Dolloff Point
A gentleman by the name of Dick Dolloff hired me to take him fly fishing one day. I gave him a Seaducer (the old Homer Rhodes’ Shrimp Fly) tied with only barred rock hackle feathers. Dick had quite a day with it, getting several nice reds and large seatrout.
He came back and fished with me again a month later. He made me laugh by showing me his fly box. He had a couple dozen grizzly Seaducers in there, nothing else. Yeah, it is a good fly, but… You might need something else, too. Maybe.
The first spot we looked was along the south side of Vann’s Island. Just as we got to the point, a school of fifty or so redfish came around the corner. They ran right into the boat. They panicked. Dick panicked. He tried to present his fly to fish that were quite literally right underneath him, a difficult task under any circumstance.
I look up, and 50 feet away there are another fifty redfish, on a collision course with us. “Dick! Ignore those fish! There are more coming!” Dick cannot break his attention from the fish underneath him. The second wave hits us, and the panic continues.
Again, I look up, and 50 feet away there are another fifty redfish, a third wave, on a collision course with us. More loudly this time- “Dick! Ignore those fish! There are more coming!” Again, Dick cannot break his attention from the fish underneath him. The third wave hits us, and the panic continues.
Again, I look up, and 50 feet away there are another fifty redfish, a fourth wave, on a collision course with us. Still more loudly this time- “Dick! Ignore those fish! There are more coming!” Again, Dick cannot break his attention from the fish underneath him. The fourth wave hits us, and the panic continues.
The fish quickly disperse. No more are coming. The water is all muddy around us, the result of 200 fish spazzing out under the boat. We didn’t come close to hooking one. Damn!
A long, tough day ensued. We looked in many different spots and saw very few fish. It was getting near time to leave. I asked him, “Do you want to try that first spot again?” “Oh, yes, please,” he responded. We went back to Vann’s Island.
There were not 200 redfish there. There were about twenty, though. Dick made a good cast (which was his usual habit), one took the fly, and we avoided the skunk, always a good thing.
Although he didn’t come fish with me every year, Dick became one of my favorite anglers. He was skilled, he had a great attitude and sense of humor, and he understood that in fishing, especially fly-fishing, catching is never guaranteed.
He brought a friend one time. There had been a lot of big trout along Tiger Shoal, and we went there to wade after them. When we got there, I sent them off with fly rods while I made sure the boat would stay put. When it was securely anchored, I got out, too.
Since they went one way, I went the other. After wading quite a distance, I saw a string of fish coming at me. I couldn’t tell what they were, but they reminded me of tarpon! I made a cast, and started stripping. They’re coming, they’re coming, they’re coming, the leader is almost in the rod, oh, my God, they’re huge trout- the line comes tight!
To use a cliché, the battle was epic. It truly was. I was armed with a four-weight rod, and the fish turned out to be the largest trout I’d ever seen. Trout don’t often pull drag. This one got into the backing. I write this fifteen or twenty years after the fact, and it’s still the biggest trout I’ve ever seen.
Dick and his buddy had waded over to me by now. None of us had a camera (pre-cell phone, for those who are wondering). I desperately wanted a photo, but my camera was in the boat. I was afraid that, if I dragged the fish back to the boat to get the pictures, I’d kill it. I just unhooked it and held it until it was ready to swim off, then watched as it went.
The last time Dick booked me for a fishing trip, I was in Alaska. He wanted to go in late September. In early September, Beth, his wife, called me. Dick wouldn’t be fishing with me, she told me. He’d had a massive coronary during the summer, which killed him.
Wow. That’s a shock. He was only forty-nine years old. Beth asked, “Would you put some of his ashes in the Mosquito Lagoon?” Of course I would. It would be a privilege.
I put those ashes in the lagoon at what I now call Dolloff Point, the western end of Vann’s Island. I hope you’re enjoying good fishing now, wherever you are, my friend.