No-Go Zone - The Fly Shop

Giant Peacock Bass
A ‘No-Go Zone’ for 40 years,
now open to fly anglers
E
20 1 6 E X P E D I T I O N R E P O R T : M A R C H / A P R I L
I’ve worked with The Fly Shop guys for decades
while operating remote fishing lodges. I first met
owner Mike Michalak in the 80’s when he brought
a group of anglers to our camp, fifty miles upriver
from the village airstrip on the Goodnews
River. A few years ago while my wife and
I were operating Paradise Lodge in
Mexico’s Yucatan, Mike Michalak and Pat
Pendergast and their wives stayed with
us while fishing for permit and tarpon. The past
two seasons I’ve been managing and guiding for
trophy rainbow trout in Katmai National Preserve
Alaska at Big Ku Lodge. Recently I’d talked with
Mike and Pat about a saltwater travel specialist job
that would coincide with the expansion of their
new offices. Now I’ve joined these guys and their
destination travel team here at The Fly Shop in
Redding, California.
I’d barely settled into my desk when Mike
called me into his office and told me I was going
to the jungles of Colombia. I’d fished peacock
bass decades ago in Panama’s Lake Gatun, but
they were nothing like the fish photos he was
showing me from his exploratory trip to the
Mataveni River last spring. These fish were
beasts, pushing 20 lbs, and as exotic-looking as
any fish I’d ever seen. He said I’d be meeting the
outfitter Alex, in Bogata, along with our guests
for the week. We’d then fly from Bogota to Puerto
Inirida, boat down the famed Orinoco River,
change boats at the confluence of the Mataveni
River, then head upriver to our wilderness camp.
My head was spinning with visions of broadshouldered cichlids with psychedelic paint jobs
sunning themselves in tropical lagoons, just
waiting to destroy a well-placed streamer. We’d
be fishing with native jungle guides on a river
that produced several world record peacock bass
in the eighties before being shut down to visiting
anglers for decades. Stories of cartels and drug
lords, violence and guerrilla warfare had kept
tourists away for years. I needed more than a few
immunizations to get ready for this trip, and I’d
read Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”,
remembering the sounds of drums beating along
the river’s bank. This was going to be as raw and
wild as any place I’d ever experienced.
3 1 M A R C H - T H U R S D AY :
Flying from Sacramento to Houston and into
Bogota was a long tiring day. I was looking
forward to a cold beer, good shower, and a
comfortable bed, all in that order. Bogota is
located in the center of Colombia, the third
highest capital in South America (after La Paz
and Quito), at an average of 8,661 feet above sea
level. It stands out for its economic strength, the
attraction of global companies, and the quality
of its human capital. The past decades of drug
violence and political instability in Colombia
have vanished.The drug issues and FARC have
both been all but eliminated, making it safe to
visit the country.
The bright and shiny blue Hotel Habitel shuttle
circulates on the 2nd floor of the airport every 15
minutes. It’s clean and comfortable, staffed with
a courteous driver, and within minutes I was
stepping into the ultra-modern hotel. Greeted by
smiling bellhops who promptly placed my luggage
inside the lobby, I checked my room reservation
with the English-speaking receptionist and headed
upstairs to relax after a long day’s travel.The Hotel
Habitel, www.hotelhabitel.com, is first world and
efficient, with well-appointed rooms. The minifridge in my room held a variety of cold drinks,
with snacks placed neatly in a basket on the table.
After the refreshing shower that I’d been dreaming
of, in a bathroom stocked with all the needed
toiletries, I slid between the sheets of a comfy
queen bed to rest and to dream of huge peacock
bass inhaling brightly-colored flies.
1 A P R I L - F R I D AY :
I met our client Bill downstairs in the hotel
restaurant for breakfast at 6am. The coffee was
superb, and the buffet held a wide variety of
local and international dishes and delicious fresh
tropical fruits. While we were dining our smiling
outfitter, Alex, big as a bear, arrived with a warm
introduction. He had already met with the other
anglers, and we were ready to begin our journey
into the jungle. While chatting with fellow
angler Donavan on the hotel steps, I learned that
his luggage had not arrived. With years of
experience operating lodges and camps in remote
locations, I’d packed my gear with this dilemma
in mind. He had his reels, street clothes and
toiletries, and a positive attitude in spite of his
situation. As luck would have it, Donavan, Alex
and I are similar in size and build. Between Alex
and I we had plenty of tropical clothes and
enough fishing gear to cover his needs. Problem
solved, so let’s go fishing!
Alex promptly took charge, making certain that
all our luggage was secure on the hotel shuttle.
Once again we boarded that shiny new van and off
to the airport we went. After a short drive in the
soft morning light, we grabbed our gear and
followed Alex into the airport. Being the
consummate host, he was overseeing our luggage
transfers and ticketing, talking about the recent
fishing, and soon we were at the boarding gate for
our flight to Puerto Inirida. We began our day in
the cool Bogata morning air, surrounded by high
mountain peaks shrouded in cool grey clouds. Once
in flight our plane gained just enough elevation
to clear the mountain peaks, then promptly began
its descent into the tropical jungle of the Orinoco
basin. Through the airplane windows we could see
dark rivers winding their serpentine courses
through the forest on their way to the Caribbean.
Landing in Inirida and walking down the airplane
steps towards the airport, we were immediately
enveloped in dense tropical air. Alex filled us in
on the details of the day’s journey while we waited
for our gear to unload. After a short drive through
town and a quick stop to pick up our freshly
prepared lunch, we emerged from the city streets
for our first look at the river that would take us
deep into the wilderness. It felt like we were
stepping into the pages of Conrad’s novel. Instead
of primitive drums beating in the distance as he
had described, we heard the sound of diesel
motors thumping deeply from inside heavily loaded
barges as they pushed their cargo upriver. Puerto
Inirida, with a population of 13,000 (mostly
indigenous people), was remarkably clean, the
people friendly and smiling, and had a busy port
feeling. Boats of all sizes and shapes floated on
the dark water. There were 100-foot steel barges
moored next to 15-foot dugout wooden canoes
along the municipal dock. The jungle stretched for
untold miles without a road, and the river became
our connecting route for the balance of our
journey into the wilderness.
Our shuttle boat to the mouth of the Mataveni
River was moored at the shoreline between two
wooden dugout canoes. Roughly 25 feet long,
roofed, and powered by a 200-HP Yamaha, the
colorfully painted vessel spoke of adventure.The
bench seats were padded, had backrests, and
flotation vests rested in the netting overhead.
We loaded the boat and slid into our seats as the
driver motored away from civilization, heading
deeper into the mysterious Orinoco River Basin.
Serving as the border between Venezuela and
Colombia, with ranches and farms scattered
along the shorelines, we watched cattle grazing
among banana trees that dotted the horizon.
Large grey rock formations were in and along the
river, some twenty or more feet high and fifty
yards long. Occasionally we passed a barge tied
to the shore, stocked with supplies and serving
as a waterfront store to be accessed by boat.
Below thatch-roofed wooden buildings perched
high on the banks were dugout wooden canoes
tied to stakes driven into the river’s edge. The
Orinoco is a huge river, hundreds of yards wide,
with heights that vary as much as 20 vertical
feet between the dry and rainy season.
Arriving at the confluence of the Mataveni
River, we were met by our guides waiting patiently
in their river boats. They were long and narrow
like a dugout canoe, and close to thirty feet long.
Powered by 40-HP outboard motors, these unique
steel-hulled vessels were our transport and fishing
craft for the coming week. The iced cooler placed
mid-ship and filled with drinks was a welcome
sight as we settled into our seats for the final
river ascent into the jungle. Parrots squawked at
us from the trees, occasionally flying overhead in
pairs. Herons waded in pursuit of baitfish along
the shore, and the cloudy skies were a welcome
relief from the tropical sun. Except for a few
wooden poles protruding from the sandbars,
nothing along this jungle river spoke of man’s
existence. Perhaps those occasional rough wooden
poles were left from previous campsites, to
suspend a tarp or hammock. Twisting and turning,
its dark tannic water winding through dense
jungle forests with broad shoreline openings
leading into calm lagoons, this river held an
untold history of dark secrets.
Our camp was set on a long white sandbar, and
all the tents were in place upon our arrival. The
dining tent was positioned in the center, with
electric lights and a cooler topped off with
bottled water, juice and beer. Our private kingsized dome tents, tall enough to stand in, were
placed in a long line to the left. You could barely
make out the tan, man-sized tent serving as our
latrine nestled back in the trees, another 25 yards
further down the sand bar. Off to the right of the
big blue dining tent stood the cooking and staff
tents. Our river guides had strung their hammocks
under a long black plastic tarp, enveloping each
hammock in mosquito netting and looking like so
many man-sized cocoons. The shower tent with
its glowing electric light was pitched near the
river’s edge, with a chair alongside to hold your
dry clothes and towel. Cool, refreshing river water
was continuously pumped in high volume,
doubling as a firm massage and a refreshing
shower after a day’s fishing.
The hostess met us with cool, iced mango drinks
as we joined Alex in the dining tent for our camp
orientation. We learned that we would be fishing
two boats upstream from camp, while the other
two fished downstream, keeping the fishing
pressure spread out during the week. The river
level was low at the end of the dry season, and
the fish would be congregated to ambush baitfish
at the openings of the lagoons. We would
approach slowly and fish the openings, then
paddle into and around the
lagoon’s perimeter while casting
flies along the overhanging
branches. We would be fishing big
synthetic streamers tied to a short
leader and intermediate lines. We might see fish
“laid up” in the open water of the lagoons,
attacking baitfish like savages, or swimming
beneath their schools of fry as protectors. If
threatened, the fry would swim directly into the
mouth of the parent fish like entering a vault and
closing the door, safe from all predation. After
answering all our fishing questions in detail, Alex
gave us a tour of our campsite, explaining how
“form follows function” in our modern base camp
pitched deep in the heart of the jungle. Soon we
were unpacking our gear, settling into our tents,
stringing up fly rods, and tying on flies. We spoke
of the next day’s fishing with great anticipation
while hanging our rods in the beachfront rack
made of branches cut to size with sharp machetes,
and lashed together with twine. We checked out
each others’ rod, reel and fly choices and talked
as men do about fishing. After two straight days
of travel we showed signs of wear. Cool drinks
were had, dinner eaten with great satisfaction,
and within minutes we were drifting off to our
first night’s sleep. Outside our thin walls of nylon
stood the dark jungle, flickering with the lights of
fireflies and keeping its own mysterious history
like a private song far back in the shadows.
2 A P R I L - S AT U R D AY :
Fresh brewed coffee waited on the table in a
brightly-colored container as I walked into the
dining tent in the pre-dawn light. Chris was
already writing in his daily journal as I poured the
dark Colombian brew into our small plastic cups.
Stirring a spoon of coarse sugar in my cup I could
hear the boat captains laughing and joking as they
loaded their riverboats and started their motors.
Breakfast during the week was served family style,
including eggs, sausages, aripa (a local staple of
ground corn shaped into patties or fingers and
fried to a golden brown perfection), granola, and
juice.The captains were already at their boats as
we finished breakfast and proceeded through our
morning rituals. We quickly plastered ourselves
with high-powered sunscreen, slid into our tropical
fishing clothes, grabbed sunglasses and hats, and
walked across the squeaky white sand beach down
to the water. The boats held iced coolers filled
with sandwiches and drinks, fly rod racks made of
local branches, and guides that had spent their
entire lives on this wild river. These men were used
to diving for their dinners, grabbing snapping
turtles from behind to save their fingers. They
hunted tapir in the forest and waterfowl in the
lagoons. This river was the thread of their life, and
they’d been swimming in it as soon as they could
walk down to the shore. Chris and Gary motored
upstream with their guides, disappearing behind
the jungle curtain as the river twisted and turned
on its way to the sea. Alex fished a half day with
each of them, lending his local knowledge and
fishing advice. Bill, Donavan and I motored
downstream with our guides, ready to experience
all that this jungle wilderness had to offer.
Blenia slowed our boat as we approached the
first lagoon opening. When he silenced the
outboard we could hear the sounds of the jungle,
with parrots screeching at us from inside the trees
as the boat glided silently ahead with each stroke
of his paddle. Beginning at the shoreline grasses
on the river bank, we could see that the water
dropped quickly from a shallow sandy bottom into
the dark brown depths. Donavan began launching
accurate casts into the shadows at the water's
edge. Holding his rod tip low to the water, he
stripped the line with a snappy cadence. It took
only a few casts before an aggressive Mariposa
peacock bass hammered the fly. We learned
quickly that these Mariposa were the strongest
pound-for-pound fighting fish in the river, and
that several world records had been caught here.
After a strong fight we had our first close look at
one of these spectacular fish. Several large black
spots ringed in gold were strung in a line down
its sides. Orange was splashed below his gills and
throat, and tropical greens were draped over its
powerful shoulders. This was truly one of the most
beautiful fish I’d ever seen. The fishing action
continued as we moved from lagoon to lagoon,
probing the water for explosive strikes. “Pinta
lapa”, “pero”,and “ tres barras” all fell victim to
our flies. Some silver and strong with spiky teeth,
others green, gold and tropical, they were
absolutely the fish of which we had all been
dreaming. With arms tired from casting and hands
already showing signs of wear, we returned to
camp at dusk. Wilderness anglers shared stories of
the day's adventure while savoring cool fruit
drinks poured over ice. Our thirst took us quickly
from fruit drinks to the cold beers and bottled
water resting in the chest. We told stories of our
wins and losses, of fish that ripped line through
our fingers with raw savage strength, others that
rocketed into the air, and those that had made
their way safely into the branches of trees that
had fallen into the river. Some of us showered in
the strong flow of river water piped into the tent,
while others swam in the cool dark river. We
readied our rods for the coming day, and joined
each other for another dinner filled with
camaraderie and laughter. Flavorful chicken
breasts, creamy mashed potatoes, and crisp
coleslaw were served, while in the background our
guides laughed and joked as they dined. During
the evening’s meal Alex described the fishing
during the past few weeks, and of other wild rivers
that he had explored here in the Orinoco basin.
He shared fly patterns that caught huge peacock
bass, and presentations to hook these tropical
beasts. We talked of fly lines designed specifically
for the tropical heat, and outlined the strategy for
the next fishing day. Tired men soon fell asleep in
their tents, glad to be in a wilderness and to know
its meaning firsthand.
After taking photos and wondering about this
magic place we continued downstream to the
village, home of our river boat captains. We walked
through the forest on a path to the village, high
above the river. We felt welcomed, and it was great
to watch as the children hugged their river guide
dads. Baskets made by the ladies were displayed
and for sale. Children were singing with their
teacher in a one-room school house painted
yellow. Pink flowers bloomed outside in a neatly
planted garden. Wooden homes were nestled
among mango trees, each with a roof that served
to channel rainfall into a nearby cistern. After a
friendly visit, we loaded the boats and motored 15
minutes down to the mouth of the river. Soon a
boat came up the Orinoco, the same we had taken
to this very place days before. It was good to be
going home, and sad to be leaving such a wild and
beautiful place. We’d lived with river otters,
freshwater dolphins, and parrots, listened to
mysterious sounds in the jungle night, and saw not
a single plane fly across the sky overhead. We
loaded our gear aboard this boat that would take
us away from a dream. A dream of wilderness,
jungles, and fish beautiful beyond belief. Back up
the mighty Orinoco, we watched banana trees and
palms go by, dugout canoes tied to the shore, and
barges filled with precious cargo. Our wilderness
was beginning to disappear.
Returning to the dock at Inirida, we beached
our boat alongside colorful boats, wooden
dugouts, and rusting steel barges here for repair.
We loaded three-wheeled “taxis” and cruised
through the shady streets to the hotel “La
Cabana” where we would spend the night. We were
back in a world of air-conditioned rooms, meals
cooked to order...and it didn’t feel that bad. The
hotel was designed by its owner, Joco, and built
around a huge tropical tree. Constructed of native
hardwoods, decorated with local artwork, and
landscaped with colorful plants and flowers, it
was a welcome sight after spending a week
camping in the jungle. While the other anglers
headed to their private rooms, showers, and a
rest, I climbed the stairs to the top of the
“treehouse” to savor a cold beer and look over the
top of the jungle to a distant horizon. I wasn’t
quite ready to let it all go. We met for dinner in
Joco’s open air restaurant at six - the food was
excellent, highlighted by the seafood chowder,
“Casuala de Mariscos”, and fresh garden salads.
We had become friends during the week, brought
together by a common desire to experience
something far from our daily lives.
9 A P R I L - S AT U R D AY :
We had a breakfast of scrambled eggs and aripa,
local breads, rich Colombian coffee, tropical fruit
juice, and caught our driving transfer to the
airport. We were all heading home. Returning to
our worlds via planes and taxis, far from this
roadless jungle.
SPRING
2017
While there are a number of world-class peacock
bass rivers in Colombia and South America, the
Mataveni is particularly intriguing due to its
angling history, small size, and that access to the
river is strictly and completely controlled by the
indigenous people who live there. These same
people will be your river guides for the week,
navigating this waterway since childhood. They
know the Mataveni like no other, paddling their
long dugouts silently into dark water lagoons while
you cast to your fish of dreams.
The fishing window is short, coinciding with the
dry season and low water flows – January through
early April. Because the local people are very
protective of their fishery, they often rest the river
for weeks, when no anglers are allowed on the
river at all. It is to their credit that the well-being
of this fishery comes first to them, strictly
enforcing the use of single barbless hooks. We’re
currently organizing the river itinerary for the
spring of 2017. Opportunities are limited to a few
adventurous anglers that want to experience a
remote jungle wilderness and fish to world class
peacock bass. Parrots will chatter in the trees and
dolphins swim in the river as your guide paddles
you into a lagoon filled with ferocious peacock
bass, anxious to destroy your fly.
Just don’t read about the Mataveni, experience
it firsthand, I would be happy to help. Eric Ersch
If you would like additional information on
fishing on the Mataveni River or would like to
check available dates for this jungle fishing
odyssey in 2017, please contact me at
[email protected] , or 800.669.3474. We are
hoping to have at least 3 expeditions for next
season, limited to eight anglers at a time, and
space is at a premium.
GEAR REVIEW
From your gloves to your tippet, fishing near the
equator puts specific demands on everything you
bring on your adventure. We fished hard, adjusting
our gear daily to fit the demands. We threw big
flies, hooked strong fish, and put every component
of our gear to the test of strength and endurance.
These suggestions are the result of five guys
fishing six days for trophy peacock bass in the
Orinoco basin of Colombia, 4 point 31 degrees
north of the equator.
FLIES:
Peacock bass eat fish. Successful flies were
synthetic baitfish imitations in natural and
attractor colors, tied on barbless 1/0 to 4/0 hooks.
These flies worked:
3 A P R I L - S U N D AY :
We awoke to a light rain falling on our tents.
Continuing off and on throughout the day, cloudy
skies tempered the sun’s heat, the rain feeling
good evaporating from our shirts. Fishermen that
had gone upstream the day before, went
downstream today. Bill fished with Alex, learning
from his expertise, and I fished again with
Donavan. We continued the pattern of leapfrogging from lagoon to lagoon, casting big
streamers for monster peacocks, hoping to bend
our rods deep into the cork as another C. temensis
charged for the wooded shore.
Being a hunter at my core, the scenario I found
most interesting was seeking the big laid-up fish.
The guide would paddle silently into each lagoon
while the angler in the bow scanned the water for
signs of a fish. One calm, sunny morning I had the
luck of spotting a pair of big peacocks resting just
under the water’s surface, right in the middle of a
large lagoon. The boat made hardly a ripple as we
closed the distance between us and the fish. At 30
yards the dark green shapes began to show
movement and color. The fish on the right faced
straight away from us, while the other turned
slowly to the left. My best shot for a take was the
left-hand fish. The guide positioned the boat
perfectly for my right hand shot. This was like the
laid-up tarpon I’d cast to in the Yucatan, or snook
in the “‘glades”. The fly needed to land 2 feet off
the fish's nose, as quietly as I could make it
happen. My false casts had to be well behind the
fish so the line’s shadow was never seen. Breathe.
That's my mantra. Slow deep breaths to calm my
pounding heart. The world went silent as the fly
left my fingers and slow false casts began. Judge
the distance, see the fish, slow down the turnover,
and ease the fly into the water. Let it sink, one,
two, and strip. Two short crisp pulls to get the
fish's attention, followed by a long strip to make
it appear as though it were swimming away.
Halfway through that long pull all hell broke loose.
Slamming my left hand hard to the rear set the
hook, followed with a rod swing low and to the
right. Fly line smoked through my fingers as the
fish sped toward the protection of the jungle
shore. As the fish neared its destination I
increased tension on the line and the fish exploded
into the air. Catapulting colors of green and gold
against a background of tropical patterns. Landed,
we marveled at it’s colors, holding it gently in the
water. Every C. temensis has its own birthmark, an
irregular splotch of black on its cheek, different
and original on every fish. The orange throat
contrasts to the emerald face, dark orange eyes
looking into the water. Slowly it swam away from
my grasp and back into it’s piscatorial paradise.
4,5,6,7 APRIL:
As the week progressed we motored further
from camp daily, accessing lagoons yet to be
fished. Chris continued to be high rod on the tres
barras, releasing several fish in the teens and an
18-pound beast. Bill finished strong by landing
a 20-pounder on his last day. Donavan chose a
day to fish poppers, with explosive strikes being
the norm in addition to releasing 19-pounder
hooked on a streamer. Gary fished strong and
steady throughout the week, landing several nice
fish in the mid-teens.
3/0
1/0
4/0
2/0
2/0
1/0
4/0
Peacock Cruiser
Peacock Agitator
Bluewater Bait Fish, “ flying fish”
Flashfire Mushy, “olive/white”
Teaser, “rainbow”, “chartreuse/white”
Pole Dancer, “tiger”
Bubblehead, “chartreuse”
LEADERS:
Our leaders had to turn over big, wind resistant
flies, so short lengths and stiff materials worked
best. Six feet of fluorocarbon leader in front of the
clear tip intermediate line worked perfectly for
fishing streamers. We extended the leader length
to nine feet for casting poppers on our floating
lines.
Seaguar Blue Label fluorocarbon leader material
in 30 and 40-pound test was our choice, and we
were not disappointed.
LINES:
Lines had to be built for tropical temperatures,
stiff and able to accurately present a large fly. We
used floating lines with poppers, and intermediate
sinking lines for fishing streamers. These lines
stood up to our demands:
Scientific
Anglers
“Sonar”,
saltwater
intermediate, weight forward, clear/sunrise
Scientific Anglers “Sharkwave”, Titan saltwater
floating, weight forward, yellow/mist green/blue
REELS:
Peacock bass fight like a snook. Their take is
ferocious. Almost always, the fish immediately
powers towards whatever structure they can use
against you. You lose if they get there, so keeping
the pressure on is way more important than trying
to get the fish “on the reel”. A lightweight
saltwater reel is best, since you will be casting six
days straight. It should be filled with 30-pound
backing, hold an eight or nine weight line, have a
smooth drag, and a rim that you can palm. We
used the following reels:
Abel 3N
Nautilus CCF-X2
Galvan Grip
Hatch Finatic
RODS:
Light and powerful, with sturdy reel seats and
full-wells grips. These four-piece, fast action rods
were our choices:
Winston Boron 3 Plus Jungle rod, 9’ ,8 and 9
weights
Winston Boron 3 Plus Jungle rod, 8’9”, 8 and 9
weights
Sage Salt, 9’, 8 and 9 weights
Sage One, 9’ , 8 and 9 weights
Scott Meridian, 9’, 8 and 9 weights
PERSONAL GEAR:
Think sun, a few biting insects, and more
equatorial sun. Our hands were abused by six long
days of casting, and our fingers got ripped by high
speed fly lines. Protection is mandatory. In
addition to the standard tropical long sleeve shirts
and pants, polarized sunglasses, pliers, sunscreen
and hat, we used gloves, buffs, finger guards, and
tape on a daily basis. I wouldn't go there without:
Simms Sun Gloves
Buff Stripping Guards
Flexx-Rap Finger Protection wrap
Buff Multi Functional Headwear
8 A P R I L - F R I D AY :
We packed our gear and loaded the boats after
breakfast, breaking camp and motoring
downstream. An hour into the ride, the guides
turned our boats into a narrow channel. Idling
slowly through the twisting waterway, we soon
emerged into a small lagoon, stopping at the base
of a huge rock formation protruding from the
jungle. The surface of the dark rock bore the
markings of ancient peoples. Petroglyphs were
scattered over the rock’s horizontal surface, not on
the vertical cliff walls like the petroglyphs I’d seen
in New Mexico. Thinking of this difference I
wondered who these markings were talking to. If
vertical markings could be observed by humans,
were these markings that faced the skies meant to
be observed from above?
Don’t delay. Call or email today!
[email protected]
4140 Churn Creek Road,
Redding, CA 96002
800-669-3474
www.theflyshop.com