With winter bearing down on northeast Florida, I have some time to reflect back on the seasons that have just become a memory. Spring began this year a little late, as winter still had its grip on the southeastern states. Florida did not make it out of this cold season until nearly the end of April, and cold days seemed to linger longer than they have the past few years. The cold winter we had throughout the state did a number on some of our more delicate marine residents. Just a bit south of Jacksonville, snook, which had begun to take up residence further north than they had in the past, succumbed to the frigid water temps which they are not equipped to handle. Spotted sea trout, although found much further north than Jax, had a hard time coming out of the season, and were noticeably absent from many of their normal haunts. The redfish, which I love to target, are the hardiest of our saltwater fish, and even they seemed to lag going into spring. Everything was in slow motion this year, and it seemed the natural progression of the season just didn't happen below the surface. The fishing was just slow.
May seemed to be the turning point. Mid morning low tides brought fish in shallow, cruising the edges of the local creeks, pushing bait, wallowing in the mud a bit, and turning on, albeit late. One bright spot of 2010 was the proliferation of bait present. This is a blessing and a curse. The sheer amount of food present creates a situation of gluttonous feeding among the fish, but it also frustrates the fisherman. With so much food available in such close proximity, it seems fish need only swim through clouds of tiny shrimp and baitfish with mouths open to satisfy their hunger. Presenting a bait or fly in this situation and feeding a fish is extremely difficult. The fish show themselves, but the best presentation is often met with nothing. It confounds the angler, but I think the fish are not keying in on anything, they don't have to, the game is that easy. Go where the food is, and eat. The only challenge is on the part of the angler. Luck plays a huge part in fishing this time of year.
Spring often provides less than ideal fishing conditions. The lingering effects of winter, passing fronts and their windy remains, and slowly warming water temperatures usher in better fishing though, and as the tides begin to build to their fall peaks. Late spring and early summer in northeast Florida begin the bi-monthly flood tide cycles. The first ones are sporadic, coinciding with the highest tides of the month and easterly winds. More than once this year the tide and weather fooled me.
The flood tides are special. Redfish relish fiddler crabs. Often times, one cleans a redfish, only to find its stomach packed full of fiddler remains. The fish expose themselves in ways they would normally shy away from, tailing, splashing around recklessly, cruising on the surface of the water, completely exposed, all for the sake of finding and eating vulnerable fiddler crabs, handicapped by invading water that renders them utterly helpless to swimming predators. That is why fly fisherman flock to the spartina marsh when it looks like the stars will align for the perfect flood tide. Casting a crab pattern, or a dark colored spoon, to a red tailing slowly across a flooded spartina flat is the pinnacle of NE Florida sight fishing, nothing else even comes close.
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| Black Epoxy Spoon, the orange tail emulates a big male fiddler's orange claw |
The first decent flood tides of the year, for me at least, came in June. The first evening attempt at a flood tide came on a whim. I had loaded potential flood tides into my phone calender so I would be alerted accordingly. They have seemed to pass me by in the past, and the first couple days of the flood are always the best. The fish are eager to enter this domain, and they have not been pressured by incessant jerk-bait throwers and fly rodding water-swatters. They are there to eat, with no strings attached. These early summer fish are ready to go.
My first flood of 2010 was a guess, a prayer. I wanted it to flood, but there was a question in my head as to whether it would or not. I went anyway, stopping to chat with my buddy John at the flyshop on the way. He didn't think it would flood (he has been doing this a lot longer than me, so I tend to listen when he talks about fishing) but I did. He wished me luck, I'm sure thinking the whole time I was crazy. Well, I'll tell you what, it was marginal that night at best, but it flooded.
Something about the afternoon let me know it was going to be good. I made my way into a new area, and immediately found fish cruising the edges, harassing bait, and riding the incoming tide as far as they could into the marsh. There's a spooky sense of quiet right before it happens. Reds typically cruise the edge on high tide, using the grass as a wall to corral food, but this all stops right before the flood. The pops you hear of reds feeding cease, and the only thing you hear are distant marsh hens cackling as water creeps up on their concealed positions in the dense spartina grass. The outer edges of suitable grass flats are usually surrounded by denser shields of grass. One must stand up to see what the inside looks like. Most of the grass flats I fish have small open areas of less than an acre of short grass. Once the water is deep enough to float a yak, I make my way in. As the water rises, still relative silence fills the marsh.
There are milestones that the tide must reach, foot deep, ankle deep, shin deep. Once the water reaches a certain point ripples begin to dot the surface. These are small baitfish that have made their way up into the grass. This is no guarantee that its going to be a suitable flood, but it means its possible. This is when the excitement begins. If the water continues to come in, the reds will follow. The first fish usually comes as a surprise. Some reds seem to be a little more brazen than others, coming up on the flats much like low tide fish, back out of the water, carefree. These fish are typically smaller, and hard to catch. The water level at this point is usually such that the grass is barely covered, and trying to get a fish to see a fly in this situation is almost impossible. As the water rises more, the fish come up in the water a bit. Now you begin to see, and hear, the tell tale sign of a good flood. Redfish seem to stand on their head, almost falling over themselves like kids in the shallow end of the pool, trying to root out fiddlers from their muddy holes. This seems like a perfect time to cast, and it is, but care must be taken to see which direction a fish is heading on their feeding binge. I have found that, unless the fish has its head up, you are not going to pull him off of his feeding area. I place my cast in the fishes expected path, wait for him to get up and move, and slowly pull the fly in front of his face.
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| A good redfish feeding in the flooded spartina |
If done properly, and slowly enough, just as a fiddler would do, the fish will turn, and begin to follow. This is where the adrenaline begins pumping. There is so much grass in the fish's face, he often loses sight of the fly, but once he sees it, he keeps coming. The angler's job here is to keep the fly in front of the fish, and at all costs, keep it going the same speed. Eventually the fish will see the fly again and react. Stripping a fly in to 10' from your rod tip with a keyed up redfish in hot pursuit is one of the greatest experiences in the marsh. Many fish caught in the grass have eaten almost at my feet, and the show is amazing.
Once hooked, most of these fish don't fight all that hard. I suspect its the added friction, or discomfort, of the grass surrounding them that holds them back. Most runs are short, but the fight is all at the surface, with violent splashing and the bulldogging that is typical of any redfish fight. Every once in a while you may encounter a more substantial specimen in the grass though, and these fish do not fool around. Larger reds know what it means to be hooked, and will take you through the thickest of cover to win their freedom. Several times I have had reds in the 26" to 30" range take me completely off the flat and back into the creek from where they came. The angler must always be ready to give chase to a fish like this, as you'll most likely be landing him in the creek, rather than on the flat where the fly was taken.
So, getting back to the story, I was finally able to put together a decent flood tide afternoon, and found numerous fish clamoring for fiddlers on a tiny flat way back in one of my favorite creeks. I ended up feeding several and landing two nice reds, one around 22" and another around 26". The floods had begun, and it was a beautiful end to the week, and a wonderful beginning to the flood tide season...
