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Fly Fishing Outside the Margins

An unedited draft of an article that appeared in
two parts in the Jan-Feb and March-April 2008 issues of Tide Magazine

It was a Saturday afternoon. K. and I had both worked long hours at our desks on our respective academic duties. I could see that the work had taken a toll on her, so I gingerly suggested that an evening boat ride with the dogs might be in order. She brightened visibly, and proposed that we take a bottle of
wine and a light dinner, too.

    “And rods,” I asked?

    “I might not fish,” she said.

    I had my doubts about that, even though I kept them
to myself. K.’s days on the Lower Laguna Madre had gone from four
days a week while she was guiding, to about four days a year. I
suspected that the huntress within her
was spring loaded for action. Also, I knew that she had never fished
the area that I had in mind––an extremely shallow, 6-8 inch deep
expanse of water that lay just beyond the geographical limits of her
extensive fly fishing experience.

    When we arrived at 5:30, we beached the Curlew
against a half-acre island and looked east across a thousand acres of
unbroken glass, beyond which the high dunes of Padre Island reflected
the evening sunlight. We could see redfish with their backs out of the
water just beyond the tiny island, and for at least 200 yards further.
Reddish egrets danced happily across the liquid mirror, “canopy”
hunting amid the feeding reds. Needless to say, K. decided to fish.

    Somehow we convinced our three dogs to remain on the
island while we waded eastward into the cool water on the other side.
Soon they were content to run up and down the island barking and
cavorting, while we shifted our attention to the more serious task of
noiselessly approaching redfish in water that was barely deep enough to
support them. We hadn’t gone far before we removed our wading boots and
left them behind. It was simply too pleasant to be encumbered with
footwear. Tiny black shells were sprinkled across the sandy bottom, and
they massaged our feet with every step.

    K. was on her knees within five minutes casting
to a red that swam right up to her, showing a bit of his back and tail
as he would stop to inspect something of interest. In between casts,
the fish would somehow disappear in only half a foot of water, leaving
her waiting breathlessly with line draped in hand. She casted several
times, only to have the fish eventually turn and swim away, obviously
aware that something was amiss without knowing what. The fish had been
too close for accurate casting, but K. was still a bit frustrated
with herself.

    “I’m really out of practice,” she admitted, shaking her head.

    “Don’t worry, there’s plenty more,” I said, already
pointing to another tail with my  rod tip. “Put the Clouser about
three feet from the red’s head, and then wait a second before
stripping.” I was reflecting on having observed the reds’ behavior
during several previous days of guiding and personal fishing. “If you
strip too soon, you may pick up grass before he gets there, and then
he’ll just follow the fly without eating it. Wait for him to approach,
and then barely strip.”

    Minutes later, the old form asserted itself as K.
casted to a red that was being followed by a Reddish Egret. The fish
moved forward to inspect the fly in the skinny water, pushing a bulging
wake. A less experienced fly fisher would have overreacted and lifted
the rod, but K. kept her rod tip low to the water and gave the fish
time to ingest the tiny, size 6 Clouser. The surface exploded, and the
red did its best to fight, but it was in far too little water to
exploit the homefield advantage. Minutes later, K. landed and
released the red. With a sense of relief that “the stink was off,” we
turned toward a dozen backs and tails within a stone’s throw of
us.   

    K. and I were fishing in an area that was a mile
beyond where most boats venture to go during normal tides. We were on
the far east side of of what locals refer to simply as “the sand,” and
above a barely submerged shelf that roughly defines the eastern edge of
Padre Island––an area that I call the “upper sand.” The tides had
recently risen to autumn levels, pushing a few extra inches of water
onto the upper sand. While the few anglers able to approach the shelf
would have happily fished along the deeper edge, thinking that nothing
could lie beyond, K. and I were fishing in breathtaking conditions
to visible, aggressive fish outside the margins of conventional
angling.



Something new?

    While few people have experienced this kind of
“extreme” fly fishing, it is more available than one might think. And
further, it may be increasingly available, at least for a while, on the
Lower Laguna, for a couple of reasons. 

Fresh Water Influx. Up until a few years ago, south Texas was in the
throes of a decade-long drought. The Lower Laguna, which is a
hypersaline, was even saltier than average.  This above-average
salinity stressed many of the aquatic plants and animals, most notably
some plants and animals that play a big role in attracting redfish into
super shallow water.

    As for plants, widgeon grass or “ditch grass”––which
provides habitat for crabs and shrimp––is, properly speaking, a fresh
water species that has been recently spreading across the shallowest
areas of the east and west sides of the Lower Laguna. While some areas
of the LLM are losing shoalgrass, shallower areas that were largely
vegetation-free are now meadows of widgeon grass. I have observed that
there are more crabs, shrimp, and baitfish in these areas than ever
before.  Not only is there apparently more habitat in
extramarginal waters than before,  the overal shrimp production is
enhanced, as well , by the influx of fresh water into the hypersaline
lagoon.

    The Absence of Hurricanes. In addition to fresh
water inflows that have supported the growth of various plant and
animal life, the senstive estuary has also been spared a direct hit
from a major hurricane for the last two decades, giving the seagrass a
chance to gain a purchase on previously windswept, largely unvegetated
areas.  I rarely observed significant populations of shrimp on the
east side until various seagrasses began to get a foothold on “the
sand,” turning it from white to yellow, and even to green in many
places. Whereas I once started each day fly fishing for tailing reds in
westside lagoons, I will often target tailing reds and tailing pods of
reds that have started congregating at first light on the east side in
these fertile, grassy areas. The next hurricane will surely sweep the
east side of its tenuous vegetation and cover it with fresh sand, thus
restoring “the sand” to its former status as the “the white sand.” But
until then, redfish may gravitate toward these temporarily fertile
areas.

    The eastside area where K. and I fished was
clearly infested with shrimp that September evening, which accounted
for much of the feeding activity that we observed and overheard all
around us. I fully believe that the sparse widgeon grass accounted for
the shrimps’ presence, which, in turn, accounted for the significant
numbers of feeding redfish.

    Certainly, “extramarginal” fly fishing has always
been available regardless of fluctuating conditions. The problem is
knowing where and when it can be found, and how to gain access to these
areas.



The Zone Approach

    The Lower Laguna is the largest continuous shallow water flat in North America and, according to some
estimates, comprises about 300 square miles. But the fishable area of
the Lower Laguna fluctuates dramatically as a function of tidal depth
and the shallow water capability of one’s boat. For an estuary that
varies only a couple of feet from “deep” to “shallow,” an extra foot
radically transforms the angling picture. Normally, the position of the
sun relative to the earth adds a good foot to the tidal average from
September to December, and then again from March to June. Meanwhile,
the moon accounts for monthly fluctuations that add and subtract from
the seasonal averages. Beyond these predictable rhythms, heavy rain
runoff will temporarily add to the LLM’s depth, and any tropical system
that makes it into the Gulf will send a surge of seawater into the
Lagoon, as well, thus creating a significant deviation from the usual
pattern. With this in mind, anglers can get a pretty good idea about
how to find extramarginal waters at any time of year if they follow the
tidal charts and stay abreast of unusual weather conditions.

    I find it useful to break the LLM into five depth
zones. Zone One averages three feet or more at mean low water, and
defines the navigable waters for deep draft boats. When people speak of
fishing near the Causeway, west of Green Island, east of Three Islands,
in the Saucer, or in Redfish Bay near Port Mansfield, they are
referring to the large basins where bait fishermen and blind-casting
spin fishermen customarily anchor or drift in the deepest water on the
LLM.

    Zone Two might be generically called the “grass
flats.”  Solid and broken patches of shoal grass and turtle grass
grow there in about 18-24 inches of water. This zone attracts anglers
who primarily spin fish, whether they are blind casting or sight
casting. The deeper areas of Rattlesnake Bay and Payton’s Bay, the
Target area south and west of Mansfield, and the area southeast of
Stover’s Point, all fit this description.

    Zone Three averages about a foot at low water, and
may be heavily vegetated or largely clear of vegetation, depending on
which side of the estuary one is referring to. On the east side, “the
sand” defines the third zone. On the west side, the third zone can be
found in such areas most of  Paytons Bay, the Mud Hole, south
RattleSnake Bay, and south Cullens Bay.

    Zone Four is, on average, about six inches deep,
although these areas may have deeper troughs that provide access to
skiffs. Areas such as Parker Lake (aka Lake “X”), the shallow area to
the west of Dunkin’s channel, as well as other unnamed back lagoons on
the west side fit this description. The upper sand on the east side is
a Zone Four venue, as well.

    If  Zone Four is largely unknown to most
anglers, Zone Five is about as familiar as the dark side of the moon,
and is only three or four inches in depth. On the east side, it is the
Algal Mat––a dark-bottomed expanse that is covered with a slick coating
of algae because of its periodic exposure to the air. On the west side,
the largely sterile Zone Five extends westward from the last of the
vegetated areas to the mainland. It, too, shows signs of exposure to
air, and is largely free of vegetation, except for patches of stressed
glasswort.



A Shifting Focus

    A fly fisher who wishes to target extramarginal
waters will do well to concentrate on Zones Three and Four, 
depending on the time of year. During the midwinter and midsummer low
tides, Zone Three will generally define the shallowest areas that will
still accommodate feeding fish. However, the water in Zone Three may
become so shallow and undesirable from a temperature standpoint (too
cold in the winter, and too warm in the summer) that the area between
the grass and the sand––often referred to as the “transition”–– may
offer the best extramarginal angling.

    During the moon-driven high tides of summer and
winter, or during the higher tides of fall and spring, the
extramarginal waters shift to Zone Four and Five. This is an exciting
time for fly fishers, who can now venture into areas that were too
shallow to host feeding game fish during the seasonal low tides, but
suddenly become refuges from the normal boat traffic for larger feeding
reds.

    I have found that the average size of redfish that
venture into extramarginal waters tends to be  somewhat larger than the average redfish in slightly deeper waters. The reason for
this, I believe, has to do with the greater level of threat in
shallower water. In water shallower than a foot deep, any fish smaller
than 22 inches is a potential target for ospreys, cormorants, and blue
herons.  However, a larger redfish has little to fear from
predatorial birds. The only conceivable threat to larger fish is from
coyotes, which often prowl the flats looking for fish. While coyotes
pose an insignificant threat in the overall picture, a friend of mine
recently spotted a coyote carrying a rather large redfish in his mouth.





Angling Tactics

    It may be surprising to learn that redfish are
relatively easy to approach in extramarginal conditions. Fishing with
my son Peter just a week before K. and I visited the upper sand, we
encountered a phenomenon that fly fishers would die for. Dozens of
redfish were streaming toward us from the east, passing slowly by us on
their way to deeper water.  Spending most of my time trying to
facilitate Pete’s success, I watched fish after fish pass within 15
feet of him while he was casting to, or hooked up with another redfish
on his fly rod. Meanwhile, he would become distracted by the size of
the passing fish, urging me to get on the  ball and catch
one.   

    What makes redfish easy to approach in six inches of
water has to do with their purpose for being there. They show up in
such places for one reason only––to feed. Consequently, they tend to be
visually focused on what is immediately in front of, and beneath
them.  However, while they may overlook the presence of an angler,
they will pick up on the slightest sound, making it necessary for the
stalking angler to move without making any noise. Indeed, the reds are
extremely sensitive to the slightest disturbance in the water, and will
come from as far as six feet away to investigate the plop of a tiny fly
entering the water, or move away from the slightest ripple that passes
overhead. Because a Zone Four venue can be filled with Widgeon Grass on
the east side, or a mixture of  seagrasses on the west side, a fly
fisher must either cast close to the fish and hope not to spook him, or
wait for the fish to come to investigate the fly before stripping.
Otherwise, the fish will usually depart in disgust upon discovering a
fouled fly.

    Because these shallow, sensitive conditions call for
a delicate approach, a fly fisher would do well to use use a size six  or seven rod, at most.  The fish cannot fight very hard
in such shallow conditions, so a lighter rod poses little threat to
their recovery. As for flies, I recommend using a size 6 weedless
Clouser on the east side, and either a  weedless shrimp pattern
like my own Mother’s Day Fly––or a lightweight spoon such as my
Kingfisher Spoon––on the west side. I always discourage clients and
friends from using poppers in extramarginal waters, because the fish
will too often spot the angler just as soon as it looks up.

    Fly fishing is clearly the method of choice in such
sensitive conditions. While a spin fisher can succeed by throwing an
unweighted Texas-rigged worm or a weedless Sluggo, casting anything
larger and heavier is equivalent to setting off a small bomb in church.
If redfish had wheels, they would leave rubber on their way to deeper
water.



Getting There

    The Lower Laguna is somewhat unique among the Texas
coastal bays by being comparatively inaccessible by automobile. 
Much of the 300 square-mile estuary is surrounded by King Ranch,
Atascosa National Wildlife Refuge, and Padre Island National Seashore.
These protective barriers keep the estuary in its primitive state, but
also prevent anglers from accessing the shallowest waters.

    If you want to access extramarginal waters by boat,
you need to have a boat that will take you into, or at least to the
edge of, whatever zone is flooded by eight inches of water. Most
anglers I know who can access this depth own Maverick HPXs (with jack
plates and low water pickups), NewWater Curlews or Ibises, or small
scooters such as the Maudy, the Shoalwater, or the Payton built by
Cougar Marine. As a rule, four cycle outboards will prevent any boat,
regardless of draft, from accessing such shallow waters due to the
weight on the transom, and the relative sluggish hole shot against a
firm bottom. As carburated motors make a slow exit due to the new
emission standards, fuel injected two-cycles like the Tohatsu TLDI or
the Evinrude E-Tec will keep extramarginal waters within reach.

    For anglers who have deeper draft boats, all is not
lost. There are areas of extramarginal water that lie adjacent to
deeper water. For instance, the east side of the Saucer, the east side
of the Three Islands basin near the drum boats, and the south side of
the Mansfield East Cut near Marker 17 all provide access to “the sand.”
However the upper sand and comparable westside lagoons will require a
more considerable commitment from park-and-wade anglers. As a
middle-aged man, I no longer relish mile-long speculative wades, but
there are several areas that can be accessed by more industrious
anglers. Such commitment often pays off.  Two years ago, K. and
I waded into a lagoon that appeared to be nearly dry during the low
tides of mid-July. We wanted to see if the lagoon could support
gamefish under such conditions. We trudged 250 yards through
three-inch-deep water and gummy mud until the water gradually increased
in depth. Backs began to appear, and we found ourselves among dozens of
single redfish, feeding in about only seven to eight inches of
water.  Since then, I have looked upon waters that are “obviously
too shallow” with new eyes.



The Payoff

    Fishing extramarginal waters provides an
exceptionally visual encounter with above-average redfish. While it may
sorely test your casting skills, it will leave you “reeling” at the end
of the day with wonder. Just a month ago, I guided my old client and
friend Jim Posgate from Kerrville, and our mutual friend John Kautsch
from the Rio Grande Valley. We went out on a “bad weather” day, hoping
to skirt the edges of the promised storms. I planed over hundreds of
acres of waking redfish on the way to the upper sand, knowing that the
water was too deep in main portion of the LLM for sight casting fly
fishers.

We parked the Curlew about 100 yards shy of the upper sand, and
approached the area under calm conditions. Walking over the same
grasswort-covered island that K. and I had visited with our dogs,
Jim, John and I spread out and began to spot backs and tails against
the glare of the sunrise.  After catching three reds apiece, a
storm chased us back to the boat. It seemed that the day was over,
especially when the signs of feeding redfish had disappeared with the
passage of the shower.  But instead of leaving, I opted to leave
the guys near the boat and hike eastward into shallower and shallower
water. As the wind completely died, I peered against the glare and
began to spot wakes 200 yards further east in the skinniest water
imaginable. I called to Jim and John, who waded toward me, and we
spread out to intercept the fish that cruised slowly toward us. Seven
hours later, we dragged ourselves back to the boat, all talking at the
same time, sharing stories about our on-the-knees encounters with big
reds. As we headed back to the mouth of the Arroyo Colorado in the
waning twilight, both Jim and John exclaimed that it was the best fly
fishing they had ever experienced.

    For myself, I sometimes think that I’ve seen it all,
and that the feeling that I once had when I was a kid when my father
would take me fishing along the ICW in our  old plywood boat––the
feeling of adventure among uncharted oceans of water and space––will
never come again. But then I wade a bit further into the “mother
lagoon,” and discover places that are so shallow and so remote that the
old feeling of wonder comes back again. While there may be few areas of
wilderness left in the world, it is my hope that there will always be
wild places that are too shallow, too steep, or too rocky to attract
most people. It is there that we may rekindle the feeling of wildness
that, for many of us, makes living in a crowded, all-too-familar place,
a tolerable proposition.