Tarpon are one of the most challenging and exhilarating fish to target. It doesn’t matter if you’re dunking a crab along a bridge or stripping a fly in front of a school of fifty in just a couple feet of water—once hooked, a tarpon puts on an aerial show like nothing else. Blasting out of the water at breakneck speed, flying several feet above the surface—it’s a jaw-dropping sight. Especially when the fish is pushing a hundred pounds or more.
There’s always debate about the “best” way to catch them: fly, artificial, live bait, dead bait. Personally, I couldn’t care less. I prefer artificials—plug or fly. I find it more challenging, and truthfully, there have been plenty of days when it outfished bait—live or dead.
Full disclosure: I despise live bait fishing. With the exception of crabs for permit, I want nothing to do with it. And it’s not because I think it’s less sporty or impure. Nope. It’s because I’m a lazy bastard. I don’t want to go fishing before I go fishing. I don’t want to stop at a bait shop. I don’t want to babysit pricey bait or stress about keeping it alive just to send it to its untimely end. The bottom line is—I’m not a fan of live bait. But I digress.
I’ve always been torn on my favorite place to chase tarpon. The Keys will always have a place in my heart. That’s where it started for me. I’d sit in school daydreaming about blue-green water, scattered white sand flats, and the sleek shadows of tarpon gliding across them. If you’ve ever watched a 90-pound fish veer off its path to clobber your fly, you’re not the same afterward.
Then there’s the Everglades backcountry. Chasing shadows on those tannin-stained flats hits just as hard—maybe harder. Spotting a barely visible fish in murky water is enough to make your skin crawl with excitement. When that fish eats and explodes out of the water? You’ll never forget it.
Sure, hooking one at a bridge or pass can be thrilling in its own way. It’s still a tarpon. But for me, it loses a bit of the wow factor.
There’s another type of tarpon fishing that’s just as thrilling as the classic setups I’ve mentioned—maybe even more so. If you’re not the adventurous type, or if you like your skiff clean and pristine, this definitely isn’t for you. But if you don’t mind a little chaos and crave the unknown, this kind of tarpon fishing is pure gold.
I’m talking about remote tarpon—fish tucked deep in the backcountry, buried in winding creeks or holed up in tiny bays at the heart of some mangrove-choked island. One of my favorite spots can only be reached through a narrow creek that’s barely accessible at low tide, thanks to a mangrove canopy that turns the whole thing into a tunnel.
There’s nothing quite like poling your way through one of those tunnels, getting smacked in the face by branches, collecting leaves, crabs, and God-knows-what in the boat, all for the chance at a shot at the Silver King.
And no, these aren’t the giants. While the occasional 50-pounder lurks, most are in the five- to fifteen-pound range. But don’t let their size fool you—they’re absolute maniacs. Certified lunatics with fins. I’ve had fish spend more time in the air than in the water. And that’s exactly why I love them.
Getting to these spots is a pain in the ass, no two ways about it. But when you push back that last branch and enter one of those secret little bays, something shifts. Your imagination kicks in. Your pulse ticks up. You sit there quietly, letting everything settle, scanning the mirrored mangrove reflections on that jet-black water. And then—roll. That’s the signal. The “we’re here” wave from a tarpon. Unfortunately, it’s also the only signal they’re obligated to give. Whether or not they’ll eat? That’s a different story.
Luckily, in my experience, 9 out of 10 times they will. Maybe it’s the lack of pressure. Maybe they’re just not as sharp as their big brothers out on the oceanside. Whatever the reason—I’ll take it.
Google Maps has made scouting these hidey-holes easier these days. I look for small bays or maze-like creeks that braid together. You’d be surprised how many overlooked little honey holes are out there—just waiting for someone stubborn (or stupid) enough to find them.
I’ve slowed down on my balls-to-the-wall exploration these days and now focus on areas that require minimal effort—and even less cleanup. Still, I occasionally creep up a newfound creek just to see if anyone’s home. It’s a stark contrast to how I was in my younger days, but things change.
Back then, I wouldn’t think twice about hopping out of the boat and walking the mangrove roots if it meant getting deeper into a creek. There are still a few spots I know where that was the only way to get to the hotspot. I’m talking about hooking a fish on every cast. Sure, there were plenty of times I slipped and went waist-deep in black mud. Didn’t care—it was part of the process.
Sometimes, growing up is a good thing.
There’s a bonus to this kind of fishing, too. Not only are there tarpon in these tucked-away places, but more often than not, you’ll find reds, snook, and all kinds of other fish. Even bass, if you push far enough back—or if there’s been enough rain.
So if you ever find yourself craving some tarpon action and a little backcountry adventure, do a little research and give it a go. You never know what you might find.
