Big Bend sunsets make catching fish a momentary afterthought.

A 5-pound redfish towing a 45-pound kayak, burdened further by angler and gear, harnessed by a wisp of 10-pound-test thread. This surely mocks some obscure law of physics.

“Here we go again,” I happily muttered as my 13-foot craft veered left and right at the whim of the circling mass of muscle. By the time near-darkness demanded that I paddle into a fiery sunset to collect my partner a half mile to the west, I’d taken five such redfish rides in two hours of late-afternoon fishing, and a much larger fish condescendingly popped my leader rather than budge when I set the hook.

My friend, meanwhile, was in no hurry to be collected. As I approached, he hefted a 6-pound trout—his fourth—to silhouette it against the flaming horizon.

Not a bad ending to a first day of kayaking the Big Bend Saltwater Paddling Trail.

Obtained from private forestry companies in 1986 by the Nature Conservancy, much of this sparsely populated, isolated coastline came under the management of the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission (FWC) when the state of Florida purchased the property the following year. In combination with other public lands, the Big Bend Wildlife Management Area (BBWMA) comprises one of the longest continuous coastal wetlands in the United States. Much of it is virtually unchanged since pre-European settlement.

The Big Bend Saltwater Paddling Trail (BBSPT) spans approximately 105 miles, from roughly the Aucilla River south to the mouth of the Suwannee. Designated by the Florida Legislature as part of the Greenways system in 1996, it moved beyond the concept stage in 2001 with the commencement of two years of intensive planning and mapping by the FWC’s Recreational Department and a group of sturdy volunteer kayakers. As camping is generally off-limits in the BBWMA, negotiations were required between the agencies to permit limited overnight stays on designated offshore islands along the route. The trail officially opened in March 2003, and this year was recognized as one of 37 National Recreation Trails.

“When we laid out the trail, we weren’t looking for the super-paddlers who want to kayak 105 miles in three days,” recalled FWC Director of Recreational Services Jerrie Lindsey. “Campsites were set up relatively close together to facilitate plenty of time for side trips for fishing, bird-watching, exploring the many creeks or hiking trails along the route.”

Anglers kayaking just a portion of the trail have a choice of fishing environments. Due to the number of tannic rivers pouring into the upper stretch—roughly north of Keaton Beach—the water is much darker, and limestone outcroppings and oyster bars and beds more prevalent. Areas to the south feature miles of grassbeds in crystal clear water, interspersed with occasional oysters, such as the large beds near Horseshoe Beach. Wintertime anglers paddle themselves up the creeks to pursue trout and reds that desert flats and bars in favor of deep, warmer river waters.

As we slogged our boats across bare mud flats, it would have been easy to differentiate our fleet from the 3-year Lewis and Clark expedition of 1803.

Mark Nichols and I had more stuff.

Months of delay in kayaking the BBSPT gave me plenty of time to accumulate the latest in absolutely essential lightweight kayaking and camping goodies. Ultralight tent, ultralight cookware, ultralight sleeping bag, ultralight self-inflating mattress, ultralight kayak anchor, ultralight rain gear and kayak fish bag. Even ultralight lights. I single-handedly jump-started the entire U.S. economy, one ultralight item at a time.

Nichols prepares to sight-fish spartina.

All this ultralight stuff made a pretty impressive pile on top of my kayak. Throw a king-size sheet over it and bolt on some wheels, and my open panga-style fishing vessel would have blended nicely into any Conestoga wagon train headed for California a century and a half earlier.

We actually arrived with intentions of paddling and camping over several sections of the kayak trail from Spring Warrior Creek north of Keaton Beach south to Steinhatchee. We had second thoughts when we discovered the previous weekend’s storm surge and torrential rains had soaked the firewood at designated campsites to the point that anything short of nuclear incendiary devices wouldn’t light it. A camp without a campfire creates an ambiance only the bugs can embrace. Our decision to sample the fishing at various spots along the route seemed a very sensible solution.