Written By Dave Fason
Down in the Southeast, we look forward to a special time every fall when marsh hen/rail season opens. It’s not just about the hunt—it’s the tides, the marsh, and the hope for tailing reds that bring us back year after year. A few weeks ago, we found ourselves in a small town just outside Charleston, ready to chase it all.
First light stretched across the Lowcountry marsh, painting everything in soft, warm hues. Coffee in hand, we stood on the dock, letting the crisp air wake us up—the kind of cool morning that makes you second-guess your layers. As the tide crept higher, the oyster beds began to disappear, signaling it was time to load up. A couple of shotguns, fly rods, adult beverages, and plenty of laughs—it was shaping up to be one of those days.
The skiffs cut through the water on a perfect glassy morning. The marsh hens were waiting for us, screeching as we passed by. We worked the edges of the grass, when a sudden flurry broke the silence—the first bird flushed. Shotguns cracked, feathers floated, and the marsh echoed with laughter. We missed a few more than we hit, but no one was keeping score. It wasn’t about limits; it was about the moments.
With the tide still rolling in, we swapped guns for rods and started scanning the grass. The first wakes appeared, slow and deliberate, as tailing reds moved through the skinny water. Patrick made the first cast, and when a redfish charged, the moment got the better of him—he set the hook too early. More wakes came, and more casts followed, but the reds left us empty-handed.
By midday, the cooler was half-empty, and the tide had started to ebb, but no one was ready to call it quits. Plan B came into play. Robbie suggested a low-tide creek he swore held fish. We slowly pushed into the shiny, narrowing water. Then we saw them—a massive school of reds cutting through the surface in the sun. A few casts later, we finally landed our first red of the day.
By the time we returned to the dock, we were covered in pluff mud but still smiling. The stories about perfect casts that weren’t so perfect, missed shots, and the one shark that got hooked. No one was in a hurry to leave.
This was Lowcountry living at its finest. Here, the tide sets the tone, the marsh keeps you thinking, and every cast and blast feels like it was made just for you. It doesn’t get much better than this.
