Redfishing in Louisiana, Part 1

I wasn’t sure what I should have playing as I crossed over into the state of Popeye’s chicken, SEC football, and the “Who ‘dat” nation, but I was pretty sure it should have been creole. I settled for Lyle Lovett.

And I can’t claim that I drove without a sense of foreboding. We Yoders have a curse of sorts. When the fish gods hear we’re headed out for a trip, they find some way to conjure up unnatural winds and rain; anything to wreck a fly cast. And it was no different as I headed to see my famous fly guiding brother, Dave Yoder. He had begun exploring and offering fishing trips in the Louisiana Gulf region near New Orleans a few years ago, and this was my first chance since completing my graduate work (that’s right, it’s “Dr. unemployed” to you!) to spend some time on a flats boat with my big brother.

I arrived late on the Sunday after thanksgiving with the slight hope that the clouds dropping rain outside would pass, and that the cold front being predicted to follow would get tired and stop. Alas, I was wrong.

We awoke to a first day of fishing filled with constant 30 mph gusts and rain. I don’t believe either of our bodies warmed after the initial 40ish minutes ride to Dave’s not-so-secret spots. He had just finished filming an episode of Getting Guided the week previous, and I suppose this was just get backs for all the success they had.

My casting has never been the strong part of my fly-fishing game; I tend to rely on prayers. And the gusting that day was something that even a few words to the Lord couldn’t lift. So I was relegated to flinging a “Cajun Thunder” cork indicator with some Gulp attached to a jig. From one side of the boat the sound of a rod stressing under the weight of a cast could be heard along with a monster-truck like cry of “Thunder.” From the other side, another cast and scream of “Gulp.” Yet even our siren songs and cat-calls couldn’t convince the redfish we were serious. The only thing we were catching was a cold.

So, we sat and yelled. We ate for warmth. And we hoped, with a fading hope. It took one cast, and the uncontrollable urge of a large redfish for my thunder cork to drop under the water. And with a strong reel, he was on.

That one catch was enough. We had a greater desire to regain our normal body temperatures than discover if another fish was lurking nearby, and we packed up and motored away.

The next morning was clear and sunny. But the wind had decided to stick around.  Yet I was there to fly fish, so we broke out the rod and I went at it. To give an idea about the wind, it caused such an extreme low tide that we both feared we might not make it back through the canal that led back to the drop in marina.

Nevertheless, we fished. And I missed countless, I mean countless, redfish. One after the other. And even though they would be spooked only momentarily (unlike our boney friends down in the Keys) I was still quite unsuccessful. Ok, not completely unsuccessful. We landed three average sized reds that day, but I missed my chance with several 20+ pound versions.

It was, when all is said and done, a success. I came, I saw, I froze, I caught. All because I have a brother who knows his business. Merry Christmas, Davey.