Baja Bonanza
By: Noah Rosenthal
There’s a well-known joke about a young bull and an old bull atop a hill gazing down upon a lovely herd of cows in the grassy meadow below, debating their strategies of approach. The young bull is nearly overcome by his excitement, whereas the old bull pulls his young compatriot back from the brink, essentially saying “there’s another way.” I, myself, have been driven by youthful exuberance many a time in my early years, and as it pertains to fly fishing perhaps the most glaring thing was missing what was right in front of me. See, I’m from Southern California, but I cut my teeth fishing and guiding on the wild trout rivers of Wyoming.
And maybe it was the melodic siren’s call of Billy Pate’s 3M Mastery videos about “Fly Rodding for Giant Tarpon” that fed the fever dreams found in the confluence of his voice and the roar of Rock Creek, slumped in the corner chair of our fly shop, hat pulled low, where I could drift off to sleep the morning after opening up the shop, still subdued by the previous late night of too much “youthful exuberance,” but for whatever reason when my mind wandered to the possibilities of the salt, it was to the Yucatan or Belize or some other destination in search of tarpon, permit or bonefish. Somehow I ignored, despite the plethora of obscure articles in the worn pages of any numerous fly fishing magazines or the grainy images streamed across the early internet, what lay a short flight South from where I grew up: the allure of the rooster fish in Baja California Sur.
It wasn’t until recently on family vacations that I cobbled together a mishmash of half days – driving up the coast from San Jose del Cabo or dragging my wife and small children along with me to the calmer waters of the Sea of Cortez, that I got a little taste of what I had overlooked for far too long. I’m not even talking success here – mere furtive glances and a couple of strong follows, the beginning of accumulating some much needed diverse fishing IQ – but it was enough to send my buddy Cole Burnham of Angling Destinations a text saying “Mexico. The other side. Roosters. We gotta do it.” Or something like that. Maybe.
As I mentioned before, for me the early call of saltwater fly fishing centered initially around a small island off the tip of the Yucatan peninsula where giant tarpon swam in huge schools and a man named Mr. Sandflea, driven wild by the power and athleticism of those ancient fish, was our host and some might say, spirit guide. And though those stories might be for another day, it was from there that my eyes drifted south to another island, an atoll, if you will, in a Belizean paradise that was a playground for those seeking primarily to fool the cautious and wily Permit. Turneffe. And it was there where my friend Cole hooked a permit on his first saltwater cast…..ever. My telling of this encounter has him landing the fish, but Cole will testify it broke him off and that it was his third saltwater cast that got him a permit to hand, but that’s the thing about memories in a pre-smartphone infested world.
So it was with Cole and two younger fishermen whom I had never met before, that we made it down to the East Cape together to join Jeff DeBrown of Reel Baja in pursuit of getting a new species of fish to hand in this never ending game of fly fishing. Now while I was busy in my youth, rushing towards any film set that would take me or a destination that got me shots at tarpon, permit or bonefish, Jeff was down in Baja learning how to do things in a whole new way.
He had his own journey of discovery – one that had him chasing trout in both the Northern and Southern hemispheres – but it sounds like it was his heart that led him to Baja’s East Cape and to the life of sharing this incredibly challenging and different form of fly fishing with those who are adventurous enough to visit. For that I am grateful, because his love of the area, respect for these challenging fish and his ingenuity in how to approach catching them bleeds through from the moment you meet him.
A common story in fly fishing, especially in saltwater fly fishing, is “you should have been here yesterday.” The time of year, the weather, the wind, the tides, the moon, the spookiness or hunger of the fish – often none of it aligns perfectly. It’s the element of the uncontrollable that takes a challenging thing and can often make it feel impossible. But regardless of any of this – any day on the water is the right day to be out there. And under Jeff’s guidance we got a really awesome taste of what fishing for grande roosters is all about. Heartbreak over instinctively tarpon-setting a big rooster gave way to a broken knot and laughter between me and Cole, with the shots that we got from the beach with close calls and refusals feeding the excitement and overshadowing the clusterfuck of the inevitable mistakes. For me, running down these fish, barefoot on the beach, was one of the most freeing experiences l’ve had in a while – and as I tried to explain it to my wife, “It’s the closest to feeling like a child that I can remember,” though that may have been the mezcalitas talking. We hooked and landed several small roosters from the beach, nearly fed some grandes and got Shania Twained (“That don’t impress me much”) by the rest who left us sweaty and out of breath.
For the younger cohort, however, the frustration after the first couple days was palpable. Sitting on our shared patio having Pacificos I could see a bit of my past in them. The obsession with the White Whale, The Old Man and the Sea – the “picture perfect” fish to hand or it didn’t matter. I get it. I had been there. But I also knew that maybe our age difference was just enough – maybe I could be the old bull and reframe the way a young bull thinks. So I took a breath…and said “Look. I get it. I like catching fish. I like catching big fish. But I really fucking love fishing.” I paused, hoping what I said might have landed, and not detecting a direct eyeroll, followed up with, “Ya know?” and a smile. Now you’ll have to find these guys and ask them if what I said actually landed, or if I was just being annoying, or if they even heard me, but for the following days there remained a lightness, a sense of possibility and the wonderment that we were in this foreign (to us) place, crisscrossing dusty back roads leading to beautiful beaches and the shadows of elusive fish to be run down with intention and technique that rivals any challenge in fly fishing that I’ve ever experienced. Some may adhere to the adage “the tug is the drug,” but to me it is the pursuit that feeds our spirits and allows us to dream about the next cast, the next bend, the next rise and the next clinking of glasses where we may meet as strangers, but leave a trip as friends.
* A younger Noah and Cole Burnham circa 2013 on “The Holbox Express” not in search of Rooster Fish
About Noah
Noah is either a cameraman with a fishing problem or a fisherman with a camera problem. Ultimately it’s hard to tell! Trained in narrative filmmaking as a cinematographer, he maintains a connection to the nostalgia of his youth as a fly fishing guide through the lens of a camera. Noah has been a long time creative partner for Thomas & Thomas Fly Rods and Hatch Outdoors, and when not on set or spending downtime with his family he’s actively scheming on how to spend more time on the water or taking photos of wild animals (other than his children).
Follow Noah on Instagram at arkfilms_dp
