Southern Florida has a way of pulling me back into the margins—the narrow strips of water most people drive past without a second thought. Canals, ditches, overgrown drainage cuts. They’re not postcard places, but they’re alive. And on a recent trip fly fishing for invasive exotics, they delivered one of the most intense, unforgettable days I’ve ever spent with a rod in my hand.
I was fishing with Paul Fuzinski of Aptitude Outdoors, targeting non-native fish in southern Florida and field testing custom fly rods from Mudfish Adventures.
The plan was simple: pack light, fish tight water, and throw flies where no sane person would think to cast. The reality was a wild mix of explosive strikes, technical casts, toothy predators—and one very large reptile that reminded us exactly where we were.
The canal itself was tiny. Narrow enough in places that a long cast would put you into the opposite bank. The water was dark and slow, bordered by thick brush that seemed designed to eat flies. It was the kind of place where accuracy mattered more than distance, and where every fish hooked felt magnified by the intimacy of the setting.
The oscars were everywhere.
Big ones.
Thick-bodied, aggressive fish that slammed flies with the confidence of something that had never seen consequences. We were throwing short, sharp casts—sidearm, backhand, under branches—often landing flies in pockets no bigger than a trash-can lid. When the fly landed clean, the response was immediate. A flash, a surge, and then the line would come tight as another oscar tried to bulldog its way back into cover.
We caught a bunch of them. Solid fish that pulled far harder than most people would expect from a canal species. On a fly rod, they were all heart—short runs, violent head shakes, and an absolute refusal to quit.
Then things escalated.
Paul hooked into what was clearly one of the better oscars of the day. The fish ate deep and turned hard, digging toward the middle of the canal. Paul had it under control, working the fish steadily toward him, when the water erupted.
A 10-foot alligator surged out of the canal and grabbed the fish before Paul could land it.
Just like that—the oscar was gone.
There was no drama, no hesitation. One second Paul was fighting a fish, the next he was holding a slack line and staring at a swirl that said everything about who really owns these waters. We both just stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. That’s southern Florida fishing. You’re never at the top of the food chain.
We kept fishing—because that’s what you do.
The challenge of the day wasn’t just the fish or the wildlife, but the casting. The brush was relentless. Mangled backcasts, tight windows, vines at shoulder height. Every decent presentation felt like a small victory. You had to visualize the cast before you made it, commit fully, and accept that losing flies was part of the game.
Paul switched things up at one point and broke out a tenkara rod—long, simple, elegant. It is technically fly fishing.
Watching him use it in that tight canal was impressive. He dapped tiny flies into micro pockets and started reminding us just how diverse these waters are.
Micro tilapia came first, darting and flashing like quicksilver. Then a Mayan cichlid—a beautifully marked fish with an attitude entirely out of proportion to its size. On the tenkara rod, it was pure fun.
That fish hit a nerve for me.
Standing there, watching Paul land that Mayan cichlid, I flashed back to when I first started fly fishing canals south of Miami years ago.
Those early days shaped how I see fishing. I learned quickly that you didn’t need wilderness to find wild fights. In urban canals and roadside ditches, I caught hard-fighting Mayan cichlids, jaguar cichlids that hit like freight trains, and peacock bass that made every cast feel electric.
Those fish taught me creativity. They taught me to see opportunity in overlooked places. They also taught me respect—for the resilience of fish and the strange, complicated ecosystems they inhabit.
That complexity was impossible to ignore on this trip.
Catching invasive exotics on flies is undeniably fun. It’s visual, aggressive, technical, and wildly accessible. From urban ditches to the edges of the Everglades, these fisheries blur the line between city and wild. But there’s also an environmental reality layered underneath every strike.
These fish don’t belong here. Their presence is the result of human action—intentional or not—and their impact on native species is real. Fishing for them doesn’t erase that, but it does force you to engage with it. You can’t stand knee-deep in a canal full of oscars and Mayan cichlids without thinking about how fragile and altered these systems are.
That tension is part of what makes southern Florida fishing so compelling to me.
It’s messy. It’s exciting. It’s uncomfortable at times. You can hook a beautiful fish, lose it to a gator, and then turn around and admire the adaptability of life thriving in a place built for drainage, not wonder.
By the end of the day, we were scratched up, fly boxes lighter, and grinning like kids. Big oscars on flies, impossible casts, tenkara micro-fishing, and a reminder from a 10-foot alligator that this landscape still runs on its own rules.
From urban ditches to wild water, southern Florida keeps teaching the same lesson—it’s not about where you fish. It’s about paying attention to what’s there, and seizing the day.
Chester Moore
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