h s f n e d e v a R He Chasing monster reds in the Louisiana backwater is not for the faint of heart. BY FRED GARTH PHOTOS BY TREY TODD
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eople ask me why I don’t hunt. It’s simple. I don’t have anything against shooting wild critters in the woods, but I don’t have enough time for all the fshing I need to do. If I’m out there tracking Bambi, that’s time away from hooking a bonefsh or an angry bull red. Fortunately, I have friends who hunt, so we have an effcient barter system—I give them red snapper and mahi in trade for venison and birds. Like most fshermen, I have a long bucket list I have to complete before the Good Lord scoops me up in his net. So far, it’s going pretty well: Bonefsh on the fy rod in the Bahamas—check; leaping silver kings in Boca Grande—check; bull reds in Louisiana—check; permit on the fy—no check! Dangit! Less than a decade ago, Louisiana bull reds were still on my bucket list. I’d caught big redfsh in the Florida panhandle where I live, but the conventional wisdom was (and is) that the marshes and bayous of Louisiana produced the world’s most humongous reds. Stories of catching 100 of the beasts per day haunted my daily thoughts.
