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				“Cajun Country Redfish - and the search for John Holmes” Fly Rod & Reel magazine By Phil H. Shook It is a still, predawn morning under moss-draped oaks and the musty smell of the bayou permeates the air. As we load our gear into a sleek little skiff, the dockside conversation turns to critters that bite or sting. I am listening to my fishing partner Sonny Mahan, a fellow Texan, talking to our fly fishing guide Mark Brockhoeft about the last time they set out from this dock. That's when a buck moth caterpillar fell out of a tree and landed on Sonny's hand. Doing what comes naturally, Sonny scratched at the irritation, not knowing that the hair left by the caterpillar was venomous. Before the day was over one of his fingers had swelled up to the size of a Superdome hotdog, making those crisp, accurate 50-foot casts to tailing redfish a bit more challenging. Mosquitoes, alligators, and buck moth caterpillars all have a pretty good bite down here in bayou country and so do redfish. Less than an hour's drive from New Orleans' French Quarter restaurants, the Barataria Estuary offers tantalizing sightcasting along a maze of shallow lakes and shorelines. The sought-after targets are a bountiful population of redfish fattened up on white shrimp and cocahoe minnows. From rank beginners to world class anglers, Brockhoeft and his partner, Bubby Rodriguez, of Big Red Guides and Outfitters have introduced a parade of flyfishers to the Barataria adventure in recent years. Brockhoeft likes to point out the shoreline where golfer David Duval caught his first redfish on fly and the lake where former San Francisco Forty Niners coach Bill Walsh landed a 30-inch brute. This is one of the few places where it pays to know the difference between the bottom signature, or mud, made by a departing redfish and one made by an alligator. And those wakes that pop up frequently can come from a broad-shouldered gamefish or a nutria, a rodent much favored by the local reptiles. Ideally, flyfishers want to arrive when the reds are actively feeding on the lakes, lazily waving tails all over the marsh -- a frequent occurrence on the Barataria Estuary. A veteran flyfisher from Lufkin, Texas, Mahan is a frequent visitor to these marshes and has probably caught more redfish here than any other angler living outside a Parish. He recalled a November trip when he fished with Brockhoeft and his friend, Monty Lenard. After turning off one of the main canals, they entered a lake to find fish popping up all around them. "The tails looked like they were ten inches wide," Mahan says. The first fish they landed weighed 13 pounds and was 34 inches long. "We started swapping the rod, taking turns," Mahan says. "Monty would get a fish in, (Brockhoeft) would net it, weigh it and turn it loose and then Monty would hand me the rod and he would sit down. I would no more step on the casting deck, see a tail, throw the fly, make two strips and boom, hook another fish. Monty didn't have time to take a swallow out of a Coke." The reds in the Barataria Estuary are relatively captive fish by choice with their rich marsh habitat and dependable food supply. Their deep copper color reflects the brackish tint of the estuary. When hooked, instead of powering off the flat for the safety of a deep channel like a Texas redfish does on the Laguna Madre, these bayou reds normally run only a short distance than shake their head, indignant that something would intrude on their turf. On another trip to the Barataria, guide Bubby Rodriguez was almost apologetic about the short little bursts that a redfish was making. But what these reds lack in bonefish style runs, they make up in brute strength, easily bowing up the stiffest action 8 wgt. When the redfish are not tailing in the shallow lakes or "crawling" the shorelines with their backs out of the water, they can be taken by blindcasting on the points around the many little mud islands. That's when it's time to reach for the fly box and pull out something that will be, as Brockhoeft describes it, "flashy, flashy in the druggy water." In these peat-dark estuary waters that means a spoon or wobble fly. Brockhoeft and Rodriguez use a variety of these patterns including one they designed themselves. When the redfish are acting on the timid side and not showing the visual presence they are so famous for, the flash and buzz put out by a briskly retrieved spoon fly, will often draw a strike not only from redfish but also black drum and alligator gar. Local guides have a colorful way of classifying the local redfish by their weight class. While a respectable-sized fish may be addressed respectfully as Fontenot, Boudreaux, or Kibodeaux, the real monsters, which are spotted occasionally wallowing around and crashing bait in the middle of the deeper lakes, get special recognition. They are referred to individually and collectively as John Holmes. The name comes from the late John Holmes, a UCLA graduate whose special physical attributes helped him launch a storied career making X-rated videos. It is likely Holmes never dreamed that his name would one day be memorialized by flyfishing guides hunting redfish in Louisiana marshes. Brockhoeft is among the local flyfishing guides who also engage in shrimping in the estuary. He has trawled for shrimp since he was ten years old. A soft spoken native of Gretna, he now lives in nearby Belle Chasse. A relentless hunter in the marshes, he gets as excited as his clients when he hears a big redfish crashing bait in the middle of a lake or sees a fish crawling along the bank. Over the years, local fishermen have used everything from pirogues to jon boats to navigate these marshes. Many are now equipped with free-floating Go-Devil motors, whose props bounce harmlessly over rocks, logs and sand bars. Joining the trappers, crawfish farmers and waterfowl hunters, there is hardly a damp shoreline or mud flat that Brockhoeft and Rodriguez have not explored. And with the arrival of flyfishing and sightcasting on these marshes, these guides have shown they are more than willing to borrow ideas from others. On our trip last August, the three of us fished out of a 16-foot Hell's Bay Waterman, a Florida-made skiff that draws only three inches of water and weighs less than 300 pounds. It was equipped with a 24 h.p. Honda Beavertail motor, which is similar to the Go-Devil. I found it to be one of the shallowest running boats I have ever fished from and that includes a host of Texas scooter, tunnel- and jet-drive skiffs that are right at home in skinny water. Besides providing an ideal casting platform for the flyfisher, the Waterman took us everywhere we wanted to hunt reds, allowing us to spend much of the day running or poling in depths measured in inches -- often in single digits. There are a few tradeoffs, of course, in a boat that can travel this shallow with three people aboard. The 24 h.p. motor, which looks like it belongs on a lawnmower, provided adequate speed for long runs to prime lakes but it is hardly the power unit someone would chose for the Miami to Nassau race. The skiff also demands a sense of balance from its passengers and it is not a good platform for serving soup. In fact, if one occupant takes a step to starboard, it is a good idea for another occupant to step to port. Since we picked a weekend when a full moon lit up the night over the estuary like a riverboat casino, the redfish were not as active and visible on the day shift. Instead of seeing tails popping up all over the lakes, we found our early morning fish more likely to be waiting in ambush on the points around small mud islands. A bright orange cactus shrimp pattern with bead chain eyes that is a top producer on the Texas flats also worked on these bayou reds. Later in the day, the reds began to show themselves more. Fish in the mid 20-inch range begin showing their backs along the small shoreline cuts and depressions, and fish in the 30-inch class, the John Holmes variety, began crashing bait and pushing alligator- sized wakes in the middle of the lakes. In one instance I had a monster red pushing a wake right at my fly for what seemed like an eternity before it knocked the wobble out of the spoon fly pattern, sending it to the surface and turning it into a surfboard. Concerned about losing miles of its marsh shoreline to inundation by wind and current driven Gulf waters, efforts are under way in the Barataria Estuary to replenish sediment by diverting fresh water into the estuaries. One of the quickest ways to do that is to pump water from the Mississippi River into the area. Brockhoeft says these diversions are intended to duplicate what mother nature used to accomplish with spring floods. Diversion pipes now come over the Mississippi River levee and under Highway 23 to feed the marshes. "Wherever the river water settles and flows, those areas are coming back with new growth and new species, Brockhoeft says. "The needle grass on the shorelines is much thicker there and it is great for the ducks and the shrimp nursery," Brockhoeft says. The effort also enriches the habitat for a host of other exotic wildlife in the marsh. On my August trip when I stepped out of the boat onto a grass island about the size of an ice chest, Brockhoeft warned me to watch out for "congos." Recalling the conversation earlier that morning at the dock, I thought he was talking about another species of caterpillar until he told me that congo is the local name for a cottonmouth water moccasin. Back safely in the boat, Brockhoeft explained that cottonmouths are the only pit vipers whose bodies will not sink in water. I think he meant that to be comforting. Unlike the buck moth caterpillar, at least I would see a cottonmouth when it comes swimming my way. January/February 2001