Laguna Madre: Where the sky meets the sea

Southern Living, Apr 2002 by Young, Dianne

If you think Texas is all cactus and cowboys, you must explore this wondrous saltwater lagoon. It could change you forever.

Say the words "Texas coast," and most people - even those from the Lone Star State - immediately think of Galveston, Corpus Christi, or South Padre Island. I was, I confess, as guilty as the next-at least until I spent a few days on the magic waters of the lower Laguma Madre.

A matter of pure sport first drew me to this far South Texas site near Harlingen. I intended to land a monster redfish on a perfectly east fly. What I discovered instead was more inpressive than any linker I could ever have netted. I found an almost mystical place, a mostly overlooked treasure of natural history, blessed with subtle beauty and a haunting serenity.

The Mother Lagoon of Texas

"Laguna Madre" translates into English as the "Mother Lagoon." It is undeniably that. Hunkered down behind barrier islands (chiefly Padre), this long, narrow body of water curls south from Corpus Christi Bay some 120 miles to the Rio Grande Delta. Composed of the upper and lower Laguna Madres along the Texas coast, the lagoon stretches on for another 100 miles into Mexico, where it joins the Soto la Marina River at the Gulf.

The lower Laguna is the shallowest and clearest part of the estuary system. Its salty expanse, averaging 1 to 3 feet in depth, encompasses a variety of ecological features: mudflats, spoil islands, barrier islands, dunes, coastal sand plains, marshes, and sea grass meadows. Of those, it is the sea grass meadows that foster the fertile character of Laguna Madre and the future of this coast's aquatic life.

These meadows provide rich spawning and foraging grounds for brown shrimp and fish. They serve, too, as feeding grounds for migrating geese and ducks. In particular, 80% of all of North America's redhead ducks winter in the lower Laguna Madre. Peregrine falcons, piping plovers, and reddish egrets number among the rare, endangered, and threatened species sighted here.

A Naturalist's Paradise

I first approached this natural haven early, well before dawn on a spring day, boating down the arrow-straight channel of the Arroyo Colorado. At the helm, fishing guide Capt. Scott Sparrow steered us the 5 miles east to the lagoon from Kingfisher Inn, the lodge near Harlingen that he and his wife, Kathy, run for anglers, birdwatchers, and other outdoor types.

As morning gathered above us in the tight steep-banked channel, it stained the high clouds with a soft shade of pearl, then smeared them with bold strokes of amber, rose, and lavender. Before us, the light-saturated water perfectly mirrored the sky, while behind us our widening wake created a radiant blur of colors. Along the shore, a great blue heron posed, motionless, as we passed.

Exiting the channel, we headed north into the open world of the lower Laguna Madre. As the minutes brightened, I could make out every detail of the lagoon's bottom through the clear water, the spread of each grassy depression and the contours of the curling shoals. Scott pointed out redfish, which darted away from the boat like swift shadows, leaving only a sandy whorl visible in the water.

Walking in the Sky

En route to our fishing spot, we encountered no other boats, and as we motored farther from the channel, the low-lying land began to disappear altogether. Scott anchored when he spied a school of redfish, their tails waving above the water as they fed. He and Kathy provided instructions; then we all stepped into the water and struck off in different directions.

Surveying the sandy bottom, I shuffled along slowly, methodically, and sidestepped a small stingray. Nearing one tailing redfish, I stopped and began to cast. As I worked my way closer, I noticed another angler fishing in the distance. With no land to divide them, the sky and the water around him melded seamlessly together, and it appeared as if he were walking on clouds, casting in slow motion across the heavens.

Turning around, I saw that the boat itself seemed to float in midair. I thought of ghost ships, and for a brief moment I experienced that flash of vertigo you feel when your brain won't accept the information your senses provide. I reached down to touch the water for reassurance.

I didn't catch my monster redfish that April, but somehow it never bothered me. Perhaps because I plan to go back or, more likely, because I brought home an image that still fires my imagination. Far more than any trophy fish, it represents the real power of Laguna Madre-its immensity, its majesty, and its unearthly air.