Capt. Adam Loud had said the school of redfish would be there, in the little trough along “that oyster.” He had said it so calmly and almost flatly that I believed him, despite the surrounding thousands of identical oyster clusters still high and dry at the start of the flood tide, on Northeast Florida’s Amelia River.
Truth be told, Adam’s prediction had been slightly overconfident, about as off target as Elmer Fudd shooting at that wascally wabbit. About 20 yards from the tip of the aforementioned oyster head, we spotted four fish swimming steadily right toward the bow of Adam’s Ranger Banshee. They weren’t 15 feet away, and I didn’t like how they swam, slightly wary, and headed someplace in particular with their jaws closed. As with almost every fish we caught this trip, I had to make a difficult decision, fast, and although we didn’t land many fish, each shot proved invaluable experience.
Since we hadn’t seen any telltale redfish activity, I had been blind casting a small Skitterwalk. Small topwaters are great “search” lures for redfish in marshes, especially early and late, but are far from the bait of preference for sight casting. A rod lay at my feet rigged with the jerkbait, but I didn’t want to reach for it for fear of the close fish seeing the movement or feeling a bow wave from the shifting weight. I had to throw the plug.
But the fish were so close I would have to hit them on the head just to have enough room to work the plug before the fish saw the boat. The best shot was behind them and as far to the right as possible without losing a line that would bring the plug in front of the fish. Talk about acute angles, the cast reminded me of one of those short pool shots you’re trying to slip between the eight ball and the rail at just the right speed without kissing either.
I can’t say I made the shot. The plug came right up on the tails of the swimming fish.
“Just keep working it,” Adam whispered.
Tick, tock, tick, tock and “sploosh.” One fish stopped dead in its tracks and craned its “neck” to swipe at the plug. The first swipe was a clean miss, but two vigorous tail swishes and the fish attacked it again. The fight lasted about 5 seconds, then the hooks pulled.
“Watch, they’ll go right back to that oyster,” Adam said. I nodded. He’d been right so far, and I’ve fished around enough Low Country oysters to know that when redfish are staging to feed, or not really feeding, feeding lazily (letting a marsh drain carry food to them on the tide), or scared, they locate to subtle bottom contours adjacent to the complex structure provided by oysters.
Now, tourism promoters don’t lump Northeast Florida into the Low Country, but Northeast Florida’s coastal geology has much more in common with the coasts of Georgia and the Carolinas than it does with the mangrove marshes of East Central, Southeast, and Southwest Florida. The same tactics that work in Savannah, Georgia, or Charleston, work here, which is partially why Adam, a Florida native, has two major redfish tournament victories in Georgia under his belt.
As in most southern rivers, Amelia River mud is incredibly soft—so soft that locals have developed mud shoes to walk across it. It doesn’t take much to stir it up, and the brief battle with that redfish had roiled the water so badly that visibility was nil. So we would have to change over from sight-casting mode to “educated blind-casting mode.”
Except when spooky fish are laid up really shallow—a situation that just about demands a very delicate presentation with a fly—it’s usually best, especially when you can’t see the fish, to appeal to all of their senses. In pure blind-casting situations, Adam and several other redfish tour anglers rely heavily on spinnerbaits rigged with scented soft plastics. The spinnerblade provides the visual appeal of a spoon, plus it makes noise and vibrations to attract the red. And as the soft-plastic bait “melts,” the scent seals the deal. But when scared redfish pull a disappearing act your approach must be a little more subtle.
Bad presentations, e.g. loud splashes, as well as loud or flashy baits will spook already wary redfish in shallow water. And when feeding over soft bottom they will spook in one of two ways. One, the fish will sink right up to the nares in the mud, leaving you to wonder where they went, if they went anywhere at all, except down; or they bolt across the flat and hunker down elsewhere.
Occasionally you can fool a spooked fish by putting a scented soft-plastic shrimp or jerkbait in their path. But usually not. From experience, Adam knew that the fish would move toward a slight depression next to cover. We gave them a couple of minutes to calm down, watching the area for any sign of movement. The fish didn’t move. They hadn’t been moving very aggressively before we first saw them, and we figured they were even less inclined to move now. So, we pitched Texas-rigged odiferous jerkbaits around the oyster, crawling them slowly so they made soft mud puffs, and twitching them periodically to raise their visibility. Thus, the approach satisfied the criteria for appealing to all senses, but in a much more subtle way than tossing scent-enhanced hardware. And, on a spring day when the water was just still a tad too cold for the fish to feed vigorously, it managed to get one fish’s interest. Of course I whiffed that one, too, and the fish either fled or cloaked themselves in mud.
That flat and adjacent topography is the kind you look for when redfishing mud/oyster flats at the bottom end of an outgoing tide, low tide, or the start of an incoming tide. It is a round, acre-sized basin, one big enough that the fish don’t feel penned in. There’s also a subtle terrace on the east side covered by even shallower water, which offers fish a place to push into as the tide pushes in. A deepwater refuge in the form of a channel lies to the southwest, so there’s someplace to escape on extreme low tides, and since it’s close to a channel, will flood first on the incoming tide. Adam and I could have poled off the flat, let it rest for a half hour, and returned on the incoming tide. But Adam expected a fairly strong flood tide and was intent on fishing off the beaten track, deep in a maze of oyster mounds.
We found the first bunch of reds lazing in another basin that, when the tide filled in just a bit more, would connect to another oyster-studded basin. Again, the fish were in a slight depression fairly close to an oyster bar. And lord, were they spooky. Just lifting the rod sent the first batch scurrying. So, when the next opportunity presented itself, I led the fish by at least 15 feet. The offering was a reeking shrimp imitation rigged weedless, and one fish swam over lackadaisically before pouncing on it. But I got antsy and lifted the rod a little too quickly, reacting to what I saw and not what I felt. Luckily, another fish came right along and scarfed it up.
There are several lessons here. First, calm down and quit whiffing on the strike. Also, if you’re fishing with spinning or conventional tackle, use something soft, seductive and stinky when you’re on spooky fish and get it way in front of them. You can use your rodtip or reel to move the bait into position as the fish approaches. Just don’t swim the bait toward the fish. Rather, try to make it quarter away like fleeing forage, and drag it through the mud so it kicks up a puff. Don’t worry, redfish are scent feeders, and are accustomed to rooting prey out of the mud. Often, you’ll scare off spooky fish if you jig the offerings upwards. Finally, when using soft-plastic baits, strike when you feel the fish, not when you see it. They’ll hang onto that piece of plastic for a long, long time.
Ironically, the last shot that the Amelia River gave me while fishing with Capt. Adam Loud was best taken with a fly rod. In most shallow settings with clear water and visible fish, and in the right hands, a fly rod is the most effective weapon. And until I hooked up, the water had been shallow and clear in this basin among thousands of basins. Then a whole school had spooked and churned up the mud.
“They’re right there, by that oyster,” Adam said, confidently, again.
The fish were concealed by the muddied water, but the water was slightly disturbed, as the tide washed around invisible bodies. The fish were huddled in a very small area between a point in the marsh and an emergent oyster bar. Anything but the slightest splash would spook the fish; perhaps even a dimple would have the same effect so I opted for the fly. I quickly tied on a very small Spoon Fly that veteran local guide Terry Lacoss had given me. I figured it would land fairly quietly, but flash and vibrate a little as it fell. A fish nailed it on the second strip, and then bounced off one oyster bar after the other like a cue ball as it lunged away from the Banshee. Bringing the fish to hand, Adam said, “The rest of the school’s up ahead, on that oyster. We’ll go get ’em.”
