Spanish Mackerel: An Underrated Fish

I’m not a patient man by nature.   Rarely will I sit in a deer stand longer than three hours.  I despise flipping and pitching for bass all day long hoping for five or so bites.  Lack of patienience has inhibited my ability to throw a fly rod as well as I could, or become a better bow hunter.  I have enormous respect for those who can do these things, and know that my inability to do so surely results on missed opportunities.  I’ve learned though that to be a good outdoorsman it must remain enjoyable.  Call me a simpleton, but I like action. 

Being the man of action I am I find spanish mackerel to be an underrated game fish.  Spanish lack the brutishness of their cousin king mackerel, the beauty of a speckled trout, and the prestige of the bone fish.  They run in huge schools and some may not find them to enough of a challenge.  I’ve even heard people complain about their meat too, which I find ridiculous. 

 

The key to the fun of catching spanish lies in how its done.  Spanish are often found running the beaches just offshore.  Mexico Beach, Florida is a great place to find them once the water warms up in the spring.  The fish will cruise just past a sand bar where the water depth changes chasing bait.  Now catching them while trolling with big rods designed for king fish is admittedly like squirrel hunting with a deer rifle. However, trolling remains a great way to locate them. 

 

Once the fish are found I like to cut the motor and break out my flats gear.  Usually, this is a medium-light spinning outfit with a silver spoon attached with a wire leader.  Spanish have razor blades for teeth that cut straight through mono or braid.   Gotcha plugs and silver rattletraps work as well.  Generally fishing for them this way results in dozens of catches, and on light gear this is an awful good time.  Spanish are long slender fish built for speed, and bigger ones will take line from the unprepared angler. 

Those who complain about the taste of the fish clearly have never had it smoked and turned into dip.  I could eat a gallon of the stuff.  Spanish are great fried too, but don’t freeze them too long.  Spanish are easy to clean, and really there is nothing not to like. 

I respect and sometimes envy those always forward reaching folks that go from one challenge to the next, always searching  to accomplish something rare.  Call me lazy, but I’m just not the sort that’s going to pass up a good time that’s sitting right in front of me.  Spanish are easy to find, easy to catch, fight hard, and taste great.  For those reasons I will always believe that they are truly a great game fish. 

Early Season Whitetail

I sat in a lean-to deer stand that my Dad had previously affixed to a white oak tree waiting hopefully for a deer to venture out to feed.  The weather was pretty warm, and I was still tired from the night before, but comfortable in the padded seat.  It was still pretty dark when I saw three black figures quietly moving up the trail to my right. 

I assumed the dark figures were deer, but they could have been a pack of coyotes for all I could tell.  Later, once the sun was up I could tell it was three does.  They were feeding content to stay where they were, about thirty yards to my right.  I sat frozen with my gun up, but not quite in shooting position. 

The deer were wary as all deer are.  Two would feed quietly while one would keep her head up and on swivel, turning alert at any sound or movement.  Once, they looked startled and all retreated in synch, but only a few yards before resuming their feed again.  I’m not sure what startled the deer.  Perhaps they smelled me, or saw a bird dart, or a squirrel chirped.  Whatever it was I’m glad they stayed. 

My musceles were beginning to fatigue from the awkward position I was forced to hold.  My rifle was straight up and down, and my body was twisted to the north toward the deer.  I had to make a move soon or forget about the deer.  I inched my rifle to my shoulder, a .30/.30.  Finally, the scoped reached my eye, the stock touched my cheek, the shot looked good and I squeezed the trigger.  I shot at the middle sized doe. 

Like three scalded dogs the deer raced back the trail the same way they arrived.  I thought I had made a solid hit, and felt good about the shot.  Though the deer had taken off like a whip once I shot the deer didn’t flag as the other two does had.  Prior to pulling the trigger my sight picture had been good, and the crosshairs of my scope were settled nicely on her shoulder.  I didn’t feel as I had jerked the trigger either. 

After giving the deer a few minutes I climbed down my stand.  I walked to the area where the doe had been standing when I shot and began looking for blood.  I found none, so I slowly began walking in an everwidening circle inspecting the ground.  Still I found no blood.  I walked back down the trail, and still no blood.  I began to doubt my shot.  Maybe I had jerked the trigger, or my scope may have been off. 

The trail ran north and south about fifty yards before turning to the west and into thicker brush.   I walked the length of it, and found my doe dead as soon as the trail turned.  I had made a good shot.  I never did find any blood before getting to the deer. 

I was pleased to have a deer.  It was my first in two years.  I had left several does walk last season waiting on a big buck that never came.  My freezer was getting bare.  Luckily I was able to get one this year.

Trip to Flamingo

Inside Florida Bay anchored off a key named for a murdered game warden, my buddy Ryan Maloy and I sat in his boat fishing cut bait in three foot of water.  The hope was that a hungry redfish or passing snook would cruise by and we could finally land a fish.  In truth we would have settled for a curious blowfish or wayward grunt, anything to give our lines a tug. 

It had been that kind of trip so far.  Ryan and I were on our third day of a four day trip to Flamingo, the tiny outpost on the tip of Florida in the Everglades National Park.  We had planned this trip for months, and read everything we could regarding the fishing in the area.  Our plan had consisted of us boating tarpon, snook, and redfish until we just got tired.  No guide would be needed because we were prepared, confident, and first-rate fishermen.  Unfortunately our plan had not come together as expected.  Instead of catching fish we mostly eliminated water where there were none.  For almost three days. 

Ryan and I had started fishing in Lake Ingraham, a noted honey hole inside of Cape Sable.  With the exception of a lone jack crevalle we caught nothing.  The only other sign of hope we did have was when we were nearly spooled by what was probably a shark, but the line broke.  We tried some tidal creeks, before moving back out and fishing the area around Cape Sable, but our results never changed.  This day though, had been even more humbling and frustrating than the previous two.

Upon awaking that morning Ryan announced he had had enough of watching his boat get pounded while anchored just off Cape Sable.   Earlier we had decided to camp on the Cape forgoing the bat sized mosquitoes that infested the Flamingo campground.  The strong western wind though had kicked up more than expected and as a result Ryan’s 18ft Mako popped up and down like a yo-yo, with only one anchor holding it in place.  Since we weren’t exactly wearing out the fishing, Ryan decided we should fish our way back to Flamingo to spend the remaining nights on the trip there.  I agreed.

 

Moving back east we looked for likely spots which might hold fish.  Several good looking spots were located, but our bad luck held.  Finally, we came upon an expansive grass flat that reminded us of our flats back in North Florida around St. Marks and Keaton Beach.  We casted and drifted the flat until the tide ran out from under us. The depth had gone from around three feet to one.  The only way to deeper water was to pole and drag.  The process required Ryan to pole the boat as I got out and pulled toward deeper water.  This was exhausting work because I kept sinking to my knees in sticky muck.  Late in the day though we made it to deeper water, and finally to the channel back to Flamingo. 

On the way back to the marina, Ryan pointed a mid- sized island and said, “That’s Bradley Key.  Supposed to be good redfish there, you want to try it?” Really I thought it was futile, but I was tired of eating Vienna Sausages, and hoped we might get lucky and catch a catfish.  Vienna Sausages have their place, but a man can only reasonably be expected to eat so many. 

Bradley Key looked like so many other areas where we had already fished.  The island was of fair size surrounded by shallow grassy water.  It was ringed with mangrove trees, and home to more enourmous mosquitoes.  The island was named after Guy Bradley, an early 1900’s game warden who ran afoul of some ill tempered plume hunters, and was shot to death.  I guess our luck could have been worse.

 

 

Upon arrival we anchored on the east side of the island close to the bank.  We pitched out cut pinfish, which Ryan had snagged on a Sabiki Rig earlier in the day.  After a few minutes of waiting my rod got a quick hit then another, though the fish wouldn’t stay hooked, I was at least happy for the momentary excitement.  Suddenly Ryan’s rod bent over, and he set the hook.  Once the hook was driven home the fish began to fight.  He would make a run toward the boat swirl back and take line.  Soon Ryan had him under control and we had a nice red within the slot boated.  This fish was followed by several more reds and some awful tasty mangrove snapper. 

 

 

That night Ryan and I ate good.  We traveled back to Bradley Key the next morning, and caught more fish before packing up and heading home.  The trip was a humbling experience to be sure, but was worth it.  The Everglades are beautiful, and the fishing while not what I thought, turned out to be a blast.   I guessed the thing I learned on the trip is that you are only ever one cast away from going from a zero to a hero, and to always bring tons of bug spray.