Fishing Journal
Preface
I am by no means a fishing expert or guide, nor do I aspire to those titles. But I am constantly learning and love to sharing my observations with my friends. While I have no interest in becoming a daily “blogger” I have enjoyed journaling my fishing and shrimping experiences. I realize this portion of our site will attract those intrigued by the rich variety of sport fishing along the South Carolina salt water marshes and fresh water ponds and streams. Most of my fishing is done on the Wando River (or shrimping in Bulls Bay) with my neighbor Harold whose passion for the two sports rivals mine. You'll read his name quit often in my reports. While I can’t promise a posting every day or every week, I am hoping to keep the site relatively current - well up to a point. Some posts will stay up longer than others because of their content relevancy while others will be snippets of a short outing on the water. You can find more fishing highlights in the Gallery section of this site. Here is what's happening from the back yard.
Monster Black Drum Taken From Horbeck Creek
Before you read any further take a good look at the picture to the right. It's almost unbelievable to think a fish like this came out of Horlbeck creek. This old drum was approaching 40lbs.
I wasn’t there but the picture tells all. Harold, (the Southern Gentleman in the picture) and I heard the old timers tell stories of monster drum coming from the Wando River, but we never experienced any ourselves. It's not uncommon for us to take 3' Red drum from the creeks but nothing like the thing Harold's holding in the picture.
As my friend tells the story, he was just about ready to call it a day. He had a couple of nice Red drum in the boat, but the last half-hour produced nothing but pin fish. Just before pulling in his line for the last time, he felt a couple of small taps. Assuming it was another pin fish, he didn’t get overly excited. Suddenly the line went taunt and the squealing sound of drag filled the air. Instantly Harold knew he had something of enormous size, unlike anything experienced in his life. Fortunately, the fish went to deep water, away from the docks and pilings giving Harold a fighting chance. His drag was useless and he was running out of line.
Well, a fight like this created quite a show. A couple of kayakers just happen to be in the creek and watched the old man and sea. After a half-hour of maneuvering and give and take, Harold managed to pull the fish along side the boat. The problem was he didn’t have a net large enough. His first impulse was to snag the fish with his hand around gills then pull it in. That would have been a sight!
The fish had other ideas and decided he wasn’t tired any more. With a flip of his tale and a burst of energy, Harold’s rod snapped in two as the fish took off with the hook still in his mouth. Now I know Harold and he wasn’t going to let that fish get away. Either the fish was going to join Harold or he was going to join the fish. He grabbed the line just before the rod entered the water and began to work the fish back to the boat. For a while no one was sure who would prevail. Finally, the fish surrendered but the problem was still no net.
The Kayakers came along side and the three men carefully lifted the fish into the boat. Michael, one of the dock owners, signaled Harold to throw him a rope. After they pulled the Key West over Harold step out onto the dock to take a few pictures, (required proof to make a story like this believable). Harold carefully put the drum back in the water, revived it by holding the tail and fanning the body. In a moment the fish made a full recovery and was gone. It was the biggest Drum either one of us have ever seen come out of the Wando River. Now we have a personal record to chase and break.
An Afternoon on the Wando
It’s 3:40 p.m. In two hours darkness will descend on the Low Country. I launched the 12-foot Skiff below the old bridge off Highway 41. Except for a gentle lapping of water against the bow, the afternoon offered no sound or movement. The 15-horse, Yamaha four-stroke started on two pulls and I maneuvered the skiff away from the dock allowing the tide to take control of my speed.
Drifting north my eyes focused on the shore above the launch looking for surface movement near the marsh-grass. This trick was applying a lesson learned from one more experienced than myself. Surface movement in the fall usually means something underneath is moving bait fish. Speckle trout push small mullet to the surface causing the water to come alive in a chorus line of tiny splashes.
At the edge of the marsh stood a marvelous white egret. It's body resting on one leg, the other suspended in mid-air as the creature paused in stride, then moved forward. The bird stopped, cocked its head to one side, searching for any small water creature. The long, sharp, yellow beak poised at an awkward angle now ready to thrust instantly at an unwary fish or shrimp. Then, with a primal instinct, the bird stopped and for whatever reason, pushed with his legs, and the great white wings began to spread lifting the creature majestically in to the air. Now it became a thing of beauty and grace as it's broad wings stretched slowly and rhythmically drawing its body upward and across the open expanse of water. This is nature at its best.
Across the little bay a small grass island separated from the shore by a narrow channel offered promise. I put the motor in gear. My neighbor Roy showed me this place last year. A small outcropping of oyster beds forms a ridge near the island's neck creating a perfect place for an ambush. The boat slowly moved between the island and the shore when I saw a hint of movement just above the protruding edge of marsh grass. Pushing the red kill switch, the motor went silent and I began to drift while my eyes focused on the area where some oyster beds met the marsh grass. There was no further sign and I was just ready to push on when a few tall blades of grass swayed slightly as if in a breeze. But there was no breeze. Maybe a fluttering wren? My father taught me not to let my anxiousness defeat my patience.
I sensed the next motion more than I actually saw it. The sun had just lifted above a passing cloud when the smooth water surface surrounding the blades vibrated again. Movement, possibly a dorsal fin touching the surface above the oyster bed. Red drum will do that. Then the water trembled with excitement as a school of mullet scampered in unison across the surface. Something moved them which meant it was time for me to move.
Slowly maneuvering the skiff into position I began to troll toward the neck of the island, slowly twitching my Bass Pro light weight to the rhythm of the ebbing tide. The boat slid quietly passed the strike zone trailing a dark brown curled-tailed grub. I twitch the rod, paused a few seconds and twitched again. The skiff continued its forward movement in stealth form. Then it happened!
A burst of power bent the lightweight toward the island. The water exploded and the line went stiff. I shoved the Yamaha first into reverse to slow the boat’s forward motion, then to neutral to stabilize it. Now it is all about discovery. What manner of fish is at the end of my line? Whatever it is, it’s big! I quickly checked my drag just as a double bump sent a message to the tip of the rod. Red drum will shake their head in response to a hook in their mouth sending that message. Trout play differently, often running toward the boat. At this point it doesn't really matter. Whatever it is - it’s pulling drag.
I was working the creature toward the skiff when it suddenly ran back to deep water pulling more drag. I responded applying enough tension on the rod to check his progress but not so much to force him back toward the boat. He needed finessing. Now its a waiting game. The fish circled the boat once then reverse directions. I was drawing it closer in hopes of taking my fist glimpse of the thing when a burst of power propelled it back to deep water. It had no intentions of surrendering. I held the rod high, forcing the fish to arch in a circle back to the boat and it finally came in close where it showed itself. It was a trout - a big trout. In the final seconds and with a cautious tug, I hurried my catch into the skiff and paused to looked over this amazingly beautiful creature. It was the start of a good afternoon.
Often sea trout will school with other trout of equal size. Knowing this, I directed the Skiff back to the same point of ambush, working this time with the tide. Would a second trout be possible? Maneuvering my line further out from the island’s neck, I began rhythmically twitching the rod to give the grub a rise and fall action. Boom! Again, euphoria flooded my senses as a second fish tore at the grub. This time the predator soared toward the skiff challenging the speed of my reel. I knew immediately. It was a trout. Not as big as the first, but still very competitive.
I haven't been on the water ten minutes and already two large trout lined the bottom of the cooler. Passing over the strike zone a third and fourth time yielded nothing so I decided to move down stream to a favorite Rivertowne trolling area. It stands near a group of raised oyster beds surrounded by mud flats fed by three tiny tidal streams. An hour later, the sun's torch slipped over the horizon casting a bluish haze on the slight mist rising from the marsh. A fitting benediction to my day. I checked the cooler again. Eight beautiful trout laid on a bed of ice. It was a good day to fish the Wando River.
At the dock I cleaned, filleted and wrapped my fish and then brought the precious cargo across the street to my fishing buddy Harold. His eyes lit up for he too understands the powerful pull of trolling the Wando in early spring and fall. Tomorrow afternoon we would hit the water together.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Harold's last fishing report was dismal. I’m not surprised. More than not, the first few days of the new moon are like that. Nothing much moves or feeds. Nonetheless, we had plenty of sunlight so we talked ourselves into doing a little trolling. We hit the Wando at high tide and worked against the ebbing flow of water. It’s getting late in the year to be using plastic because more and more bait fish are in the water, but every now and then plastic works. A DOA shade tail hung from my line. Harold used a speckled green DOA. Does color really make a difference? I think it does. The problem is, every day is different.
The water conditions looked good but nothing stirred. We noted a few spottail working the bottom of the flats but we were after sea trout. We decide to troll Horlbeck creek on the back side of the Brickyard Plantation. We worked the edge of the marsh grass for a half-hour without luck. It wasn’t until we hit the entrance of a small creek winding its way back to Highway 41 that I hooked into my first trout. It was a meaty 15 inch speckled Grey. Knowing that trout school, we passed over the strike zone again and I was thrilled to immediately hook into another Grey. It was a beauty. It not only pulled drag, but pulled the skiff. It came in at 19 inches. (I’ve got to remember to bring the camera.) Hoping we caught one of those moments when the fish just ‘turn-on’ we hit the strike zone three or four more times. But our efforts produced nothing more but the joy of anticipation.
Still, between two fish we had three pounds of trout. We headed home, pull the boat, cleaned the fish and stopped to reflect on how fortunate we are to be living here. It is a paradise of sorts, surrounded by nature’s beauty. A wilderness fill with God’s amazing wildlife and of course, great fishing on the Wando estuary even when the fishing is not great.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
I headed down to the old dock to check on the shrimp again. The conditions were perfect. Last year they came in around the third week of April. My first cast confirmed my suspicions that the warm winter and mild spring had pushed up the hatch date. My cast yielded a half dozen shrimp ranging between quarter and three-eights of an inch, certainly tiny but a delicacy for the retuning trout. I discovered that within a week of their presence, all kinds of fish will return. Most people fish the shallows but all my success is in the deep water, off our dock. My outer dock floats in 26 feet of water at high tide. I'll start this season with a Carolina rigging and a size eight hook. It won’t be long before the big trout are return from the warmer ocean water.