|Tai, Ryan, and Rosie wading wet on Christmas Eve|
We didn't hit the water at sunrise, nope, no way. It was 50 degrees, and while that may seem warm to some of you hailing from the north country, it's fireplace weather down here when it gets below 65. But the daytime high was supposed to be 77 by early afternoon, so we arrived at the dock at 9:30, and launched at 10 after loading our new Stilt with gear for its maiden voyage.
I'm teaching Ryan how to guide, so as we left the dock, I said, "This is a standard mid-winter extreme low tide, and that means we go south." We headed for south Cullens Bay, and after a chilly 10-mile run, we crossed over into Cullens Bay through the Wreck Channel and headed west toward shallower water. I expected to find a ton of fish in two feet of water, which we did, but the question was whether we could find them in a foot of water where we could see them.
Only one other boat was in south Cullens, so we had it mostly to ourselves. I ran southwest until we were moving small groups of reds and pairs of very large trout. I shut down and saw that we were in water a bit deeper than a foot, but there were plenty of fish, so I hoped that we could spot them tailing or pushing wakes in the glassy water, or visible in the nearly full sunlight. The wind was from the east at 6 mph, which meant that the surface was largely glassy, with rough patches here and there.
South Cullens can be quite difficult fishing. It's typical to find hoards of reds and trout in the winter, but remember the sun is half way to the southern horizon at the Solstice, and thus it's in your face if you have a north wind and wade or pole downwind. And when the wind is low, glare becomes a problem. On top of that, these fish get a lot of boat traffic, so they are touchy, especially the big trout.
The guys slipped into the water, complained briefly about the chill, then remarked on how firm the bottom was. Wading in Cullens Bay is a real mixed bag: It can be easy, or it can be a death march for a less-then-fit and short-of-crazed angler. As luck would have it, I stopped in one of the firmer areas, and the guys set off to the south, targeting the surface tailing and waking that ensued for the next two hours. Meanwhile, I hung back, and went further west and shallow, hoping that the big trout were shirting the edge of the biomass, which is common for them.
The guys waded so so far that I couldn't tell how they were doing, but by their intensity of posture and frequency of casting, I could tell that they were not bored. For myself, I soon noticed that my slight waves were turning fish that were cruising on top, so I settled into a meditative attitude, hoping that the fish would come to me if I could tame my aggression. Sure enough, a nice red finally swam right up to me, and I hooked him on a pink Mother's Day Fly. The guys were Kingfisher spoons, which perform better than an MDF in the thick turtle grass, but are a bit harder to cast--a tradeoff, as most things are in flyfishing.
Ryan had three encounters with big trout, and it's not surprising that he didn't hook any. I had two shots at catchable trophy trout (6-8 pounds), but I casted too close to one of them. After botching the cast on that one, I did some corrective self-talk, reminding myself to lead a big trout enough not to telegraph my cast. Redfish can be forgiving when you hit them on the head with the fly. But trout give you one chance, and if you're too aggressive on the first cast, it will be the last you see of her. A good lesson in many areas of life, I would say.
So my second encounter was a perfect opportunity. I saw the big trout coming over 200 yards away. She was coming out of the far southwest side of Cullens, probably moving with the outgoing tide. Anyway, I gave Rosie a little lecture about remaining still, since she has a way of shaking herself periodically while wading beside me, as if she can dry herself off when wading in shoulder deep water. I normally don't complain about this because her companionship is far more valuable than the occasional missed cast, but when there's a trophy trout heading for me, I strike a more serious tone with her. She understands, I am sure.
Finally, the big fish came within range. He big black tail could be seen swinging like a snake behind the wake, and the air of nonchalant confidence was palpable--perhaps it was my human projection--but clearly she wasn't worried about anything.
I put the fly a bit further from her approaching head than I'd hoped, but she felt it hit the water, and turned to it. I crouched, even though I was sixty feet from her--I didn't want her to spot me before she took the fly, and I knew that she might follow the fly all the way to my rod tip. Sure enough, she ran forward, as if to take the fly, then swerved, and came at it again. My heart was racing, and the distance between us was closing. Finally, I stripped the fly and it must have startled her because she exploded and was off for the hills. I was happy because I did everything right. But when it comes to big trout, you need a lot of luck, too.
We headed for the sand a while later, where we found reds mixed with sheepshead. It was a perfect afternoon--low breeze and glassy conditions. But we only had a few "takes" from sheepshead, which were surprisingly aggressive toward small chartreuse clousers. At the end of the day, we felt extremely blessed to have been granted such a beautiful day to spend together on the water.