The Ol' Career Change

I was twelve years old, riding shotgun in my dad's Ford Ranger and we were coming back from a fishing trip. A great fishing trip, I might add. As usual with long car rides, we chatted quite a bit and the topic of conversation had somehow wandered to that horrible question from my dad,

"What do you want to be when you grow up?"

At the time I had no idea I'd be struggling with the answer for the better part of the following two decades, but I quickly answered, 

"I just want to fish"

He chuckled and said, "What, like a charter boat captain? I dunno. Sounds like a ton of work, long hours...plus you gotta deal with drunk assholes all the time on your boat"

From what I'd already seen as far as charter trips go, he wasn't too far off. The idea of doing that with my life bubbled into my head, but the reality of it never really got beyond I just want to fish. 

Fast forward several years and I was getting into my college years where it's actually time to decide a career focus. Through high school I was lucky enough to have a large portion of my curriculum revolve around marine biology and for a while I thought that might be as close to I just want to fish as I was going to get. It was around the end of high school when my marine bio teacher very bluntly told me,  

"Unless you're happy working for peanuts, or plan to go get your doctorate, marine biology probably isn't the best field"

That actually struck pretty deep with me. I didn't particularly enjoy school. Nor was I a very good student. The idea of being stuck in school for eternity sounded horrendous. So I asked myself: "What do I like to do aside from fish?...Hunt."

It was around that time that my mom and I discovered the wildlife biology track at the University of Florida and the next thing I knew I was moving into a 4 bedroom apartment in Gainesville Florida with three people I'd never met. As luck would have it, I actually began to enjoy some of my classes and through a series of miracles, I graduated. Before long, the wildlife field was my main focus, but with one exception...

I still wanted to fish. 

Call me hesitant. Or scared. Or whatever. But I wasn't willing to full on commit to a life of "just wanting to fish" without a back up plan. That back up plan was, of course, wildlife work. I enjoyed the wildlife jobs I had. I got to tranquilize deer. Capture birds. Light the woods on fire. All sorts of stuff in the name of science. The pay was never great, however, and almost all of the work offered to someone with just a bachelor's degree was seasonal. 

So it was around that time that I figured since I can tolerate wildlife work, why not focus on finding a job somewhere on the coast where I can slowly transition into fishing more? I should also add that the idea of "I just want to fish" as a career choice wasn't exactly realistic. I'm not about to be the next Bill Dance. 

What's that mean then? A charter boat captain? Well there's a problem: I now work for peanuts in the wildlife field. How the hell am I supposed to buy a giant boat for chartering? 

What's left then? Guiding smaller trips? 

And for a while that was my primary focus. Land a job in a place I can tolerate, doing wildlife work I can tolerate so that I can transition into guiding. 

But as with most things in life, nothing went quite according to plan. I found myself taking odd jobs all over creation just to make ends meet. I was, however, lucky enough to land a job as an elk hunting guide in Colorado while I was still living in Gainesville post college (right bar, right time, story for a different day). And after the season I realized, 

I -really- enjoy guiding

Sure it wasn't fishing, but Christ. Getting paid to take someone hunting? It was great. 

Next thing I knew I was living in SoFlo and had landed a job as a guide doing eco-tours in the Everglades. And once again, I -really- enjoyed the work. 

After that, a kayaking guide in Saint Augustine, and I slowly began to notice my focus drifting away from wildlife work and instead looking to guiding more and more.

It was fun. It never felt like work. I never once found myself waking up in the morning and going "Aww shit I've gotta take people to go look at Dolphins and Alligators today". To add, I was getting paid -much- better than what I went to school for. 

So when I decided to move to Montana, I already knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to get back into guiding. Sure it was a wildly different animal than what I'm used to, but the jist of it is the same. Same as guiding elk hunts. Same as leading eco-tours. Same as taking people on kayaks. 

Of course I had a huge learning curve ahead of me, but one that I happily dove into and soon found myself managing a fly fishing department in a Cabela's retail store. Not exactly what I was after, but it opened up opportunities that I doubt would have presented themselves had I been doing something else. There was, of course, another good thing...

I was finally in a place that I could begin transitioning into guiding full time. From 2009-2017 I had moved at least twice a year, every year. Not exactly the best way to "find a job in a place and transition into guiding from there". But in Missoula Montana, I soon realized I hadn't moved in over a year. 

My second Montana winter was in full force, I was still working retail, and I'm still not exactly sure what clicked, but I decided it was time to shit or get off the pot. I didn't move across the country to just sell fly fishing equipment. I could've done that in Florida. I moved out here to guide, so I set about doing just that. I bought a raft, bought the gear, found some outfitters in town, put myself through a "guide school", and then the scariest part...

I quit my job. 

I needed to devote my time and energy to guiding, and it would have been impossible to do so with a full time job. So I left in hopes that some of the outfitters in town would give me a chance. Not terrifying at all...

Well, I'm beyond excited to say that it's been a hell of a summer. I honestly can't describe how relieved/happy I was to get that first phone call to take someone on a guided fishing trip, but I know that now that I've done it, I'm doing what I've always wanted. 

It only took 18 years to make "I just want to fish" happen as a career, but better late than never. As of this summer, I'm a licensed fly fishing guide in Montana, and I can't imagine doing anything else with my seasons. I'm excited to see what other opportunities this presents, and I'm looking forward to a lot more days on the water. The season isn't over yet, but here are some of my favorite moments thus far. 

I think I say it with every post, but I hope to get back into more regular blog posts. The past couple of years have been a bit of a whirlwind and I've been reluctant to post given that I've never really "caught up". The whole book thing also put a wrench in the gears. I think I'm finally "caught up" so I'm stoked to start doing more regular posts and fishing reports. Stay tuned and thanks for sticking around!

Skwala Skwala

I knew prior to moving to Montana from Florida that winters were going to be quite an adjustment...

But Jesus Tapdancing Christ

They just go on, and on, and on

Every time you think maybe it's over and beginning to warm up, it dumps more snow or just gets bitterly cold again. Friends and family back home begin sending you pictures of sunny 80 something degree weather. Meanwhile it still resembles Hoth in the backyard.

By March everyone's chomping at the bit to get out and fly fish. The sun is finally starting to show itself again, and it shouldn't be long before the first bugs on the year start showing up.

Skwalas.

In all honesty it's sort of an over-hyped hatch. Everybody and their brother is out there trying to catch the Skwala hatch. I don't think it's because it's some stellar hatch, I think it's because it marks the beginning of a new season, and it's a perfect excuse to get outside.

But the Skwala hatch can be a bit of a tease. My first winter in Montana lasted approximately an eon and then, come late March, the sun came out and along with it, the Skwalas. I was overjoyed. It was warm (in the 40's but comparatively still warm), bugs were out, and the fish were biting.

I'd done it. I'd survived my first winter outside of Florida and it was gonna be smooth sailing from here. Warm days and lots of fishing with summer right around the corner, right?

Wrong.

With warm weather comes snow melt, and with snow melt comes run off. The rivers swell and get muddy and the fishing pretty much sucks. It just so happened that my first experience with run off was a record breaking quarter century flood that lasted until late June.

So although the Skwala hatch was enjoyable, it really was nothing more than a brief tease before everything was put on pause again for another 2 months. With that said, however, I don't think I'd be able to keep my sanity without the Skwalas.

You get a brief window to get out and get that fix and with any luck, it'll be enough to hold you over till summer.

As with any fishing, I didn't get to do as much of it as I obviously wanted during the Skwala hatch. I currently manage a fishing/marine department in a retail store and if you aren't aware, retail hours are the actual Devil. On the odd days off, weather typically sucked. And if I had a real weekend off, there was no way in the world you could get me out on the water with everyone else in Missoula. Like I said, everyone's chomping at the bit to just get outside and that usually means 14000 boats all floating the same stretch of water.

But I feel lucky. I've now made it through not only one, but two Montana winters. The fishing is actually starting to really take off as I write this, and I've got big news to announce soon.

There's a lot more fishing on the horizon. Stay tuned!

The Wrath of Rod #2

My excitement grew as we weaved our way down the dusty gravel road into the mountains. Window's down, the cool breeze was a welcomed relief from the oppressive Florida heat that I'd become accustomed to. I was back in Montana and thrilled to be going to the same place I caught my last Montana trout. Long gone were the warm summer days that I got to experience the year prior. Instead, I was greeted with a breath of crisp, autumn air, and the multicolored sight of leaves changing before the onslaught of winter.


This time I'd come prepared. Last year I'd shown up with minimal gear, knowledge, experience with freshwater stream fly fishing. Being from Florida, my entire fly fishing experience had been saltwater. Redfish, trout, snook, tarpon, etc. Not Browns, Rainbows, Cutty's and the like. It's an entirely different animal and to me, and it came as a puzzle. An extra challenge, if you will. It was something to solve, and ever since catching my last Montana trout, it'd been an obstacle I'd been chomping at the bit to overcome. I wanted to get better at it. So this year I arrived with brand new waders, boots, landing net, and even a new 6wt rod to tackle the Montanan streams and rivers.


My first day in Montana last year consisted of tumbling down a cliff and snapping my fly rod in the process. Despite being mildly perturbed, I set about immediately replacing it. That new rod served me the rest of my stay out west, made it down to Utah where I caught several Browns with it, then did quite a bit of work down in South Florida chasing invasives in their myriad of canal systems. It was a good 3wt.


About an hour outside of town, we finally pulled up to the creek and I excitedly began getting everything ready. I threw my new waders on, laced up my boots, and grabbed my box of flies. With my rod still disassembled in its four pieces, my friend and I weaved our way down to the rocky creek bank.


It had been over a year, I had flown over half way across the country, and here I finally was. With the anticipation of landing another trout, I began assembling my rod. In front of us, fish were already rising, and each splash made me even more excited to begin slinging flies. Once I finally rigged up, I walked to the water's edge, stripped out some line, back-cast and....


Something was wrong. My rod felt weird. It wasn't loading right.


What in the...?


To my dismay I looked up to see my rod broken, just below the last connection point.


Contrary to what most might expect, I actually didn't throw a fit. I didn't go on a wild cussing rampage, or throw my rod into the water, or anything like that. I merely looked up at my poor rod as the last foot of it dangled in the breeze like a limp noodle, and I let out a heavy sigh.


“Shit.”


Of course I wasn't pleased. But what could I do? It was the only rod we brought that day, and I'd have to simply grin and bear dealing with the return policy and replacing the rod once I got back to town. So rather than get upset, I calmly put the rod down, sat next to the creek, and cracked open a cold beer. Over the next hour we watched as numerous fish rose and fed, and I was forced to simply watch. Unable to do anything about it but enjoy the scenery and the pleasant day. Luckily the fish weren't going anywhere, I had another month left in Montana, and I swore right then and there that the Montana streams and rivers would soon feel the wrath of rod #2.






------


The looming mountains slowly passed by as we bounced our way down the Bitterroot Valley to the south. It was another perfect day outside, and with the windows down, I occasionally checked on the bright blue raft that was being towed behind the truck. I'm not exactly sure what it is about towing that makes me paranoid, but I constantly check to make sure the boat/raft/kayak/whatever is still secure. For some reason I'm just constantly worried, and today was no different.


My buddy Jeb and I were on our way to float and fish a river. This was especially exciting for me because the previous year I'd visited, Jeb didn't have a boat which meant we were stuck to just wade fishing. Now we had access to -much- more water and I was excited to redeem myself after my last failed attempt to fish. My new 6wt was ready to sling some flies.


With the raft in the water, Jeb, his dog Sage, and I loaded up and took off down the river. This would be my first time fishing from a raft and it took a little getting used to. Fly line has the incredible ability to become impossibly tangled on any item that's laying around in the boat. A net, water bottle, fly case, shoe lace, etc. You name it, fly line will -always- get tangled on it, and this day was no exception to the rule. But I fished as Jeb rowed, and Sage sat quietly waiting with almost as much anticipation of landing a fish as I had.






We passed fishy looking spot after fishy looking spot, and with the exception of one little dink trout, nothing I threw seemed to work. I tried streamers, various types of dry flies, droppers with nymphs. Nothing. I began to get a little frustrated. This was almost exactly like my last experience in Montana. Fish everywhere, but I can only seem to land tiny little baitfish sized trout. Annoyed, I decided to pass the rod off to Jeb. After all, I actually wanted to try my hand at rowing.


For the last 6 months, paddling has been my job. After a recent move to Saint Augustine, Florida, I quickly landed a job as a kayak guide leading eco-tours. This put me paddling around for a few hours a day at least five days a week over the summer. And on days that I wasn't working, I spent them fishing out of the kayak as well. So I actually consider myself pretty damn good at paddling. But rowing?


Never done it.


One would think that rowing and paddling go hand in hand. And that kind of do. But rowing is, for lack of a better term, opposite of paddling. It literally is opposite. Backwards, even. So it took a little bumping, scraping, and spinning uselessly in circles for a while before I finally began to get the hang of it. But since more technical parts of the river were quickly coming up, and I'm sure Jeb didn't want me to pop a hole in his brand new raft, we opted to switch again.


Around midday we stopped to eat some lunch. A grocery store in town made us a few sandwiches that I'd been dreaming about ever since we bought them in the morning. But, as my luck holds true, we opened the cooler to discover that the melted ice had soaked almost every inch of bread for my sandwich. Each bite squirted water and the soggy Italian sandwich was anything but satisfying. To add to our troubles for the day, we'd forgotten an important item to bring along: Water. In our rush to get out on the water, we grabbed everything we could think of. Oars, life jackets, fly rod, flies, sandwiches, chips, beer, ice, everything. Except water. So rather than go thirsty, we simply opted to drink all the beer we brought along.


Back on the river, the day began to wane. Low clouds rolled off the mountains to the west and occasionally shaded us from the sun as it dipped lower in the sky. While passing through a relatively slow moving, shallow part of the river, Jeb finally piped up.


“Fish just rose, 11 o'clock”, he said as he made a small adjustment with the oars.


I could clearly see where the fish had made rings on the still surface of the water.


“Got it...”, I whispered as I began to cast.


My caddis fly landed just upcurrent from where the fish had risen, and it took only about two seconds before the same fish came up and swallowed the fly.


“There he is!” I exclaimed as I confidently set the hook and felt it sink in. The hook set had been one of my biggest problems last year, and I feel as though I finally figured it out. I used to think freshwater trout are these dainty, fragile fish. A saltwater hook set on one would surely catapult the poor fish into orbit if I really put my heart into it. And so I kept under-setting the hook. I'd gingerly raise my rod in anticipation of actually hooking the fish, but to no avail. But eventually I got the hang of it. They certainly aren't saltwater fish, but they aren't all that dainty either. You can set the hook like you mean it. Just don't do it like professional Bass fishermen and you'll be good to go.


After a brief fight, the fish found its way into the net, and I landed my first Montana Brown trout. The fish also proved to be relatively camera shy.



Whoops


A little while later and I soon found myself hooked up again with a nice Rainbow trout that actually put up quite a fight. It was at that moment I wished I'd had my 3wt with me, but I couldn't complain. I was finally catching fish, and this was what I'd ventured all the way across Florida to find. The rainbow was soon netted, unhooked, and sent on its way before I even thought to get a picture.


The sun was beginning to set as we approached our get-out point. The last hundred yard stretch of the river was ahead of us and we could already see fish rising everywhere. This would be my last chance for the day, so I needed to make it count. A large boulder jutted out from the bank and around it swirled a deep eddy where the fish were rising. I took aim, cast, and watched as a trout gulped at my fly. Excitedly I set the hook and...


Nothing. Swing and a miss.


Guess my hook set isn't -quite- right yet.


I stripped in some line as we got closer and prepared to make another cast. Focused on where I wanted the fly to land, I quickly began casting, only to suddenly feel a tug mid-back cast.


“Aww shit..”, I muttered as I turned around to see my fly stuck in the bushes of the river bank. I'd managed to make it an entire day without losing a fly, and on my last cast, with fish rising , I successfully sacrificed my caddis to the bush God's.


It'd been an awesome day and a huge learning experience for me. We couldn't ask for better weather, I got to row my first boat, and we managed to survive solely off of beer for the entire day. I really feel as though I'm beginning to figure these fish out a little more, and landing fish (even small ones) is satisfying enough to keep my interest. I received word today that my 3wt is repaired and on its way back this week. With any luck I can break it in soon. Well...Maybe not break. Maybe...Well...You know what I mean.



Rain coming over the Bitterroots


**You may have noticed a major lack in posts the past few months. That comes from a combination of a heavy work load, as well as other projects I've been working on. Details to come soon though, and I've plenty more to write about in the coming months. Stay tuned!**

Sand in the tent

“Did you hear that?” asked my dad, looking over his shoulder at the ominous dark cloud across the bay.

I had, of course, heard the thunder coming out of the massive storm. “Yeah.”, I responded, brushing some sand off my arm. “I think it's heading away from us though”.

If ever there was a phrase to guarantee a direct hit from a storm of apocalyptic proportions, that's the one. It's probably what Jim Cantore says when he arrives at some poor old coastal town ahead of a hurricane.

The storm took no time to decide to jump right across the bay, and whip everything into a frenzy. Paddling our hearts out, my dad and I raced back to shore, praying that we not only made it, but wouldn't get hit by a bolt of lightning. Our campsite was a little dot on the pristine white-sand shoreline of St. Joseph State Park and in that dot was our tent, the only shelter for miles....

I was lucky enough growing up to get to spend many of my summers in and around Port St. Joe Florida. A hidden gem along the Gulf Coast, St. Joe and its state park provided an almost limitless playground for me in the form of camping and fishing. My dad and I would load up the canoe or kayaks and set out for week long camping and fishing trips along the bay. We'd pitch our tent right on the sandy beach next to the water and fish from there.

If you've never had the good fortune to camp on the beach, allow me to set the scene for you:

Sand

Sand everywhere.

Sand on your feet. Sand in your tent. Sand in your shoes, your gear, your clothes, your hair, your food, your water. Sand in your soul.

Try as you might, the sand gets onto and into everything. After about four days, it becomes a way of life. Its omnipresence is a constant reminder that even in paradise, you're forced to cope with this otherwise unseen gritty hell. There was, however, always one thing that could give you a break from the sugar white sand: Rain.

So as my dad and I paddled for our lives from the storm ,which had now whipped the bay into a frenzy, we were hit with fat heavy raindrops. I was already covered from head to toe in sand from camping for several days. So when the rain finally hit me it was almost like taking a shower. It honestly felt amazing to finally get SOME of the sand rinsed off my body.

We were close enough to shore now that I could see the trees and grasses getting whipped around in the high winds. Heavy bands of rain and wind were no longer showering us, but rather drowning us. Most of the sand on me -had- to have been washed away at this point. A crack of lighting ripped through the white-washed sky as our kayaks ground to a halt against the sandy beach. Only a few yards up onto the beach was our tent. Shelter. And inside were towels, sleeping bags, and various gear to get us dried off. I pulled the yak onto shore and looked up just in time to witness one of the strangest sights I'd ever seen.

Thanks to a massive gust of wind, our tent, with all of our supplies, was ripped from the ground and sent tumbling down the beach. I couldn't really believe my eyes. I just sort of stood there trying to mentally grasp what I was watching. The tent, with its poles sticking every directs, was hurtling itself down the coast like some massive sea urchin. To make the sight stranger, all of our gear pushed and bounced on the canvas from within, making it look like some beast was attempting to kick its way out.

By the time I gathered myself, the tent was a good 40 yards down the beach and gaining distance. I immediately broke into a sprint after our runaway shelter. I should note that no matter how many sports you play, or how many outdoor articles you read, you'll never be fully prepared to chase down and tackle your own tent. It's not exactly something you get to do every day.

I'd finally gotten within arms reach of the tumbling canvas mass and after lining up my shot to avoid the swinging poles, I dove...

Face first into the sand. I did manage to get my hands onto the tent, but the wet canvas just slipped out from underneath me. I spit a mouthful of sand out onto the ground as I picked myself up and took off after the tent again. I was angry now. Not because our gear was threatening to blow into the water and out to sea, but because less than 2 minutes after my “shower” I was sandy again. Actually, sandy isn't the right word to describe me at that point in time. Powdered donut is perhaps a more accurate term.

Perhaps I just got lucky, or maybe it was the extra grit all over my body, but my second attempt at tackling the tent proved successful. I wrestled it still and my dad caught up to help me stake it back to the ground. I opened the tent to find that our gear had been thrown around every which way, and I sat down inside to try and dry off.

Never in my life have I seen more sand in a tent than I did that afternoon. I thought about going back outside into the storm to let the rain wash some of it away, but as quickly as the storm was on us, it was gone again. Trying to become sand free would be nothing more than an effort in futility.

I just sat there, looking like a powdered donut, and stared out across the now sunlit bay. “At least the fishing's good”, muttered my dad.

Summertime in St. Joe is something I'll always be grateful for. Even through all the bugs, heat, storms, and runway tents, I enjoyed (and still enjoy) every minute I get to spend down there. Everything about the place has a special place in my heart. Even the sand...

Seriously there's probably sand in my heart from that place.

A Kayak Fishing Adventure

I haven't been doing much fishing or hunting recently. And because of that, I haven't had much to write about. But I haven't, however, been sitting around idly. I've actually been planning quite the kayak fishing adventure, and it less than three weeks, I'll set off on my journey to start the new year.

I will be paddling the Everglades Wilderness Waterway in it's entirety and fishing it the whole way. Based off of the path I have planned, the entire thing should take me 8 days to paddle in my kayak and about 110 miles to complete. I will also be paddling this alone.

I've mapped out my path and each stop as shown above. Some camp sites are ground sites while others are chickees. If you don't know what a chickee is, it's pretty much just a raised platform above the water with a roof and no walls. These are placed out in the 10,000 islands because there's little to no solid ground in the endless mangrove maze.

The planning process is still underway. I've been making/going through checklists and trying to get all my ducks in a row. Where I'll launch, where I'll finish, who will pick me up, etc. These are all things I've been trying to sort out in addition to just gear. But I will have a chance while on this trip to do quite a bit of gear testing. I've got a stove, and several other pieces of equipment that I plan on putting through the wringer over the 8 day paddle.

I'm a little nervous and very excited about taking this trip. I've never done anything quite like this before, so not only will it be an experience of a lifetime, but also a huge learning experience. With any luck, I'll learn quite a bit about fishing in the backcountry, and maybe even land some fish in the process.

But overall, I'm really looking forward to this trip. I may post my plan, in detail, prior to leaving as well as my checklists for gear and what not. After I return, I'm sure I'll have some things to change up about my planning process and might come out of it with a good "how-to". Stay tuned!

Wandering at Home

Last week I was lucky enough to get to run back home to visit family. It'd been a little while, the middle of July in fact, since I'd gotten to go home, and I was extremely excited to get out on the water.

So after taking care of some family business, I loaded up the truck, hitched the Gheenoe, and picked up a buddy to go inshore fish. We launched at an area where I usually catch fish, and took off across the grassflats in search of trout and reds.

The wind was, of course, blowing. But thanks to the Gheenoe having a trolling motor, it didn't affect us nearly as bad as it would have had we been in kayaks. I love to paddle, but Lord is a motor nice sometimes.

I quickly discovered that the topwater lure I was using wasn't going to work. Every cast brought back about 20 lbs of sea grass that was floating on the surface, most of which was assuredly from prop chop. I'm not really one to get on my soapbox about issues (the main problem being that I can't be taken seriously...well...ever), but this really irks me. Only stupid people run their engines trimmed all the way down over grass flats, and I have zero tolerance for stupid people. Seriously. Just trim up and slow down. It's not that hard.

Realizing that I'd be pulling grass off of my lure after every cast, I opted to run across the sound. The wind was coming out of the south, so it made sense to me that going the direction the wind was coming from would result in less floating grass. And for once, I was right. The south side of the sound had almost no floating grass. The issue here, was that I'd literally never fished this area. I spent 20+ years in Pensacola, and yet there are still plenty of places I've never even attempted to fish. And this was one of them. But as luck would have it, we almost immediately began spotting fish.

Redfish, mixed with mullet, began showing up along the broken sandy bottom and it wasn't long before we had our first hook up. The screaming drag immediately told me that it wasn't some trout that I'd hooked.

After a few more misses, we took off again to a different area; another place I'd never fished before. We scouted some promising looking spots, and it wasn't until we were just about to give up that my buddy hooked into a fish.

The two Reds in the boat were near identical. Both right at 25 inches. Just before dark, I landed one little Speck on topwater, and the setting sun told us it was time to leave.

Aside from actually catching fish for a change, I really enjoyed myself on this particular trip. I'm not a huge fan of having "go-to" spots. Areas where I -know- I'm going to catch fish. I really like to explore. To learn new areas, and try different things. I feel like if you aren't willing to switch your game up, you're never going to improve as a fisherman. So striking out and having this new area produce fish simply tickled me pink. I can't wait to get back and explore a bit more, hopefully landing some fish in the process.

Kayak Fishing Jacksonville: Muddy edition

A few weeks back I managed to escape work and drive over to Jacksonville to stay with my sister. While her and her husband had work, I had nothing to do but fish. So I dragged the kayak with me and got up early the next morning to fish.

I'm impressed every time I go to Jacksonville by its sheer size. The city is massive and very spread out. Even though I was technically in the same "city", the drive to where I wanted to launch the kayak was an hour and half away. Prior to leaving, I did a bit of Google earth scouting and picked out some promising looking spots from my launch. The area I went to was Kingfish Park. Having never been there, I was pleased to discover a well maintained park, boat launch, and even a designated kayak/canoe launch.

I wanted to get out at first light, so I arrived in the dark and began loading the kayak. Very quickly, I noticed that the no-see-ums were out in full force. But after swatting at myself several times, I realized that they weren't no-see-ums. Rather, they were the world's smallest mosquitoes and they were busily attempting to drain my body of all fluid. Having brought no bug spray, I opened myself up to an absolutely miserable time trying to get the kayak ready. I'm kind of glad that I was the only one in the parking lot. Had others been there, they would have seen a 20-something year old man dancing wildly around a bright yellow kayak and cursing to no one in particular.

One thing that I fail to do on a regular basis is plan. Anything. I usually do things spur of the moment, so I tend to forget things. On this particular trip, I forgot my crocs. Even though they slip off constantly in mud, they're a much better option than what I brought with me on this trip: My flip flops. In addition, I failed to check the tides for that morning.

Now the tide screw up wasn't really something I could have changed. I honestly almost never forget to check the tides. And I didn't so much forget to check, as I didn't care. I was there in Jacksonville, I wanted to fish first thing in the morning, and I didn't really care -what- the tides were going to be.

But what I forgot about were Jacksonville's terrible mud-flats of death that result from low tides. I experienced these once before, and was pretty sure I found the gates to hell in the form of a soul sucking, bottomless mud flat that forced me to wait for the tide to come back in. You know it's shallow when your kayak gets stuck.

So as I dragged my kayak down to the water's edge at Kingfish Park, I looked out in horror to see a sloping mud bank that went 30 yards out and under a dock before touching water. As I walked, I immediately regretted having worn the flip flops. Ever step threatened to suck them off my feet, never to be seen again. And I would have simply removed them, but the mud is filled with broken oyster shells, and the last thing I wanted was to cut my foot wide open.

After a momentary "So this is how it ends?" freak out , as I was stuck in the mud standing next to a mosquito swarmed kayak, I managed to free myself, belly crawl onto the kayak, and kick my way through the mud into open water.

Having finally extricated myself from a muddy grave, I looked down to see the damage. You know that scene in predator where Dutch figures out the mud hides him?

Yeah, that scene? I looked something like that except I was wearing fishing clothes and I'm slightly less "roidy" than ol' Arny. Anyways, as my usual good fortune would have it, this whole thing had an audience. As, I began washing my arms and legs off in the water, I looked to see a Jon boat with two old men that had clearly witnessed my failure of a kayak launch. When my kayak (now stuck in the current of a rapidly falling tide) floated past them, I did my best to give them a respectable fisherman's nod, but it's kinda hard to look respectable immediately after floundering around in the mud like a mammoth in a tar pit.

Anyways, so with a falling tide, I began to paddle back into an area that I'd seen on google earth and figured it'd hold fish. But upon arriving, I noticed that the only time it could possible hold fish would be high tide. This is because the little creek mouth I planned to fish was now nothing more than a muddy ditch 3 feet above me.

I fished nearby anyways, and as luck would have it, I actually caught a small trout on topwater with my first cast. The rest of the morning was -slow-. Very slow. It wasn't until the tide turned that I even began having hits again. After a few dinky little trout on my DOA, I decided to pick up and switch areas. I paddled across what was at this point a raging river with the incoming tide, but eventually found calmer water and started fishing again.

I watched as an osprey flew down, nailed a mullet, and started to fly away. But as it flew, I saw a fish spook below it. In less than a foot of water, a 30+ inch Redfish was rapidly swimming directly at my kayak. I did my best to cast at him, but having already been spooked by the bird, he was having none of my DOA.

I started to focus on some exposed oyster bars and it quickly paid off. After missing a few chances at small tailing Reds, I managed to finally put the lure where it needed to go, and hook up. I tried out my GoPro mount for the first time, and was able to snap this picture from the video. I'll have to remember next time to wash off the lens before filming as it's obviously still dirty from my muddy launch. I should probably not point it directly into the sun either.

But luckily I brought another camera.

The fishing started to slow back down once the tide began to reach full high. I'd been out there all morning anyways, and it was past lunch time. So I called it a day, paddled back, and was pleased to see that the water now went all the way up to a sandy beach, and removing the kayak involved no mud.

I definitely plan to go back there soon and fish again. Since I'm stuck in Gainesville at the moment, I'm situated pretty much right between Jacksonville and Cedar Key. So really I can just take my pick with the kayak. It shouldn't be long before I have the fish in Jacksonville dialed in. I've just gotta make sure to check the tides, and avoid a muddy grave. 

Kayak Fishing St. Marks

I love the salt.

Something about saltwater fishing just gets me excited WAY more than freshwater fishing does. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy bass fishing. I mean, any fishing is better than none. But fishing in the salt is where I enjoy myself the most.

With my Jeep and kayak trailer lights -finally- working properly, I headed out of the plantation last week and drove the hour long trip to the coast. My destination was St. Marks national wildlife refuge. Thanks to a little bit of poor time management on my part, my trip took closer to an hour and a half after getting gas and actually making it out of the plantation and onto a paved road.

I'd done some scouting via google earth, and picked out some decent looking spots that I wished to try in the kayak. So I'd finally made it to the launch, I paddled out, and pretty much went exploring. To my surprise, there wasn't hardly anyone on the water. In fact, I saw only one boat all day. And with the exception of the tide, you couldn't ask for a better day on the water.

On the second cast of the day, and my topwater lure got destroyed mere feet from the kayak. With the fish so close to the boat, I easily identified it as a trout. But not just any trout. This was definitely one of, if not the biggest trout I'd ever hooked. It did the weird "Speckled Trout Death Roll" on the surface for a moment before finally finding itself, turning around, and peeling out line. Unfortunately, it turned right for my stern, crossed an oyster bar, and cut me off. After retying, I fished the same area for a few minutes unsuccessfully before giving up and moving on.

One thing I can safely say about St. Marks is that when the tide moves, it MOVES. I quickly found myself in water too shallow to paddle in. Thankfully, the bottom is hard sand and limestone instead of mud, and I was able to walk the kayak back into deeper water without any trouble.

There wasn't a breath of wind this particular day. And from time to time, I just had to stop and stare out over the Gulf. It was impossible to find the horizon, and I'd have to glance back to shore in order to keep myself from feeling sick.

After some paddling, I moved up into a large creek. I switched to a DOA shrimp and cast repeatedly to schools of mullet that I prayed were actually reds. But with the exception of a 5 second, drag screaming strike before my knot broke, I didn't have any other hits. I'm assuming it had been a Red with the way it hit. To add, I was in less than a foot of water when the fish struck.

Soon after this, the bite just turned off completely. I sight cast to a few cruising reds that I saw, but they weren't having anything to do with me. The sun was up too high, the tide was almost at a standstill, and it was so calm, that any movement was spotting out instantly by spooky fish. I decided that I'd do a little more paddling, and went exploring further down the coast.

I found some very fishy looking spots. VERY fishy. But with the tide and the time, there wasn't much going on. It was also almost 11 and I'd been on the water for close to 5 hours. So with a few "one last casts", I called it a day, and began paddling back.

What I hadn't realized, was that in my excitement of finally getting back into saltwater, I'd paddled a pretty long way. It was taking FOREVER, to get back. The tide had now switched and began coming back in while I was paddling back, so I took a break and paddled up a small creek that made a loop. To my surprise, I actually hooked a couple of dinky little trout and lost them boatside. And after navigating the entire creek, I called it a day (for real) and went back to the launch.

During my last 1/4 miles of paddling, something rather strange happened. For the first time since I broke it, my collar bone started killing me. Every other stroke felt like someone stabbing me in the shoulder. I broke the thing 9 years ago during a soccer game, and I've literally never had a problem with it until that day. I was overly grateful to make it back to the Jeep, load up the kayak, and let my arms rest.

A few days later, out of curiosity, I did some research to determine how far I actually paddled. I was guessing 5-6 miles. Most of my trips don't go over 4 miles, so I figured the little extra paddling may have stressed the old break. To my horror, I mapped out my path and saw that I'd paddled 8.7 miles that morning. I don't even like to drive that far, much less paddle a plastic boat. But it really never felt like I'd gone that far. There's obviously something about saltwater that puts me in a different place. And that's why I love it.

I've got big plans to go back to St. Marks soon. Stay tuned! Maybe I'll luck out and actually land one of those elusive fish creatures I've heard about next time.

The Great 2012 Skunking

It was bound to happen again eventually. If you fish enough, it's simply -going- to happen.

I got skunked.

And though I generally find an unproductive fishing trip to be less than noteworthy, this one was special.

As any of my regular readers may have noticed, I've been terribly quiet lately. It's not because I haven't wanted to write anything, but rather, the fact that I haven't -done- anything. Absolutely nothing outdoor related over the past three weeks. It seems like every time I schedule a fishing trip around my days off, the weather turns bad and I don't go.

But I got off work for a few days and made the long Jeep ride back to Pensacola for Thanksgiving. My initial plan was to fish Tuesday evening, Wednesday morning and evening, and Thanksgiving morning. That...didn't happen. I arrived a bit later than planned Tuesday, and rather than go fish, my dad and I opted to go to the gun range. After a full day of driving and shooting, my head found my old bed at my parents house and I was out like a light. Slept right through my alarm at 0530 the next morning, and well into mid morning.

Not wishing to waste any more time on something as silly as sleep, I was resolved to go fish Wednesday afternoon. And go fish I did. My dad and I launched the Gheenoe into the upper Escambia river in search of Flounder, Trout, and Reds.

We explored some new territory and I fairly consistently had fish strike at my lure. Small fish, but fish none the less. I was, however, not landing anything. I kept this up until sunset, and ended the trip without a single fish.

After dinner that evening, I decided I simply couldn't handle getting skunked for the day. I called up one of my best friends that I've known since Kindergarten, and forced him to come beach fishing with me at night. I figured I could at least catch a hardhead catfish and just call it a bad day of fishing. While loading the truck up, my dad asked me,

"You're going beach fishing...at night?"

"Well yeah...why?"

"You aren't gonna catch anything"

"Have you ever been beach fishing at night?"

"Well...no."

My buddy and I arrived at the beach a little before 10pm. I tossed out 3 rods with two shrimp each. The water was dead calm and it was a clear, chilly night.

At 12am I pulled in the rods, and tossed my 6 untouched and slightly waterlogged shrimp into the gulf. My dad was right. I'd been skunked.

So why was this noteworthy? Well, to be honest, I wasn't bothered in the least by the fact that I hadn't caught the first fish. Of course I went fishing to actually -catch- fish, but I still had a blast. I realized while I was home that I hadn't actually been back to Pensacola in a LONG time. And being gone means that I've missed out on quite a lot in my family's and friend's lives. So the way I see it, getting to catch up with them when I oversleep, spend time on the boat, freeze to death on the beach at night, and stuff our faces full of turkey was definitely worth it. And worth far more than landing some fish. Very rarely is it all about the fish...

Note: I'm currently in the planning process of some big hunting/fishing trips along with some gear reviews. So my current internet silence in just the calm before the storm. Stay tuned!

100th Post and 2 New Species

So here it is. My 100th post. Looking back and when I started this thing, I questioned whether or not I'd even get past 10 posts. But here I am, and I have my friends and regular readers to thank for helping me get this far. If it wasn't for ya'll, I would have never gotten here. So THANK YOU!

Now...to my fishing trips.

While home for Thanksgiving, I got five chances to go fish. And like usual, none of them were what I had planned to do. Originally, I had planned to sit on the beach, relax, and try to catch some bull reds. Sadly...This never happened. I didn't even look at the beach during my 10 day stay. Instead, I got some much needed time in the kayak.

My first trip was on Sunday afternoon and my Dad, Mr. Locher, and I took the kayaks to an area that usually produces quite a few trout. As usual, the fishing was great, and I had over 20 fish in the boat in a little over an hour. What was strange this time, however, was that I couldn't get a fish to hit on conventional tackle. Every trout I landed was on the fly...A white clouser to be exact.

Not only did I manage to catch more Speckled Trout on a fly than ever before, but I also caught my biggest on the fly...Just shy of 20 inches.

A few days later and I found myself with my Dad kayak fishing the headwaters of Escambia bay. The brackish water has hundreds of little bayous and creeks that look terribly fishy. I've never spent much time around this area, but I really wanted to get out and explore. We soon found a creek and began working our way up it in search of Redfish or Trout.

After just a few casts, I had a strike, and the biggest surprise of my trip.

A Chain Pickerel!

Now I'm not really a freshwater fisherman. I knew these things existed. But I'd never seen one in real life, much less ever caught one. But here it was, hanging out in a 10 foot wide creek. That fish alone made my trip, but there was more to be caught.

Not long after this I caught a little Largemouth (that shook the hook at the side of the boat). I then turned around and caught a Redfish and a Trout.

All of these fish were caught in the same general area and I'm always surprised when I can catch true freshwater fish and saltwater fish in the same area. The wind had decided to whip itself into a gale by this point, so we called it a day.

My last kayak trip came Friday after thanksgiving. I went with my Dad and brother-in-law close to the same area we'd hit on Sunday. Unfortunately the bit wasn't quite what it had been 6 days earlier. I decided to take this as a sign to go look for new honey-holes and ventured off into a different area in hopes of finding more fish.

I wasn't too disappointed because shortly after moving, I found the fish. They weren't anything huge...the biggest was just around 17 inches, and the smallest was barely the length of my hand. But it was nice to find a new hole. It certainly helps expand my knowledge of the area. You can't really learn too many new things if you do the same thing over and over...right?

This area is where I had yet another surprise. This time, it was on the fly.

A Ribbonfish. Again, I'd never caught one before and was really interested in the way they moved and fought. They pull backwards and use that eel shaped body to their advantage. I caught two of these things, and had to carefully remove my mangled fly from their nasty set of choppers.

And that was it for my kayak fishing over the break. My other trips consisted of venturing off in a power-boat, but that report will have to wait for later in the week. Stay tuned...There's a third new species to cross off my list coming up!

Cedar Key Fishing, September, 2011

This past weekend, I was lucky enough to get to fish Cedar Key, Fl with my dad. Prior to this trip, I'd only fished Cedar Key once and that was from a jon boat and I was about twelve years old. This time would be from the kayak.

After an extremely hectic Friday, I managed to escape Gainesville late and make the hour and a half drive over to Cedar Key. Upon arriving, I was reminded of something I'm personally not used to: Big tidal shifts. Back home in Pensacola, the only real difference between high and low tides is that they are on different parts of the tide table. Honestly, there's about a 1-1.5 ft difference in the tides in Pensacola. And that's with really strong tides.

Cedar Key (along with the rest of the Gulf Coast) has much stronger tides. Cedar Key actually has about a 5 ft. tide. So when we arrived late Friday evening, I'm not greeted with thousands of little islands, sloughs, and fishy looking spots. Instead, I see...Mud. Endless mud flats. Low tide at Cedar Key is brutal and everyone who fishes there answers to the tides first.

Photo taken from dep.state.fl.us

So after consulting the almighty tide table, we realized that low tide was at 7:30am the next morning and high tide wasn't until 1:00pm. I know I'm not alone in thinking that the earlier you can get out on the water, the better. But...It was impossible. Low tide was just too low, even in my yak. So it was kinda weird being on a fishing trip and not waking up until about 9:00am. Even after launching at around 9:30, I still succeeded scratching the bottom of the kayak to hell on oyster bars.

My dad and I paddled out to the closest island which was around 1/2 mile from launch and began fishing. After a couple of hours, I'd circled almost the whole island and hadn't had the first bump. I finally spotted an area where the strong incoming tide was flowing around a point on the island and started to catch fish. I only managed to pull in a few small specks, but hey...It was better than nothing. Moments later, my dad came over and landed a very nice red.

The island was essentially cut in half by tidal mud flats and the incoming tide made it possible to paddle through the middle of it. To our surprise, we didn't see the first sign of any fish in the shallows aside from mullet. Once on the outside of the island again, we started seeing what -looked- like mullet being chased around oyster bars by big fish. But we failed to catch anything aside from the bottom and got off the water around 3:00 pm.

Later that day, we drove down to an area on the Lower Suwanee National Wildlife Refuge that has an indian shell mound. There is a boat launch there and the area (even though it was low tide) looked really fishy. We decided that we would fish this area the following morning.

Once again, I had to shake the weird feeling of waking up late and fishing late the following day. We launched by the shell mound and began looking for fish. I happened to look at google earth the night before and saw where a channel was located in the area and we used that to paddle deeper into the marsh. After about 30 minutes of paddling and fishing, the tide really began to get moving and the current started shooting my yak through the narrow cuts and sloughs.

Rather than get dragged all the way inshore, I broke free from the current and paddled into a calm area on the backside of an island. Another thing I'm not used to is fishing around large amounts of oysters. It seemed like every 10 casts I'd hook the bottom and would have to paddle over to get my lure free. After just a few casts on the backside of this particular island, I hooked the bottom yet again. Except something was wrong...The bottom was moving! I -actually- had a fish. With all the fish I've landed over the years, I still find it funny when I have a fish on and don't realize it for a few moments. After quite a strong fight, I pulled in my first Cedar Key Redfish. Within slot to boot!

I must have found a little school of Reds because my next few casts hooked even more.

And just as quick as I got into them, they were gone. With that, I kept paddling along, hoping to get into another school. Soon I spotted something in the water, but didn't believe it when I saw it. A few moments later, I saw it again and my heart skipped a beat.

Photo taken from Floridafishermen.net

Tailing redfish!


Sure I know Redfish will sometimes tail in shallow water when they're feeding, but that's like saying monster bucks will come running to doe in heat urine...It just doesn't happen to me. The only tailing reds I'd seen before this were in my dreams and in Florida Sportsman magazine. Something about Pensacola Reds makes them reluctant to do this, so when I saw that tail, the first thing I did was perform my patented 'insta-fail-cast'.

The move has taken me years to master, but I consider myself a pro at it. I've made this kind of cast to everything from lunker bass to Tarpon. The first step is to acquire enough adrenaline in the system to send you into seizure-like shakes. The next step is to grab the nearest rod and hook the lure onto every loose item in the boat. It's here that I like to sometimes put my own personal touch on the move by dropping the paddle in my lap hard enough that the fish think all the banging is a reenactment of River Dance going on above. During all of this, it's important to mutter every obscenity that you can think of in order to mentally prepare for the upcoming cast. Finally, with all the prerequisite steps complete, it's time to finish the 'insta-fail-cast'. Assuming the fish is still in the same county at this point, take aim with your rod, and let loose a cast that lands either eighteen inches from the boat, or in the canopy of the nearest tree. Really, just as long as the lure doesn't land in the same area code as the fish, you should be alright.

Luckily, my near perfect 'insta-fail-cast' didn't manage to spook my tailing Red. I quickly made a cliche' normal cast and got my lure within inches of the Redfish's nose. I gave the rod a quick twitch and...Nothing. The fish acted like there wasn't even a lure there. I made another cast, hoping that maybe the fish just didn't see it. But once again...Nothing.

I rapidly began digging through the tackle box and pulled out my go-to inshore lure: A chartreuse double tailed grub. I made another cast and 'wham'. Redfish.

Shortly after releasing the red, I saw more tails. These, however, were massive. Upon closer inspection, it turned out to be -giant- Black Drum. I made several casts before I finally got one to pick up my grub. Sadly, I was extremely out gunned. I fought the fish for close to a minute before he finally realized he was hooked. Then he started peeling drag. It sorta looked like a mini-sub moving through the shallow water as he dragged me around in circles. I fought the fish for maybe five minutes. I got close enough to see it and would estimate it somewhere between 30-40lbs. He made a few circles around the boat, then finally came straight at the yak, behind it, then under it. At that awkward angle, I was forced to put the rod tip in the water and try to spin the yak around. However, before I could get the kayak spun around, the main line found a set of oysters underwater and snapped the beast off. I was livid pissed slightly perturbed. Prior to this, the biggest Black Drum I'd ever seen was about fifteen inches long.

I spent the rest of the day trying to catch another. I took out the GoPro, and then proceeded to not catch another fish all day. Sometimes that's just how it goes. I got a short video of me failing with a cast, then accidentally foul hooking another big Black Drum for a second before the hook pulled. If you watch closely, you'll see the fish tailing.

Overall, I had an absolute blast fishing Cedar Key. I would have killed to have just one more day to chase after those tailing Reds and maybe throw some actual bait at the Black Drum since they weren't real interested in my lure. -Super- muddy water played against us, so next time maybe bait would be the way to go. Regardless, I look forward to the next time I make it down there and maybe I'll get a rematch with one of those big ugly Black Drum.

Speck Fishing and Mullet Snatching: Port St. Joe Part I

The next few posts will be my most recent trip to Port St. Joe and will be broken up into a few parts.

Woke up at some ungodly hour of the morning last Wednesday and made the 3.5 hour drive down to Port St. Joe with my dad. Despite being zombie-like from the lack of sleep the night before, I was really excited about making this trip. Prior to this, I hadn't been to St. Joe in over six years.

We arrived sometime around 8 am and decided that our first stop would be the St. Joseph's State Park. Even though it had been six years since the last time I had visited, few things had changed throughout the small town. A few new houses, new stores had opened, old stores had closed, and that was about it. The state park was just how I remembered it. We soon launched the kayaks and paddled out over the grass flats and fished the incoming tide.

It was a beautiful morning. The wind was up just a little bit, but it was manageable in the yaks. The best part was that the fish were biting. After just a few casts, I landed a nice fat Speckled Trout on topwater.

I hooked and missed a few more trout after this and then proceeded to catch this little guy.

I never knew they made Bluefish that small. Over the course of the trip, I only landed the one trout and little Bluefish. I missed a good ten strikes and lost a couple of fish that I had hooked. What I'm pretty sure was a Redfish came up and annihilated my topwater lure, but because of their downward facing mouth, he managed to -not- hook himself. Apparently I should have switched to subsurface because my dad landed about six trout and lost a few bluefish on soft plastics.

One thing I love about St. Joe is how much area there is to fish. The grass flats extend for at least a half mile off shore and continue down the seven miles of peninsula.

This is why I was livid slightly perturbed when I saw these people run their boat up in the shallows, chop the grass, make a ton of noise, and chunk and anchor our RIGHT next to me. And no, the picture doesn't quite do their "closeness" justice.

It was at least a small victory to see them get excited and yell "Fish on!!", only to pull back a pinfish with their live bait.

By this point, my dad and I were both really tired from the drive and all the paddling. The wind had come up quite a bit more so we decided to call it quits and head back to the truck. The next morning we decided to launch the kayaks at a cove in the southwest corner of the bay. We got there right at dawn and got to see a beautiful sunrise.

The water was quite a bit more shallow than over at the state park. It took close to 10 minutes of solid paddling before I reached 2 feet of water. To my surprise, nothing was biting. I had taken the fly rod with me so it only made sense that after a few casts, the wind picked up to a near-gale. I did, however, notice that there were mullet -everywhere- and I remembered that I brought one snatch hook with me. I paddled back to the truck, switched my gear up a bit, and paddled back to where I'd seen so many schools. The mullet were VERY thick first thing in the morning, but they had begun to spread out by the time I began snatching. I still, however, managed to land one big fat mullet that I failed to take a picture of. I hit another 15 with the snatch hook and hooked and lost 7 of those. If only mullet would take a lure/fly in saltwater. Believe it or not, they fight very hard. The mullet that I landed took out a bunch of line and even dragged me and my kayak a good 50 yards into the wind.

I gave up after a while since the wind was getting stronger and it was exhausting trying to hook a mullet from the kayak. It's quite a bit harder to hook one from the kayak because one can't get the same leverage as they can while wading.

We didn't really know what to do in the afternoon because of the wind. The Gulf was too rough to launch, and if we launched at the state park, we'd never make it back up the beach to the launch because of the wind. We finally decided to just fish the same area as we did earlier in the morning. It was different this time because the tide had now run out. What was once a long stretch of water 2 feet deep, was now nearly a half mile of six-inch deep grassy water. It took forever to paddle across it thanks to dragging the bottom and fighting the wind. The mullet were still thick, but were now in only a few inches of water and every time I cast the treble hook at them, it just stuck in the grass. I managed to find a hole that was a few feet deep and began casting some soft plastics into it. I caught fish, but unfortunately it was just one croaker after another. But hey, it gave me a chance to use those hook outs that I need to write a review on.

I gave up after a few hours and paddled/push-poled myself back to the launch. Upon arriving, I noticed something I'd nearly forgotten about Port St. Joe. Fiddler crabs!

One can't really be careful when walking around them. Whether you run through the group, or step gingerly near them, you'll still hear an unpleasant crunch as one finds the bottom of your shoe. It's a shame I never make it down to Port St. Joe when the sheepshead are really biting.