Chasing Legends

Tales of a shadowy giant slipping through the waters of Clam Bayou
stretch all the damn way back to the late 1800s.


Folks who've caught a glimpse over the years paint Clammy as this massive, sneaky son of a gun gliding under the surface—could be long and serpentine like it’s auditioning for Nessie’s family reunion, or sporting those big ol' humps that break the water just enough to make you do a double-take and question your last beer. It teases you, surfaces for a heartbeat to spike your pulse, then ghosts right back into the bayou's ink-black murk like it was never there. 
Course, nobody's ever managed a decent photo, dragged up bones, or even a suspicious scale to back it up. So Clammy hangs out forever in that perfect cryptid sweet spot: zero concrete proof, but plenty of eerie whispers and goosebump stories to keep the legend alive and kicking.
When we launched Kayak Nature Adventures back in 2002, we had several encounters that were, shall we say, startling—especially in the thickest, tightest parts of the bayou. It wasn’t unusual to round a bend and find yourself staring down a 12-foot alligator in a narrow mangrove tunnel, its only escape route a full-speed charge off the bank, straight under your kayak. Terrifying? Absolutely. But at least easy to identify.
Then there were the bull manatees that would lumber up into the shallow mud flats to breed. Explosive when surprised mid-romance, sure—but again, unmistakable.
But for a solid four- or five-year stretch, we kept running into something else entirely behind Twin Brooks Golf Course. The channels there were carved deep by a century of stormwater runoff, the mangroves arching eight to ten feet above the waterline from the muddy banks. More than once we’d spot the broad, dark back of something protruding just under the low, overhanging branches —motionless at first. Then, startled, it would erupt in a violent explosion of water and vanish. Gone. No reappearance. On a couple of occasions it came straight at us, throwing a wake big enough to rock a tandem kayak like a toy boat, yet in that murky soup we could never catch a clear look.
I’ve been an outdoor guide for over fifty years, and this was hands-down my toughest adversary to identify. Time after time my paddlers would shriek in pure terror at what some of the local legends referred to as“Clammy.”  Some historians report sightings from as far back as 1870!
One memorable day I had a mountain man from Alaska on tour—seven feet tall, 350 pounds, red beard cascading down to his belt buckle. Tough as nails. The kind of guy who casually mentioned grizzly visits to his front porch, cougar run-ins, and moose that charged like freight trains. He was just lounging in the shade, one massive hand dangling in the water like bait. Clammy apparently took offense. The next thing we knew, our Viking took a full bucket of bayou to the face as a parting shot. I’ve never seen a man that intimidating reduced to near tears, begging--begging—to be taken to shore. Right. Now.
Then came a hot, blinding  September after a brutal red-tide season that had wiped out so many critters. Another classic Clammy sighting: a smooth, shallow back breaking the surface just below the mangroves, followed by the now-familiar geyser of water. But this time, instead of disappearing, the thing powered out to the center of the channel… and stopped. Dead still.
We eased closer. I asked myself, “Will this be the day? The day of discovery?” Even when it was within arm’s reach, the murk refused to give it up. And then, almost as if it had decided the game was over, Clammy surrendered. It rolled gently, floated to the surface, and died right in front of us. A battle-scarred veteran—hide crisscrossed with scars from cast nets, one eye long gone (probably courtesy of a gator), lips shredded like they’d lost a lifelong argument with treble hooks. It took two of us grunting to haul that gladiator into the kayak. In the end, our mystery of Clam Bayou’s Clammy turned out to be a record-class black drum! I’m not saying it was 145lbs, but a masterclass leviathan for sure.
The thrill of finally solving the riddle was quickly drowned out by something quieter, heavier. Saying goodbye to a true old warrior of the bayou is a humbling thing. 
Even in the Great Outdoors, some legends leave you more somber than triumphant.









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