everything is bigger in the south

It's true what they say, that everything is bigger in the South.
Well, most things.
The roaches are way bigger. And they fly. The oaks are bigger, too. And, as this is a story about fishing, the fish are way bigger.
Which means the gear is way bigger, too.
Now, growing up in rural upstate New York, the trout rivers there are a good size, something I would call normal size. Not wide like the Western waters, and not tiny brooks like those in New England, but normal. You could swim across most of them. And you could float on an old Goodyear innertube for most of a hot summer day without finding the mouth of it.
Of course, Southern rivers aren't much different. But there's this whole ocean to deal with, and the tidal creeks that rise and fall with the incoming and outgoing tides bring in monster redfish, sharks, rays the size of picnic tables, stripers and sea trout.
A number 16 wuldf on a 4 weight rod just isn't going to cut it.
So, the first thing I did was beg for a new flyrod: a saltwater flyrod to be exact: A 9-foot, 8 weight jobber that cost twice as much as my 5 weight and was so big, it had a fighting seat and butt. I should mention, too, that I've always been a believer in buying cheap reels, since I buy into the argument that reels simply hold the line. I strip a lot, and that means spending $530 on some multicolored anodized aluminum large arbor reel just means I've got a place to store my flyline.
Yeah, not so much when it comes to big fish. Drag is a serious issue, as is a material that won't corrode. I'm weary about cork drags in this salt, which I've on more than a dozen occasions watched it unweld the rubber soles of my shoes from their canvas uppers in a matter of an afternoon. So the drag had better be sealed, which only means it might last a season.
Of course, everything must be hosed down, taken apart, rinsed and wiped dry — some of it re-lubed — after each outing. Sometimes I'm too lazy. I end up having to unweld the metals the next time I go out.
The flies, well, let's just say I haven't mastered all the techniques yet. The rods are 9 feet, and I've witnessed crazy people waving them as large as 12 feet long. So false casting is kind of a burden. That and the wind. But back to the flies, we're talking big 1/0 and 2/0 hooks with synthetics the colors of rainbows and neons, with claws and curls and lumps and rattles.
They look more like toys than mock bait. Be that as it may, they work. Some of the time.
Redfish, or red drum, depending where you are, are wonderful fish good fighters and will eat just about anything you put in front of them. That's good news for a Southern novice fly fisherman.
And they're just about everywhere: jetties, open surf, tidal rivers, tidal creeks and even some lagoons, although I've never caught any in them.
Out on Pritchards Island, just past Hunting and Fripp islands in Beaufort County's famous Sea Island chain, I caught about a 20 incher. Good fish. It fed my wife and I for three dinners.
Tying saltwater flies is no fun. Well, let me take that back: It's fun when you don't give a hoot what the thing looks like, because chances are if it's bright enough and big enough, you're bound to catch something with it.
The flies of New England, for instance, have to be dead-on. They have to swim perfectly, look like the flies in a specific hatch (which, unbelievably, do vary from river to river), and act the part. Otherwise, the fussy old trout eschew the very thing you spend a rainy, cold Saturday afternoon tying.
Of course, big means more expensive. So buying the darn flies is lunch money for the week. And if you're tying, well, it's more money for the flashy materials. Can't just drive down the nearest country road looking for road kill, and the cat and the dog, well, their fur isn't chartreuse or silver, so that's out.
Come to think of it, I had a cat up north that I used to pinch once in a while. He had the perfect fur that resembled that of a light brown hare. Great for light Hendricksons or AuSable wulffs.
And forget the thick waders, heavy vests and wooden landing nets. Most of the time, it's too hot to be in anything more than a pair of swim trunks and a t-shirt (don't forget the sunblock). Vests work, but if there's any zippers on them, you won't get them off at the end of the day. Ditto for any metal D hooks, etc. They will corrode, and you'll be stuck wearing a fly vest with a bunch of gear hanging off it on the ride home or until you cut it off.
Lastly, there are the river banks. Before setting foot down into the river, you have to be aware of three things: gators, snakes and plough (pronounced "pluff") mud. The first two could kill you, and so could the third, come to think of it.
Gators are sneaky beasts, and if you think they don't head down into salty water, well you'd be mistaken. Granted, they don't exactly relish the salty water, but believe me when I tell you that I've seen an alligator in brackish water the size of my kayak (I mistook it for a log; then it submerged...) and even saw one in the surf (I wasn't alone at the time, so, yes, I do have a witness).
Mostly, they'll just dive and get the hell out of your way, but it's the equivalent of seeing a bear on the far bank while casting for trout in the Adirondacks.
Snakes? They are good swimmers, too, even the non-water moccasin types that really have no business in the water. I've seen too many copperheads dropping off the banks and skimming the surface to believe otherwise.
The worst of it, though, is the plough mud. Now, it might look solid enough, but I remember my fist encounter with it. My wife and I were sailing on our little blue boat when the tiller busted and we were left to steer with the grace of the wind and the current alone. We missed the dock by a good twenty feet, but I was proud that I even got us that close.
I hopped out when the boat grounded toward the bank and submerged up to my knees in what I thought at the time must have been quick sand. I made it out somehow, but I lost my Nikes and filleted my foot on an oyster. Buddy, those things are sharp.
The thing about plough mud, beyond that it's super soft, is that it stinks, it's nearly impossible to remove from clothes and there is only one way through it: You step on the tufts of spartina grass that grow in it. This isn't guarantee that it will get you from your truck to the river, but it should get you closer. The thick root system, which must handle ebbing and flowing tides of eight feet twice a day, is pretty tough.
Still, the banks, where the fish tend to converge to pick at the bugs, bait fish, oysters, crabs and shrimp, are best accessed by skiff or kayak. I prefer a skiff, but I use a kayak most of the times. That's because I don't own a skiff.
And kayaks don't get hung up, and they're a lot less menacing-looking from a fish's point of view. At least that seems to make sense.
Of course, you can't stand on most of them, and those you can, well, it's a balancing act. But either way, you can get to the remote bank, find and oyster rake that's above the tideline and jump out to fish if you don't feel like doing so seated.
Most of the time, I imagine I'll get to a bank, get out and fish. But then I'm so taken with the slow drift of the tide, that I'll sort of just trawl up the river or down the lagoon until I feel like paddling again or run out of rising fish, or at least, bugs on the banks.
Or the sun runs out.
Which takes awhile, because even the days are bigger here in the South.