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Fred Garth with a speckled trout at his honey hole.
BY FRED GARTH
hen I go on a fishing trip, it makes my wife happy. She’s not trying to get rid of me: really. It’s just that she’s expecting me to bring back dinner. And cook it. If I come home empty-handed, I can expect a look of disappointment. This is followed by a dinner of white bread and plain lettuce. A fishing buddy of mine from New Orleans, we’ll just call him Brent, visited recently to help me hunt and gather. We’ve had a strong history of catching fish — from monster bull reds in South Louisiana, to red snapper offshore, to trout inshore, pompano in the surf and anything else that bites. We’ve even strapped fly rods to dirt bikes and hit the remote streams of Colorado. My wife has smiled upon the many tasty treats we’ve caught. 96 | GuyHarvey.com
This time, Brent and I were not on a typical fishing excursion. He’s somewhat on the rebound. The dude is a miracle — some would say freak — of human survival. He’s fought off cancer multiple times, once in a tender place I won’t mention. His current battle is with diabetes. After years of enjoying adult beverages, and I mean really enjoying them, he quit cold turkey. He lost 60 pounds. His regimen of medicines and shots is so extensive they require a separate suitcase when he travels. I’ll put it like this, if he was a cat, he’d be on life eight or nine. He also has a weird obsession with telling fart jokes, but that’s another story altogether. Needless to say, Brent has been stressed out lately. He needed some fishing therapy badly,
and I gladly obliged. He dropped in during a perfect February weekend. Sunny days, temps in the mid 60s, light wind, big tidal shifts and a full moon; all in all, great catching conditions. The first day we targeted trout. I took him to one of my honey holes where the specks hang out during cold weather. Despite what
