During a little post-Christmas retail respite in South Carolina with my in-laws, I unwound in the way any self-respecting kitchenware store owner would: knee deep in pluff mud during low tide, digging for clams.

There's nothing I enjoy more to celebrate a momentous event—like the start of a new year—than a succulent array of seafood. But now that I've had the opportunity to harvest my own crustaceans, I have an even greater appreciation. Digging for clams and setting crab pots have to be some of the coolest food-related experiences I've ever encountered. There's something innately satisfying about being a part of your food, from gathering it to cooking it to eating it.

Day one found us at the local Wal-Mart buying a 14-day saltwater license (the shortest they offer) for $11. Day two started like all others from then on: in a canoe. I sat at the bow (the front) with my father-in-law at the stern (the back) and three crab pots in between us. These traps are essentially sturdy chicken wire squares with multiple levels within, surrounding a cylinder containing the bait. There are holes on the sides allowing the food-enchanted scavengers in but preventing them from getting out. A yellow buoy attached to the trap by rope allows us to locate it when we come to reap our bounty.

During the South Carolinian winter, crabs plunge deeper into the water than in other seasons. During the summer we were able to fish for them right from land, armed with only a spool of string attached to the bait, along with a fishing net to snag the crab once it's lured to shore. In winter, however, the only way to catch them is to set the crab pots in deeper water. The strategy was to place them at intersections of channels within the inlet where there was likely to be a higher traffic of crabs. We stuffed our bait of turkey necks that we dug out of the freezer into the center cylinder in the traps. We were a little concerned we didn't have enough bait and decided to buy some more before coming out the next day to go digging for clams in an area near the pots we'd planted in the water.

As it turns out, turkey necks are readily available in grocery store refrigerator cases down South for a mere $1.62 a pound. We set out the next day with a pack of them, as well as supplies for clam digging and a third companion in the canoe. Once we got the boat in the water and paddled out to the right spot, we started checking on the crab pots we'd deposited the day before, ready to supplement them with extra bait. I was manning the middle position in the canoe, putting me in charge of the traps.

One by one, I pulled up the large wire cubes and attempted to settle each in front of me without disturbing the canoe's precarious balance. I flipped the pots over, opened the trap doors on the bottom and loaded in the extra turkey necks. Two of the traps had only lured one crab overnight, but the best-placed one managed to attract about a dozen feisty crabs that were clicking and clacking their claws at me while I tinkered with their new home—well, prison might be more accurate—in the confined space of the canoe.

Next came my favorite chapter of this foodie adventure. The low tide exposed an entire channel of the inlet to the air. We grounded the canoe on land that had been covered by water the day before when we out during high tide. There was a small stream of water left surrounding a large mound of land, creating an island that we ended up working around.

Armed with old sneakers, we climbed out of the canoe. My foot disappeared into the pluff mud. A few wrong steps found my legs immersed up to my thighs. Whoops! I ended up discovering that it was best to stick to walking near the base of the stream bed, which was coated with old oyster shells and the like. After that lesson, I managed to only immerse myself up to the ankle. The water was frigid, but visions of steamed clams kept me on task.

Digging for clams is surprisingly easy. You bend over and simply use a garden hand rake to expose them. They aren't very deep in the waterbed, resting practically at the surface, just waiting for someone to dig in and scoop them up with gloved hands. I couldn't believe how quickly I was harvesting clams. Plunk, plunk, plunk, my bucket started to fill. In some areas, I could harvest a dozen clams, if not more, without moving. In others, I would get just one or two and then continue my search for more.

I was awestruck as I walked around land usually covered by water while huge clams practically jumped into my bucket. This was different for me than the crabbing. It was quick, easy, immediate gratification, no different than picking glimmering seashells off the beach, except that I'd actually get dinner out of this exercise. I can't entirely explain it, but it was a powerful experience. The closest I've gotten to it is gardening, but that's different because there's so much work and time involved, not to mention anxiety over whether a crop will yield or not. With the clam digging, I had my legal amount of half a bushel per person per day in less than 45 minutes. Had this not been my first time, I likely would've been done in just 20 or 25 minutes. In fact, cleaning the canoe, the equipment and the clams took just as long as harvesting them.

That night, we steamed up seven batches of clams and ate more than our fill. We dipped some of them in butter that I melted and infused with garlic and bruised fresh oregano. They were large and succulent, melting in my mouth, with the perfect amount of salt to serve as a reminder of where they came from. Part of the enjoyment was the taste and texture, but part was knowing that just hours earlier I had found these in the wild and dug them up myself. Never before did I eat clams so fresh or hard-earned. We couldn't even begin to eat all the clams we gathered and shucked the extras for a chowder we decided to make the next day.

Day three unleashed surprisingly achy thighs, a reminder of the squatting required by clam digging and my apparent lack of physical conditioning. That afternoon found us back in the canoe for the final time to grab the crab traps, for better or worse. The first one we found had attracted only two crabs, but we didn't have to throw any back since they were of the legal size (five inches of shell width from tip to tip). The next trap had 14 crabs crawling around, and the final had seven. There were a number of undersized crabs that found their way in there, so we grounded the canoe and fished them out with pliers and gloved hands, throwing a total of nine back in to grow big enough to catch the next time.

That left us with a total of 14, which was a perfect amount for the three crab eaters, especially considering the appetizer of homemade New England clam chowder. The chowder was stuffed to the brim with fresh clams, just the way I like it. Bacon provided a smoky complement to the soup. The crabs were doused in Old Bay seasoning and provided us with generous amounts of flaky, tender white meat. Along with a couple of pale ales, the meal couldn't have been more perfect.

It's certainly no secret that I love food, but I adore learning about the journey of the food prior to it appearing on my plate as much as the act of stuffing my face. Being a part of the meal, from gathering the raw ingredients to dining on them, is an experience that must be shared. I know there is clamming to be done in Massachusetts, but would love to hear about other areas in our neck of the woods, if you know of them.

From wineries to farms that sell locally-raised meat or make their own cheese, New Jersey has lots of foodie adventures to offer, and I strongly recommend finding a way to incorporate them into your next vacation. You'll appreciate your next meal that much more, I guarantee it.

Ben Salmon is a former literary agent and the owner of Kitchen a la Mode: Accessories for Cooking & Entertaining in the heart of downtown South Orange. Each week, his local food column at Patch explores the food and drink scene in the area.

Have an idea for something you'd like me to explore? E-mail me. I'd love to hear from you.