Fishing Art

It is still winter, so this is another “sort of related to redfish” post.  

One of the many benefits of social media and the Internet in general is the access we now have to once very local “stuff.” In this case, stuff refers to art. It wasn’t that long ago that if you found a nice piece of art in a small gallery, you had to buy it or never see it again (if you were passing through).

Today, we can Google “fish art” and up pop thousands of often wonderful and wild artwork from artists we would otherwise never come across. While there are obviously many, many great artists, I thought for this post I’d describe a few of my current favorites. Each of their work is unique, but all are deeply connected to fly fishing.

The first artist profile is Karen Talbot. Talbot is digging out from six feet of snow in Rockland, Maine. She is known for her lifelike, fine art paintings and scientific illustrations. While I associate her work with trout, simply because those species are what first led me to her art, she has also produced some amazing paintings of reef fishes, birds, botanicals, insects, warm water and blue water species. The fact that she can paint a largemouth bass with as much precision and beauty as a billfish tells me a great deal about her talent and passion for fish. Many of her originals are also life-sized, adding to the subjects’ gravitates. 

Much of Talbot’s art is what I call classic fish portraits. However, these aren’t “flat” images. For example, when I look at her Atlantic salmon painting (my favorite), I feel as though I know exactly what holding that fish feels like. It sits heavy in my hand; the base of the tail is dense, density needed to propel that fish up and over waterfalls. In other words, the painting is multi-dimensional, having depth and weight. Before seeing that painting in person, I was frankly not that interested in Atlantic salmon fishing. I’m not sure why, it just wasn’t a species in my top 5 so-to-speak. However, after seeing that piece, Salmo salar has been hard to shake from my mind.

Atlantic Salmon by Karen Talbot

Talbot also produces what she calls artist’s studies. These are her initial field notes, followed by sketches of morphometrics, species details, conservation notes, and color studies that help her prepare for the final piece. I find these working pieces intriguing because they provide insight into what goes on “behind the scenes” in the production of her art.

Artist's study by Karen Talbot 

The next artist I want to highlight is Paul Puckett. Puckett’s work ranges from etchings with pop culture fish themes to fine art. While I find his oil painting such as “King’s Armor” or “Eyes of the Red” intriguing because of their lifelike qualities and the memories they conjure up, his etchings also include some comical fish art featuring Johnny Cash and Walter Sobchak from the Big Lebowski. It takes a creative mind to forge a link between trout and Walter Sobchak. His art also graces fly boxes, and a clothing line, Flood Tide Company, based in Charleston. Diverse style, topics and medium are part of Puckett's strengths.

Walter by Paul Puckett

Similar to Karen Talbot’s Atlantic salmon, Puckett’s “On the Move” makes me feel as though I am in the scene with the fish. In the case of “On the Move” it provides an underwater view of the moments immediately following the release of a nice redfish in the marsh (at least that’s what I see). When I look at the painting, it makes me feel as though I have an underwater view of that moment after a fish leaves my hand. My nerves have settled after having landed the fish. My breathing has returned to normal. The final satisfying moment is when the fish pushes away from my hand. For me, there is no better angling event than the release moment. I never get tired of it or take it for granted. “On the Move” takes me there.

On the Move by Paul Puckett 

My last favorite is Bob White. White’s work is dominated by what I call sporting scenes. Many are fishing, but his work also includes upland and waterfowl hunting scenes, as well as map art and what he calls “bird study” prints. I am drawn to his work partly because of his larger landscape focus. In other words, while his art is focused on sporting activities, his work also presents the grandeur of nature. And this grandeur is what draws so many of us to mountain streams, tropical flats, or coastal marsh in the first place. Although I’m not really qualified to make this statement, his work seems to have a certain connection to the Hudson River School with its grand backdrops and skylines.

The Marsh Guide by Bob White 

White has also produced an amazing series called “One Last Look” made up of fish portraits right before their release (thus the title). I love this series because like the other works mentioned above, the paintings take me to my own experiences of catching and releasing a nice fish.  That last look, right before the fish is placed back in the water is forever burned in all anglers minds, especially if the fish is a “lifetime” fish. His brook trout painting takes me back to an exact moment in time in Labrador when I caught and released a ten-pound brookie. I think White would be happy to know how much joy his painting brings back on this cold February day.

One Last Look (Brook Trout) by Bob White

Winter Pontification

I haven’t posted anything for a while because it’s “winter” in Alabama. So fly rods have been broken down and stowed away for a couple of months while I spend my outdoors’ time looking for deer and wood ducks.

However, I do have a pontificating post to add as I daydream about redfish and tarpon. I am often asked why I love to fly fish so much. There is never a simple or even single answer to a question dealing with an obsession, but as I was recently looking over a few photographs from the fall, a specific photograph of a South Carolina marsh and another of a Belize permit flat made me aware, seemingly in an instant, of one of the driving factors in my obsession.

Fly fishing in areas such as coastal salt marshes and turtle grass flats are akin to being presented with a challenging riddle that requires total concentration and awareness in the present. When one arrives on the edge of marsh or flat, either on foot or on the bow of boat, the water often looks empty. There may be an occasional ripple on a calm surface, but again, there often aren’t any obvious signs of life.  There are of course those rare occasions (for me anyway) when you pull up on a flat that is exploding with life – birds crashing the surface, and fish and shrimp jumping. More often than not the water appears to be empty, at least at fist glance.

Redfish Marsh in South Carolina

Of course the flat or marsh isn’t empty, so the initial scan over the water can be deceiving. It often takes me time to adjust both my vision and concentration in order to focus on sometimes very subtle clues - a slowly moving shadow, a brief glimpse of a tail, and wakes made by single fish - that fish are indeed present. For me, few of these clues are immediately apparent; its almost as if I have to reprogram my senses away from the human world and onto the natural world. This is especially true on slow days when clues are few and far between, and a buzzing cell phone or impending deadline can easily make the mind wander away from the water off the bow.

And while my ultimate goal is to catch the fish I see, there is also a reward in simply seeing a fish, particularly before the guide points out the same fish. When I spot a fish first, I feel as though the guide and I are on the same page, working in tandem, rather than me being completely dependent on the guide’s better-trained eyes and senses. I imagine guides also appreciate fishing with a client who has their senses invested in the moment, who aren’t always waiting to be told where to cast.

When I’m on a flat or in a marsh, completely focused on the water’s subtle clues, I often think about a line that Peter Matthiessen wrote in The Snow Leopard, “When one pays attention to the present, there is great pleasure in the awareness of small things…” For me, there is amazing pleasure in spotting a tailing fish, a cruising stingray, or a motionless, brightly colored sea star among the dull sea grass. The world would be a better place if everyone had something in their life that allowed them to be truly present – no phones, no deadlines, no obligations – true focus on the water off the bow. 

Permit Flat - Belize

A Fish Between Land and Water

I often have trouble pinning down my favorite fly fishing landscape. It has changed over time, depending on season, mood, and bank account. A few years ago, I likely would have said hemlock shrouded brook trout streams in New England; as recently as last May I would have said Belize; but right now, southern salt marsh landscapes are on my mind. There isn’t one specific reason behind my affection for these landscapes. Instead it’s the litany of sights, sounds, smells, trees, and fish that appeal.

On slightly higher ground in the marsh, hammock forests grow on dry, usually stable barrier islands. These forested islands house riotous stands of live oak, sable palms, Southern magnolia, and pignut hickory, among many others. Even tiny islands have surprisingly tall and dense forests. The live oaks, with their twisting limbs and draping Spanish moss, are my favorite trees. On a few islands around Beaufort South Carolina, my most recent redfish destination, I saw individual trees that were certainly centuries old based on their height and complexity.

Hammock Forest

As you travel literally a few inches “downslope,” trees end and salt tolerant spartina grasses abruptly emerge and dominate. Taller grass grows along muddy tidal creek banks, while sparser, short grasses grow on harder bottoms that are often left exposed at low tide. Among and between patches of grass live small stingrays, sheepshead, schools of mullet, shrimp, and crabs, and of course redfish. A veritable gumbo waiting to happen.

For the angler, the action is in the grass. At high tide, fish move in in search of their next meal. For redfish, this usually means fiddler crabs and shrimp. As an angler, there is no more exciting sight than watching a redfish tailing in the marsh. As one scans the water, an orange tail will appear seemingly out of nowhere, then flop over as the fish tries to excavate a crab. A few minutes later the tail appears again a few feet or yards away. Fish can appear and disappear with little warning or any apparent pattern, creating panic among anglers who are trying to get into position to cast. Similarly, watching a redfish slither along looking for crabs in inches of water at high tide with its copper back exposed is simply awesome. Slithering fish are literally between land and water. Casting to and catching fish in a few inches of water presents an obvious challenge, one in which I often fail. At low tide, the bounty retreats to less visible, deeper creek beds and shelves along the flats. Fish are still around and can be caught, but visibly hunting tailing fish is over.

Tailing redfish on the flood tide - photo by Doug Roland

Throughout my travels I’ve been fortunate to spend time with many excellent guides who share their home marshes with me. In Beaufort, it was Owen Plair from Bay Street Outfitters. Standing on the back poling platform, Owen pleaded with the fishing gods to deliver a few tailing fish at dawn on a surprisingly frigid October morning flood tide. When fish appeared, Owen’s exuberance made it clear that he is doing exactly what he wants to do in life – guiding in the marsh. There is no other place he’d rather be.

Guide Owen Plair

My fondness for this environment goes beyond fishing. Standing on the bow, it’s easy to get distracted by all the action around the boat. Shrimp and mullet explode out of the water as redfish come in for the kill; rays and sharks silently glide by looking for an easy meal, big blue crabs scurry off as the boat’s shadow encroaches, and thousands of oysters squirt water at low tide making strange popping noises. Beyond the visual, the marsh at low tide has an earthy, muddy odor that reminds me of spring and turning garden soil for the first time. It’s a living, healthy smell.

When can I go back? 

Slithering Redfish

More from Doug Roland

Fishing Alongside a Battleship

The USS Alabama is permanently docked on the west side of Mobile Bay. Drifting by its silent guns, a skiff never felt so small.

Mobile Bay was my most recent stop on my redfish “tour” and the least successful regarding fish in the boat or even seen. While my sample size was small, it was pretty obvious early on that Mobile Bay is under a great deal of pressure from many interests. These include gill-netters, shrimp trawlers, sport anglers, commercial vessels, navigation officials, heavy industry, and probably a few groups I’ve overlooked. These interests aren’t that much different compared with much of the southern coast (sans the gill netters), but given the geography of the Alabama coast, all these activities are concentrated in a relatively small area.

When I arrived at the boat ramp, I thought perhaps I had crashed a tournament. Boats lined the ramp, and the lot was already full of cars, trucks, and trailers. And it was only 615am; the sun was just rising over the eastern bluff.  The crowds didn’t disappear on the water, instead clustering around apparently well-known fishing spots.

On one hand it’s great that people were out on the water fishing, but again, given the limited geography of the Bay, everyone jostled for position. Shrimp trawlers also plied the same waters; sometimes only yards from the shoreline making me wonder what impact those nets have on shallow grass flats. Overall, Alabama lost 1,371 acres of seagrass beds between 2002 and 2009, most of which occurred in the Bay. Although seagrass beds are sometimes ephemeral ecosystems, the connection between shallow water dragging and declining grass beds seems natural. Long prop scars bore witness to a lot of boat traffic in shallow waters.

I caught a couple of small redfish, but saw no slot size or bull reds crashing bait. In fact, I saw fewer fish than in any previous location I fished. While I don’t want to overstate a single day’s observations, I have little doubt redfish in Mobile Bay are impacted by the large number of nets. Not only direct impacts in gill nets as bycatch, but also the disruption of the food chain and habitat degradation by the near-shore trawlers. It is simply too small a space for a fishing free for all.  And given the lack of any real restrictions on gill nets and trawlers by state fisheries officials, a free for all is what seems to exist.