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. 

Saving the Savanna

While this blog is focused on redfish, I am going to take a slight detour to discuss my trip to Belize. I think Belize is worthy of a post given the presence of the big three – tarpon, bonefish, and permit.

Although Belize is lauded for its conservation planning – roughly 26% of its land and sea is protected – there remains other areas with ecological and economic significance that are not protected at all and face destruction as the country races to develop through shrimp farms and new hotels.

One important area not protected is known among guides and anglers as the Savanna. Found east of Ambergris Caye, the Savanna is an extensive shallow water area with mud and white sand bottom interspersed with patches of turtle grass. What makes this area unique is its tarpon population. Both resident and migratory tarpon are found on the Savanna. From an angling standpoint, it’s clear waters allows an angler to see cruising tarpon from hundreds of feet away. Unlike the murky mangroves and coastal rivers where tarpon are usually found, the Savanna’s clarity allows an angler to see, prepare, and cast.

Of course catching tarpon isn’t as simple as the scenario I describe. The water’s clarity allows the fish to see the boat, making long casts essential. And given the Savanna’s proximity to San Pedro, the fish see a lot of flies. But sometimes it all comes together and it works out for the angler.

During my meetings with guides from El Pescador, an excellent fishing lodge on Ambergris Caye with world class guides, their number one concern regarding the future of fish and fishing in the area was protecting the Savanna. They fear that as more and more hotels are built on Ambergris Caye, the area’s flats will be impacted by dredging projects or the still prevalent commercial netting operations. Given the unregulated growth that has already resulted in the destruction of mangroves and other flats in the area, their fears are legitimate.

After our meeting I actually caught two tarpon on the Savanna, making their message hit home on a personal level. While my obsession is fly angling, my new cause is protecting the Savanna. So how does one go about creating a marine protected area in a foreign country? 

tarpon on the Savanna

meeting with guides

Ingredients for Success

Redfish populations along the South Carolina coast are considered healthy by both guides and state fisheries officials. This healthy fishery is reflected by the number of guides who make all or part of their living through fishing, and by the presence of the numerous fly shops in coastal towns. I always feel a little better about my chances to see fish if there is a local fly shop. Sure that means more anglers, but if I can buy flies locally, that also means fish.

During my travels, I often think about what specific factors have to exist to create a productive and sustainable fishing landscape. In South Carolina, a combination of public and private efforts have produced the good fishing that exists today. While I'm not going to discuss every factor that has contributed, I do want to prominently mention the state chapter of the Coastal Conservation Association (CCA). CCA in South Carolina is more than a group of men and women who like to fish, although there is no shortage of dedicated anglers. CCA lobbies state politicians regarding fishing regulations, which resulted in a gill net ban as well as re-designating the redfish as a sport fish, as opposed to a commercial species. CCA has also initiated various habitat restoration projects along the coast, including an oyster shell recycling program known as the Topwater Action Campaign. This campaign has established locations around the state where oyster shells are collected and returned to the marsh to begin the cycle of life anew. Lastly, a large and active CCA community helps monitor activities along the coast that might negatively impact the environment. If a new bridge is to be built or a channel dredged, CCA is present to make sure the rules are followed and the marsh is protected.

Having a healthy fishery in a high demand and high use coastal state such as South Carolina doesn't happen by accident. Instead, a healthy fishery exists because of a lot of dedicated anglers do a lot of heavy lifting. In the case of South Carolina, those dedicated anglers make up the CCA.

Sounds on a Low Tide Salt Marsh

Where seemingly navigable, open water existed just a short time ago, black mounds of oyster beds, mud, and spartina grass now sit high and dry. It is amazing to fish the flood tide, then return to the same area on the low tide. The marsh is unrecognizable to a visitor. I kept thinking, did I really fish near this same spot a short time ago? I can't imagine trying to navigate those flats even on the flood tide given all the jagged oyster beds lurking just below surface. According to my guide Chris Wilson, plenty of shiny new flats boats end up with scars from those beds.

But what most stood out was the "sound" of low tide. Sound in this case doesn't refer to wind or waves but the living sounds of the marsh. The living chorus included exposed oyster beds squirting water (a sound reminiscent of squirting water through your front teeth), shrimp making popping sounds as they exploded above the surface  in shallow pools constricted by the tide, hundreds of fiddler crabs making clicking noises as they scurry for their now exposed tunnels, big mullet jumping and splashing for no apparent reason at all, and big redfish and ladyfish crashing edge of the grass gulping down finger mullet and popping shrimp. It was a living, raw gumbo that literally made me hungry.

While life spreads out in the marsh on the flood tide, it gets confined and ultra-competative at low tide with big fish and all their prey forced into small pools, thus the explosion of shrimp and finger mullet as bigger fish pic them off. Although the fish are seemingly more confined, they aren't necessarily easier to catch. There is so much bait available that fish don't need to eat a strange looking bundle of feathers.

Sound isn't a sense I often associate with fly fishing - eyes and brain do most of the work. But during low tide, the sounds of the marsh tell a detailed story all their own.

oyster bed at low tide

 exposed oyster beds at dusk near Charleston

Drift Nets' Dirty Little Secrets

The problem with drift nets is their indiscriminate killing power. While it's easy for a commercial angler to claim they only target mullet or flounder, other fish species, birds, and turtles obviously aren't privy to such information. Also, while nets are supposed to be tended by their owner to minimize unintended consequences, this doesn't always happen (sometimes it rarely happens). So what netters end up with is a whole lot of by-catch - all the creatures they don't want or cant sell as designated commercial species (including redfish). And while netters are supposed to report by-catch, there is little incentive do so, especially if they kill endangered species such as turtles or gamefish such as redfish. It is easier to simply dump the evidence and go about your business or underreport by-catch that can be sold such as redfish. Gill netters in North Carolina regularly exceed their state sanctioned quota for by-catch, which in reality is likely far higher than what actually gets reported. In 2013, netters officially exceeded their redfish by-catch quota by more than 10,000 pounds! Given the environmental impact of gill nets, they represent a sort of tyranny of the minority. In other words, a small number of netters have an inordinate impact on the environment and the ability of others, such as guides, to make a living. 

green turtle caught in drift net