Last Cast

Last Cast BY FRED GARTH

Fred Garth with a speckled trout at his honey hole.

When I go on a fi shing 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. Th is is followed by a dinner of white bread and plain lettuce.

A fi shing 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 fi sh — from monster bull reds in South Louisiana, to red snapper off shore, to trout inshore, pompano in the surf and anything else that bites. We’ve even strapped fl y rods to dirt bikes and hit the remote streams of Colorado. My wife has smiled upon the many tasty treats we’ve caught.

Th is time, Brent and I were not on a typical fi shing excursion. He’s somewhat on the rebound. Th e 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 fi shing 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. Th e fi rst day we targeted trout. I took him to one of my honey holes where the specks hang out during cold weather. Despite what

most people believe, Northwest Florida actually has a winter. The temperature dips into the high 20s several times from December to March, and we occasionally get a smattering of snow. Wax up the downhill skis — not!

During cold months, water in the bay cools down to uncomfortable levels for trout, so they migrate into the spring-fed bayous where the temps hover near 70 degrees year-round.

We fished a usually productive deep water creek. We worked hard, that is if fishing can be considered work. Everything was amazing — the weather, the conversation, the camaraderie, Brent’s fart jokes — everything, except the catching part. That was slow to non-existent. We dug deep into the tackle box and threw top-water lures, mid-water lures and jigs. I even slung a Clouser Minnow on the fly rod. In the end, we landed one small speckled trout.

Not one to give up easily, Brent suggested we procure some live shrimp — you know, to improve on the catching. I gave up fishing with live bait many years ago, not because of any ethical or moral reasons, it’s just a pain to have to go get live bait and then try to keep the shrimp or minnows alive. Nonetheless, the situation was dire, so we picked up four dozen spunky shrimp and put them in the live well.

On the second day, we visited another honey hole where using live shrimp almost guarantees an active day of catching, almost. Again, we fished hard. Again, we used everything in the tackle box as well as the live bait. And again, we got skunked. The tide was moving, the full moon was rising and by all accounts, we should have caught our limit. Of course, that’s fishing. Mother Nature is a fickle lady who can bless or curse you. The trick is to embrace the moment and enjoy the experience of being in the great outdoors with people you love. That way, the catching part becomes a bonus not a requirement. At least, that’s the way I like to look at it.

Brent and I were still casting as the sun touched the horizon and served up an incredible pink sky with the skinny pine trees reflecting on the glassy water. Nightfall was descending when I noticed the birds swarming and squawking in and out of the treetops. That’s usually a good sign. Then, a couple of mosquitos came out of nowhere hoping to suck our blood. It’s rare for skeeters to come around during winter, so I chalked that up to another positive event. Plus, they were so sluggish I was able to squish them easily. Then, I noticed a few fish rolling on the surface. This particular fishing spot, which, of course, will go unmentioned in this article, can suddenly turn on around sunset. Everything was lining up, and we had not given up. Brent had a live shrimp dangling. I was throwing a jig when, wham, I got slammed by a 16-inch trout — bingo. Thirty seconds later, another trout ate Brent’s shrimp — bingo bango. For the next 15 minutes, as darkness crept in, we caught fish on almost every cast. It’s one of those sunrise and sunset phenomena where the fish go on a feeding frenzy. We’d been skunked for three hours. Then, in less than 30 minutes, we caught our limit. As usual, we released most of the fish to fight another day but saved a few choice fish for the grill.

Decades of living in New Orleans has shaped Brent into a stellar chef, so he prepared some delicious grilled trout that put a big smile on my wife’s face. As they say, happy wife, happy life.

I was lucky enough to spend two days on the boat with a good friend, catch a few trout and share the bounty with my family. It’s this kind of therapy that can smooth out the bumps in this crazy world. That’s why I was happy to get a text from Brent a few days later. He said the trip was cathartic and something he’d needed for a long time. He was content but still had one final question … When were we going fishing again?

FRED GARTH

For the past 25 years, Fred D. Garth’s articles have appeared in numerous books, magazines and newspapers around the world.

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