It’s finally cooled off and thanks heavens for that. Haven’t done much sailing in the last month or so due to the kids being back in school and life in general, but I have availed myself to Jody’s early morning canoe initiative by joining him on a few Sunday outings. Paddling along in the waning darkness, fishing rod leaning forward in the bow, a thought came to me from many years ago when my buddy Ali and I were wrapping up our second Everglades Wilderness Waterway canoe trip. With the canoe pulled away from the ramp, and all our camping gear strewn around, we took a stroll around the marina in Flamingo to stretch our legs, waiting for my Dad to come get us from Miami Springs. A gentlemen who seemed to have time on his hands as well engaged us in conversation, and he must have gone on a while, because I remember thinking “we got a talker.” Anyway, he relayed a story that has stuck in my head ever since, and there in the marshes of St. Marks on Florida’s Big Bend, it came back to me with some relevance. I’ll call his story, The Master of Hell’s Bay. He may have actually said 'Wizard,' but either way.
Hells Bay is a lake in the mangroves of the Everglades National Park, a few miles on the right before you reach the headquarters at Flamingo. It can only be reached by a narrow canoe trail, twisting through the overhanging mangroves, about half a day’s paddle, till it suddenly opens up into the shallow expanse of a small lake. A pavilion sits in the middle of the open water where one can pitch a tent to hide from the mosquitoes, and of course they provide a porta-potty and a neat log book guests can sign, at least all that was there back in 1983. I should check to see if it still exists after the last few hurricanes. Anyway, it was the first canoe/camping trip I ever did with my friend Kent Reetz. There we were, two high schoolers, on our own, the smell of freedom, Off, and the aroma of rotting mangrove leaves made for a heady brew. I remember us trying to fish the perimeter of the bay, casting between the tangled mangrove roots hoping for a snook waiting in ambush, but before long Kent and I gave up. We agreed the bay was much too shallow and the water too warm and stagnant to be home to anything worth fishing for.
But, according to this talkative stranger, the ‘Master of Hell’s Bay’ knew better. He was an old man who had the only angle on how to fish the place. He was very sneaky, never letting anyone follow to learn his method. It was his secret alone. The theory was, he would wait at the opening of one of the creeks that lead in and out of the bay, and when the tide was coming in, he’d lure a big snook who’d be there ready to catch whatever was moving through the opening. No one knew where he set up for sure, but apparently he would often return to the marina with his limit on snook. I think my mouth was hanging open at the hearing of this tale, as the memory of that place swirled in my head, along with thoughts of what might have been back when we were sixteen. Funny, there’s nothing revolutionary about fishing a creek opening on a rising or falling tide, that’s what you’re supposed to do. But the idea of an old man paddling a canoe for hours to get to into Hells Bay of all places, with it’s limpid water, shallow muck bottom, and a robust insect air defense, only to return with his limit on snook, is a grain of sand I can't get out of my proverbial clam shell.
Well, I think we’re too far North on the Big Bend of Florida for snook fishing, but we do have Redfish, and they have of mystique all their own. So let me cut to the chase. I want to be the same guy. The ‘Master’ guy. And, as most everyone called a ‘Master’ is typically an old man, I figure I have time to get there. If Jody and I keep paddling around the marshes, were bound to stumble upon a couple reds eventually, if just by accident. Maybe old sick ones? And really, it occurs to me that it’s not necessary to be a great fisherman anyway. I just have to create the illusion of being a good fisherman, and of course I’ll need a mouthy guy who hangs out around the ramp at St. Marks to help spread the legend of my exploits. It would help if there was a nearby oyster and beer joint or even better, a bait shop frequented by old men who sit around a spitoon reading the paper, but unfortunately St. Marks is a Wildlife Refuge and there’ll be no such thing.
I guess it’s gonna fall to me and this blog. Perhaps I should start laying in the narrative now, so in a couple decades from now it may will have taken root. Let’s see.....it would help if we actually caught some redfish, instead of the same two Spanish mackerel we keep encountering. Jody mentioned maybe hiring a guide. But as a master, that doesn’t seem right; listening to a guide. Perhaps if I pretend there was no exchange of money, and I would have fished exactly where he told me to anyway, I could square it with myself. That could work.
But wait a minute, that won’t work. The Master ignored all the obvious, sensible places a guide would take you to around Flamingo. He made his name by fishing in as confounding a spot as you would hope to avoid. So I need to put some time into finding a similar place around here. Google earth will help with that I suppose. A dank mud flat, as far up one of these nameless marshes as we can push, completely exposed at low tide, as devoid of any angulatory potential as possible, and there we will set up shop, and not give up till we discover the secrets of that place. Just like the Master did in Hells Bay. And if one of the secrets of this secluded marsh includes a footpath that leads to a section of Highway 98 where the guy sells fish out of the back of his truck, then we can cut the time frame to achieving 'Master' status substantially.
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| Hells Bay Master Fishing Technique Theory #4. Stately Southern manners and a courtly demeanor seldom go amiss. |
For the time being I guess we’ll have to go at it honestly, using good old-fashioned jumper cables and a car bat.....I mean a rod and reel, and in this effort I promise to report any success. So far we've been concentrating around the oyster bars as the tides move in and out, like all the other anglers do, but so far without success. I had one nice hook up way up a marsh creek where the water was moving through a constriction in the reeds. It was exactly where I'd be hanging out if I was a redfish, but I had no leader on my jig and he broke me off. Seeing the many photos of people catching redfish in every outdoor magazine and sporting good store bulletin board would seemingly get on my nerves, but no. I have a sailboat, and none of those people in the photos are fishing from sailboats, so maybe there's some kind of handicap there. Plus they have pretty young women along in bikinis typically, so maybe that's an added attraction to redfish. Whatever the case, it's beneath a master of saltwater fishing to have anxiety over almost never catching any fish. So I'll hold it together, and let you know when things turn around. Because, according to my legend, it's clearly going to turn around.
I have more to discuss, but again, I've resolved to shorten my posts. It comes to my attention there are people actually reading my blog. My closest friends report trouble pushing through my posts, but not their parents! So, to Sally and Jose, let me say welcome, and from the rail I raise my coffee mug to you. Salute!
Brian
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| My Daughter Emma--5th grade, was not going to allow Pops to hog all the fun of drawing mermaids, so enjoy her handy- work. Obviously the pet fish is some species other than a snook. |
Well done! Thanks
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