By Drew Ross
(originally published in Tail #28 – March/April 2017)
Standing tall, my eyes are focused, my mind empty.
I’m fixated on locating the distinct sounds of feeding redfish. Poling and moving along as silently as possible, the kayak glides effortlessly, masking my presence in the marsh. If I’m successful, I’ll spot a redfish at a distance that will enable me to make a good presentation without spooking it. If unsuccessful, the six-hour drive home will give me time to assess my deficiencies.
As expected, the brackish water is falling slowly and only slightly stained. I wait for the sun to ease overhead and highlight the copper silhouettes roaming the newly exposed grass lines. In these conditions, the reds will be ambushing bait as it exits the maze. They will also be vulnerable and extremely skittish. An errant cast or clumsy poling assures failure.
It’s these challenges—sneaking through their environment trying to find and ambush them— that make sight fishing for redfish so addictive. This hunt is what keeps me coming back each fall, why I check the weather daily and never commit to anything from October to January. When the conditions are just right, I’m on my way to the marsh.
Others question my sanity. I sometimes question it myself, until I see that shadow lurking at the fringe of my casting range. I move in slow motion, attempting to silently replace the pole in my hands with my fly rod without spooking the fish.
I only look away for a second to grab the rod, but the fish has since slipped out of sight. Where did it go? How did two feet of glowing, potential chaos vanish in a foot of water? Could it have been a ray? My eyes scan the water, hoping to catch a color change or flicker of movement that betrays the fish beneath the surface. I suddenly see the soft blue glow as the fish mobilizes, moving steadily away from me.
The fly lands softly at the edge of the grass, just in front of my departing target. My heartbeat quickens, anticipating the eat. The redfish leisurely continues its way down the grass line. Then, inexplicably, it changes course and turns towards me. Do I pick the fly up and attempt to lay it back down softly? Hope the fish turns? There’s no time to pick it up now, as any movement now will betray my location. Frustration sets in as I realize it’s just a matter of seconds before the redfish sees me and my shot is blown.
Suddenly in a stroke of luck, the fish turns again and starts moving back down the grass line. My knees begin to perceptibly shake and I steady myself. Hope starts building again. Strip…strip…pause.
As I wait for the fish to pounce, I prepare for what’s about to take place, running through a mental checklist: remember to strip-set, play the angle and get the fish on the reel. It’s going to run through the back door and over the grass islands. Be ready to chase it down. When the battle seems over, expect the redfish to dive under the kayak one last time in an attempt to free itself.
Did I strip too soon? It had to have seen my offering. The streamer flutters to the bottom while I drown in disbelief, heart sinking at the realization that I missed the shot. That should have been an eat. Before the thought is complete, there’s a sudden flash. The world slows as the water erupts in chaos. The line rips through the grass, leaving me at the mercy of an out of control marsh bully.
Nothing is going to plan and the 8-weight rod is begging for mercy. The kayak drifts in one direction as the red runs in another, and it has jumped two islands before I finally get it together and start moving after it. The result of this confrontation is uncertain, but the encounter has already reaffirmed why I put myself through this every fall.
Drew Ross is a member of the Jackson Kayak and Bending Branches teams. You can keep up with Drew’s adventures in Tail or on his Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/looknfishy/.
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