish from a kayak.

But there are some good moments.

Like every time a fish rises up under your popper and makes that little popping sound when it strikes. Or like the times you make one of those perfect casts, your line laying out straight and honest on the flat water, your popper settling gently just inches from the edge of a lily pad.

Or like every time you see that ripple around your popper and you set the hook just right and you feel that fighting weight on the other end of the line, your rod bending into a big arc while you play the fish with your fly line by using just your hands, no reel.

If it's a big bass, you allow it to pull the kayak a little, letting it tire itself out instead of trying to horse it in. And when it's finally had enough, you bring it to the side of the kayak with your rod still held high and you reach down into the cool, clear water inches from where you are sitting and gently lift it out and take the hook out. You admire it for a few seconds, and then you lower it back into the water, just below the surface so it doesn't splash you with its tail, and you let it go.

And then you get to do it all over again.

That's how it is when you fly fish from a kayak.

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