Gus Smith Reports on 4/4/01 (Part I):

Greetings from L.A. ...Lower Alabama...aka Destin, Fla. Now a sprawling megalopolis of resorts, high rises, and seafood restaurants. And we're right in the thick of it, with every other Atlantan SUV driven, springbreak-escapin' family.

On to the obligatory fishing report:
Part 1: Monday..Gus/Dad signs up the family and friends (Andrew's best buddy, his dad, and Grandpa) for deep sea fishing. Catamaran party boat, 30+ people, buckets of squid, broomstick rods, lots of little assorted snapper (red snapper are out of season for another week), trigger fish, and other denizens of the deep. Standard formula.

Part II: Tuesday 6:00- Meet the inshore fishing guide, Good ol' boy Randy at the gas station on the inland side of the bay. Cruise to some trailer park put-in and launch his 17' center console fiberglass skiff on a north Florida black river, think the Sanford St. John's meets one of those north central Fl coffee-colored back swamp rivers. We motor down stream to the mouth at the bay, anchor in the early morning fog near a Highwayman hammock, and commence to throwing every thing we've got at what he claims will be trout, stripers, hybrids, and possibly redfish. Nothing.

Three and a half hours later, after Gus's fine casting and Guide Randy's 4 snags and lost jigs (he recommended grub-tailed redheaded jigs, not unlike what we use at times. And he threw out some live shiner minnows) we had caught none, hooked none, and teased none. He headed back up the river to the least-likely trout, or any higher order of fish looking place I'd ever seen, and we flogged the water in deliverance territory. Nothing. I finally spared us both and told him to call it a day. Nice guy but he didn't seem too bothered by the zero productivity.

Part III: Begins with Dad taking the kids sailing at the resort marina on the bay/intracoastal adjacent to the docks and slips for the high rent dudes on the bay side opposite the gulf beaches. As I prepare to come about in the sail boat the dagger board hits bottom: a bad sign for smooth sailing, but a good sign for wade fishing.  I of course, thanks to the expert guiding upon the Driftwood I or II, whether by sea or by wade, have not been skunked in many a year, so I mark the area around the marina where I snag bottom in a foot or two, then avow to avenge myself, and set the mojo back upon its proper course. The kids and I sail, then kayak, like in your seagoing style, then head home.

Yours truly strikes a deal with the wife and I'm off on my rental mountain bike in full wading regalia, paraphernalia, and genitalia, the likes of which haven't been seen since I rode over to ol' man Moseley's place in Jr. High School. I high-tail it in the setting sun and fog (and overcast) to my spot and commence to serious solo wading. If there were gators in these parts of Florida I'd have been amongst them. Dusk, saw grass, deserted little beach areas. I snipped off the grub jig mid stride, and tied on a gambler (murky water, but I only had the salt and pepper color, haven't restocked the rootbeer and green color since Bokeelia), and bam, something was slapping on the end of my line. I looked over at the tourist cadre on the docks, slapped a mosquito, and promptly lost my redemption fish.

I waded past some stakes marking oyster bars with no luck. The water dropped off sharply in to nad-chilling channel depth for the big boats moored in the slips and I figured maybe I was a little shallow with the weightless Gambler and the murky water (needed something gold colored), so I tied on one of the hammered, minnow-sized gold spoons. I headed back in, it was getting dark and Corinne-late, when a noticed the second face of the evening looking at me. The first had disappeared beneath the surface earlier (spooky when you're out by yourself in unfamiliar water, but I think we're north of gators). This one I followed to shore as I had to go around a hole I'd come through earlier, and I didn't want to get that wet again as I headed in. The face on the beach shore had a buddy and turned out to be a pair of raccoons. As I've done many a time heading in, I made a cast over my shoulder, only twenty yards from shore, but toward that hole, and BAM. A drag-pullin' surface splashin' nice redeeming trout, 2 1/2 - 3 lbs. Unhooked him, swatted a few buzzard-sized mosquitos, tossed the spoon back in the hole, and BAM. This time no splash, no theatrics, just nice steady pulling. It was late so my first glimpse didn't reveal any red, but the scales were not trout. Sure enough a nice 2 1/2 lb redfish. I admired him, staked my coordinates, and cast again...BAM. Another fight on my spoon. Drag singing, mosquito slappin, watch checking fight commences. Another fine red, 3+ lbs. Go home to the wife and kids?  Slap a few more B-52 mosquitos? Or one more cast? You guessed it!  BAM. Another one. Four for four. This red made me think I should have brought the camera. Nice fight, lots of muscle, arm aching runs. 3+ lbs as it turns out, but a stellar specimen. At this point I am redeemed, and being eaten alive. I head in, ride my bike back to the condo, and proclaim to the crowd that I'll be sleeping with my rod tonight. Ahh, a strategic redfish can do much for easing the bruised fishing ego.

I've got a few days left and will definitely hit that spot again. And the guide said there weren't any good secret spots left on this coast anymore, and certainly not redfish. Are the Goldenrod anglers redeemed? Got-damn straight they are, even in unfamiliar territory.

More updates as they develop.

Gus Smith Reports on 4/6/01 (Part II):
(Continuation of earlier report, included below.)

Wednesday night, dusk again.  Yes, similar conditions were noted, but as usual the most important parameter was simply the opportunity to wet a line. I'm tossing my spoon again. Slow action but then my skunk-eliminating spoon pulls out a 3 lb. trout, then a red, then on the second or third trout, dink, as I reach for the trout and my redemption spoon is gone, of course the trout too.

I then try assorted old standby's- grub jig, Gamble, oh and I found a dark gold one at the bottom of my fishing bag. No luck. Getting dark, head for shore, barely able to tie on my last back-up spoon. Almost too dark to see, one last cast over my shoulder into the honey hole, and BAM. 4-5 lb red. Another cast, BAM. Ultimately I go 4/4 reds in 4 casts. Then too dark to see, or unhook them. Final score 5 redfish, 2-3 trout.

This morning, Fri, on the water at 5:50, just a hint of light. New spoons loaded, compliments of the 24 hr WalMart - loaded with fishing gear in this fishing village.   Slow action at first, then with the first pink in the sky, Splam...4-5 lb trout at the break of dawn. Then a couple of more. I wade around the hole and out past the marina, past the oyster stakes toward the open bay. I'm just finished unhooking my 6th trout before 7am, when I look up to see a flats guide boat staring at me 75 yards away, retired military Rodney Dangerfield guide, a dad, two teens, and a grade school boy. I pause, but can't resist, and cast again, hoping not to catch another one if front of them. Damn good luck, splam!  I fight mine while they commence to dunk shrimp behind the drifting boat. For twenty minutes they watch me catch trout while they watch their bobbers ten feet behind the boat.

They try drifting by me a couple of times...nothing for them, while I pull in #10 - a good 5 pounder. Then they give up, I think the guide was embarrassed, and they motor off. Redemption Part III - outshining the guide in the fancy boat, while po' boy wades himself on to a total of 15 trout by 9:15. Will try to get out again tonight. I feel like some more redfish action, and I've got bug spray, a small flashlight on a lanyard, and a neck-hanging huggie for the beer at sunset.

Stay tuned.

Gus