Louisiana, Check

Getting there

When fly fisherfolk gather, the conversation almost always finds its way (after meandering through sidebars of gear, beer, and the opposite sex) to one universal angling topic; the bucket list. Must-do-before-I-die lineups typically include the classics. Kamchatka, New Zealand, Christmas Island, Alaska, Patagonia, Cuba. They are also, with increasing regularity, expanding to the more exotic. Oman, Bolivia, French Polynesia, the Seychelles. Some of our more adventurous practitioners have secret lists, far beyond most of our imaginations. (Heaven forbid Elon Musk finds something that will take a popper on Mars.) And while my personal desires also includes many of the these places, near the top has long been a more domestic destination. I've wanted to chase big bull reds in the southernmost marshes of Louisiana.

Hello Houma.

Good Morning, Louisiana!

As they say in real estate, "Location, location, location"

Fish Camp

Ambushing from the weeds

Steve Martinez hoists a dump truck black

No bulls for me, but lots of slots

Shut up and cast!

The Other Woman

Looks like my fly line

Schnnider Boy, LA

Bayou pit stop

The fishing was tough during our week in the marshes. I look at the pictures above and wonder where those blue skies were when we were actually slinging a fly. Wind and cloud cover gave us a good fight but that's destination angling. Just because it's on your bucket list doesn't mean it will click when you get there. The hardships are part of the game. A true bull eluded me, this time, but Louisiana remains high on the list with a provisional check.

Who says a bucket list item needs to be a once-in-a-lifetime entry?

Where the Redfish Are

Can you keep a secret?

It's always good to get the skinny from the locals - to get the inside poop on where to fish in an area that's new to you. And whether it comes in the form of a GPS coordinate, the description of a landmark, or a scribble on a bar napkin or hotel scratchpad, it's welcome insight. There's a lot of water out there, particularly when you're searching the salt, and it's nice to have a clue where to start.

So just between you and me, here's where to find the reds in South Padre, shared in confidence with us by Shane Wilson, founder of Fishing's Future, SPI resident, and all-round good guy.

Keep it to yourself.

Spring Tide

The sun and the moon aligned, but, sadly, the stars did not.

This week’s spring tide - the exaggerated tidal ebbs and flows caused when sun and moon fall in line and compound gravitational forces - pushed waters higher into some of our favorite grass flats than they'd been all year. We waded those tufted edges, along seldom-submerged wildlife trails, chased clattering crabs in all directions, and hoped for some solid chances at tailing reds.

It wasn’t to be.

The one good fish we saw slipped away as Troy and I stubbornly politely insisted that the other take the first shot. We were idiots, though well intentioned, and a subsequent opportunity never materialized.

But a weekday spent walkin’ shin-deep salt waters, even with a pre-dawn start, beats the bejeezus out of one spent doing most anything else, fish or no, so there’s no complaining here.

We just need to work on them stars.

And our manners.

A Fish Too Many

How do we get ourselves into these things? Okay, never mind that. How do we get ourselves OUT?

To a large degree, we’re redfish rookies, Bill and I, but enthusiastic ones. So when we saw two of the state’s best puppy drum guides scoot by us, five minutes apart, out on the vast network of salt flats and creeks that we'd decided to explore for the day, we congratulated ourselves on our ability to sniff out prime fishing habitat. But while we were busy stretching our casting arms by patting ourselves on the back, we should have been considering the fact that Lee and Seth, both, were headed in the other direction.

And so was the tide.

Now, despite all evidence to the contrary, we’re not completely clueless. We knew it was dropping. But we also felt comfortable that the main channels through these particular flats would hold up for a few more casts before things bottomed out and that Bill’s nineteen-foot Carolina Skiff would see us through some pretty skinny spots. We were right. Almost.

It's all this guy's fault

After what turned out to be one fish too many, we stowed the rods and successfully squeezed out of the creeks only to find that their northern egress into the intercoastal was shallower than the creek channels themselves. Our exit was blocked. We turned to try to run the flats and escape via the southern route, but by then it was too late.

Navigable water turned skinny, turned ankle deep, turned to wet sand and as the sea slipped away we found a soft run and let the boat settle. Casting decks became picnic plots, then napping platforms. We waded a while, casting casually at what little water was left and watched the mullet skip through the puddles while pipers overran the place. Afternoon faded to evening. Evening slipped towards night. The tides simply turned, slowly, with the rising moon.

But turn, they did, and in time we were gently lifted and pushed along from whence we came, back into the shallow bay. We headed home a bit later than planned.

Frustrating? Yes, but beautiful. The flats are a special place when the sun sets. And without a fish too many, we might have missed it.

Beautiful, but next time we're following the guides.

Flush

If you look closely, you will see that for much of the year I am a subtle shade of green. It is an affliction that I refer to as Montloradaho Envy and it's onset is caused by all my western "friends" who fill my browser with stories and pictures of their Rocky Mountain trout streams and high plains fisheries. Cuts, bows, browns, ad nauseam. BAH! It's tough to deal with, here in the eastern flatlands, and most of the time I have to pick my wardrobe carefully so as not to make my odd complexion quite so obvious.

But in January my rosy hue returns when those "friends" begin to whine about what to do for the next couple of months as they huddle shivering in their homes or, when they do get out, whimper about dealing with -14 degree days and wind chills that are, frankly, obscene. And when they bitch and moan while I put together a few North Carolina days like this, I am positively flush.

January 4th

Brookies in the Appalachians

46 degrees with a 4wt

January 10th

Largemouths in the Piedmont

64 degrees, 6wt

January 13th

Down East Reds

74 degrees, you guessed it, 7wt

So, take that, you Montloradahoians. For the time being I'm good, and a positively delicious shade of pink, right here in the Old North State. Mountains to coast, it's damn hard to beat.

And I'm itchin' to get out the 8wt.

Adios, Texas

3:30am. Out of bed. 4:00am. On the road. Out of South Padre, heading back to San Antonio to catch our late-morning flights. It's time to go home.

And so it ends, this redfish excursion, with a sleepy-eyed stumble to the truck, an uneventful early-morning drive through the south Texas flatlands, and a hasty goodbye to buenos amigos from the car rental courtesy bus.

Seems anti-climactic. How could it be otherwise?

To be perfectly honest, the fishing stunk. Five days waving a fly rod in Texas Gulf waters and I brought to hand just four. But it was the combination of tough conditions and my well-established piscatorial ineptitude that was to blame, not the place. The place is world class - on better days.

But if you choose to go only when you know - really know - that you’ll catch something, you’d never do it. If you measure the success of a trip by the number of fish caught, you’ve missed the point. I could go on, but won’t. You don’t need an old man blithering on about metaphysical intangibles in this age of rip-lipped video clips. I’ll simply say that I’d do it again, travel thousands of miles to these wonderful waters to catch little or nothing. With Chris and Todd, Brandon and Jen, Austin and Gavit, Thomas and Banning alongside, I’d gladly fish all day and take my skunking with a smile.

For despite the lack of results, I waded the incredible Laguna Madre salt flats, spotted and stalked tailing fish, paddled seaworthy craft, and watched the sun rise and set from the best vantage point imaginable. I sat on the front porch of an off-the-beaten-track salty cabin and laughed ‘till my sides hurt. I toasted good times with aluminum cans and glass goblets - with new friends and old. I cursed the wind and praised the beauty of it all.

In the end, I went to Texas to catch redfish and I did. Never mind that it was only one and accomplished through no skill of my own, but rather by the near statistical impossibility of my blind cast intersecting with his vector through the flats - the belligerent surf god's single concession of the week, perhaps. In the end, I did what I went to do.

But I did so much more. And I look forward to doing it again.

Adios, Texas.

El Viento

I should have followed Austin’s advice.

As we sat around the cabin’s front porch a couple of nights earlier, the conversation had inevitably gotten around to fly casting. What? Doesn’t yours? It beats the hell out of talking politics, my friend.

Anyway. Austin suggested that, when the Laguna wind gets to howlin’, it’s easy to cast your entire fly line. You simply strip it into a pile at your feet, pick up the pile, and throw it as high into the air as you can. El viento will take care of the rest.

Today, I could have added my backing.

We had a wicked tailwind as we drove north out of South Padre, up the island, Gulf of Mexico over the dunes to our right, the Laguna Madre over the dunes to our left. Twenty-five to thirty-five knots the disgustingly cheerful weatherman had said. He, obviously, wasn’t a fisherman. Sand blew across the road like snow drifts in a Montana blizzard. Stung like bees. Simply stringing our rods was a challenge.

Over the dunes and across a half-mile of tidal flats, it never relented. Once on the open lagoon, our loose fishing shirts whipped us like we were thoroughbreds fading down the stretch.

Todd remained close to shore, focusing around the small isles held together by scrub brush, fishing what he knew – structure - unable to wrap his head around the vast, featureless body of water that spread before us. Chris and I waded out without a focus - a quarter-mile, a half, more, the water never reaching our knees, as we embraced the apparent endlessness of the flats. We had hoped to sight-fish, what this body of water is famous for, but instead we blind casted into whitecaps, unable to see more than churn, let alone redfish.

We put our left shoulders into the wind and casted perpendicular to the howl. Facing opposite would have us draped in line, at best - playing pincushion to airborne clousers, more likely. Casting directly into, or with, the wind was impossible.

It seemed hopeless, but after an hour of prospecting I heard a yip from upwind and turned to see a blessed bend in Chris’ Hardy. The persistence in his quest for Texas reds had finally been rewarded. Not a particularly big fish, but the species was represented. I waded over to get a picture, a high-five, and the pattern he was using. Orange and yellow.





I got close – an orange and brown from my box – and within fifteen minutes received my blessing as well. Another small red that, despite his modest size, insisted on being on the reel and stripping his share of line. I can only imagine what a big one can do. My first, and ultimately only, redfish of the trip. Dumb luck, I figure, but I took it.

From El Viento, I’d have taken anything.

Note: Read Chris' take on this windblown day at Sandblasted. He captures the frustration so much better than I.

On Being Ready

I’d tied a hundred flies for this trip. Mostly clousers - 2s thru 6s. Chartreuse and white. Pink and white. Olive and white. Grey and white. Tan and white. White and white. Pink and chartreuse. Olive and grey. Orange and brown. Two big bugger barns. Slam full.

I’d tied rust and tan Borski sliders. I'd ravaged my bass boxes for poppers, gummy and gulley fish, gurglers - flies of all configurations and colors that I thought might, just might, come in handy. I'd even nicked some candy-colored spoon flies (I'm sorry, I’m weak) from Todd’s box as he slept.

I was loaded. I was ready.

I didn’t have black.

The damn fish wanted black.

Luckily, any good fish camp has a central, vital, station - the tying table - and Austin, Brandon and Jen were on the job. Need black? Have a seat.

And, honestly, how could I think I was prepared? Saltwater boxes look nothing like what I'm used to. More Victoria's Secret than Bob's Fly Shop. Even my outrageous largemouth box is drab by comparison.

So while the salt mavens were better prepared, not even Austin was ready with black.

But it didn't take long to fix that.

Please pass the marabou.

Bohemia, TX

When eight guys and one brave lass occupy a single-roomed cabin, things can get a little, shall we say, bohemian.

Toss in a bunch of fishing gear and predicate the gathering on the pursuit of redfish and you end up with a certain level of single-focused chaos that warms the soul.

Tidy goes out the window.

Charm remains.

So here's a glimpse into a day on the island - images of the precious clutter that accumulates between forays onto the flats.

Here's visual evidence of a sliver of time well spent.

Here's to Bohemia.

Laguna Sunrise

There’s movement in the bunk above me. Austin. Five-thirty already? Seems I’ve just put my head down.

I thumb the illumination button on my watch to be sure. The battery's low and, for weeks now, rather than being lit, the display simply fades away. I know this, but thumb it anyway, with predictable results.

Austin cautiously climbs down the makeshift ladder so, in the absence of digital confirmation, I accept that our planned departure time is at hand. I slip from beneath my light summer bag, pull on a pair of quick-dry pants, a shirt, and tip-toe through the dark cabin in search of a Clif bar and a Mountain Dew to kickstart the day.

Gavit and Banning also rise and step onto the front porch, gently pulling the door behind them. Speaking in low tones, they plot their upcoming day, mentally arranging boats, tides, gasoline, gear, and, of course, the movement of redfish.

The others slumber on.

Austin and I gather the gear we’d roughly staged the evening before and head for the Diablos beached on the west side of the island. We load the boats – which means little more than mounting a fly rod and tossing a box of flies and a bottle of water or two under the seat - and drag them to the eastern shore, a full thirty feet. We wade into the warm waters of the Laguna Madre. With few words, unwilling to break the spell of salt and silence, we mount the sturdy watercraft and paddle into the darkness. There’s only the sound of lapping water and the occasional scrape of paddle on hull.

With quiet, steady strokes we cross the intercoastal waterway, a thirty-five foot deep trough cut through the laguna, and quickly find ourselves in shin-deep water once again. On the liquid surface the transition is seamless.



The eastern horizon begins to glow and we paddle a mile, maybe more, to the east. Dark waters turn pink, then molten, as another day’s sun begins to emerge from the distant depths. We continue in silence, gliding on a sea of fire.

A tail, a dark flag against the blazing waters, appears. Then a second. Three more. “Blacks” says Austin. “Let’s go find some reds. These will be here when we come back.” I nod. Having opened my black drum account the day before, I, too, am anxious to find redfish. We paddle on, each silently contemplating our violation. Don’t leave fish to find fish.

Let’s go find some reds. These will be here when we come back. We don’t. They aren’t. The morning goes fishless.

And I don’t really care.