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

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