Getting back to a fishing lodge after a long day can be a funny thing. A great day on the water stirs a need to relive it—to tell the story, to celebrate the catches, the close calls, the near misses. A slow or frustrating day, on the other hand, often inspires the opposite: the quiet shuffle to your room, the cold shower, the silent hope that tomorrow brings better luck. These opposing moods inevitably collide as boats begin to return, engines humming down one by one, anglers stepping onto the dock with either a grin or a grimace.
At Ascension Bay, those emotional extremes have been on full display. The Bay is living up to its name as a sacred place for saltwater fly fishing—the migratory tarpon have arrived, and their presence has electrified the water. These prehistoric, silver-backed giants have not come easy. The first two days chasing them were a test of patience and skill. Shots were plentiful, but the learning curve was steep. Small mistakes—rushed casts, botched strip sets, tight loops too close to the wind—added up. Hookups came, but so did heartbreak: bent hooks, snapped leaders, tarpon rolling just beyond reach as lines went slack.
I’ll admit—today, I felt that heartbreak firsthand. As a longtime guide for Lillard, I’ve seen my fair share of wild fish and tough breaks, but losing a giant tarpon today hit hard. It wasn’t just a quick miss—it was the kind of eat that haunts you. The fish exploded on the fly, surged into the backing, and for the next thirty minutes, we were locked in a brutal tug-of-war. It jumped, ran, dove deep. I thought I had it. I almost had it. And then, just like that, the line went slack. The hook pulled, and all I could do was sit there in stunned silence, heart still racing, hands shaking. As I came back to the lodge, still chewing on the what-ifs, I could already hear the laughter echoing from the palapa. The boys were gathered around, swapping stories and reliving every moment of their afternoon. I knew exactly what I was in for… The moment I stepped in, it was like walking into a highlight reel. “Cole, you’ve got to see this one!” “Look at the bend in the rod!” “This one jumped five times!” One by one, they showed me photos of massive tarpon—chrome giants with eyes like marbles and tails like paddles—each one proof of a hard-earned victory. Meanwhile, I had nothing to show but a bruised ego and a story that ended too soon. And yet, standing there in the middle of their excitement, I couldn’t help but smile. There’s a special kind of joy in watching young anglers have their moment—seeing them light up with the same passion that brought me here years ago. I’ve never been so happy—and so humbled—at the same time. But that’s the beauty of a place like this. The fish keep you honest. They remind you that no matter how much you know or how long you’ve been doing it, you’re still a student and a learner. And if you’re lucky, the people around you—the ones laughing, learning, and living every cast—remind you why we do it in the first place.
