As featured in the January 2025 edition of the Marsh & Bayou Magazine. Learn more at marshandbayououtfitters.com.
All great fishing trips start with a visit with the guide’s grandparents, right? The leftovers aren’t going to get dropped off by a stork, and the trash won’t take itself out. It is Friday evening, the day after Thanksgiving, and the Egg Bowl is on. Might as well stop by.
My friend Jack and I said our goodbyes to the family and departed to finish preparing for the coming days of fishing. We have gone through this routine quite a few times over the past decade or so, mostly during our shared time at Ole Miss.
Jack and I lived in the same neighborhood in middle school, and our friend Alex moved in around the corner a couple of years after I had. Honestly, it’s a surprise neither of them had crossed paths with my grandparents before now.
This year Alex came before Thanksgiving, but Jack was free the weekend following. In our years of fly fishing adventures together, we’ve found ourselves in all kinds of conditions, from sopping wet campsites on the banks of the White river in Arkansas to bone-shaking, GPS-dismembering Mississippi Sound and Lake Borgne crossings. Luckily this year the script flipped for the favorable, and the gales of November gave us a break both weekends.
An unseasonable warm snap came through for Alex. With a low pressure system moving in, and clean water conditions, it was a perfect setup for sight fishing on fly and light tackle. On our first run across a slicked out Sound, I saw a strange buoy, or something. The yellow sickle shape of a single Jack Crevalle’s tail broke the water, destroying the image of an endless, unbreakable horizon. Peculiar.
The good news is, we only broke off two jacks the next day, and one fly rod. Also, too, Alex and his fishing partner Brooks each landed the biggest fish of their lives.
Jack heard all about the jacks, and began to pack his bags. This trip, though, was to be all about bull reds.
Conditions shifted in a hurry this November. The fronts would become dastardly, and air and water temperatures often dropped significantly, as did the water levels. We had low, dirty water for day one of Jack’s visit out to the Biloxi marsh. A stiff east wind made for a wet morning boat ride, and demanded a unique approach. Flats fishing was out of the question – most of my usual ponds only held inches of water, and were severely windblown – not to mention cold from a chilly night before. We targeted deep water, with protection from the wind. Rivers that interconnect bayous, and small corridors at the inlets and outlets of ponds became our target environment for the morning.
We poled along the edge of a river several feet off the bank, so we could keep an eye on both the depths of the river and the shallow leeward flat as well. Baitfish scattered across the shallow point ahead, where a small creek connected to the larger river. As the skiff reached the commotion, a huge redfish floated out of the depths of the intersection and made a swipe at a mullet. Jack quickly slapped the fly in front of the fish, with just a foot or two of fly line out his rod tip. The fish saw the fly dance across his face, amd luckily did not see the skiff just beyond it. It was one of the best eats of the entire season, right at Jack’s feet, and then the fight was on. The next day Jack poled me to a redfish.
I was really impressed with my friends angling. These guys were dialed – skilled, and composed, when the opportunities came. We have spent a lot of time floating rivers, walking banks, and poling the marsh together. At times the ideology, “we might catch a huge one,” has gotten us into a bind. Luckily, these humbling lessons almost always come with a good story, and a new respect for some wild place. ‘Til next time.