Midway across we stopped where a subtle depression in the fence made access difficult but possible. The high sun beat down mercilessly as we consumed the Land Lady's tasty sandwiches and sipped our Mr. Pibb while silently surveying our host's latest selection — another segment of canal, one that couldn't possibly have tarpon as it was even smaller water than the last. But it had plenty of vegetation abutting and atop the water and looked promising for other species. The cruiser's pitted roof rack held a canoe which now came off and into play. In classic offbeat fashion we hoisted it over the fence and slid it in the water. Three grown men hovering around 200 pounds each makes for some precarious canoeing. Mix in the fact that you're operating beside a highway named for a man-eating reptile and you have all the makings of a dark comedy-horror flick. There was a gator or two in sight at all times. Cap noted the cuts through the brush as prime gator tunnels: exercise caution. A six-footer slamming his tail a rod's length from the boat provided the exclamation point. I leaned forward to hug the Captain but thought better of it.

Word had come down that this place was a "guarantee." For what I didn't know. I had inquired about bass and was told tersely that, yes, bass were in here. I really liked the name "Big Sugar" and couldn't let go of it. I decided that a hefty Florida largemouth would hereafter be called a Sugar Bass. Fat and sweet. But the time of day made me skeptical that I'd meet up with one. Still, I would be content with any member of the sunfish family at this point. Even a bream, like Seb was just now pulling up. He hooked another and a third. The way things had been going, it really was a welcome relief to have something to reel in, and the water was fun to fish: lots of overhanging brush and opportunities for short, accurate casts as we paddled by. The sunfish shared space with the Mayan Cichlid, an aptly bizarre name for a non-indigenous fish introduced via the contents of someone's discarded aquarium. Tilapia too. The edge came off as we did battle with a variety pack of colorful aliens.

After a while I stopped fishing and started simmering again. The sun had moved to a point where you subconsciously feel the day winding down. A lot of people who don't fish share a derisive view of fishing as a non-athletic sport where you sit on your butt all day drinking and watching your line, then make up stories as you swerve home. Though perhaps not athletic in the full sense, when you fish as Seb and I do you're pretty well spent by the end of an outing. And as age creeps up, that feeling comes on earlier. The hot weather certainly played a part. Either way, I was starting to get a bit weary as we reloaded the canoe and made for the 'Glades.

The Land Captain may have been getting a little weary too. He had been around longer than we, but was probably in better shape owing to his career of choice. We heard a single, rousing tale about extracting a treble hook from the stomach and through the neck of an overzealous heron while angling for snook in the inner lakes of the Everglades. But now I noticed his delivery was ebbing. I couldn't imagine that he had run out of material, maybe this was the part of the trip where he usually waxes poetic about the day's glories. "That Tilapia ran with your line like an FSU fullback headed for a sorority mixer." Wouldn't quite cut it. Seb and I picked up the ball instead, telling him a bit about our backgrounds and occupations. My D.C. counterpart is also well-versed on issues affecting the fishing industry nationwide, including the Everglades. The Cap made for a restless listener and sought to opine. But Seb had launched into a full-fledged fishing filibuster and would brook no interruption. At times I wonder whether he imagines a video monitor is pointed at him as he auditions for The Reel World. I rolled down the windows to release the heat.

The western horizon grew redder as we reached the end of the interminable Alley and pulled into a gas station to refuel; a routine practice elsewhere which, if neglected in an environment such as this, could result in death. According to the Cap, a wrong turn might also prove fatal. And he wasn't talking about alligators or heat stroke. We hadn't noticed but a quick review confirmed the presence of man but a disturbing lack of civilization. The convenience mart was the cultural mecca for these parts. A mile or so down the road we pulled off to the shoulder beside a short concrete bridge low to the water. An inlet traveled under the bridge and between mid-span piers of tubular concrete. Very steep banks. Again, small water, but deep. Maybe I didn't have a good feel for the type of water these tarpon preferred. The Captain noted that he'd caught plenty of keepers right here, a few that tore out the other side of the bridge and into the backing. We had spent enough time with him to know that he was colorful but not given to embellishment or B.S.

"Sounds good, but how exactly does one cast here?" we wanted to know.

"Ah, that is the question, isn't it?" he replied, and removed a rod from the trunk to demonstrate.

The road we had taken and now shouldered was the Tamiami Trail, another east-west conduit and the equivalent of Route 1, the local passage along the Northeast Coast. Just as I-95 had taken the pressure off route 1, Alligator Alley now bore the main traffic burden here. Still, plenty of cars whizzed by above, and there were phone lines as well. Throw in the underpass, the likely whereabouts for a lurking tarpon and the fly's improbable destination, and it made for an Extreme Sports fly fishing challenge. Captain Land had been training and was a formidable opponent. Positioned at the top of the bank, he started casting out and back but also up and down, generating length and power without yet addressing the underpass. This also avoided the nearby cars and wires. Once he had enough going on, he rotated the directionality and shot a picture-perfect cast a good two-thirds of the way under the bridge. Amazing! An experience found only in fly fishing, where the technique is arguably more rewarding than the results.

"Now you guys try it," he said, raising the rod above and behind his head for the next willing contestant. Seb looked at me and I shook my head. He stepped onto the bank for a lesson in humility. Since Seb does a lot more fly fishing than I do, he's less willing to take advice or criticism. LC had noticed this and was browbeating him. For God's sake, I thought, how could someone who hadn't done this before possibly get it right the first time? The Captain had probably cast here thousands of times. Besides, aesthetics were nice but there was the bottom line to consider, and by now Seb had put a few pretty deep in the tunnel. The competition was heating up, but the sun was going down. The underpass was getting a low reading on my mental tarpon-o­meter, so we moved along.

An inlet canal directly off the ocean provided the day's final setting. Less cover and the wind had picked up. It would pose a casting problem. With the finish line in sight, we summoned our remaining energies for one final push. Our side of the inlet was an arid expanse of baked grass with heavy vegetation at shore only. Wind aside, a fly­friendly arrangement. The other shore had some midscale ranch homes with piers and reeds. The mightiest of casts might span the distance, but was unnecessary since there was surface activity throughout the deep channel. We stood at a cut in the brush and assessed the variously subtle and ferocious disturbances.

"All tarpon," came a voice from the other side. A park ranger living in one of the houses had come down to tend to his boat.

"This place is basically an aquarium, it's got hundreds of tarpon, some into triple digits in weight. But they're savvy, I wouldn't get too excited just yet."

The Land Captain deafly handed us our rods and we began tossing flies that looked like white Muddler Minnows in the direction of the feeding.

"Guy probably sits on his dock all day plunking crabs. The bigger the tarpon, the smaller the bait. You can't beat flies for these babies."

I wanted to believe him. I was saying a little prayer to myself. It was now or never. A silvery flash and a good-size fish sideswiped the tail end of my retrieve. He was on for a split second, then gone. That was it, my one and only chance. Gloom and doom started descending again. This time I fought back. Disgusted, yet I had to admit that my first-ever tarpon strike was itself a thrill. They were quick, and so silky-smooth. Appeared out of nowhere, traveling at a high speed, then rolled sideways as they struck so you got a really good look at them even when they didn't break water. It was spellbinding.

A few moments later Seb had a similar opportunity and made the most of it. He landed a nice fish, tarpon number one in the O'Kelly record book. I was self-absorbed in mental fish-games and took scant notice. Soon I was devising a plan. Alligator Alley was long when one was chugging across in a rusty cruiser. Sidestep the Mayan fields and with my lead foot I bet I could cut the trip in half. We had a few days left, plenty of time to make any number of new friends: grass carp, peacock bass, why not a certain stealth bomber from the Everglades?

I managed a smile as I walked over to see about Seb's triumph. I hadn't caught a tarpon, but the good news was this: I knew now that I would.