After several years of uncertainty and waiting, Thomas Søbirk finally reunited with Tapam in May 2024. This magical place in the Nicaraguan jungle, known for its enormous tarpon, had given him and many other fly fishermen both defeats, victories and unforgettable memories.

We opened Tapam in 2016, and in the years that followed, it earned a reputation as the place to go for giant jungle tarpon. Our 2020 season was set to be the first at our new lodge, and we were preparing for another busy year.

During the winter months, I tied flies—some trusted patterns that had already proven their worth, and some new creations I was eager to try out. I prepared leaders and rigged my reels with new fly lines. I was ready for another Rumble in the Jungle, and March 16, the date of my departure for Nicaragua, couldn’t come fast enough.

If you’re good with dates, you’ve probably already guessed that I never made it to the new lodge that year. COVID-19 hit, and just a few days before my planned departure, the world began to shut down. Tapam shut down with it.

Running an operation in the Nicaraguan jungle isn’t easy under normal circumstances, and it quickly became clear that keeping things afloat during a pandemic was impossible. Even in 2022, when restrictions had lifted and the global situation had improved, we were still a long way from getting back on track. However, in 2023, things started to look brighter. More airlines reopened routes to Nicaragua, and by the end of that year, we had a potential new local partner and a clear plan for getting Tapam up and running again.

The first part of that plan—and a crucial step for Tapam 2.0—was to sign a new contract with the local community for the exclusive sport fishing rights in the area. Things take time, especially in the jungle. However, by the spring of 2024, the situation looked promising enough for me to return to the jungle. My goal was to be part of the final negotiations with the village leaders and, of course, to see if the big jungle tarpon were still around!

For the longest time, I didn’t know if I would ever have a reason to return to the jungle. But now, here I was—together with my friends Aurélien Perez and Mark B. Hatter—standing at the dock of the small village. We were greeted with a warm smile from Brunhilda, our trusty chef who had also been looking after the lodge in our absence. This was the lodge I had financed years earlier but had never seen until now.

At first, it felt a little surreal. But once we had settled in and I started rigging up my tarpon rods, it felt absolutely incredible: Finally, I was back! With good friends and six days of fishing ahead of us.

Ironically, one of the best spots for hunting giant tarpon in the Nicaraguan jungle is man-made. A canal, dug half a century ago to connect a river and a lagoon system, is where the most intense feeding frenzies of tarpon hitting mullets often occur.

Words can hardly capture the excitement of casting your fly into the chaos of fleeing mullets, followed by several massive tarpon leaping simultaneously out of the water in their pursuit of breakfast. If you cast anywhere near the action, it’s usually just a matter of one, two, or three strips with the fly before you feel the tension.

It doesn’t happen every day, and when it does, it doesn’t last all day—but it’s addictive enough to make checking out the canal the first order of business most mornings. My first morning in the jungle after a four-year wait was no exception.

We started out in two boats: Aurélien and I in a local panga, and Mark in our Tapam partner David’s panga. I had been hoping that Aurélien and Mark would experience some of these wild feeding frenzies at some point during the week. The fact that it happened right at first light on our very first morning was more than I had dared wish for.

Aurélien was casting frantically, his eyes wide with excitement, and even though Mark had seen more tarpon action than most in his lifetime, he seemed just as fired up. Shortly after, he was hooked up too.

He lost the fish five or ten minutes into the fight but didn’t seem to mind too much—he just wanted to hook another one! Unfortunately, David’s new Suzuki outboard started acting up—later we found out it was due to bad fuel—so we decided to bring Mark into our panga while David went back to check on the engine. No big deal, as it turned out there was plenty of action for the three of us to take turns fishing two at a time, while one took a break or shot photos.

Often, the morning action can be pretty good but then dies off, sending us off to search for fish elsewhere. But on our first day, the action stayed so hot that there was no reason to leave The Canal. The weather was perfect: low-hanging clouds, distant thunder, no wind, and an occasional drizzle. And the poons loved it.

There probably wasn’t more than 20 minutes that passed without tarpon either chasing bait somewhere or just rolling happily on the surface. It was simply a matter of being in the right spot at the right time. And we were—several times that day.

When we returned after lunch and a much-needed siesta, we had already hooked four big tarpon. Two had been lost close to the boat, one of them just minutes before we could grab its face. That one would have been Aurélien’s first tarpon on the fly, but with such a warm welcome form the jungle, we felt confident he’d get more chances. However, the last hookup of the day was mine.

When a cast into feeding jungle poons resulted in another strong take, I made sure to set the hook really hard. The sun was about to disappear behind the trees, but we needed to land this fish to cap off the perfect first day of our return to Tapam. After a serious tug-of-war lasting around 30 minutes, with plenty of spectacular jumps, we now found ourselves in the main river. Mark, using his experience as a tarpon face grabber, finally got the big tarpon to the boat. A few quick pictures in the near darkness, and then it was back to the lodge—wet, exhausted, and happy.

Three days into the trip, we decided to take a long run upriver to check on one of our old spots, which had often held both snook and tarpon of impressive size. The sunken tree that had been a prime snook hideout four years ago had degraded significantly and probably wasn’t a hot spot anymore. Still, we decided to hang around, hoping that the tarpon, likely laid up near the riverbed, would eventually become active.

After about half an hour, we finally saw the first roll. Although it never felt like the fishing truly turned on, we spotted enough rolling fish to keep us motivated for a few hours. Then, a big fish suddenly rolled just 12-15 meters from the boat, and a couple of strips later, the fly line tightened. It quickly became clear that something enormously powerful was stuck on the 4/0 hook on the other end of the line: seconds later, a huge tarpon erupted from the water several times, and the battle was on.

The first time we got the fish close to the boat and its tail broke the surface, I was assured this was something special—a genuine river monster! There was a lot of pulling, some serious boat driving, sweating, and swearing—and a heroic landing by Aurélien when we finally got the fish boat-side after the hardest thirty minutes of fish-fighting I’ve ever been involved in.

As words can’t hardly do such a magnificent fish justice, I’ll let the pictures do the talking …

Wilton, our local captain for the week, turned out to be a tremendous help in finding fish. While I knew a good number of tarpon spots from previous visits, Wilton—having lived in the area his entire life—had a far better understanding of tides, currents, wind direction, and, most importantly, baitfish and tarpon movements. One morning, this knowledge led to a serious baby tarpon bonanza in a spot I had often passed by but never fished before. Tarpon ranging from 10 to 25 pounds rolled along a bank in shallow water, and Aurélien hooked and landed one on his very first cast of the day. The next several hours were a blast, with ten baby tarpon from 10-20 lbs jumped, several snook, and even a couple of catfish that couldn’t resist our shrimp flies.

When we returned after a well-deserved siesta, the babies had left the playground. Unfortunately, I was still in fun-fish mode, so when my line tightened while swinging the fly across the current in a small channel, my hook set could have been better. When the six-foot tarpon that had inhaled the sexy pink shrimp exploded out of the channel, the fly popped out of its bony mouth and flew in the opposite direction, leaving the big girl to land with an enormous splash, sending waves across the calm surface. Well, you can’t win ‘em all, but it was a pretty spectacular defeat!

Our trip to this magical place in the Nicaraguan jungle ended just as it had started: with lots of tarpon hunting baitfish in The Canal!

To hook up, you usually need to get within casting distance while the mullets are on the surface, leaping for dear life. That requires a bit of luck—especially since we didn’t have an electric trolling motor on this trip—but just watching this magnificent spectacle is enough to get your pulse racing.

We hooked up four times that day, bringing our total of jumped tarpon to 21 in six days of fishing—and that’s fishing two at a time out of a local panga with no electronics, no trolling engine, and limited guiding.

I can only imagine what we can achieve when we restart Tapam after a four-year hiatus: new skiffs, state-of-the-art electronics, front-mounted trolling engines, and guides who are on the water every day.