I love the smell of pluff mud in the morning

As you might imagine, January and February are the two hardest months to write a fishing column. The water is cold, the fish (and myself) are hunkered down, and other than schooling redfish and sheepshead, there really isn't all that much to talk about. With that said, I was sweating over what to write about until I gave a talk to the Sun City Fishing Club.

After talking about winter fishing techniques, I did a Q&A segment, and it was then that one gentleman asked me a question that triggered the topic of this week's column: pluff mud.

So what was his question? In a nutshell, he told me he didn't have a boat and could I give him some advice on a place to fish that he could walk to? After thinking a bit, I suggested an area near the bridge to Hilton Head Island but warned him about the perils of walking in pluff mud, something I have a lot of experience with in all my years fishing around here.

When he asked me about walking to one particular spot, I answered his question with a question of my own: "How long are your legs?"

Don't get me wrong -- I absolutely love pluff mud. You could blindfold me, load me on a plane, fly me to a hundred different locations and if one of those locations happened to be right around here, the smell of pluff mud would instantly tell me where I was. Even when I go on vacation and return, one of the first things I do when I get close to home is roll down my window and take a deep breath through my nose.

There is no smell quite like it, and though many of you transplants might find it disgusting, to me it's sweeter then any potpourri ever made.

Remember the robot in the old TV series "Lost in Space" and its famous line, "Warning, Will Robinson, warning"? For pluff mud newbies, that says it all. It can suck you down quicker than a cheetah chasing down a gazelle. I know this from personal experience on a number of occasions, but because I'm slight in stature, I have an easier time dealing with pluff mud than most folks.

I was even given the nickname "Lightfoot" by my duck-hunting buddies, nicknamed the "Bog Brothers," Blufftonian David Donnell and architect Wayne Windham, back when we hunted just about every day during duck season.

Always made to walk first, they knew that if I sank down 6 inches, they would be waist-deep. We tried all sorts of things to beat the pluff mud, including wearing snowshoes. That was David's idea, but after taking all of three steps, he went face down in the stuff.

SLIDING INTO A LESSON

I have so many tales in which pluff mud got the best of friends of mine, but I guarantee you would laugh so hard, your stomach would hurt and you just might leak a bit. So quickly I'll try and tell you one tale that was absolutely priceless.

I think it was in the mid-1980s. David Donnell and I took a friend of ours, Stuart Gregg, on his first time duck hunting in the marsh. It was in January, the temperature was in the mid-20s, the wind was howling and after putting out our decoys, we slid the boat into a slough, covered it with camo netting and hopped out so we could stand on a small high spot.

Mud walking is an art, and David and I had no problems, but Stuart, being inexperienced, immediately started going down. He wasn't 3 feet away from us, but being very hard-headed, he wouldn't have anything to do with our advice. The more he squirmed, the deeper he went, and to make things worse, it started sleeting just as the ducks started flying.

Being good guys, we offered our assistance, but all Stuart would say was "Leave me here, just leave me here!"

So you have a better image of the situation, David and I were standing high and dry, and Stuart was within an arm's reach of us, but his head was literally below my waistline. I could have used his head as a table for my coffee cup.

As David and I wailed on some widgeon, Stuart finally managed to slide out of his waders and, on his hands and knees, started digging his waders out of the mud. He had to have been frozen solid, but he still rejected any help we offered. He was just that way.

Worried that he would succumb to hypothermia, we headed back to the landing and drove him home. If what he had been through wasn't enough, upon his return, his wife, Linda, finished this story in a way I will never forget.

As he was covered head to toe with stinky pluff mud, she refused to let him in the house. Instead, she made him strip down in their front yard in the blistering cold and proceeded to hose him down with the garden hose!

Good one, huh?

God does not subtract from the allotted span of a man's life the hours spent in fishing. Columnist Collins Doughtie, a graphic designer by trade and fishing guide by choice, sure hopes that's true.

This story was originally published January 13, 2015 at 4:00 PM with the headline "I love the smell of pluff mud in the morning ."