FEATURE

RedfshHeaven

Chasing monster reds in the Louisiana backwater is not for the faint of heart.

BY FRED GARTH PHOTOS BY TREY TODD

eople ask me why I don’t hunt. It’s simple. I don’t have anything

Pagainst 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.

“Reds” can be golden, too. Photo: Mike Frenette. www.venicefshing.net

Added to that was pressure from my old friend, Trey, a New Orleans native, who kept taunting me with epic fshing tales backed up with photos of fat speckled trout and monster reds. Then it happened. Trey and some other buds from New Orleans bought a fshing camp in Venice, the epicenter of fshing in Cajun Country. And I was invited to visit. When I say fshing camp, I’m not talking about a wooden hut with no running water and a hole in the ground to relieve yourself. No, this is a Man Cave of epic proportions. It’s basically a glorifed, double-wide trailer on a 90-ft.-long barge. There are four bunkrooms, three refrigerators, two icemakers, a full kitchen and an air conditioning system that chills it to arctic temperatures to battle the Amazon-like heat of summer. Don’t get the wrong idea…it ain’t fancy. The barge is rusty, the paneling is cheap and the furniture is barely up to yard sale standards. But it’s in the right location, it’s perfect for smelly fshermen and there’s a 26-ft. center console with a 300-hp four stroke in the locked and loaded position.

So in September 2007 (before deer season started), my truck and I took the long and winding road south from New Orleans to the tiny community of Venice at the southernmost point of Louisiana. I mean no disrespect to women (unless you’re a woman who lives to fsh), but Venice is kind of a man town. Yes, I realize how sexist that sounds. But, consider that Venice has no shopping other than bait and tackle, the accommodations are mostly cheap motels, the restaurants serve mainly fried meat, gumbo and jambalaya, and the landscape is dotted with unsightly oil wells, tanker ships and work boats. There are no beaches to dig your toes into, no shows to see in the evening, no spas to soak in and no infnity swimming pools with comfy chaise lounges. To top it of, the river is muddy. If you don’t fsh or work in the oil biz, there are very few reasons to visit. Vegas this ain’t.

But I digress. I’d fnally made it to Venice and even I was a bit shocked by the starkness of the landscape. On the fip-side, the barge accommodations were perfect. I found a bunk, and we thawed some deer sausage and trout

fllets and feasted on heavily seasoned, wild-caught protein. A 20-year-old Panasonic stereo with a real turntable and actual albums crackled out some Allman Brothers and ZZ Top. We talked of football, told fshing lies and spit tobacco juice into Styrofoam cups. I had landed in Man Heaven. And we hadn’t even fshed yet.

As our testosterone boiled over, Trey prepped us for the big event. We’d rise at fve, choke down some cofee, gnaw on some cold deer sausage and blast out. We packed the cooler that night with sandwiches and drinks, and had our rods rigged and bait well full of live shrimp, pinfsh and croakers. Here’s the thing about folks in Louisiana…they use a lot of live bait. I’m more of a lure fsherman, especially since I’ve become a fyfshing snob. But when I’m with the Cajun crowd, live bait is the lure de jour.

The third stooge in our group, Brent, was another New Orleans native by way of Key West. He grew up fshing for everything from mullet to lobsters in the Keys from a 13-ft. skif with a 15-hp engine. He’s a helluva fsherman and his culinary skills are top shelf, too. Brent knows most of the top chefs in New Orleans because he’s owned a few restaurants. The man’s blackened redfsh and cheese grits can turn an atheist into a Southern Baptist preacher overnight.

The next day, as we buzzed down river passing through miles and miles of marshland, the scenery became more appealing, even beautiful, although there was no escaping the ubiquitous oil platforms—large and small. We navigated miles upon miles of marshes teeming with birds of all shapes, sizes, and colors and, for a moment, I contemplated the cost of an Audubon Society membership. For one stretch of probably 30 minutes, thousands of freaked out mullet jumped as we zoomed by on the glassy smooth bayous. I’m sure—and this is no fshing yarn—we witnessed more than a million mullet jumping. The sheer preponderance of life blew my mind as I thought of what was in store for us.

If you’ve never seen it, the Delta is vast, wet grassland with literally an endless maze of canals and cuts, some barely as wide as the boat and

only a foot or so deep. Trey’s been running these waters for several decades and knows to turn left at that tall cattail or right at that patch of sawgrass. It all looked the same to me, and I was completely lost fve minutes after we left the dock. As we ripped along at full speed, I kept expecting another boat to meet us head on around one of the turns, something that has been known to happen. But not to Trey…yet.

We traveled a good 20 miles south from Venice to Redfshville. Down there, where the Mississippi River dumps into the Gulf of Mexico, it’s full-on fshing action. You have East Bay and West Bay (they didn’t use an ad agency to come up with those names) with myriad sandbars and channels and oyster reefs—none of which are visible to the naked eye when the water is muddy, which is often. Again, Trey knew where to go. He checked a few landmarks, watched his bottom fnder and directed me to toss the anchor. We settled in and put live croakers on our hooks about three feet below a red and white plastic cork. Trey pointed of the starboard side of the boat.

“Toss it right there,” he said. “When the cork goes down, start reeling.”

And so we did. Within seconds, Brent and I were hooked up and Trey was taking pictures. To make a long story short, two hours later, we’d caught about 20 bull reds and our arms were like silly putty. Trey was laughing at us and we were weeping with joy. We left that hotspot, not because we stopped catching reds, but because we needed to rest our muscles and fnd some Pink herons in a Cyprus tree.

Editor Fred Garth with a “small” red.

speckled trout. We ran out to a couple of small rigs in the Gulf where the water was a lot clearer. “We caught 50 trout here last weekend,” Trey said. Fifty! With a “limit” of 25 trout per person in Louisiana, Trey and his nephew flled the cooler with “only” 50 trout.

We switched to live shrimp and, again, the action was instant. We caught speckled trout, sheepshead and even a few founder. Another two hours and a bunch of photos later, we had to take a break again. Trey’s smile turned to a sly grin when we stopped at another spot south of the rig and near the shoreline. We removed the cork and free-spooled some pinfsh. Within minutes, Brent’s pole bent over. Thirty minutes later, he dragged in a 20-lb. jack crevalle. That did it. It only took two beefy jacks to whip us and Trey knew it. He giggled like a little girl. The day was coming to an end and so were we. A hot shower, cold beverages and some grub was sounding mighty fne. As we zigzagged at high speeds through skinny water and narrow passages, Brent was planning the meal aloud and talking about remoulade sauce, fried fllets, stufed baked potatoes and other mouthwatering eats.

By the time we got back to the fsh camp, the sun was dropping behind the golden marsh. In the distance, an oil rig’s exhaust tower was spewing orange fames into the pinkish sky like a gigantic Bunsen burner. In a weird Venice-kindof-way it was beautiful. We were covered in sweat, blood and six species of fsh slime. This was hard-core fshing, deep friendship, food and drink at its pinnacle. Yep, Man Heaven was upon us. As I absorbed the whole experience, I wondered how life could get any better. Then I realized we had two more days of fshing ahead of us. Amen!

Trey Todd with coolers full of speckled trout. On August 29, 2004, Hurricane Katrina devastated southern Louisiana. The infamous fsh camp in Venice was washed almost a mile inland. The house on top was ripped apart (even though the deer head mounts survived) but the steel barge remained intact. They used a tractor to drag it back to the water and an insurance claim to restore the fsh camp to its original rustic charm.

T he Redfsh Workout Plan

If you’re considering a shing trip to LA, there are some essential preparations you need to do before you go. First, be sure to hit the weightroom and work on your forearms and biceps. Do this for at least two weeks, gradually increasing the weight load. Then, before you go to bed every night, take two tablespoons of hot sauce (preferably Tabasco) followed by some ice cold beverages. This will get your plumbing right. If raw oysters are available, add two dozen with ample cocktail Monster red. Photo: Mike Frenette. www.venicefshing.net sauce to your bedtime ritual. Finally, at various intervals during the day, go outside and hoot and holler for 30-60 minutes, making sure your vocal cords are properly lubricated with more oysters. Although not required, it’s helpful to brush up on your French by adding the sound of an “O” (spelled eau or eaux—such as “bateau,” meaning boat) to most words. Be forewarned, even if you stick to this routine religiously, after a red sh extravaganza in Southern Louisiana, you’ll still gain weight from all of the good food and drink, but at least your arms will be a lot stronger and your language skills will be much improved.

CAPTAIN’S ADVICE

BY DARYL CARSON

What makes a Guy Harvey Outpost different? In St. Pete Beach, it’s Captain Tim.

Ever think about chucking it all, moving to some warm beach and becoming a fshing guide? Sure you have. More than 20 years ago, Capt. Tim Kehoe did just that. A native of Cape Cod, Tim learned to fsh to keep himself busy while his father was digging up clams. In 1990, he took a vacation to St. Pete area and his life took an immediate turn.

“I realized I could fsh 365 days a year,” said Tim, “so I went home, sold everything and moved south.”

Since then, Capt. Tim has been plugged into both fshing and the resort life. He just ticked of his 15-year anniversary as part of the crew for the TradeWinds Resorts on St. Pete Beach. When vacation-crazed families hit the TradeWinds they expect the full package of beach-based fun: lots of fne, white sand, warm water, massive infatable toys, awesome views, things to paddle around and a whopping dose of sun-soaked vitamin D.

Commanding a generous stretch of Gulf-front real estate, there are actually two TradeWinds properties, and they do not disappoint. There is the TradeWinds Island Grand, and just a couple hundreds steps away down the sand, there is the Guy Harvey Outpost, a TradeWinds Beach Resort. Visitors to these properties can enjoy water sports of all kinds, including electric-powered surfboards (you have to be creative to surf on Florida’s west coast) and the super-cool JetLev Flight Center. If you’ve never heard of JetLev, imagine strapping yourself to a massive water pump and using it to blast two stories into the air to do acrobatics. By comparison, it makes roller coasters seem downright sleepy.

When it comes to fshing, the Guy Harvey Outpost has Captain Tim. He points veteran anglers to honey holes and turns new recruits into fshing diehards. He’ll put a rod or a cast net in your hand, tell you the best bait to use, show you the sweet spots for casting and how to work your line. Beyond the glitz of waterslides and JetLevs, Capt. Tim gives the resort its soul. His passion for getting people connected to the water and teaching them about their new playground embodies the real spirit of Guy Harvey Outpost resorts.

In 2003, Tim, who is never at a loss for words, took over the RedBeard Sharktooth Tavern and began ofering an hour-long talk on fshing for anyone who wanted to listen or learn. Many people did, and the comment cards got back to management saying how much people enjoyed their time with Tim. So, when one of the TradeWinds properties became a Guy Harvey Outpost resort in 2012, management tapped him to head the new Guy Harvey Outftter Shop. Under Captain Tim’s direction, anglers looking for a charter fshing trip—inshore or ofshore—are connected with a top-rated local captain and crew.

“When you Google ‘fshing’ in this area, something like 11,000 charter boats come up,” said Tim. “But I have a connection with a local network of about 40 operators who do everything from fyfshing to going way ofshore. We provide whatever experience the guests want.”

But for guests looking for a bit milder or family-friendly experience, Captain Tim ofers much more.

“I started out teaching people how to fsh. You can catch big fsh here, right of the beach. We call them TV fsh. And once you learn how to do it, it’s pretty easy. We’ve got 4-ft. snook, fve feet from the shoreline, so it’s a pretty unique opportunity.”

Now, throughout the week, Tim ofers classes on the most basic elements of fshing—how to cast a rod, how to use a cast net, how to rig tackle—and then he takes groups out to fsh from shore. He teaches guests to use local bait and catch their own threadfn herring, Spanish sardines or pinfsh. And, he said, depending on the season, the possibilities for catching fsh are endless.

The Guy Harvey Outpost, a TradeWinds Resort in St. Pete Beach, Florida, combines both incredible resort amenities with easy-access fshing. Captain Tim Kehoe, seen above with two young clients, connects veteran anglers with top local guides and ofers personal instruction for frst-time fshermen.

“The snook will eat anything it can get its teeth in,” he said. “I tell people we don’t always catch the big fsh, but the only way you’re going to catch a fsh is to put a line in the water. You can always fnd something to vibrate your line. We’ve got ladyfsh, jacks, redfsh, trout, bluefsh, mackerel, pompano and permit.”

When fshing slows down in the cooler months, or when guests are looking for more of a nature experience, Captain Tim ofers beach walks, usually early in the morning or toward sunset. Along the way, he points out the animal life that most people miss, along with some key environmental factors most visitors never consider, such as beach erosion, a huge issue in the area.

“Blind Pass is one of our passes about a half-mile to the north of us, and from 1873 to 1926, it migrated almost two kilometers to the south,” said Tim. “Because of the tidal fows, it caused the delta to collapse.”

Tim uses satellite imagery and historical photos to illustrate the power and persistence of erosion. He also talks about the impact that erosion, big tropical storms and hurricanes can have on fsh habitat. For most visitors, it’s an introduction into a world and an environment they had never considered.

And for Tim, it’s just part of helping people discover a world he loves.

“On my day of, I go fshing, and most of my fshing is within fve miles of the resort. I can use satellite images to show people where I just caught fsh and where they need to go.”