If you’ve been around the Mosquito Lagoon for any length of time, you’ll know of the Flats Bunny. A great friend, William Nosan, is credited by most as the originator of the venerable pattern that is a “go-to” for many of the fly anglers that ply the waters that lie between NASA property and New Smyrna Beach.
Jeff Kennedy recently painted the Flats Bunny in watercolor. His work is amazing, check it out.
After expenses, there was a small balance left on the books from the 2008 Tournament. A check for $150 in the name of the Oak cHill’n Invitational Tournament was sent to Pawsitive Action Foundation, Inc. in St. Cloud, FL.
Updates on the 2009 3rd Annual Oak cHill’n Invitational will be landing in your inbox soon.
cHill’n is Good 
Please consider a personal gift to the Foundation as well:
http://pawsitiveaction.org/Pawsitive_Action_Pet_Foundation_1.html
See you there!
Oak cHill'n Invitational Tournament
For the fourth year in a row I’ve been fortunate enough to bag work and spend the day on the water chasing redfish with friends. This years exploits were even better than anticipated.
My journey to Oak cHill this year was airborne. I left Orlando Executive around 4:30 in the afternoon planning to meet my great friend, Charlie at a small airport a few miles north of The cHill. I was wheels down at the appointed time and as I taxied up to the ramp, I could see Chaz waiting there with his yellow lab, Sally.
Later in the evening at Charlie’s we feasted on a homemade gumbo and washed it down with cold beer from the Evil Keg-o-rator. While eating we made final plans for the next day’s activities. A Christmas Eve tradition requires planning you know…
As the sun reached over the horizon and basked the shorelines in it’s orange glow, a small group of friends again converged on Charlie’s house. Charlie’s place is almost always the hub of all social activities in Oak cHill. A day of angling adventure requires fuel, biscuits and gravy filled that billet.
With full bellies, everyone set off to find redfish that were eager to consume their offerings. After running a short distance, I found myself poling quietly across a deserted bay looking for signs of life. The surface of the water was smooth as the air hung heavy without a breath of wind. I spotted the first tail reaching above the surface from several hundred yards away. I increased my speed to intersect the happy fish sooner.
A group of three redfish had their noses buried in the muddy bottom rooting about for something to eat. I put the fly into the air and after a false cast or two sent it downrange. The fly landed softly in their midst without causing any of them to sound an alarm and flee. A couple of bumps was all it took to have the fly noticed. One of the fish zeroed in on the combination of yarn and bucktail and gave chase. With a flare of the gills and an abrupt turn about, the redfish secured itself to the end of my line. Christmas never felt so good.
As the morning wore on, the winds that were wrapping around a high pressure system to the east began to increase their speed. I decided it was time to move on.
I eased the skiff along the oyster lined shores of spot number two as the wind pushed me along. Visibility was not the best with wind riffles obscuring the view. Almost as quickly as I saw the first redfish, I saw number 2,3,4,5, and so on. As the school of coppery toned fish parted to flee my presence I slipped an anchor over the side and nestled up tight to an exposed oyster bar. Within minutes I could again see the shadows and flashes of redfish eating on the backside of the next bar. For the next half hour I cast to the bar finding four more fish willing to eat my offering.
With five redfish under my belt for the day I pulled anchor and made a short run to the local waterside joint for lunch with the fellas.
I landed at Executive Airport by mid afternoon, completely satisfied with my 2008 installment of the Christmas Eve tradition…
I get into the worst situations…
I just spent the better part of four days in East Tennessee. The mission was simple. Enjoy the company of some truly great friends, sample the local bbq, and get on the river for some soul renourishment.
When I awoke on Friday morning, I was greated with a vision of a white blanket coating the landscape. That’s right, it snowed nearly two or three inches overnight. Not detered, I made my way to the local joint to have a warming breakfast before making my trek towards the water.
Once I had my gear assembled, I turned out onto the road and eased around the corner, wary of the slushy paste that covered portions of the pavement. Despite a forcast for higher temperatures, I watched the digits on the truck’s thermometer slip away. As I whipped in to park alongside the corn crib down in Bullocks Hollow, I could see that 27 degrees was to be the choice that Mother Nature had made for me.
Cold Weather & East Tennessee Tailwater Brown Trout
I could see the river at the bottom of the hill on the other side of the gate clearly now. I questioned what I was thinking as I slowly slid out of the warm confines of the truck and began the task of suiting up in waders and boots, all the while wondering how long I would be able to weather the cold before my thin Florida blood begged for mercy.
Snow clung to the felt on the bottom of my boots as I slogged down the path. I bobbled and weaved like I was a midwesterner standing on the bow of a tippy little skiff for the first time. Occaisionally, I would nearly slip and fall as I plodded along when the snow masked the cow shit that resided below. My last hurdle was a barbed wire fence. i eased across it praying that I didnt drag my waders across the thorn like protrusions, ending my day before it started.
There wasn’t another soul in sight when I stepped into the river. As I felt the tightening of the water around my legs, I could see rising fish along a seam across the river 100 yards down stream. My thoughts of pre-planning were out the window immediately, the small #22 midge at the end of my tippet needed to go. I stood in the swirling waters and clumsily tied on a dry as I watched fish continue to rise along the far bank. after what seemed like an eternity, I began slowly fording across, setting up to present my offering.
The first few takes resulted in no joy, as I pulled the fly free of the fish’s mouth without setting the hook. A few casts later a little guy rewarded my efforts.
I contined to fish after releasing my first brown, hands totally frozen. I was starting to question my sanity for enduring the arctic like punishment when the next brown came up and swallowed my offering. As I stripped line in to land it, I moved over towards a partially submerged stump and guided the fish atop it rather than worry with the net. After a quick shot with the camera, I fumbled around and broke it off.
My frozen hands protested by not moving in concert with my thoughts as I fumbled to retrieve another fly from my box. My fingers moved slowly and shook as I treaded the line through the tiny eye of the hook. After a minute or two I finally got a not tied and began to cast again. I was rewarded again almost immediately. I used the stump yet again to assist me in the photo and release. I’m sure i looked like an idiot as i tried desperately to get the hook free without agian getting my hands wet…
i left the river with the fish still rising, thinking that surely the better part of valor was knowing when to quit before hypothermia set in.
Every year that passes by brings more new memories with it. As you stare history in the face you realize that often, you’re mind’s eye looses clarity and moments are lost. Photographs are an awesome way to ensure that you have a great visual record of the past. For that reason, we always employ a professional photographer to capture my son’s image every year around his birthday.
Yesterday was that day. Our family spends lots of time around water. Our homes are by the water, we spend lots of time in a skiff, we wade around, ankle deep, soaking up the pure energy that the water provides learning first hand about the creatures that make their life there. So it was natural to end up at the beach to spend a while in front of the lense.
Wyatt has seen the business end of a camera plenty in his three years, so his comfort level there is high. Sometime in the next two weeks we’ll get to see the results. I cant wait!
He’s come a long way since his first trip there…
My lovely and talented wife is well on her way to getting her business established. Samples of her amazing work will be available online very shortly. Check out: http://www.shannonlittrell.com
In rare moment when she appears in front of the lense; here she is with our amazing son, Wyatt.
The amazing woman behind Shannon Littrell Photography.
After a week that seemed to last forever drew to a close, I pointed the nose of the truck east to restore my grin.
I wheeled around the corner in time to admire a lawn that would make a greenskeeper smile. Moments later the luckiest dawg from Arkansas was greeting me.
The dock on the ICW was calling my name, so I answered. I grabbed a spinning rod and wandered down to check the tide and cast a line. The tide had just turned, waters had begun to flow north again draining the lagoon. There were schools of glass minnows everwhere. As they were pushed to the surface from below, gulls were swooping in for dinner. I saw many blow-ups around and in the boiling bait, but my offerings were largely ignored.
The chirp of my two way radio brought news of a visitor having arrived at the cHill. I made my way back towards the casa to have a look at our guests new skiff.
Phil Carter’s new Waterman was sitting there in all it’s glory as I rounded the last curve and emerged from the dusty trail back from the main dock. We spent a while looking her over and inspecting the amazing craftsmanship that was on display.
As the sun faded below the horizon thoughts turned towards dinner. I made my way across the street to join Charlie for some finely prepared Italian fare. After having some great conversation, food and beverage it was time to retire. My grin was definitely back.
A solo adventure with fly rod in hand affords the opportunity for great frustration. The oh shit factor is increased exponentially. If you’ve ever been anywhere within a 300 yard radius of one of these expeditions, you’ve likely heard expletives in the distance.
Sunday afternoon began with all of the key elements in place to allow for a successful outing, despite the challenges of both poling and casting. The tide was where I would want it, the wind was light, and the sun was not obscured by clouds. After searching out an area to fish that was devoid of other vessels, I began working along a lee shore scanning for visible signs of fish to cast to. In short order I located a redfish with it’s back out of the water milling about searching for food in the shallows along the shore. A gave one last push with the pole and picked up the fly rod and made my first false cast. An event that has yet to be fully explained unfolded in a matter of seconds. A knot of flyline appeared at the end of my rod, hanging between the tip and last guide. A knot doesn’t adequately describe the malformation of flyline and flourocarbon that dangled in the slight breeze as I stared at it in amazement and shock, the content and happy redfish now a blur in the unfocused background. My sight intermittently focused on the fish that continued to lazily cruise along oblivious to my presence and the amalgamation that seemed to evolve into a larger and more complex entanglement by the moment despite the fact that I stood perfectly still.
Desperation is an understatement when describing the feeling that washed over me. I began fumbling with the strands and loops in hopes of solving the puzzle before the fish escaped my range. I alternately pulled and shook the twists and turns to no avail. Still, the redfish worked alongside the skiff without any appearance of distress or concern over my presence. By now I’m certain that my blood pressure had risen to near stroke levels as I was digging and pulling, somehow having suspended reality in my mind; still harboring the belief that I would somehow unravell the knots and free myself from the bonds that had rendered my fly rod worthless.
As the redfish swam into deeper water, abandoning the shoreline for the moment, I finally took a breath and resigned myself to solving the mess that contined to dangle in tribute to my catastrophic failure at line management. Roughly ten minutes later I was ready to get back in the game.
Despite the stark reality of why the last experience landed squarely in the angler error bucket, I decided that the fly needed to change. I tied on a toad and picked up the push pole to resume my slow paced pursuit. I covered nearly half a mile without seeing anything other than whiskered sea bass. As I continued to slowly steer along through the shallow water I spotted two small reds closing the distance between us. They were moving with purpose and did not afford me an opportunity to ambush them with a faux morsel of food. They did, however get me back on point, focused upon the task at hand. Almost immediately after they faded into the murkey depths, I saw two intertwined backs and tails swirling in a shallow recess in the grassy bottom.
I launched my flyline with purpose, upon it was carried the hope of a successful day, at it’s end the toad fly I envisioned would make it happen. The water exploded as my offering did nothing more than alarm the two and force them to flee. I elected to push my skiff aground and wait a minute or two to see if the unexplained disturbance they had experienced would wain quickly and allow them to return to forage for prey. My decision to post up along the shore soon paid dividends as what appeared to be one of the previously sptted fish emerged into view, its back and tail breaching the surface glinting in the sun.
I let the fly slip from my fingers and begin it’s airborne journey to and fro as it alternately travelled stem to stern. I measured the distance to my proposed landing zone and let the line fly. The loop unfurled and the fly delicately landed ahead of and beyond the slowly tacking redfish. As it approached, my fly sprang to life, small strips of flyline urging it along, willing it to look delicous. All of the past hours effort poured yet again into a small sliver of time. With a sudden burst of energy the redfish closed the distance to intercept my presentation of yarn and feather. The line went tight and I began the chore of clearing line as the fish surged in an effort to flee. There I was, time had ceased to exist as I enjoyed the pleasure of the initial run after hooking-up, when it happened. It was the horrible reality of the line going slack.
I slowly reeled in line, much of it was still lying on the deck as the fight was over really before it began. As the leader approached I could see the tell tale end that told the story of angler error, knot failure. I kept cranking until everything was on the reel. My day was done.
