{"id":7137,"date":"2021-01-18T11:31:10","date_gmt":"2021-01-18T15:31:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.tailflyfishing.com\/?p=7137"},"modified":"2021-01-21T11:49:31","modified_gmt":"2021-01-21T15:49:31","slug":"journey-to-xcalak-saltwater-fly-fishing-trey-reid","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.tailflyfishing.com\/journey-to-xcalak-saltwater-fly-fishing-trey-reid\/","title":{"rendered":"Journey to Xcalak | Saltwater Fly Fishing | Trey Reid"},"content":{"rendered":"

\u201cWe hardly ever realize that we can cut anything out of our lives, anytime, in the blink of an eye.\u201d<\/i><\/span><\/h2>\n

\u2014<\/i>Carlos Castaneda, Journey to Ixtlan<\/i><\/span><\/h2>\n

On numerous fly fishing trips to Mexico over the past 13 years, I\u2019ve brought home all sorts of souvenirs. But until a trip in March, I had never brought back toilet paper.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s called pap\u00e9l sanit\u00e1rio<\/i> in Spanish, and back home in the United States people were hoarding it in panic as COVID-19 and lockdowns spread across the country. I had been chasing permit, bonefish, and tarpon for several days in rural Mexico. During nine days of fly fishing and travel in the Yucatan Peninsula, the novel coronavirus went from being a faint American concern to a full-blown national emergency.<\/span><\/p>\n

Harboring fewer than 400 souls at the far southern tip of Mexico\u2019s Caribbean coast, the small fishing village of Xcalak was arguably one of the best places to ride out a pandemic. My friends and I, however, were headed away from elective recreational seclusion and toward the forced isolation of quarantines and social distancing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The only sure thing was uncertainty. But we had TP.<\/span><\/p>\n

Return on Investment<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

The journey to Xcalak requires more work than similar Caribbean destinations, but the effort yields abundant rewards. From the continental United States it takes a flight, a rental car, a five- to six-hour drive, and two extra travel days to break up the drive to and from Cancun. The payoff is reduced fishing pressure, an opportunity for cultural immersion, and one of the best travel fly fishing bargains you\u2019ll find.<\/span><\/p>\n

Xcalak isn\u2019t for everybody. Outside of fishing, diving, and snorkeling, options are limited. There\u2019s no nightlife or kitschy tourist attractions. It\u2019s as far from the all-inclusive resorts of Cancun as you can get, a place with off-grid accommodations where you won\u2019t find air conditioning.<\/span><\/p>\n

But you\u2019ll discover countless miles of Chetumal Bay\u2019s sublime saltwater flats with lightly pressured bonefish and permit. There\u2019s also easily accessible fishing along the Caribbean coast, where the planet\u2019s second-longest barrier reef protects the beach from heavy surf. Brackish lagoons with tarpon and snook present additional opportunities. Independent guides run trips out of the village for a fraction of what you\u2019ll pay in other popular destinations. Anglers interested in blazing their own trail will find some of the most accessible do-it-yourself saltwater fly fishing prospects on the Yucatan Peninsula.<\/span><\/p>\n

I found Xcalak (pronounced ISH-kah-lahk) in 2007. I booked a half-day guided trip with Captain Victor Castro, who no doubt needed all of his skill and patience\u2014as well as a measure of lucto lead a rank neophyte with a borrowed 8-weight to his first bonefish. It was the first evolutionary step toward a fixation with Trachinotus falcatus<\/i>, commonly called \u201cblack-tailed devils,\u201d or by their Spanish name, palometa<\/i>, but sometimes known by more contemptuous monikers like \u201cf****** permit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

On the Road<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

Our crew flew into Cancun on a Friday afternoon. Lee Reddmann, an accountant with fly fishing obsessive disorder, and Casey Hughes, a trout fishing guide who represents several outdoor-industry companies, arrived with me from Little Rock. Michael DeJarnette, a friend since childhood, came in from Park City. <\/span><\/p>\n

With the back of our rented Dodge Caravan looking like a mobile fly shop, we took off on the hour-and-a-half drive to Tulum. Unless flights arrive before noon, it\u2019s best to break up the trip from Cancun to Xcalak. The route consists mostly of well-maintained federal highways, but animals, pedestrians, and long stretches of remote roadway can make nighttime driving sketchy.<\/span><\/p>\n

The stop in Tulum leaves three-and-a-half hours of driving for the final leg to Xcalak. It also serves as a traveler\u2019s decompression chamber, where the city\u2019s bohemian ethos and tourism scene offer a transition zone between regular life and Xcalak\u2019s extreme isolation.<\/span><\/p>\n

We found food trucks and filled up on nachos, quesadillas, and empanadas, a solid base for multiple rounds of various social lubricants. Things got fuzzy after we drank the pox (pronounced poash)\u2014a traditional distillation of corn, wheat, and sugar cane that\u2019s like Maya moonshine. The shamans used it to connect with the spirit world; we used it to disconnect from the actual world.<\/span><\/p>\n

Fortified by coffee the next morning, we headed to the Chedraui supermarket for food, beer, and booze. Xcalak only has a couple small stores and a grocery truck that delivers on a loose schedule, so it\u2019s best to pick up provisions on the way down.<\/span><\/p>\n

The road carried us through the heart of the Maya world. We passed the ruins at Muyil, a vestige of the Maya civilization\u2019s bygone splendor and its remarkable achievements in astronomy, mathematics, art, and engineering. As we slowed down through small towns, their inhabitants were a reminder that the Maya still walk upon this big porous limestone slab.<\/span><\/p>\n

About two hours after leaving Tulum, we stopped at the Pemex outside Majahual to top off the van\u2019s gas tank, and another hour later we were looking at a big sign that read, \u201cBienvenido Xcalak<\/i>,\u201d where the Caravan\u2019s tires rolled over the last patch of asphalt they\u2019d touch for a week.<\/span><\/p>\n


\nThe Inside Scoop<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\"saltwater<\/b>Using a guide dramatically increases the odds of success in Xcalak. Local knowledge and experience aside, another factor is the accessibility afforded by their boats. While the wading DIY angler finds abundant opportunity around Xcalak, the guided fly angler can cover more water and reach otherwise inaccessible spots. Boats also make it easier to spot fish.<\/span><\/p>\n

We arranged two boats for five days with Victor Castro and his crew at Osprey Tours (xcalak-flyfishing.com). More than a fishing guide, Castro has become a valued friend. We met him and his nephew Felipe Miravete at eight a.m. the first day. \u201cMucho viento<\/i>\u201d were Miravete\u2019s first words, but the 15- to 20-mph wind wasn\u2019t the only issue. Clouds obscured the sun and showed few signs of breaking up. The southern Yucatan was experiencing a norte<\/i>, and while the cooler north wind and lower humidity made for great sleeping conditions, it would probably hurt the fishing.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hughes and I climbed in Miravete\u2019s panga and motored south, turning west into the Zaragoza Canal, a manmade cut connecting the Caribbean with Chetumal Bay about three miles north of Bacalar Chico, a narrow, serpentine waterway separating Mexico from Ambergris Caye, Belize. Miravete killed the Yamaha outboard on a massive flat within sight of the canal.<\/span><\/p>\n

Although he stands barely 5 feet tall, Miravete\u2019s eyes and intense determination make him a giant on the flats. He\u2019s a jokester, usually smiling and laughing away from the water, but in the stern of a panga he takes on a resolute mien. With a light drizzle dimpling the shallow water, Hughes struck the trip\u2019s first fish: a solid bonefish, macab\u00ed<\/i>, that Miravete spotted in spite of the miserable conditions.<\/span><\/p>\n

S\u00e1balo Sorrow<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\"saltwaterThe wind was still strong out of the northeast the next day, but we had sunshine. Hughes and I hit the water with Miravete again, making a longer run north in the bay. About 45 minutes after shutting down the motor, Miravete spotted two big, murky shapes swimming parallel to the boat at 75 feet.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBig tarpon,\u201d he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

With a 10-weight rigged for the smaller tarpon we anticipated, we needed to scale up quickly. Hughes used a heavy leader from Miravete\u2019s tackle bag, chaotically re-rigging in the floor of the panga.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s like tying a knot with Weed Eater line,\u201d Hughes said.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pushing the panga with a pole fashioned from a sapling, Miravete chased the fish across the flat. Hughes fastened a red streamer from Miravete\u2019s box to the leader and stepped up to the casting deck. Ten minutes and 400 meters after initially spotting them, the two tarpon were again parallel to the boat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNine o\u2019clock,\u201d Miravete said. \u201cForty feet. Cast now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Hughes delivered the shot perpendicular to the pair, stripped once\u2014and the line went tight. Miravete shrieked at the top of his lungs. Hughes strip-set with his left hand and then grabbed the rod butt with both hands to jam the hook deeper into the tarpon\u2019s hard mouth. The fish ripped out the slack line and was on the reel fast.<\/span><\/p>\n

The s\u00e1balo<\/i> exploded out of the water, a writhing silver hulk, its scales reflecting the golden morning light. Hughes bowed to the behemoth, which looked to be close to 100 pounds. Seconds later the tarpon breached the turquoise water again. Less than 50 feet from the boat, it sounded like somebody shaking a bucket of silver dollars.<\/span><\/p>\n

Hughes jumped the fish a third time. The line went slack. Hughes stood there silently shaking for several seconds before breaking his vigil of dejection. At a volume that could\u2019ve been heard 25 miles away in San Pedro, Belize, he screamed an exaggerated version of the granddaddy of all profanities.<\/span><\/p>\n

Miravete shared an observation in Spanish, but I waited several hours before translating for my despondent friend: In eight years of guiding, this was only the second time Miravete had seen a tarpon that big outside of the migratory runs in July and August.<\/span><\/p>\n

DIY Dreaming<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

Back at our digs at Acocote Eco Inn, about 5 miles north of town, the satellite Internet allowed us to stay somewhat connected to news from home. The first sign of trouble came Monday, when the US stock market experienced its biggest daily point drop in history. DeJarnette, who works in global finance, skipped a day of fishing to deal with the fallout. But aside from that hiccup, we fell into a rhythm of fishing, eating, and drinking\u2014followed by merciless trash talking.<\/span><\/p>\n

We convened in Acocote\u2019s palapa on the second night for Rob-a-ritas, proprietor and innkeeper Rob Mukai\u2019s eponymous riff on the Margarita. It\u2019s a tradition Mukai keeps so guests can meet and mingle, and it served as our introduction to new friends Bob Haines and Kaettie Wenger, who were down from Colorado for a month of mostly DIY fly fishing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The couple\u2019s success is an example of Xcalak\u2019s DIY potential. Haines scored with a hefty permit from the beach north of the inn during our stay, and Wenger followed a few days later with an impressive bonefish. They also used stand-up paddle boards to fish the brackish lagoon on the west side of the beach road, landing multiple small tarpon in a single day.<\/span><\/p>\n

DIY anglers also can fish Chetumal Bay. Xcalak sits on a narrow peninsula jutting south between the Caribbean and the bay, so it\u2019s just a few miles from town to the bay\u2019s eastern shoreline. With roads leading to a defunct ferry terminal and a rock jetty, anglers can park and wade miles of flats.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Longest Silence<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

\"saltwater<\/b><\/span>\u201cWhat is emphatic in angling is made so by the long silences\u2014the unproductive periods,\u201d Thomas McGuane wrote. \u201cNo form of fishing offers such elaborate silences as fly fishing for permit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Decades after publication of The Longest Silence<\/i>, McGuane\u2019s words still ring true. The angler passes countless hours scanning the surface for the slightest sign of nervous water and straining optic nerves to scrutinize cerulean shallows. Long periods of inactivity are punctuated by ephemeral moments of exhilaration upon actually seeing a permit\u2014and almost always are followed by pangs of rejection.<\/span><\/p>\n

In three trips to Xcalak since 2018, I\u2019ve spent about two-and-a-half weeks of my life in search of my first permit. I\u2019ve had good shots at scores of them. I\u2019ve turned them toward my fly. I\u2019ve even vicariously felt the thrill of capture, watching Reddmann bring a permit to hand last year.<\/span><\/p>\n

Although still feeling the effects of the norte<\/i>, our third fishing day dawned with better conditions. Castro returned from hiatus to guide DeJarnette and me. We made a long run north in the bay but didn\u2019t see anything for three hours, so we reeled in and ran back south to a flat on the east side of Cayo Chelem. Castro announced we would try for bonefish.<\/span><\/p>\n

I spent half an hour in the bow and made a couple of casts to solitary cruisers that showed no interest. DeJarnette took the next turn as Castro slowly pushed the panga down the flat. It appeared as barren as anything we had seen\u2014until suddenly it wasn\u2019t.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cPermit,\u201d Castro said, looking at the darker green water where the flat sloped imperceptibly toward the open bay.<\/span><\/p>\n

I took my 9-weight with a tan crab from its holder and extended it toward DeJarnette.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou take the shot,\u201d he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

I stepped up on the casting deck and stripped line off the reel so it piled next to my bare feet. A wedge of six or seven permit appeared, swimming toward us. My first cast was 60 feet at two o\u2019clock, presented precisely and delicately. They ignored the fly but kept coming. The next cast, 10 to 12 feet shorter, landed 5 feet in front of the lead fish, straight off the nose of the boat. I made long, slow strips, the fourth producing resistance. I pulled back hard on the fly line, and it came tight.<\/span><\/p>\n

The permit raced toward deeper water, peeling line off the reel as it ran toward a dark, rocky patch. I raised the rod higher and moved the fish. It swam right to left at 50 or 60 feet, and I saw two other permit from the school swimming next to it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEs el jefe<\/i>,\u201d DeJarnette said.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d Castro said. \u201cI think he is the boss.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The permit swam perpendicular to the bow, stunning and glorious against the flat\u2019s sandy white bottom. Castro eased over the side of the boat and followed the fly line to the leader. The startled fish surged and took back 40 feet of line, but two minutes later Castro ran his hand down the fluorocarbon leader and seized the fish by its forked black tail. I yelled like a lunatic and slipped out of the boat to release the fish.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

We watched the permit swim slowly away, and I climbed back in the boat, my arms and legs still shaking. Sitting under the high noon sun with my friends\u2014one since Little League baseball and one since my first trip to Xcalak\u2014I recognized the value of long silences. Without the countless refusals and fruitless hours, the moment wouldn\u2019t have been so potent. That it happened with my friend Castro elevated it to a transcendent realm.<\/span><\/p>\n

Lessons Learned<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n

By the time we packed the van on Friday morning to head north to Tulum, the stock market had experienced a second record decline, businesses and schools were closing, and toilet paper and disinfectants were flying off store shelves back home. The president would declare a national emergency a few hours later.<\/span><\/p>\n

That evening, sitting in a Tulum bar and sipping mojitos made with freshly pressed local sugar cane, we speculated about pandemic life. The next morning we hit the supermarket and loaded up on pap\u00e9l<\/i> sanit\u00e1rio<\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

Weeks later, it\u2019s clear we didn\u2019t have a clue. We didn\u2019t know months would pass before we could sit down for a restaurant dinner, go to a movie, get a haircut, or work out at the gym, or that the words \u201csocial distancing\u201d would become more common than handshakes and hugs.<\/span><\/p>\n

But maybe there\u2019s a lesson from McGuane, or at least a measure of comfort: Maybe this is the longest silence; with luck, then, what is emphatic in life will be made so by it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Bio: <\/b>Trey Reid has written for numerous newspapers, magazines, and websites, and is a former field reporter for ESPN. He works in public and media relations for the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission, producing and hosting the agency\u2019s television show Arkansas Wildlife. He also hosts the outdoor radio show The Wild Side on 103.7 FM The Buzz in Little Rock, which can also be heard as a podcast.\u00a0<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n

Photos: Trey Reid, Michael DeJarnette, Bob Haines, Lee Reddmann, and Kaettie Wenger<\/span><\/em><\/h5>\n

MORE POSTS<\/p>\n

Remembering Victor Castro<\/a><\/p><\/blockquote>\n