Typical schoolie marsh reds run 3 to 6-pounds, though 10-pounders are not uncommon.
A little after daybreak our trio of skiffs was zipping on plane through a labyrinth of salt creeks winding through the wide and verdant Louisiana marsh. We embarked at Chalmette, a small town in the shadow of The Big Easy, at the fertile mouth of the Mississippi River, and within minutes, it was apparent that it was the last vestige of civilization we would see all day.
The air was pungent with that familiar ripe, rich, wonderful aroma that flats and creek fishermen love, and associate with mud banks and falling tides. Not the kind of mouth-watering aroma that wafts from a New Orleans seafood gumbo, but a pretty darn good smell just the same.
Our armada approached a three-creek junction, and as if on cue, each skiff veered off in a different direction, punching deeper into the marsh. My sons, Matt and Eric, and I motored along for several hundred yards, banking left and right, left and right, to follow a serpentine tidal creek into a large salt “lake,” a tidal basin some 40 acres in size, with an uneven grassy shoreline punctuated by grassy nooks, crannies and points.
Once we shut down, I hopped onto a boat seat to survey the area from a higher vantage point. All was quiet, except for water lapping softly against our hull, and the occasional hacking call of a heron. Just like the great outdoors is supposed to sound. This region is called the east marsh by locals, and I gazed out at spartina grass-lined mud banks and bars, tidal creeks, tidal run-outs and little lakes that stretch out for miles.
“This is one of the best big redfish holes I’ve ever fished,” said Kim Norton over our VHF radio, with a friendly Southern drawl that clearly identifies his Mississippi heritage. “I’ve fished this marsh for over 30 years, and this lake has always produced big ol’ reds for me. Bet it’ll do me proud today, too. The tide is falling just about right, and there’s plenty of bait against shore. Just work around one side of the lake, we’ll try the opposite end, and we’ll check on our success in an hour or two, roger?”
“Roger that!” I said into the radio mike, and happily jumped to the task at hand.
It was June, and Kim had invited me and my sons to fish with him, his father Don, his son Nick and his friend John Snyder from Nebraska. We fished from three skiffs. Kim and his son Nick fished from Kim’s 20-foot aluminum boat. Don and John fished from Don’s 17-footer. And my boys and I were in my 19-foot bay boat, which we towed over from our home in Florida.
During high tide, reds are less visible, so cast tight to grassy mud banks, particularly at creek mouths.
At Kim’s suggestion my sons started casting the grass-lined banks with weedless spoons, spinnerbaits and grub jigs. They threw to every point and cut within reach while I maneuvered the boat with my bow-mounted electric. Just ahead, dark water flowed from a runout, its deep back-eddy swirls spinning in all directions for several yards. A small school of finger mullet bumped nervously just under the surface at the mouth, then all hell broke loose around a bathtub-size swirl. Matt wasted no time in firing a cast toward the fray, but his spoon sailed off target, landing about 20 feet away from the spot where I saw the fish. Instantly, I sent a lure toward the spot, but before my jig touched down Matt yanked back hard with his spinning rod.
“Got one, Dad, and he’s huge!” he cried. Matt’s reel hummed as the fish took line, and I was so watchful of him and his redfish, that when my lure landed on the right spot, I was slow in realizing I had a strike, too.
“I got one, too, Matt,” I said, smiling as a redfish pulled line against my drag.
While we played our double, Eric jumped to the bow and turned the trolling motor to get us away from the bank, where we could play fish without fear of fouling in the grass. Once he got the boat in open water, he turned and flipped his spinnerbait toward the mouth of the runout, gave it a moment to settle, cranked the handle twice and reared back on another red. Now dealing with a tripleheader, things got interesting. Matt successfully netted his own fish, then dipped up both mine and Eric’s. They ranged 5 to 10 pounds, but there wasn’t time for congratulations or snapshots. I turned up the electric to full-tilt to get us back to the hotspot, as Matt launched a long cast. Eric and I waited until we closed in, then did the same, and three more fish obliged, setting the stage for our 3-day excursion to southern Louisiana’s east marsh.
