This article is from the winter 2024 edition of Mobile Baykeeper’s print quarterly, CURRENTS. The magazine is mailed to active members who have given more than $50 in the past year. To get on the magazine’s mailing list, donate here.
By Caine O’Rear
Nick Williams is a lifelong Baldwin County resident. He grew up within walking distance of Mobile Bay on the Eastern Shore, spent a brief stint on the beach side of 182 in Orange Beach, and now resides with his wife, daughter, and Labrador Retriever on the banks of the Tensaw up in Stockton. He holds a Bachelor in Science in Marketing Management from the University of South Alabama, and currently works as the Managing Editor of Great Days Outdoor Media. As part of his duties, he also hosts the Alabama Freshwater Fishing Report Podcast. When he’s not writing or recording, he can usually be found knee-deep in a tributary stream or tupelo swamp, fly-casting for panfish or blowing on a wood duck call.
A member of Mobile Baykeeper’s Board of Directors and a regular contributor to CURRENTS, Nick shared his thoughts on what drew him to his work with Mobile Baykeeper.
What is your relationship to the waters of Coastal Alabama?
Water has always been a big part of my life. As a kid, my parents would load my sisters and me into our wood-paneled Grand Wagoneer and head to Ft. Morgan and Gulf Shores. I suppose every generation thinks they experienced “the good old days” before the beaches got crowded, but I do remember a time before the rise of condominiums. It was great. My dad would fish while we kids swam in the surf, occasionally getting scolded by park officers for playing on the dunes. I admit, I carry a little chip on my shoulder about getting told how dunes were a sensitive habitat as a kid, only for them to build on them when I was older.
When I was a preteen, my parents moved from Foley to Lake Forest. We lived right on Tiawassee Creek, which flows into the community lake along with D’Olive Creek. If you’ve read Ben Raines’ Saving America’s Amazon, then you’re familiar with the environmental issues that watershed has faced — sedimentation, sewage spills, fertilizer runoff, and more. I witnessed much of this firsthand as I played and fished the creek.
How has being a sportsman connected you to conservation efforts?
I’ve always been a sportsman. While earning my degree at South, I didn’t have much time to visit our deer lease, so I started hunting the local Wildlife Management Areas (WMAs). There are about 90,000 acres of public land north of the Causeway, but I’ve found that only a small portion consistently holds deer. Despite its size, the surrounding population and the local hunting culture lead to significant hunter pressure. Success requires a serious commitment to putting “boots on the ground.”
Most people only see the Delta from a boat on nice afternoons. But when you’re searching for deer and ducks, you venture into the remote areas. You see a lot more of what’s really out there when you’re wading through swamps at 3 a.m., setting decoys or sitting on a white-oak ridge from dawn to dusk, watching a scrape line. I’ve watched beavers repair dams, alligators stalk hogs, and wood duck ducklings leap from their nests high in cypress trees.
My wife and I also fish a lot, and I’ve become particularly obsessed with fly fishing for panfish. Most people know about bluegills and shellcrackers, but few are familiar with “stumpknockers” or “goggle-eyes.” I’ve caught over a dozen different species of sunfish on a fly rod in the small tributaries of the Delta. When people think of fly fishing, they often imagine The Rockies, but the aquatic diversity here is unmatched. I’ve never hooked a trout, but I don’t feel like I’m missing anything when I’m wading in a blackwater creek, catching longear sunfish in full spawning colors. It’s surreal to hold such a vibrant fish in your hands, and many people don’t even know they exist.
As a sportsman, you interact with nature in a way that’s different from the general public. While we’re all part of an ecosystem, hunters and anglers often experience the environment more directly. For example, I can eat a fish I caught and see the exact spot in the river where I landed it from my dining room window. When you hunt, you’re out there in the elements, feeling the cold, heat, or bugs, just like the animals you pursue. Once you step out of your air-conditioned comfort and start thinking like a deer or fish, you begin to see the world differently. It might sound like “woo-woo hippie stuff,” but those moments make you realize just how connected you are to the land and water.
Why did you decide to get involved as a board member at Baykeeper?
It started gradually. In March 2021, a hunting buddy told me about a public hearing concerning the cap-in-place closure plan for the Barry Steam Plant coal ash ponds. At the time, I didn’t know much about Mobile Baykeeper, but Barry is about eight miles from my house “as the crow flies.” Given that I eat fish and fowl from the Delta’s waters, work as an outdoor writer, and own property on Tensaw Lake, I had a vested interest in the health of the swamp.
I signed up to speak against the cap-in-place plan and noticed that not many hunters or anglers were present at the hearing. This surprised me, especially since bass fishing is huge in Alabama, yet there’s a mercury consumption advisory for bass throughout much of the Delta. The ash ponds were intended to reduce mercury and other contaminants released into the air from burning coal, but now decades’ worth of pollutants are stored right on the banks of our rivers. Anyone who spends time on these rivers knows they’re dynamic — they flood, cut new channels, and are subject to storm surges. It’s a bad mix.
As I prepared for the hearing, I read about coal-ash pond failures at Kingston, Dan River, Cape Fear, and others. I also discovered that Southern Company was investing in better solutions in other states. It seemed clear to me that Alabama was getting the short end of the stick, and there was a high probability that this could be disastrous for outdoor recreation in the area. If you dig into the state’s fish consumption advisories, I think you’ll see it already is.
That hearing was my first exposure to Baykeeper’s work. I was familiar with some of the more “hook-and-bullet” conservation groups, but this introduced me to broader watershed conservation efforts.
Soon after, Will Strickland became the new Executive Director, and we went on a few hunting and fishing trips in the Delta. I asked him why I hadn’t seen anything on Baykeeper’s website about hunting or fishing and why I, as a lifelong Baldwin County resident, had never heard of them. I was surprised when he agreed with me and asked how to better connect with outdoorsmen.
Three years later, I’m happy to say that there’s a much stronger relationship between Baykeeper and the outdoor community. At a recent town hall meeting about mud dumping, there were prominent recreational fishing guides, a fly-shop owner, and a crowd of commercial fishermen present. It felt good to see so many guys in deck boots and Huk hats in the crowd.
What do you see as the greatest threat to our waters?
As I’ve gotten more involved in conservation, I’ve seen many problems up close. It’s easy — and sometimes even a little bit fun — to get mad at the big industrial polluters in the state. As someone who’s fished nearly every county in Alabama, I’m angered by spills from Tyson or Birmingham Hide and Tallow into the Black Warrior River, PFAS contamination from Monsanto in the Coosa, or coal-ash pond leakage from Alabama Power on the Mobile. Blaming “the government” is also a common pastime in Alabama, and I’ve spent many nights debating with friends whether our environmental issues are ADEM’s fault, the EPA’s fault, or the governor’s fault.
But what concerns me most is the division I see among people who should be united on conservation issues. Clean water shouldn’t be a partisan issue. Whether you’re red or blue, black or white, rich or poor, “Roll Tide!” or “War Eagle!” we all need clean water. But I’ve found that “environmentalism” can be a conversational hand grenade. It hasn’t always been that way. Many sportsmen, who are often Republicans, know about the Pittman-Robertson and Dingell-Johnson acts that fund state conservation agencies, but they may not realize that all four of the men who sponsored those bills were Democrats. Nixon, who was Republican, created the EPA. Theodore Roosevelt, another Republican, spearheaded federal wilderness conservation efforts, and Franklin D. Roosevelt, a Democrat, continued his work.
When I talk to people, I notice a lot of tribalism, both political and otherwise. I’m guilty of it myself. But it’s discouraging when “save-the-sea-turtle” types sneer at outdoorsmen as animal-killing hillbillies, or when “hook-and-bullet” crowds dismiss environmentalists as elitist city-slickers. Sure, I’ve met hunters who fit the unfortunate stereotypes, and I’ve encountered environmental activists who lack firsthand knowledge of the areas they claim to protect. But most people live in the middle of the bell curve. You have environmental lawyers who grew up on granddaddy’s farm chasing chickens and commercial fishermen who volunteer with marine biologists. Spend enough time talking with them, and you’ll end up liking them.
I’ve learned that many bad actors harming our waterways are well-funded, well-connected, and well-organized. They know what they want and how to get it, and understand that sometimes you have to work with people you don’t like or completely agree with to reach a shared goal. Conservationists and environmentalists have numbers on their side, which matters in a democracy, but if we can’t unify our efforts, we’ll ultimately be outgunned in the fight to preserve our wild places as the state continues to grow.
What is your favorite spot in the Delta?
That’s a tough one, but I can narrow it down to three.
If I have a half-day to myself in a kayak, I love launching out of Rice Creek and paddling down Bayous Tallapoosa and Jessamine. Tallapoosa is particularly remote — I’ve only ever encountered gar, alligators, wood ducks, and hogs there. Jessamine takes you past the Champion Cypress and the Indian Mounds. It’s not a paddle for beginners, but it feels like stepping back into a wilder century.
Another special place is a certain oak ridge where I’ve experienced everything a sportsman could. I can point out where I’ve caught bass and bluegill, shot deer and hogs, and watched my Labrador retriever, Amos, retrieve his first waterfowl. My two biggest bucks came from that ridge, and I have countless memories from there. When I know tomorrow will be cold, clear, and dry, that’s the place I want to be more than anywhere else.
Lastly, my own half-acre on the river is incredibly special to me. Living in an old fish camp in the “wild west” of North Baldwin has its challenges, but I can’t fully express what the place means to me. My wife and I discovered it when we were young, while paddling a leg of the Bartram Canoe Trail. It’s where we’ve “come into our own” together as adults. Sitting at my desk, I can look out at my backyard and see mountain laurel, Spanish moss, and cypress knees. That, and the sound of little feet on old wooden floors, makes it home to me.
