conservation corner

with dr. profressor steinberg (Ph. D)

of habitats in the larger South. You can be a trout snob, salt snob, carp snob, or bass snob and die happy in the South. There is literally something for everyone. I’ve often thought about the composition of a Southern Grand Slam. Perhaps it could be determined by latitude: redfish in the far south, red eye bass, striper, carp, smallmouth bass, and brook trout in the north.

The glass half empty: Like most areas of the planet today, there is no shortage of threats to fish and their habitats in the South. While we have abundance, that doesn’t translate to sound management in a lot of instances, or any management at all. According to the Center for Biological Diversity, the number of imperiled freshwater fish species in the Southeast has risen 125% in the past 20 years. While again, many of these species aren’t sporting targets, one imperiled species in a stream should set off alarm bells for the larger health of an aquatic ecosystem. So while many anglers wouldn’t notice if a darter disappears, it ultimately threatens the fish we do target. And sporting species aren’t without their own problems. Climate change, poor forestry practices, stream/habitat fragmentation and dams, the introduction of non-native species, pollution and related contamination, sprawl, and sometimes complete indifference from enforcement agencies all threaten our sporting and non-sporting fisheries resources alike. All these threats are ever evolving and becoming more complex, making it even more vital for greater public vigilance and organizing. We the anglers must drive the conservation agenda. Many of these problems were unknown a generation ago. For example, did anyone ever envision bonefish in south Florida would be contaminated with pharmaceutical residues, as was identified by researchers with the Bonefish and Tarpon Trust? And while invasive species have been around for as long as we have, did anyone think escapee or dumped lionfish would today be found throughout subtropical coastal waters, or silver carp careening into water skiers and boaters in some of our bigger river systems? It’s as if a Carl Hiaasen novel has come to life. And if you aren’t familiar with Hiaasen’s Florida-based writing shenanigans, you need to be. It epitomizes the saying

The glass half full: We in the South are blessed with an abundance of fly fishing possibilities ranging from alpine brook trout in the Appalachian Mountains to tropical and subtropical species such as tarpon and snook along our Southern coasts and beyond. In fact, the Southeast region of the USA, especially where the Appalachian Mountains meet the Coastal Plain, is considered a biodiversity freshwater “hotspot.” For example, our region houses two-thirds of all fish species in

North America, more than 90 percent of all mussel species, and almost half of all dragonflies and damselflies. Many of these species such as the watercress darter or hornyhead chub fall outside the interest of fly anglers (although the chub is pretty cool to catch actually), but it’s still amazing to consider the number of species and the myriad

“truth is stranger than fiction.”

Back to the glass half full: As part of SCOF 2.0, I’d like to use this space to feature and hear from some of the groups and individuals who are working and fighting to protect our fisheries resources in the larger South. These groups are as diverse as our fishing opportunities, ranging from creek, river, and bay keepers, land and water trusts, native fish advocates, brewers, artists, to other groups with larger geographical agendas. Sometimes, these individuals and groups are the sole environmental watchdogs protecting the resource, in other cases they are the driving force to motivate state and federal agencies to do what they are charged to do, protect the resource! In my home state of Alabama, without the river keepers and their legal teams, I’m not certain the state would lift a finger to inform the public when a danger exists, or a spill occurs. Coosa River Keeper, for example, has worked long and hard to make information about fish consumption warnings more accessible to the angling public, with little state enthusiasm or assistance. While in Florida, Captains for Clean Water lit a fire under state politicians to address the ongoing water quality and quantity issue facing the Everglades and beyond. As Edward Abbey stated in Desert Solitaire, “A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government.”

The recent and final defeat of the infamous Pebble Mine in Alaska shows that a coalition of sporting interests can defeat even the most powerful extractive industries with deep lobbying pockets. So, drink up folks or quaff what you got, awareness followed by action is half full in this environmental battle for preservation of our Southern fishscapes!

Michael Steinberg is editor at large of SCOF. He is also a professor of geography at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He teaches and researches issues dealing with environmental management and conservation, mostly in the near-shore tropics. Thus he has forged a perfect life where his professional and personal life (fly fishing) overlap. As a result he is single.

Mardi Gras Reds

I looked down at the 12-pack of Budweiser in my hand, head aching from late-night drinks in the French Quarter. He was right. Twelve beers wouldn’t last until lunch. “Why don’t you go into the marina and get some more – a lot more.” We hadn’t even formally introduced ourselves with a handshake, let alone stepped onto a boat, and Captain Miles LaRose was already in full guide mode. Handing the 12-pack off to Torie, I turned and walked toward the rust-crusted marina building. Judging from his instruction, I knew we were in good hands for the next two days seeking reds in the Louisiana marsh. I just hoped the marina would sell me a case of beer at 6:45 am. My worry was unfounded. I was in the land of drive-thru daiquiri stands. Of course I could buy beer at that time of day. I would have bought two cases, but they only had one left on the shelf. I returned to the parking lot to find that Torie and Miles had moved down to the dock. A thin layer of clouds over the marsh hid the rising sun and any morning warmth. The channel leading out to the bayou seemed busy with large, industrial boats coming and going.

Despite the early February chill in the air, Miles said we were lucky to get such weather. The layer of clouds would burn off later that morning leaving us only light winds to deal with. The next day, he said, was expected to be clear with no wind. These were perfect conditions for first timers out in the marshes.

‘Your Other Ten O’clock”

It wasn’t long before Miles had us speeding full throttle through the curves of what seemed like a maze of seagrass. Since this was our first time with Miles, he explained we wouldn’t be going too far out as he wanted to assess angling skills by going for smaller, “training wheels-size” fish before we set sights on the big ones. Torie took the stand first. Moving silently near grassy edges, he spotted tails long before we could.

“Two o’clock, maybe 25 feet.” She cast deli- cately into the brackish water. “Recast, a bit further. Perfect. Strip, strip, strip.”

Her line tightened, she set the hook, setting in motion a nice run by the red and the sound of the reel’s drag. She made it look easy. Now came my turn. “Ten o’clock. Get it out there.”

I loaded the rod in my backcast, trying to feel the weight of the heavier line on the heavier rod than I am used to.

“Your other ten o’clock.” Shit.

I changed my angle but, in doing so, lost the energy in the line causing the fly to slap the water not far from the bow. I could hear the collective sigh between Miles and Torie. He poled on until we found another tail waving at us.

“Strip. Strip. Slow. Okay. Strip. Strip!”

I yanked the line and I was on the board, which proved to be good timing because a band of clouds moved across the sky shadowing us and diminishing our vision in the water. We had to wait a good half-hour for the sun to show itself again. In the meantime, Miles set up a makeshift floating kitchen and cooked much-needed breakfast hangover burgers. As he cooked, we explained that we could have used him as a guide the night before as we lost ourselves in the madness of Mardi Gras in downtown New Orleans.

When we booked the trip with Miles, thanks to the help of Torie’s cousin, John (the new editor of SCOF), we had no damn clue we would be in town the weekend before Fat Tuesday. The realization came when we arrived from snowpacked western Colorado to find New Orleans gridlocked by parades, jam-packed bars, long lines at restrooms, and hammered people everywhere. I needed etouffee, gumbo, charbroiled oysters, crawfish, shrimp. Because everything was so busy, I am pretty sure I ate a dry pretzel from a street vendor and a half-warm Hot Pocket at 2 am, although I’m not sure. The fuzz- iness of drinking on an empty stomach had erased much of my memory at that point. The sandwich Miles fried up for us that morning fortified us. It was needed sustenance for the four-beer buzz I had already acquired. Sun out and shining across the bayou again, Miles sped us around as if it was his childhood neighborhood. The marsh sat completely empty of other human life. It felt as if we had the entire gulf to ourselves. Beer after beer were counted almost in sync with red after red. For Torie and me, who are accustomed to ripping big browns from the undercut banks of the Gunnison River, the reds he put us on were ginormous –definitely the biggest fish we’d caught on a fly. He could see the excitement in our eyes as we grew more comfortable casting with distance to his commands. He didn’t say it, but he had big plans for us the next day. But we had another night of New Orleans to tackle first.

Drunk Cab Drivers Know Where to Go

That evening, after meeting up with John and his fishing buddy, Nat, we found ourselves back in the Mardi Gras madness drinking beers and swapping fish photos and stories. I could tell by the slur of their voices that they had much the same day as we did. Too many beers, plenty of fish. “I made us a reservation for dinner at Trenasse,” John said.

“We have a half-hour to get there.” I was thankful for his foresight on the matter. We couldn’t have another food-less night in New Orleans. The restaurant, though just across the street, was impossible to reach. We were barricaded from crossing the road, which was the thoroughfare of the evening’s big parade. We could see, almost smell it from our standpoint behind the barricade. John, frantic for Trenasse’s famous oyster log, edged near total meltdown as party beads pelted him in the face while staring at a possible gap in parade floats. I thought he was going to run for it until a mounted police officer stepped in to ensure he didn’t cross.

“Fuck it,” he said, dejected. “Let’s just go back to the rental and find something to eat near there.”

We found a taxi on a nearby side street adjacent to the parade. We provided the driver the address and he returned a glassy-eyed confused look.

“Can you get us there?”

“Yes,” he said, burping at the same time.

For the next 20 minutes, he drove the littered streets back and forth looking for one that cut across the parade route. When he repeated himself by driving down the same street we’d been down five minutes before, it was then we knew our suspicions were true: the driver was just as hammered, if not more, than we were. He was also clearly lost.

“Let us out,” John said.

We filed out of the cab on a dark, unlit street. The glow of our phones lit up our faces as we searched for walking directions to the rental. It would take us at least an hour to walk there but it quickly became apparent that, perhaps, we weren’t in, shall we say, the best part of town. We started a quick pace toward an underpass. There were very few streetlights. From the darkness came what sounded like a violent altercation taking place outside a car to our right.

It was our instinct at that moment to find safety, a sanctuary. The entrance to an unlit bar stood to our left. It was hard to tell if the place was even open. Torie tried the door. It opened and the four of us out-of-towners went in with caution. What we found was the most welcoming down-to-earth bar I have ever been to. Music on the jukebox, $2 bottles of snappy-cold beer, and conversation with some of the finest locals we could have imagined. The bartender, who I believe owned this mirage in the desert, detailed the work she does throughout the year in crafting her Mardi Gras Indian costume. We jammed to tunes. Clanked bottles. They invited us to their Super Bowl party the next day and said there would be plenty of food to go around. This bar was one of if not the source of happiness in New Orleans, and we had no idea we were stumbling into it. We went in scared, we left feeling like family. Sometimes, I guess, you need a drunk cabby to take you where you need to go.

Tripling Up in the Chandeleurs

The next morning, we arrived to meet Miles, once again on empty stomachs, but we did bring a sufficient amount of beer. He seemed more excited than the day before.

“We have the right weather. We are going to the Chandeleur Islands,” he said. “The ride will be long and probably rough, but the fish will be huge.” I remember the long ride out in the skiff as being nothing but painful. If you didn’t hold your legs right, each wave vibrating through the flat bottom skiff had the ability to either crunch a testicle or compress your tailbone into your spine. It was, perhaps, the longest hour-and-a-half ride to the middle of nowhere I have experienced. Worth it? These reds were certainly not the training wheels we caught the day before. They were big, so big we could barely hold them up for the camera. He started us off slow. And by slow, I mean one big red at a time. As the afternoon wore on and the Jim Beam took hold, he complicated things.

“Three o’clock. Way out there. Nice. Strip. Strip.” Tight line. As I reeled, I could hear more instructions to Torie. “Strip. Strip. Yes! Double!” As I fought the monster, I turned to look and saw Torie had a rod doubled over in her hands. Then, off the back of the skiff, as Torie and I danced around each other with our rods, Miles flipped his wrist and sent a spinner out near a patch of seagrass. In seconds he was hooked up as well. Chaos aboard the skiff ensued as we each worked to land our fish. I hadn’t smiled that big or laughed that hard in a long, long time.

That day, the Chandeleurs were a fly-fishing amusement park. If you wanted a ride, all you had to do was send out a line. We were lucky. The weather was perfect. All we needed was the right guide to take us where we needed to go. We also needed a hell of a lot of beer.

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