Redfish Rodeo

by Chuck Bunce
Staff Writer, IS Syndicated News

NEW ORLEANS -- I left Mark and Bart bantering inanely with the decidedly fay concierge and went looking for a bar. Stepping into an unusually cool New Orleans breeze, I figured I wouldn't have far to look. The night was cool and delightful but the weather had an ominous feel. Adjacent to the hotel was the Voodoo Lounge, which exuded the appropriate ambiance. Mark and Bart soon followed.

We had come for the redfish, and, in typical Idiot Sportsmen (IS) fashion, the decision was based on the flimsiest research imaginable--in this case a conversation between Levy and a stranger on an airplane who raved about "a fish on every cast" and "pull the rod out 'yer hands" in the Redfish Rodeos around Grand Isle, LA, in September. As an IS founder I was obliged to come in spite of a nagging distaste for reds as somewhat "carpish."

I had taken a smallish red when fishing for Snook around Marco, eaten it, and come away with less than enthusiasm. Something about the down-turned mouth, which I can forgive with bonefish and snook. When coupled, however, with large scales and carpish eyes, a lingering impression was formed. Bart had also taken a red when fishing for Bonefish and "hadn't really been impressed." Levy was full of enthusiasm, however, among other things, and we were bound for Grande Isle in the morning after dinner and breakfast in N.O.

The Voodoo Lounge was working out great until the guy on the stool next to Mark pulled himself up off the fabulous looking girl he was draped over and started braying at the top of his lungs to some Santana song on the jukebox. The look of shock and disgust on Mark's face was worth the price of the trip. It was almost worth staying for one more round to check out the crooner's girlfriend, who had taken the opportunity to get up and move around, revealing a worthwhile profile and a friendly smile. Levy, however, can be somewhat intolerant and the crooner was rolling on what we suspected to be a "speedball" on top of the booze so we grabbed a roady and a cab to give Bart a quick tour of the town (first visit) and pick a restaurant.

The bartender had recommended the Redfish Grill and, after we had been rejected at Emeril's Delmonico's because of Levy's raggedy shorts and T-shirt (he is a constant burden), we ended up there, as it did seem to be appropriate. Some great oysters were followed by the redfish (what else), and my concerns were reinforced by the heavy texture and over-spiced fillet.

After an artery-clogging embarrassment of a breakfast at "Mothers" the next day we rolled across the Mississippi and headed down the bayou toward the Gulf. Interesting country we hadn't seen before. All the literary images and Louisiana Bayou references of a lifetime were confirmed and understood as we took it in. Thousands of bugs, big enough to see thirty feet in front of the car before they slammed into the windshield. Stopping for supplies, the locals' conversation in native Cajun was both indecipherable and delightfully melodic.

It's hard to miss the Bridge Side Marina and Cabins coming into Grande Isle but the IS are more than capable. We got a complete tour of the barrier island before we turned around and finally found it, spartan but adequate, and all about fishing. Our guide, Capt. Zutie, agreed to go out for the afternoon, just in case, because the forecast was not good for tomorrow. Zutie was great and his 22' Center Console Triton was a pleasant discovery (we are Grady-White bigots).

We took off for the backcountry of the bay to what Zutie called the marshes. This fishing is about casting a minnow as close as possible to a grass island in the shallows, detecting the bite and setting the hook. Not rocket science but not unpleasant. Within five minutes I was into a heavy but sluggish and ultimately pliant redfish.

As it entered the cooler for its fatal nap I will admit to some obnoxious crowing and appropriately disparaging remarks about Bart and Mark's lack of productivity that is my right with the first keeper. Bart soon followed and he and I landed several more before it was incumbent on me to point out that, in spite of a couple of hookups, Mark "Slow-Hands" Levy had put nothing in the boat. This was made all the more embarrassing by the deep-sucking minnow intake of the fish. Also, I am reluctantly obliged to report that Mark's first contribution to the cooler was a hand-off, hooked by Zutie. Mark did manage to ward off complete humiliation, however, with a much-needed late rally and even added a Black Drum to the fifteen 4 to 5 lb. Reds we boated in our three hours of fishing. We've done a lot worse.

Back at the marina Zutie filleted the fish while we went to the grocery for supplies for redfish bouillabaisse. We retrieved our 3 large plastic ziploc bags of enough redfish fillet to feed 20 people. Back in the trailer we toasted our catch (and toasted, and toasted) and grilled and baked enough redfish to gag a whale. I also think I recall watching Anna Kournikova lose to somebody in the U.S. Open. I could watch her do anything.

After stuffing ourselves with what I intend to be my last redfish morsel, soaked in butter, onion, tomato, garlic, and red peppers, we staggered down to the beach on the Gulf. Lights from offshore oil rigs, our hoped for destination the next day, shone through the advancing storm clouds. Within an hour the storm came on with a wicked, awesome roar and a driving rain that lasted all night.

The morning showed little improvement and after breakfast we decided to bag it and go home. It is an embarrassing sign of age and I don't know what else that the IS opted to catch a rescheduled late afternoon flight out of New Orleans for home instead of another night on the Big Easy. What can I say? Maybe building up points with the wives to be used on future IS adventures. In the end the IS had traveled 3000 miles (round-trip) for one afternoon of fishing. It was worth it, though, and I'd do it again-- but not for Backcountry Redfish.