My fly alights with a plop before beginning its waking transit downstream. This time, I actually see the strike and feel the fish while the boil diffuses in the current. Meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder why I didn’t try floating flies 30 years ago.

A typical St. John’s shad weights a couple of pounds, but can reach five or slightly more.

That’s how long I’ve been coming to Central Florida’s St. Johns River. This several-hundred-mile stream hosts the nation’s southernmost run of American, or white, shad. Of special interest is how after several “off” seasons, last year’s run appeared to be back on track. There was no need to troll or make umpteen blind casts in order to find the schools. Instead, we were anchored on a bend where the surface was pockmarked by the swirls of hundreds of migrating fish.

Sound like Valhalla? Don’t forget there’s a phenomenon known as “washing” that’s supposedly part of the species’ mating ritual. That’s not what was happening here. While washing shad typically suffer from lockjaw, these fish appeared to be actively feeding. Jumping baitfish were everywhere and regardless of what the scientists say, hooked shad were regurgitating the evidence to prove it. Actually, it was mostly digested matter, but the best part was that for the first time ever, I was catching the feisty boogers on top.

What we enjoyed last year—and plan to do again this season—compares to ordinary shad fishing the way Julia Roberts stacks up against Medusa. Yet the sad truth (at least around here) is that no one else ever tries it. The same applies to using minnow imitations in general, since shad fans seem content to rely on attractor flies, dredged well below the surface.

I interrupt my reverie in order to land a small male that’s been fighting more like a mackerel than a herring. Before digressing further, let me share the pattern that brought about this unexpected epiphany: It’s nothing less (or in this case, more) than a 1-inch, No. 10 white Marabou Muddler. Today, I’m fishing with Capt. Phil Woodham of Titusville. Phil knows a few things about the St. Johns that haven’t hit the newsstands.

In my case, the surface feed came to the forefront four years ago. I’d been fishing above Puzzle Lake at the time, and the shad were behaving uncharacteristically. Phil was working the same area, and since we both reported similar findings, I decided to believe my eyes rather than the textbooks. Un-fortunately, the run faltered before either of us proved our theory. Once again, we’d seen showering baitfish, only back then on a much smaller scale. I swore I’d seen shad feeding and Phil, who grew up on the river, agreed. If anyone knew, it was him.

Carry small Muddlers and pink Little Richads (top half of box) as well as standard bead chain attractor flies.

Last year, I decided to use a floating line and experiment. I like really small stuff, so I chose a 4-weight, weight-forward model, spooled on a cutesy little reel that I’d screwed onto an 8-foot graphite rod. It didn’t take long to learn how to make my floating Muddler wake properly, which was mostly a matter of quartering my casts downstream and letting the fly swing in the current. If I retrieved it at all, I did so ever so slowly. As I soon discovered, the fish were happy to do the rest.

I continue casting and the fish keep grabbing. It’s riveting, not just because I’m getting hits but because I’m practically the only one getting hits. I’m not greedy. I’d gladly hand my rod to Phil, who seems content to watch while offering a rambling commentary. “Woodham’s Shad Service,” we call it. A transistorized Travis Tritt belts out, “Put the Drive Back in Country,” when my line tightens again.

Travis sounds more energetic than I feel (a slight case of the flu), but no more so than the shad, who have started raising hell within spitting distance of the transom. My reel makes a sudden screech, as the feeding rhythm intensifies. Somewhere in mid-stream, my fish decides to make a jump but I’m too transfixed to notice. I can’t take my eyes off the ballet of improbability that’s taking place in the eddy behind the boat.

Another shad falls for a floating fly.

Before I continue, let me put this waking business in perspective. Consider that anglers fishing flies, or jigs, have traditionally fished for shad down deep. Sinking lines or at the very least, weighted flies are ‘de rigeur.’ Meanwhile, the actual flies, which represent nothing in particular, are just dots of flash and color that are supposed to irritate shad rather than appeal to their appetites. Just for the record, I never fell for any of it.

Scientists tell us shad spend most of their adult lives far at sea. They supposedly live at great depths, which helps them elude commercial fishermen, as well as the prying eyes of biologists. Examine a shad’s mouth and you’ll see it’s capable of grabbing a substantial morsel. Take a deepwater shrimp or one of those abyssal nightmares that appear on National Geographic specials. Do they remember this after entering fresh water? What else does a dot of orange or chartreuse represent? And what about the flash? By now, you’re getting my point.

I believe shad feed aggressively, and that even during their honeymoon, old habits die hard. What I’m suggesting is that some shad continue feeding after entering fresh water, and what they eat is determined by several important factors. While most of these fish recall the deep-sea invertebrates that correspond to colorful “traditional” patterns, others may react differently; particularly in a river that’s literally stuffed to the gills with tiny minnows (a.k.a. “rain bait”). The St. Johns is such a river.

Even today, the shad migration remains a mystery. After heading upstream at Jacksonville, the fish disappear until they reach the Osteen Bridge near Sanford. They usually show up in January and continue arriving into March.

Old-timers will remember names like Marina Isle and “Shad Alley,” where extravagant shad “derbies” once attracted thousands of anglers. Today’s crowd heads farther upstream. The section of river between Mullet and Puzzle lakes is especially popular, and there’s also interest in the area near Hatbill Creek.

Despite the persistent bombardment and periods of low water, a few shad make it all the way to the Highway 520 Bridge, west of Cocoa. That leaves plenty of fishable water. You can tell my favorite sections from their uncertain channels and unexpected bends. These are gently meandering flows, surrounded by a floodplain that extends practically to the horizon. The vastness is punctuated by stands of cattails and saw palmetto and in some places, bald cypress line the banks. Several creeks enter the river at irregular intervals and in some places the plain is submerged. Expect to see wildlife. However, if you’re hesitant to share the banks with gators and strange-looking cattle, take comfort in the realization that when water levels rise, the steers retreat to higher ground. Tiny baitfish, however, are everywhere.

Meanwhile, the feeding orgy continues around us while fishing in general remains slow. I’m getting a strike every now and then but that’s about it. I looked up to see friend Pat Ross, who we’d dropped off previously on the bank, fast to a fish. I remembered handing him some pink flies that worked wonders three years ago, but I recalled too late that they hadn’t produced anything since. Other anglers weren’t doing anything, so was there a possible connection?

Whenever possible, make sure your back casts “steer clear” of bankside spectators.

I thought so. It was evident that the same fish that were hitting standard patterns just a few days ago had collectively changed their minds. Now, steeled by the lead-gray sky and slick-calm conditions, they’d set their sights on baitfish. To a lesser degree, they’d also hit pink, as evinced by Pat’s eventually landing a half-dozen fish. What was the connection? I remembered reading something about a St. Johns shrimp fishery. All of a sudden, it started making sense.

How did the day finally end? I popped off my one and only Muddler, after which I couldn’t buy another strike. During lunch, Phil waxed poetic about the day’s events: “You had ‘em coming. Next time, tie up more of those flies.”

This shad mistook Muddler for a minnows.

I’m into catch-and-release but if a female shad dies on the hook, I eat the roe. My wife, who can’t stand the smell of it, leaves home for the occasion (success at last!). Anyway, I’m alone in the kitchen with a skillet full of hot bacon grease when the phone rings. It’s Phil again with news of the run.

“Two of my friends just caught 60. Come again if you’d like.”

I enjoy fishing with Phil, and with an offer like that? Did he mind if I brought a friend?

I called Dave Hunt, who’d “shadded” before, albeit with disappointing results. This time would be different.

It was indeed. We ended up catching several dozen on minnow imitations, including one I kept for dinner. When I opened her up, out popped a 2-inch-long sailfin molly minnow.

I returned a week later, determined to finally prove my point. This time, I’d carry the waking business to its conclusion by combining the properties of buoyant deer hair and marabou, in pink for maximum visibility. The result was a tiny cigar-shaped fly that I affectionately dubbed Little Richard. Remember the late, flamboyant 1950s rock and roller? (For instructions on tying this fly, see At the Vise in this issue.)

The results were incredible. If uncooperative shad had occasionally risen to my Muddler, they slammed Richard with a vengeance. I was getting three and four strikes a cast from fish that were skyrocketing like miniature kingfish. Somersaulting shad? You bet. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t get much better than this.

After years of wondering, I consider the case closed. The plain truth (and there’s enough of it to go around) is that a couple of good ol’ Florida boys succeeded in de-bunking a hundred years worth of Yankee wisdom. I like the sound of that.

It isn’t the first time that’s happened, which just goes to show that even during periods of increased fishing pressure and diminished resources, there’s light at the end of the tunnel. Shad were always considered “fun” or “entertaining.” Now they’ll be “hot” or “thrilling.”

Phil and I can hardly wait.

FS

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