in praise of the redfish salt marsh

by Michael Steinberg

Many fly anglers and our industry in general are fixated on finding the next angling frontier destination. Ideally, these are virgin waters where no fisherman has made a cast. This fixation is understandable given the growing pressure on traditional destinations as the popularity of our sport has grown, as well as larger environmental issues, which lead to fewer grip and grin shots. We all want to cast to naïve and generous fish, unhurried by competing boats and rival anglers. And even if we aren’t in a recently opened destination, we hope our guides will lead us to some hard-to-reach or secret spot avoided by less motivated “vacation” anglers. I have climbed through many mangrove tangles and slogged through thigh-deep mud in search of hidden bonefish lagoons, sometimes even finding success. On one occasion in a specific location in Cuba, I am certain I was the first fly angler to ever wrinkle that water with a fly line. I’m not exactly sure why that has meaning other than the fish were incredibly aggressive, but it does indeed have meaning. Perhaps it’s the angling equivalent of being the first to summit a new peak. But these virgin waters whether they be the Bolivian jungle or some remote atoll in the South Pacific are usually harder than hell to get to, increasingly rare, and ridiculously expensive to visit. So sometimes it’s good to take stock and appreciate the opportunities closer to home, even if those opportunities aren’t in far-flung, exotic waters.

In this case, the opportunity closer to home is the redfish and their marsh environ. The redfish nor the salt marsh need any sort of introduction. It’s probably the most commonly targeted saltwater species in the coastal South. It also has a huge home range from Virginia to south Texas, so there are plenty of opportunities to fish them. However, even though it’s a popular species, it still seems to take a backseat to “The Big Three” – bonefish, tarpon, and permit – especially where the species’ ranges overlap. I’ve had many conversations at lodges or fly shops about people’s obsession with one or all of The Big Three, but I have never heard anyone tell me how they identify as a redfish specialist. I realize it’s probably assumed in many places such as the Low Country simply because redfish is the most common nearshore species to target on a fly, but it still seems like they are treated as a poor man’s cousin to the grand slam, not quite as exotic or sexy as The Big Three. Before the Cajun food craze, some folks even referred to them as trash fish, to which I take great offense. I find casting to flood tide redfish just as challenging (sometimes more so) as any gamefish ...

So, my mission today is to carry the proverbial banner for redfish. I’ll carry the banner for many reasons, but first and foremost because they represent an impressive fisheries conservation success story. This history may be unknown to many of the younger members of the audience because, based on numbers today, who could imagine a coastal marsh without redfish? But that wasn’t always the case. There was a time in the late 20th century when they were rare. New Orleans Chef Paul Prudhomme developed the blackened redfish dish, which became the rage across the nation. The absurd popularity of the dish caused the redfish population in the Gulf of Mexico to plummet to the point that the fish had to be protected from purse seins, which targeted adult aggregations. As the population crashed, federal regulations were initiated to protect the breeding stock of redfish in Gulf waters. And after intense lobbying by sport fishing groups such as the Coastal Conservation Association, many states also acted by banning inshore commercial harvests and gill nets. While that’s a brief and ridiculously incomplete history of redfish conservation, their healthy numbers today represent one of the great sporting conservation successes in our industry.

But beyond patting ourselves on the back, I’ve come to appreciate the redfish and the marsh for so many other reasons. I find few other angling landscapes as intriguing as a salt marsh. Every season presents a new canvas, with colors reminiscent of the work of Charleston, SC artist Betty Anglin Smith (if you don’t know her work, check it out). Summer is alive with earthy smells and sounds. Schools of shrimp jump and pop. Cruising big mullet fool me, causing my heart to skip a beat and my guide to shake his head. Ospreys hover and out-fish me. Oysters squirt, croak, and crack, reminding me they aren’t just a prop hazard. Flocks of tree swallows buzz by, thankfully eating a few of the bloodsucking mosquitoes. And the organic smells of exposed mud and oyster beds create a Pavlovian response where I can’t wait to find a raw bar that evening. The sounds, sights, and smells are of an environment that is truly alive, which in turn sharpens my senses. Fall and winter represent a quieter time when the ecological engine slows a bit and far fewer anglers. The marsh remains alive with fish of course, but also migratory ducks, and a hue of colors ranging from rusty marsh grasses to pale blue and purple winter skies. The fish may be a bit less aggressive, at least until the sun reaches its zenith, but they’re still around and still need to eat – at least that’s what I tell myself when the angling turns slow. Surely, they still need to eat!

Even the sounds of distant shotguns, culling the teal population I assume, are a welcome distraction from the silence because it represents a change of season in my mind’s eye.

The tides play a role in my marsh fascination as well. I’ve never spent time in a landscape that changes so radically between high and low tides, especially the extreme tides. As an outsider, I can fish the same spot during different tides and they are largely unrecognizable. One moment I’m trying to delicately land a fly amongst the marsh grass stems, the next I’m blind casting in channels and the grass is high and dry. I have developed deep respect for my guides who (usually) flawlessly navigate these waters with oyster beds inches below the surface. And because of that respect I’ve never been tempted to do it yourself (halfass it) with a rental boat, likely to be stranded quite literally up a creek without a paddle.

Beyond aesthetic rewards, redfish and the marsh represent a personal refuge. I often find myself casting to reds on various solo holidays. As a single, middle-aged dude whose grown kids live far away, I often retreat to the marsh to avoid the dreaded lonely holiday. Fly fishing, even on the slowest days, is far more rewarding than kicking stones and feeling sorry for myself. A day in the marsh even made last Thanksgiving dinner spent in the Beaufort Waffle House not only palatable but enjoyable given the previous six hours spent on a bow. Besides, if I’m paying a guide, he must talk with me, so I’m never alone, right? Sarcasm aside, the very fact that the marsh and its redfish are accessible make it possible to serve as a refuge and sometimes reward when I treat myself to a birthday trip. It may not be an isolated atoll, but it is a beautiful setting to contemplate fish, friends, and life. As Thomas McGuane wrote in his brilliant collection of fishing essays, The Longest Silence, "I had in my own heart the usual modicum of loneliness, annoyance, and desire for revenge, but it never seemed to make it to the river." When I’m fly fishing for reds, I feel no loneliness, annoyance, and have no desire for revenge; they do not make it to the marsh. Instead, I feel grateful that such an angling landscape exists and that I have access to it.

Rods