Fly Fish Chick

Lache pas la patate, literal translation is “Don’t Let Go of the Potato.” But when uttered by a Cajun it means “Don’t Ever Give Up” – no doubt a regular battle cry for this hearty stock of people who embody good old-fashioned stick-to-it-tiveness. And gusto. And gumbo.

So despite the fact that cold temps and raging winds have thwarted all three of our recent Louisiana redfishing trips, we did as cajuns do and decided to lache pas la patate. Last Sunday we loaded up fishing gear and hope for Hopedale as we ventured back over to Louisiana to fish with Travis Holeman.

Finally. The sun came out. The winds laid down. The water warmed up. And the fish started moving around. Pretty quick out of the gate we were sight casting to reds and The Professor came up victorious a few times before lunch.

It was my turn up on the bow, but suffice to say my cast was rusty rusty rusty! I was struggling. I had half a dozen opportunities to sight cast at several reds but couldn’t deliver. Everyone was patient why I got into a better rhythm with the 8-weight. About midday I finally did connect and found some tension on the rod. Only problem? I was boogying to beat of a different drum…black, not red. And I foul hooked it.

It was wild, I saw the whole thing happen. I was urgently casting at three or four fish directly in front of the boat moving straight toward me. They rebuffed my offering and decided to scat as I watched this 35-pound lug move from left to right while I was still stripping. I felt tension but knew his body was too far right of my fly for it to be a proper eat. So this beast of a black drum took me to my backing with a tarpon hook and a redfish fly in his ass. As you can see I have some work to do on my grip-n-grin with a 35+ pound black drum foul hook fish.

Luckily mother nature started working with me and compensated for my poor casting. The sunshine continued to warm up the water so the fish started moving and eating with vigior. I finally caught my first Louisiana redfish.

And in the words of our esteemed captain, at this point we proceeded to jimmy jam ‘em. Singles, doubles, triples. My biggest was about ten pounds. The Professor’s about fifteen. But we caught a heap of reds and knocked the voodoo off. Whew! Finally.

Big thanks to Travis Holeman for a good old fashioned jimmyjam on the water . Enjoy the slideshow and remember the key lesson here: Don’t Let Go of the Potato.

I am traveling to Mobile tomorrow and working on my packing list:

Now as yall know, I’ve had more than just a wee bit of bad luck with the weather getting in the way of recent winter redfishing attempts in Louisiana. But we are all set, once again, to fish in Hopedale this Sunday with Travis Holeman. Catching a Louisiana redfish has become a little bit like looking for the holy grail, but I am undeterred. Although one could argue I’ve lost all reasonable perspective on this topic. So I’m curious what you think…

Should I pack fishing clothes or church clothes for Sunday?

Either way I must remember to take my flash drive because it has my power point presentation on it. Anyone in the Mobile area is welcome to come see my slideshow at the Bay Area Fly Fishers monthly meeting – but no heckling. It is next Tuesday March 9th at 5:30pm at Dreamland BBQ.

Am I forgetting anything?

After three autumn trips to Mississippi which yielded one small redfish, we decided to cure the winter fishing blues by roving over to Louisiana to look for big reds. We planned two trips in January, one of which was a couple of weeks ago. I geared up and flew to Mobile where the Professor and I kept an eye on the weather for a few days. Alas, Mother Nature foiled our plans: no fishing.

So we were that much more excited for our second trip this past weekend, and we were booked with Louisiana redfish guide Travis Holeman. Spirits were high as the trip grew near. Once again I flew to Mobile and the Professor and I started monitoring the weekend weather. Unfortunately we had to pull the plug on Saturday – clouds and wind. But it seemed Sunday would be cold, calmer, clear and hopefully fishable.

Okay, one day of fishing. At least we’d get one day out of the four we’d been hoping for in January.

So wandering anglers that we are, we pointed the truck west and barreled down I-10 toward New Orleans. Only problem? I was on Day #3 of a multi-day migraine and I really thought my skull was going to implode and pulverize my brain into a dusty mass. My apologies to all the fine folks at that diner in Slidell where I almost got sick to my stomach. My head hurt so badly that I literally thought I was going to be ill from the mere presence of food and I spent most of the meal slumped over the table thinking I might faint.

My biggest concern was feeling better in time for my one day of fishing the next day.

The Professor forced me to eat a little – which helped. And strangely the familiar glow and pulse of New Orleans (one of my favorite home-away-from-home cities) relaxed me and served as a surefire panacea as we drove through town toward the hotel. Despite sleeping in the car I immediately took yet another nap and enjoyed the fact that the relentless pulsating tide of pain in my temples was finally starting to subside. Miraculously, I recovered just in time to step out for an early dinner at Galatoire’s.

I love Galatoire’s. Ages ago, I used to make a regular pilgrimage to Galatoire’s with one of my bestest friends and spend about four hours having a wine soaked lunch with every single course. Thrilled to be back, I poured over the menu options, debating between a filet and the specialty chicken but ultimately accepted our waiter’s passionate plea for the pompano, joking to the Professor, “with my luck, this could be the only fish I see all weekend!”

Grilled pompano with crabmeat, garlic french bread and escargot, bread pudding bananas foster. And a touch of red wine. Granted I veered way off my training diet, but before the migraine set in last week I had been a maniac on the rowing machine, elliptical and treadmill, so I felt I could indulge. Hey, it was only a few hours earlier that I thought I was heading toward the light and meeting my maker in a po-boy dive somewhere off I-10 in Slidell Louisiana, so I was going to celebrate my astonishing recovery at one of my oldest and most favorite restaurants.

After a lovely dinner we tucked ourselves away early despite the call of the quarter. We set three alarms and scheduled a wake up call and fell asleep with visions of big redfish.

We ventured out just before light, followed directions we’d been given and met Travis at Penny’s Cafe for breakfast. Unfortunately the clear skies we were counting on were tucked behind a thick blanket of clouds, and Travis calculated the wind chill was going to be about zero. Nevertheless, we ordered veal cutlet po-boys for our boat lunch and swapped fishing stories over eggs and coffee while we waited to see what the weather was going to do. After a full meal the night before I was trying to exercise a modicum of self discipline with my scrambled eggs but I am here to tell you the roasted biscuits that Travis ordered looked sublime. I can’t tell you how many times I almost stuck my fork over on his plate and shanghaied a bite for myself. Next time at Penny’s, I am getting the biscuits.

We grabbed our veal cutlet po-boys to go and agreed to journey on to the marina to assess the weather.

We kicked around the parking lot for a spell but Travis called Time of Death on the expedition about 9ish. It was brutally cold, the wind was whipping and the clouds were locked-in overhead. As disappointed as we were to lose out on yet another fishing day, we cannot say enough nice things about Travis. He was cool as all get out about it, totally honest and direct about the diminishing prospects and we all agreed to re-book as soon as possible. I was thrilled to get to know him a little and truly look forward to getting on the water with my new friend Travis soon.

Thank God for the pompano. A couple of fishless vagabonds, we hopped back in the truck and hit the trail back to Mobile where we ate our boat lunch on the couch watching Robert Redford in “The Great Waldo Pepper.” New Orleans was great fun, Travis was cool as hell, the po-boy was yummy and my migraine was gone. All good stuff. But when you really break things down, this isn’t exactly the red I though I would have in hand at two in the afternoon this past Sunday.

Winter fishing has driven me to day drinking.

I’ve never been to Hawaii, but over the past few years I’ve become more and more intrigued with visiting the 50th state. What’s peaked my interest, you ask? Well, here are the top 5 reasons:

5. I kinda like that crazy University of Hawaii mascot, Vili The Warrior

Even though he offended University of Houston and UTEP fans and violated the Alabama elephant when he stuck his elephant trunk up his bum and violently threw the 165-lb Bama student dressed as Big Al across the field, I still kinda like ole Vili.

4. I want to see Doris Duke’s Hawaii estate Shangri La

I know, I just said the word ‘Duke’ and basketball season has already started. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit. But I am fascinated by Doris Duke’s Hawaiian estate (now a museum open to the public) and I would love to see it in person. Go Heels.

3. Little Chick and I already own grass skirts and Hawaiian shirt koozies

For some reason we decided to throw a Luau a few years ago on January 2nd. It snowed. I bought a grass skirt on the Internet and paid a premium to have it shipped two-day air in time for the party. Surprisingly, I haven’t had another occasion to wear it and would really like to get my money’s worth outta that thing.

2. The Divine Miss M

Bette Midler was born in Hawaii and I love her version of this song

1. And of course, the Number One Reason I want to visit Hawaii:

Holy Bonefish!! Many thanks to Craig Sako, Hawaiian-angler and longtime friend of FFC, for sending along this great picture.

Mele Kalikimaka everyone!!

Ever notice how Pepe Le Pew came on after Tweety Bird? Personally I think that dashing French skunk should have had his own stand-alone spin off, I think he was held back by that pesky little bird. But I suppose the folks at Loony Tunes felt a skunk and a bird got more of a laugh as a packaged deal.

For the record Pepe Le Pew is the only skunk I’ve ever liked.

Years ago when I lived in Arlington, MA, a neighborhood skunk launched warfare on my household. At about two in the morning we let the dog out in the backyard and a skunk sprayed him at very close distance. Ugh, the smell. It was unbearable. It traveled throughout the entire house, upstairs, into Little Chick’s nursery, found its way in closets and dresser drawers. I never thought I would escape the vile, pungent odor.

I took to the Internet and we quickly implemented any and all home remedies. At this point it was about three am, there’s no telling what our Puritan New England neighbors thought the crazy Texans were up to in the middle of the night. We washed the dog in V8, boiled vinegar, put open cans of coffee grounds in every room to absorb the scent.

The next day we loaded up the dog and Baby Little Chick and went to Cape Cod for the weekend. I was heartbroken because the skunk odor had even permeated my Kate Spade diaper bag. (Trust me, those Kate Spade diaper bags were all the rage back then.) It was more than I could handle. Of all the gross diapers and baby vomit that bag had seen, it couldn’t shake the skunk scent. I attacked it with wipes and 409 and aired it out the best I could.

Finally, I started to put the skunk nightmare behind me and enjoy the weekend. But just as I was walking out of some old timey candy shop a bird pooped on my shoulder and it dripped into the diaper bag.

A skunk and a bird walked into a bar….seemed the joke was on me.

Fast forward to present times…..last weekend the Professor and I went back over to Mississippi looking for redfish. The weather man had predicted clear skies, low tides midday, and winds from the East at six mph. They were right about everything except the winds….more like sixteen mph.

As the winds picked up, so did our frustration level. The Professor was struggling poling that boat and my cast was deteriorating – not that there was anything to cast at. We saw nothing. Nada. Niente. I would have settled for foul hooking a stingray at that point. (Yes, that has happened to me before.)

Sensing defeat, the Professor blurted out, “Can we just see one flippin’ redfish? Just give me one! I can’t believe we are getting skunked out here!”

The timing was uncanny, because that’s right when I saw it. A big redfish swimming right under the bow of the boat and right under my nose. “You mean like this one?”

“Cast! Cast! Cast!” he shouted.

The fish wasn’t traveling fast at all but I struggled into the wind to get the fly ahead of him. My best cast (which wasn’t great) plopped on his head. The worst part? He didn’t even spook. He didn’t even flinch. I didn’t even scare him. With his casual, calm cruising speed he was basically flipping me the bird.

And so once again, it’s a skunk…with a bird. And they had the last laugh.

After a fun-filled Saturday replete with college football and backyard burgers, how does one spend a crisp, sunshiny October Sunday afternoon? Looking for redfish in the Mississippi marshes.

The Professor has been doctoring up his skiff recently, adding latch systems in the front and back so he can use coolers as casting and poling platforms.

We cruised around for a couple of hours, ever stealth and vigilant, but the only thing we saw were sting ray and some blue stone crabs. Hmmm….this was starting to feel like our last Mississippi redfish outing, sans the flounder and spanish mackerel.

Just when we were thinking of picking up and running to a new area, the Professor spotted a wake and poled me closer. For the first time all day I felt a little bumpety-bump-bump tugging on my fly. A fish was following it, but we never connected. Nonetheless it was just the bumpety-bump-bump we needed to reinvigorate our focus. And in a flash I saw what we were really looking for – a tail. A sure enough redfish tail. Now I have been known to “see” things on the water when I am really looking. I can turn birds into tarpon and leaves into trout and dandelion puffs into PMDs. But there was absolutely no doubt in my mind. I saw a redfish tail.

The Professor did not see it but luckily he believed me and poled me over there while I organized my fly line which seemed to have a magnetic attraction to every hook and buckle in the vicinity of my casting deck. No more tails, no wakes. The redfish must have sunk below the surface but we were convinced he was still in the vicinity. I sent a few depth charging blind casts in and Wodka! Hooked up with this little guy.

So fun. We persevered and spotted some big reds crashing on bait fish way up in some narrow finger inlets, but they shot out of there like torpedos faster than I could put a cast on them. Pretty cool nonetheless.

It was a gorgeous day and all-in-all a great success. The new casting/poling platforms worked out perfectly. I took my hand at the push pole for a bit and have confirmed that I want to learn how to pole a skiff (seems like a good skill to have when I defect to the Keys.) We also got the stink off my new Hatch reel and the Professor’s TFO 8-weight. Breaking new ground left and right.

A very good way to spend a beautiful autumn Sunday.

We went in looking for leaders and tippet. We came out with a new push pole. Now typically when you think of a point-of-sale purchase, you might think of gum, a tabloid magazine, nailclippers, or maybe those little air fresheners that hang from the rearview mirror. Not a push pole priced to sell. But hey, sometimes you come across a great deal that’s hard to pass up.

So the Professor and I drove off the lot with a push pole lodged on the dashboard and extending out the back tailgate with orange fabric wrapped around the Y-grip of the pole. Officially this was a safety precaution of course. But truthfully it was flaunting to everyone that we were headed over to the Pascagoula Marsh in Mississippi, searching for redfish.

We reached the launch and loaded our gear into the souped-up, tricked-out ready-to-ride skiff.

We played chicken with a 50% chance of thunderstorms — and won. We chased these clouds away early and had nothing but sun the rest of the day.

The water was pretty stained so we couldn’t really identify what we were seeing, but we found fish pushing around the marshy edges right out of the gate. There was a little cut between two grassy areas with some feeding action, so I tossed in a short cast from here to there as the spoon fly flies.

Boom! Tension. Fish. What was it? A flounder! A flounder? Oh, I was really excited. A new species for me on the flyrod.

After catching the flounder I proceeded to flounder, casting poorly in the wind. I was totally off kilter. We were seeing fish pushing around constantly but nothing would eat my fly. Lots of mullet were taunting me. Despite the fishing lull, the weather was sublime, the temperature temperate, and the scenery gorgeous.

I decided to take the push pole out for a spin. I felt like I did in the 6^th grade when my dad let me drive the orange family station wagon up and down our dead-end street. Right out of the gate the fancy new push pole was much easier to hold than those heavy slabs of wood. It was so light – hey, this baby turns like it’s on rails! Woops, except it’s turning the wrong way.

It took me a few seconds to figure out how to get the bow pointed where I wanted it to go. But I’d say I got the feel of it, if only a test drive. I poled us along the edges and managed to keep us out of the grass, which was a coup.

The wind came along and that was a new challenge. After some experimentation I figured out to keep the pole downwind against the side of the boat to keep us from blowing into the marsh. Just as I read in Capt. Tony Patrella’s article on poling a flats skiff, “Don’t let stubbornness overwhelm common sense. Remember: the wind always wins.”

Unfortunately no fish were caught when I was behind the wheel of the push pole. But there was a natural intoxication to the beauty of the day so we decided to switch gears and dive into our picnic. Luckily there’s no law against push poling under the influence.

After lunch my cast came back to me. We found some super fishy looking oyster bars and worked them over pretty good, not once but twice. Alas, no redfish. No trout. Just those pesky mullet. I may have seen a very small redfish spook from under the boat, but I’m not even sure about that.

Full and content with our day on the water, we decided to wrap up the poling and the fishing and cruise up river for fun. We were heading back to the launch when we spotted some bait busting on top of the water. Quick! Cut the motor, grab the pole, grab the rod!

We worked several patches of nervous water, trying to chase whatever was chasing these bait fish. Slowly pushing and gliding from one nervous patch to the next. I was about to make a cast when something crashed just to my left. I re-directed in midair and placed a sloppy, but efficient cast right into the action.

BAM! What the hell is it? Trout? No…a Spanish Mackerel!!! Another new species for me on the flyrod. And one with teeth!

What a trip. We went to the shop looking for leaders and came out with a push pole. We went to the water looking for redfish and came out with Flounder and Spanish Mackerel. Somewhat like a used car lot, I suppose you just never know what gems you’re going to uncover in a Mississippi marsh.

Ta-da-da-duh! It is with great fanfare that I announce some very exciting news. I have caught my first redfish. And for my next performance….I proceeded to catch a few more after that!

After the film show wrapped up last week, a group of us traveled down to Port Aransas to chase after redfish and soak up the scene on the Texas coast. We wade fished on the first day and saw plenty of tailing fish. I had a little trouble getting in position to make casts some of the time, but it was so cool to see so many schools of fish, and I did hook up eventually.

The Professor drove all the way from Alabama, Miles Nolte flew in from Montana, and Tosh was the ultimate Host of the Coast.

On the second day of fishing, I kayaked with Tosh and he put me on several schools of tailing fish. Conditions were tough with clouds, wind and higher water, but we were undeterred. It was an absolute blast fishing from the kayak.

On our last night we met up up with the rest of the group where we laughed, drank and ate copious amounts of food, including grilled sausage and chicken, deep fried zucchini, fried jalapenos, fried trout, and some potato concoction that sorta blew my mind it was so good.

It was a big time down in Port Aransas. I can’t wait to go back. I am fairly obsessed with redfish at the moment and keep seeing those tails every time I close my eyes. For more pictures and some good tunes by Texas musician Phil Pritchett, enjoy this little slideshow I’ve whipped together.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

After my 2008 trip to Exuma I published a blogpost titled, “Is That A Bonefish In Your Pocket Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?”

Now if there actually were an FFC legal team looking over my shoulder (ha!) I am pretty sure they would counsel me sternly to state that that I do not, under any circumstance, endorse putting a bonefish in one’s pocket. You dumbass.

Okay, so I added the dumbass part myself, but hopefully we all know that it is, in fact, not a wise move to put a bonefish (ie, shark bait) in your pocket when you’re fishing out on the flats.

Unless…and I stress that this is a very unique circumstance….unless you are fishing with these super special Patagonia Shark Proof Pants! Now I rarely write gear reviews but this experience begs a glowing endorsement for some life saving pants.

You see on the very first morning of our recent Exuma fishing trip we dropped my dad out on a flat to wade on his own. We have the drill down to a science, leaving him with a walkie talkie in case he needs to reach us. Call me crazy, but don’t you think a shark attack seems like a fairly good excuse to pull out the radio and give us a Breaker Breaker 1-9?

We never heard from him so we decided to check in. All was fine, he was seeing lots of fish. An hour or so later we pull up to find my dad grinning ear-to-ear. Upon closer review we noticed that the pocket of his pants was torn and shredded. Our initial guess was he got tangled in the mangroves?

Oh no. Apparently a lemon shark pounced on him while he was trying to release a bonefish! The shark missed the fish by about a foot and somehow managed to get nothing but a mouthful of Patagonia pocket, barely scratching my dad’s leg.

Chalk it up to some good mojo pants or maybe just a young, puppy-like shark with bad aim, but either way he is pretty darn lucky.

Unfortunately the magical Patagonia Shark Proof pants are an old style and I don’t even think you can get them any longer. (See how lame I am at gear reviews?) So you might as well just heed the warning of my fake lawyers…No bonefish in the pockets, people. Got it?