I had been interested in tarpon for years and in 1996 I finally headed to the Florida Keys to take a swing at them. Captain Michael Bednar, a top guide there at that time, showed me the ropes. I quickly discovered, however, that Michael, like me, was a committed bonefisherman. Even while in the throes of tarpon fishing our dialog between incoming strings chronically drifted to the local bonefish, famous for their enormous size and the exceptional challenge they presented. My annual Keys trip soon blossomed into two, sometimes three, visits a year simply because of the bonefish. At one point, Michael suggested blind-casting the oceanside flats at sunset in the fall. Hooking up, he said, was a 50-50 proposition on any given evening. Not exactly great odds, but neither was sight-casting to those hogs at high noon, so in 1998 I decided to give it a shot.
On a breezy November evening, I waded out on a lush turtle grass flat to about knee-deep and commenced fan-casting while facing southward toward the Gulfstream. I was fishing a sparse, lightly weighted brown Puff on a floating line and kept my retrieves snappy and shrimp-like. While peacefully lost in thought as darkness neared, I was rudely interrupted with a solid grab. It was jolting, in fact. The fish felt heavy and it cleared my line and my wandering mind in an instant. He wasn’t kidding, I thought.
Then it jumped.
I was befuddled until I realized what I had hooked – my first snook on fly. I had tangled with them as a kid fishing live shrimp on a light spinning rod off a southwest Florida dock while on family vacations. A seductive experience that gripped my youthful psyche, but one that could never put a snook in my hands . . . every fish I hooked had its way and shredded my 8-pound-test within the pilings. Seasoned vets on that dock recognized my enthusiasm and enlightened me about the nature of these street fighters. Though difficult to accept, I resided that I had no hope of catching one there. On one visit, a barefoot heavy-set 30-something hombre with a thick beard and one leg showed me how it was done: using a stout 30-pound-class boat rod and a Penn Jigmaster loaded with 50-pound monofilament, he was also dunking shrimp. But he was in lockdown mode – using no drag. When he hooked up it was a shit-show, as he wrestled a 15-pounder up and out of the pilings all while hopping around that gnarly, weather-beaten dock on one leg – a remarkable angling spectacle. My lasting impression was that snook are rough customers.
Those hot spring days on that Florida dock proved to be my last dealings with snook for more than two decades . . . until I crossed paths with Michael Bednar in the Keys. That accidental 10-pound oceanside snook dazzled me with its startling jumps, strength and with stamina surpassing that of striped bass, its northern counterpart. But despite that fascination, snook and I somehow took another sabbatical – this time for 26 years.
In the spring of 2024, I fished the iconic Belize River Lodge seeking full-on opportunity for everything Belize had to offer – including snook. Situated in central Belize, but nestled smack in the jungle on the Belize Olde River (complete with jaguars, crocodiles, howler monkeys, tarantulas, tapir and more all nearby in the neighboring jungle), this lodge really grabbed me. And just minutes from Philip S. W. Goldson International Airport, it seemed too good to be true. This lodge is a five-star operation where you immediately feel you’re among family in a warm and gracious atmosphere. When the staff asked me what I was interested in pursuing, I responded, “Pretty much everything – big tarpon, bonefish, permit, jacks, but I really want a shot at snook.”
Be careful what you wish for, as the saying goes.
I fished three days with Mike Torres – a low key, hardworking flats-man with superb fishing skills and an uncanny ability to guide his anglers just right – not too much, but not too little, and I learned a lot from him. On the ride down-river on day-1 Mike asked, “Want to try for snook today?” I said, “I’d love to!” “We’ll go later in the day when the water’s low . . . when they come out.” That’s all he said. I knew so little about snook fishing I really didn’t know what he meant. But I was content with his confidence, believing it would all make sense to me “later in the day”.
Around 2 o’clock Mike finally asked if I wanted to hunt for snook. Hell yeah – I was as excited as a kid heading to some magical place to pursue trout or bass for the first time. Mike kicked the panga toward a nondescript mangrove-encrusted caye in the distance, secured the pole, and hit the throttle.
The raw excitement of this was unexpected and it was wonderful. The thrill of the unknown, the anticipation and a sudden sense of innocence coalesced into a unique emotion. As you fish over your lifetime, that beautiful feeling seems harder and harder to find. If you love fishing, there’s nothing else quite like it . . . suddenly, we were throttling down and Mike said, “Get your snook rod and put on a white fly.”
While preparing for this trip, I contacted Florida Keys flats guides I know for insight on rigging for snook. I had foolishly suggested fishing 12-pound-test, but they were consistent and clear: use 20-pound tippet and a heavy shock to have a reasonable chance of keeping them out in the clear, they said. I had no idea what to expect, but I rigged accordingly, tied on a white bunny fly and anxiously stepped in the batter’s box on the bow of Mike’s panga to finally experience snook fishing in the ‘groves.
Quietly, we poled into the leeward side of this desolate mangrove island. Slowly and carefully, we hunted down the edge of dense, verdant cover. It was silent. Narrow shafts of brilliant sunlight penetrated the mangrove canopy providing a kaleidoscopic glimpse into the snook’s world of intense light erratically woven with opaque shadow amongst the maze of stout parabolic mangrove roots that anchor the island to the marl. What lays deeper within this eerie place is a mystery – a few short feet into the dense roots, utter darkness prevails . . . It was exhilarating.
It wasn’t long before Mike called out the first one. I didn’t see it till he said, “Right there (pointing with the pole), on the left side of the opening.” Then I saw it – a vivid snook profile that appeared jet black and motionless in the weird lighting. It was nestled deep in that cavern. “I’m going to need a can opener to get at him”, I said. “That’s OK, it’s a big one. Shoot it in low, right in his face”, Mike instructed. So, I fired . . . right into the shrubbery. Mike said don’t yank, just jiggle it. Sure enough, the fly conveniently dropped to the water. I never took my eyes off the fish, which never budged throughout the commotion like an alpha badass. I heard “Take another shot!”. This time I got it in under the overhang but not close enough. The snook slowly turned and faded into the darkness. “That’s OK, we’ll get the next one.”, Mike said. That fish was about 15 pounds – huge by fly rod standards. With that stunning first encounter, I realized what a technical fly caster’s dream-come-true this is – it’s extraordinary fishing.
I soon discovered that a kneeling position worked best for me, as it allowed a better view into shrouded mangrove tunnels and alcoves. Firing low, side-arm shots under the overhang was easier, too. But our opportunities got increasingly tougher. The most improbable being a pair of small fish facing away from us, into the roots. A ray of light barely lit their golden tails, wagging gently as if to say, “Can’t touch ‘dis”. Mike said “Take it. Land it close . . . maybe they’ll turn.” I did, but these sullen little snook just waved buh-bye and disappeared into the darkness.
Further down the edge, a few more wildly difficult opportunities materialized for these lazy creatures that slunk deep in their shady neighborhoods. Mike reiterated to try and get it right in their face, that they have to see it. My shots were getting better – just a couple feet from their shovelheads. But still, no reactions. From the back of the panga I kept hearing, “Closer”. Florida guides humor frustrated anglers by reminding them that nothing can ignore you like a tarpon. But if no one’s said it yet, I say it now – nothing can disrespect you like a snook.
Suddenly, Mike called out “Fish at 12 – they’re outside!” I quickly looked right and my heart raced as three five-pounders were heading our way and they were out in the clear over bright marl, about a rod length from the bushes. And they were in range – a gift shot!
I quickly launched, landing my fly about a foot in front of one of them. Earlier, Mike showed me the retrieve he likes: three snappy wrist-turns, followed by a brief pause, then three more snappy wrist-turns. After my fly dropped, I heard, “tick – tick – tick . . . tick – tick – tick . . . “, from the back of the panga. My heart pounded as one fish deliberately veered and nosed right up to the fly. Then – in plain view – its mouth opened, the fly disappeared, its mouth closed . . . and I lifted the rod! NOTHING! God, what a disappointing feeling that is! That sage voice at the back of the panga softly said, “Ohhhhh, don’t lift . . . strip. Happens to everybody. We’ll get the next one.” I felt terrible blowing our only easy opportunity . . . that wouldn’t happen again.
When our tide had run out, we headed back to the lodge. On the ride, I contemplated the experience and realized how fabulously challenging snook fishing is. The staff at Belize River Lodge are genuine and strive to ensure their guests are well cared for and their fishing experiences are the best they can be. That evening one lovely staff member enthusiastically asked, “Alan, did you go snook fishing today? What did you think?” To the amusement of others who apparently had some prior snook experience, I openly exclaimed, “Oh man, was that tough – like playing hide ‘n go seek with revolvers! But I loved it.”
Next morning I asked Mike if he wanted give snook another shot. “Oh yeah”, he replied. I was wearing my snook “colors” for day-2 (a mangrove camo solar shirt) and I had a good vibe. When water levels had again receded enough to nudge the fish out of the roots and close to the mangrove edges where we could spot them, Mike said “Let’s go” and we rolled up our sleeves and went. Despite just a couple of hours under my belt from the day before, I felt confident. In addition to the benefits of a kneeling position on the bow that I learned the day before, I adjusted my tackle to a stiffer, overlined rod and simplified my leader to just 12 inches of 30-pound fluorocarbon shock blood-knotted to four feet of 20-pound tippet. I had effectively concocted a mangrove “sniper rifle”, which made firing pinpoint shots into thick cover a lot easier.
The first opportunities were just as challenging as the day before, but I was rarely in the trees while still getting my fly in deep. But the fish remained utterly difficult. Finally, a good one turned out of its lair and approached the fly. “Tick – tick – tick . . . tick – tick – tick”, and, again, in plain view the fly disappeared with another lackluster bite – BIG STRIP this time. Nothing again! In a momentary bout of insanity triggered by the indecency of what just happened, I blurted a few vibrant expletives, finishing with, “If we catch that fish later, I want to slap his face.” Mike chuckled and encouraged me that I did everything right . . . it’s snook fishing. “We’ll get the next one”, he said. I finally asked if snook are ever aggressive. “Oh, definitely”, but with his OK, I switched to a bigger fly – a deer hair slider with a spun bright green head and a slinky white tail construction. The Snook Muddler, I coined it.
My tackle adjustments and guerilla-style approach from the casting deck enabled consistently good presentations, but I still could not muster conviction from these fish. Then, just as suddenly as it had the day before, two fish materialized to our right, about eight feet clear of the bushes. Mike sharply called out, “To your right – good shot!” I landed the Muddler right in front of one of them and immediately heard, “tick – tick – tick . . . tick – tick – tick” . . . KA-BOOM! This snook detonated on the Muddler, and this time I came tight. These fish are psychotic, I thought, and that’s when the shit-show began. Mike immediately jumped off the platform, urgently directing me, “Don’t let him in . . . Don’t let him in there!”. Clarity somehow prevailed amidst the chaos and I understood it all – the heavy leaders, “keeping ‘em out of there” . . . in that moment it all suddenly made sense.
The snook put its shovelhead down, got in 4-wheel low and bored toward the edge of darkness in a froth of water spiced with violent jumps, as I man-handled it (or he snook-handled me). Mike said, “That’s good . . . hold him!” This is not finesse fishing. There’s nothing graceful about it. You don’t need backing (none) nor much of a reel, either. An Orvis Battenkill capable of holding an eight-weight line will do. You don’t clear anything out the guides, let alone to the reel – you hang on . . . like a rodeo event. In urgency you might give your snook a foot or two to avert a break-off. But that’s all. It’s among the sickest fishing I’ve ever done; how the insanity of this escaped me for decades puzzles me.
This was not a big one – about five pounds – but at that moment it was my Moby Dick and I suggested we land it as quickly as possible. Mike already had the net in hand. In warm water, the barroom fight that erupts in an instant, settles down rather quickly and our snook submitted to skiff-side in docile fashion (sort of). It went into Mike’s net on the second pass and I let out a sigh in relief.
But it wasn’t over – the snook’s sharp gills sliced through and he was on the loose again. Neither of us uttered a word as I carefully guided the fish to Mike’s waiting hands, who lipped our snook and brought him aboard! This was a thrilling moment. As Mike passed our snook to me for a photo, he smiled and asked, “You gonna slap him?”
I laughed out loud and kissed that beautiful fish right on the lips.
