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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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.
