When we were kids, my generation was dutifully warned about the evils of substance abuse. We were warned of complete strangers wandering oh-so-purposely into our paths with the sole intent of giving out free dope so as to perpetuate life-altering addiction among our crop. Far be it from me to discourage those who discourage drug and alcohol abuse, but I’ll also be the first to chime in and say, “Hey, Mr. Middle School Principal from 1982, I saw my first joint passed around at a party with a bunch of friends I knew and trusted, and I never had to deal with tall, sinister stranger in a dirty black Raiders hoody (because, as you know, all Raiders fans are sinister) foisting a fatty on me, evil grin and all.”
And I guess I got lucky. I never really developed the taste for drugs, even after flirting with the “gateway substances” that, for the most part, are now legal in most states. I get it. Others aren’t so lucky, and I’ve witnessed crippling addiction up close. My empathy cup runneth over. It’s a despicable disease that gnaws at the souls of its victims, even during their brightest hours. Conquering it takes real constitution, and I’m duly impressed with those who can and do stay sober.
So it’s with no small amount of caution that I approach you, neophyte fly angler, with a proposition — a “gateway” fish, if you will — that has the potential to inspire a lifelong habit. Let’s say you’ve been wandering the hills of Appalachia for wild trout for a few years now, or perhaps the tall country of the Rockies, following blue lines on the map into the backcountry in search of native cutthroats. “What’s next?” you might ask. “Where do I go from here?”
I’m tall, my hoody is likely something my significant other adorned with some kitschy phrase, like “Ho’s away! I have an owner!” I’m not sinister. Not even a little. And I think Mark Davis’ haircut is perhaps the best thing about the Raiders. So, no, I’m not here on a random mission to turn an otherwise manageable fly-fishing habit into something that negatively alters your existence.
But, sure. Consider me the buddy at the party passing the bottle around.
“Here,” I might say. “Try this. It’s a redfish.”
The next step starts here
Most fly fishers — not all, mind you — continue to evolve once they pick up the long rod. Most thrive off the challenge that comes with fooling fish with flies. In time, every dirtbag trout angler will pick up an article on the wonders of the Caribbean flats, and the untold challenges and hardships that come with wading across a watery desert in the hopes of encountering an elusive bonefish or a 100-pound tarpon, or (clutch your pearls, Mom) achieving the oft-established pinnacle of the craft and catching both of those fish plus an angry permit, all in the same damn day, for the elusive “grand slam” of saltwater fly fishing. In time, most of us will at least give the salt a try.
Unfortunately, most will try to skip a grade, and go right from the canyons of the Colorado high country or the rugged forests of the Alleghenys to the marls of Abaco, the turtlegrass flats of Belize, or the mangrove hammocks of the Keys.
First, let’s face it. You’re ill-prepared. Your double haul is non-existent. A light breeze turns your cast into a soup sandwich. Your fish-eye? What fish-eye, Jethro? You’re. Not. Ready.
How do I know this? Because years ago, I brazenly flew from the trout country of eastern Idaho to the white-sand flats of Long Island in the southern Bahamas, thinking I would just check that bonefish off the list and that would be that. After five days of fighting the first real wind I’ve ever had to deal with, of battling sideways rain, gray, angry skies, and continuous refusals from what I then considered to be the biggest assholes on the flats, I slunk back to the Rockies. Fishless.
Bonefish? I hated bonefish. Tarpon? To hell with tarpon. Permit? I was 99 percent certain that permit were like the sasquatch or the Skunk Ape. Everybody talks about them. But they’re not real.
And then I had a moment. A few years earlier I ventured into the marshes of south Louisiana while on a trip to visit my dad, who, at the time, lived in Baton Rouge. I booked a trip with a marsh guide who took me out in his skiff, and, in one day, I’d managed to catch not one, but five beefy redfish. On a fly. I cast flies at tailing fish. Cruising fish. I put flies in front of v-shaped wakes, and generally had an absolute blast, all while upping my game a bit.
“Redfish,” I thought to myself. “I need more redfish.”
Photo: Chris Hunt.
So, for the next couple of years, I planned a few DIY adventures to the wadable flats of the south Texas coast. In time, I graduated to renting kayaks and paddling the lower Laguna Madre, going from crystal-clear flat to crystal-clear flat. I worked on my casting. I discovered my (somewhat) lazy fish-eye, and, in time, the redfish of the Texas sand didn’t stand a chance. But, I told myself, I’m still not ready for The Show. I need more seasoning down here on the Triple A flats before I take my game to the next level. One afternoon, after hooking a couple of nice reds in an honest-to-God gale, I managed to make what was then the cast of my lifetime — I put a fly on the nose of a feeding sheepshead at 80 feet, and managed to hook and land “the prison permit.”
“I think you’re ready,” a fishing buddy of mine told me after watching my angling gymnastics routine and absolutely sticking the landing.
The best way to become a flats aficionado
Redfish are among my favorites, even today, years and years after that first visit to the dark marshes of Louisiana. Sure, it’s possible to have a tough day on the redfish flats, just as it’s possible to have an off day chasing brookies in the backcountry. But, on the whole, redfish are among the most forgiving of the inshore flats fish. And that’s completely on them. On perfect redfish days, they’ll chase and eat damn near anything that resembles food. On off days, they’ll be perplexingly challenging, but you’ll likely, at the very least, earn a look or a follow until you stumble upon what it is they really want.
But more than just being a sporting flats target, redfish are excellent teachers, even if they have no idea they occupy an esteemed perch in the fly-fishing lecture halls. Redfish offer anglers every opportunity to become better anglers. They provide solid moving targets for developing double-haulers. They follow stripped flies and aggressively gobble them down, only to fight like hell and come loose, just as any bonefish worth its salt will do. They also offer more consistent success — rewards for well-cast flies, tight loops into a stiff breeze, and, when it all comes together, the “eat.”
A fish worth chasing
I’ve characterized redfish as a warm up fish, a stepping stone to Big League fly fishing, and, while they do occupy an important niche in any would-be saltwater fly caster’s journey, that’s not exactly fair, and it’s not entirely accurate. Don’t mistake the redfish as anything less than a worthy fly rod target. The redfish guides of the Carolina Low Country, the Louisiana marsh or the Texas Gulf Coast are every bit as instructive as the fish themselves tend to be. Just this past winter, while staying at the gorgeous seaside retreat, Bay Flats Lodge on Texas’ San Antonio Bay, I “rediscovered” the absolute joy that comes with fly casting to redfish.
My first day started predictably slow — it was a chilly December day that just needed to warm up a bit. After skipping across the oyster beds not 20 minutes from the lodge for a couple of hours, we had some serious looks, and one missed hookup. But, my guide and I both determined, we were kinetic. Things were moving, and, in time, we’d figure it out. And, as redfish seem to do, they came to life like those slow-glowing stadium lights that take their time but eventually pump the lumens onto the gridiron. By the end of the day, we were in a groove and I honestly lost count of the fish we pulled from the water that, in some instances, was just a few inches deep.
Over the next two days, the reds of San Antonio Bay and Matagorda Island, offered up yet another refresher. They’ll do what bonefish generally won’t — they’ll eat on top. We cast big foam Gurglers at these denizens of the flats, and the reds earned a hell of a lot more esteem in my book. Watching these big predatorial drum lock in on lightly twitched Gurgler reminded me why I never should have taken a breather from these majestic shallow-water eaters. Redfish are worth chasing. Yes, they’ll help you hone your game for fish generally considered more challenging, but, under the right circumstances, big, angry reds provide a challenge themselves.
Final word
It’s fine to consider the redfish the “gateway fish” to flats fishing. And, frankly, I think it’s absolutely true. But there are lots of reasons to chase redfish that have nothing to do with eventually “graduating” to another quarry.
First, for most of us, they’re a hell of a lot closer and easier to reach than the permit on the flats of San Pedro. Second, it’s less expensive to book a flight to Houston or Charleston, generally speaking, than a flight to Tulum or Coxen Hole. Reds aren’t peppered around the Caribbean or other tropical flats paradises — they’re home-grown, American fish.
So take it from this tall, pudgy, bearded, older stranger in the “I like big bugs and I cannot lie” hoody. Try the redfish. It might be habit-forming. And in this instance, that’s perfectly OK.
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