Whether it matters or not, there is another side of this infini-tagonal (like the new geometry?) life, and it’s wrapped ever so loosely inside a silver aluminum wrapper. Even before fly fishing came Airstream trailers. Actually way before fly fishing, came Airstream trailers.

Doorway to the future? A Vintage Airstream Safari at 23-feet.

If you spied that bald guy with the little kid in the top right banner photo, well, I’m not the bald guy. He’s my Grandpa, and he just loved, loved Airstreams. We would be traveling out west, and I’m about the age of that little kid in the picture, and my Grandma would get so mad when he would wake me up from a deep car sleep with, “Hey look at that Airstream! You know they’re perfectly balanced. And they don’t rust, and you never have to paint ‘em.” Looking back, maybe he was a little obsessive about Airstreams because he did that every time he saw one. Every time.

He could have had one, but somehow he never did. Grandpa was certainly on my mind when, about six years ago, I saw the chance to take a 1970 Airstream Safari ’23 off the hands of a legendary Dallas photographer, and friend of mine – John Tilley. The glint of aluminum in our eyes led to mechanical blindness. John is still considered a friend, wherever that Englishman is, but that’s only where this saga begins.

There’s no need to bore fly fishers with the details of how the Airstream, now named “Tilley” came to be stationary in our driveway for going on six years now, but let’s say it’s like fly fishing in reverse. In fly fishing, we build up gear a piece at a time, like Jenga in reverse. For Tilley, I tore it apart like pealing an onion with no end. There it sat, and sits for a little while longer. I will skip the economic explanations as to why this has become a saga, but let’s just say if someone on the in-law side wants to poke a stick in my eye, it starts with, “So how’s that Airstream going?” Insert blade, and twist.

Just one Bambi sized example of the Airstream Trailers at A&P Vintage Trailer Works, Inc., near Paradise, Texas.

Well, it’s about to be going good, and that’s because we finally found folks with the knowledge to bring it the rest of the way home, and finish the restoration journey. With ultimatum and financial backing firmly in her hand, my wife said it was time … time to get it done or get it gone. And that’s how I found Ann and Paul near a Texas town called Paradise. Does it get any better? Yes, it will, but that’s a great start in – Paradise.

THE DANCE

Now the only way I can justify a significant deviation into the Airstream World, from this the fly fishing world, is to explain to my fellow fly fishers my vision of how these two obsessions eventually get together for a Demon’s Tango.

George H.W. Bush coined a term sheerly by accident, but forever, when he mentioned, “…that vision thing,” and maybe what I see is one like his, but what I think I see is a time in the near future when the Airstream functions as nothing less than an escape pod (yes they were used on NASA launch pads), home away from hell home, and get this – as a guide’s outpost somewhere … out there.

The flip side, and there’s always a flip side, is that Leslie’s business, Cimarrona, is at it’s current core, a cold weather business. Guess what? Texas is hardly cold anymore. So along with putting wheels on the guiding, we are going to put wheels on Cimarrona, hitch up to the newly acquired tow vehicle and we’re gone. Who knows what trouble we’ll get ourselves into? Who knows what fish I’ll get myself into?

Stick around, and you’ll know.

NOTE – You can always read more about the Airstream at www.airstreamdiary.com, and I imagine the path of fly fishing and Tilley will cross a few more times. I hope you will enjoy this adventure as much as you are enjoying the adventures in fly fishing.

Once we get Tilley buttoned up, it’s going to A&P Vintage Trailer Works, Inc., and Ann and Paul have graciously allowed us to do much of the work on the trailer on their premises, under their supervision.

Inside Tilley, and getting ready for the “Full Monty.”

Louisiana redfish fly courtesy Captain John Iverson.

I couldn’t help but feel like a “dude” as I lined up my two rods by the boat, and slipped them into the fly rod holders in the Mitzi. All clean, and pressed in Simms this and Simms that, I tell myself it’s the right gear (like the Mitzi rod holder areas) for the job, no matter what the name is. Still I feel a bit too clean.

We push off, crank up and idle out through the narrow channel lined with piers and boats. It’s not early, but early enough in The Big Easy. I always wonder if the guide wishes we were earlier or later, but the cloud bank covering the sun tells me all I need to know. This is going to be tough without Mr. Sun to light up the redfish TV. Outside the no wake zone, we are on plain in a flash, and running at 30 through the maze of channels, open water and marsh. Obviously, the Captain knows his course, there are no navigational electronics on board, like the back of his hand.

Bundled against the morning wind, up and running.

We finally drop off plane and the Captain cuts the engine. Stealth is the rule, and he hops onto the poling platform and starts moving us down the edge of a grass line. The wind is enough to ripple the water, and as we continue to pole, ripple the Captain’s confidence as well. If I were doing this, I would definitely point out the disadvantages as well, a cloudy day, a windy day, all would be noted disclaimers.

On deck. Looking for signs of famous Louisiana redfish.

I’m up first, and that vision thing just isn’t working yet, as I see a few small fish dart under the boat, and larger mud clouds further away – the telltale signs of spooked reds. Then I see a huge fish pass under the boat like a subsurface smart bomb at least three feet long. Now I am the one who’s spooked. There’s still no “shot” to be had though, so we pole on, and on. The show is awesome from the vantage point of a casting platform two feet above the deck of a Mitzi Skiff in the Louisiana marshes. When the sun peaks, the water TV is on, and it’s the best episode I’ve ever seen. Right off I see a red the size of one of those Baghdad cruise missiles pass under, stabilizer fins out and moving subsonic without apparent propulsion, self correcting and gone. This, I say, is not for the weak hearted.

Captain John describes directing someone where to cast. “like playing a video game with a broken console.” However we eventually tune in.

I give my turn to JG after who knows how much time, and he steps up to the platform like a batter stepping into the box. Time to kick back and enjoy the ride. Shots aren’t coming quick, clean or often. Getting into a groove is impossible.

The sun works its way up, and I am back on the platform, when finally I get a shot, more like a point blank drop on about a 20-inch red. I drop, and it hauls under the boat in a cloud of mud. Another shot a little later, at ten feet, nets a weak set and slight tug followed by a loose fly and rocketing fish. Gone. Now I look inside, and wonder how all this will end. Overreacting to sight casting for redfish is pretty easy for me. Perhaps it’s just too much “See the fish. Be the fish,” for my mind to handle.

The hours drift by, through lunchtime shrimp poor boys, and back onto the platform. It’s amazing how weak my legs feel as I adjust to the rock-and-roll of the Mitzi. Time to get back on the bike, again with the new year resolutions.

We pick up several times and move through the marshes, sliding sideways through turns in the tight channels, out in the open and tight again. We find an unlimited supply of shores to pole and an unlimited supply of wind. The Captain is huffing and puffing a bit between cigarettes. Morale is like a top spinning down and beginning to show some wobble. My “report the story no matter what” is starting to look more like a curse than a blessing.

I take to heart “keep a line in the water” by casting blindly to shorelines and backhanding into channels. Now we are conscious of time, and moving more to find fish of any size, and get on the board. Pick up and move.

Whether because of the level of action, or self centeredness, I find myself on the platform again on the next stop – a fairly wide backwater we enter by poling through another of those narrow channels. We are about to make the turnabout and head out when I feel a stop on one of those blind backhand casts into the channel.

I finally make good. Twenty minutes worth and deep backing.

I set the hook for luck, and the fish heads about fifty feet into the wide backwater in a heartbeat. The bend in my ten weight Z Axis, and the sound of the drag on my Tibor tell us all that this is a fish. Then a change in direction, a 180, and it’s headed into the narrow channel – hoping to get all the way through and out into the open water.

The long run takes all my line, and now we’re into the backing, and into more backing. I have a good bend in the rod, and the boat is starting to move with the fish. Side pressure, side-to-side pressure, all give the same result – a standoff. She’s wanting to make the turn in the narrow channel when the Captain decides it’s time to follow for real. There’s no headshake, no turns, just a tugboat beginning to move us.

All the while, I am getting peppered from the peanut gallery; “It’s probably a big ray. Maybe it’s a black drum. Watch out for those oysters! They’ll cut you off!” All I know is there is one big head shake, and I finally get back all my backing. Finally, a tail swirls below the surface, and leaves a boil the circumference of a five gallon bucket.

After twenty minutes we get the fish down to five feet of line and a fully down leader. I finally muster the courage to put enough on the rod to make her surface, and we all see that it’s what we are after – a 30-inch plus red. She’s beat now, and the Captain reaches out the back of the port side and tails her. “She’ll go forty inches. Looks like twenty-five pounds,” the Captain said.

You try holding 25 pounds of slimy, pissed off redfish – it’s a blast!

The photos are as goofy as anything I have ever been in because this is the biggest fish I’ve ever caught. She’s heavy enough, and my arm is weak enough from the fight, that I can’t even hold her out toward the camera for the distorted porn shot being demanded of me. Of all the luck to have Jerry along to witness and document with great photography skills, what he keeps calling, “The fish of a lifetime.” I don’t disagree as she is released almost exactly where she was caught.

Winded, and overwhelmed, I crash on the ice chest, we pull up and motor out to another spot. The wind is dropping now, but the sun is dropping a bit too. We start to watch the clock more intensely. Jerry is on the platform when the Captain guides his cast right to a waiting eight pound redfish. He’s on the board, and the fight is a good match to his Xi2 nine weight. We land him, and he’s a bright red specimen with beautiful mature coloration. Some more photographs follow, and I hope I can return the favor of good photographs to Jerry and his Louisiana redfish.

A beautiful specimen caught in the Louisiana way – sunlight, sighted, cast, tempted, hooked, set, fought and landed.

Finally, we both are on the board, the winter sun is dropping, and we’ve had enough. It wasn’t a typical quantity day by Louisiana standards, but the quality was outstanding. It’s time. We pull up, grab our seats, and settle in for the hour ride back to the launch. Even the ride back seems fast. Maybe it’s the anticipation of seeing the photographs, or telling the story.

NOTE – I am going to run a post of more photographs from this trip in the next few days. I hope you enjoyed the day in the Louisiana marshes.

… Then it must be because the trip to the Louisiana marshes for redfish went well.

I know you must wonder about fly fishing writers who float around in the blogosphere, and have stories that start so clearly; “I’m going fishing … ,” and end right there. Not a word. That’s because they (the writers) haven’t learned the simple trick – don’t talk about a thing in advance, and only write about it after you have fish porn firmly in camera. Texas Fly Caster’s policy has always been to report – whether it was fishing or catching – no matter how much it effort is spent in striking out. There was a moment of doubt (as to this policy) on this trip, but only a moment.

The trip to New Orleans was originally planned for before Christmas, but the guide called it off and we rescheduled it due to weather. It’s nice when you can make that change and not explain it to readers. So we scheduled it for January 16. That’s one day of fishing sandwiched between two flights, one late the day before, and one early the day after – a real in-and-out adventure.

As if to add to the excitement, one of my friends just got back from the marshes, a Tailwaters sponsored trip to the Plantation. What he told me was enough to plant a few seeds of doubt. “The water has to be clear, and the sun needs to be shining,” he warned. “Otherwise you can’t see ‘em. They were acting strange anyway. We didn’t see them slamming bait on the grass lines, and you just couldn’t see nervous water,” he said.

He asked who my guide was, and I couldn’t say; we were going to be running through Uptown Angler and one of their guides. “Your guide can make you or break you there. Ours … just didn’t seem to want to really work to find fish. No matter what, you’re going to make a fairly long run to get to the fish,” he said. That begins to put the idea of shooting another episode of Kayak Fishing Journal in proper perspective. We got off the phone, and I checked my e mail for the porn he said he was sending. Sure enough, a bit more fuel for the fire.

Adding fuel to the fire – Louisiana Marsh redfish porn. Courtesy Chris Weatherley

The Premise

Lest I skip over how I was dealt the luck that takes me to one of the hottest fly fishing spots in the US, if not the world (because of famous winter bull redfish), let me tell you about a guy. He’s an interesting cat, and happens to be a photography client of mine and a photographer himself. Jerry Goodale and I discovered our mutual interest in fly fishing only recently, when we started working together more often on projects last year. Not only does he have a healthy fly fishing addiction, he has focused some of his energy on a few clients that cater to that addiction. A fly fishing lodge in Canada and a resort in Belize have both done a decent job of feeding his need for fly fishing. He’s a hunter as well, and Africa made his itinerary last year. I think you get the picture, the big picture. A brilliant strategy, I think.

How I came into favor, I will not presume to question. It could be my abundance of charm, or steadiness with a camera that helped me make the grade. I wonder a little, but care less. You know what they say, “The sun even shines on a dog’s a$$ some days.” It all started with an obscure text that went something like, “Louisiana redfish.” To which I replied, “yeah awesome.” He responded, “fly fish for reds in Louisiana.” Cryptic texts are part of the package. “Yeah, they’re there now,” I replied in growing pain for not being able to go. “Do you want to go?”- he tapped out. “Sure, but I can’t afford it,” I tapped back. “No. Do you want to go?” – again. I knew the answer to this one, “yes” was the simple, but loaded, answer. Besides, it’s not good to act too excited, you know – cool.

The Plan

It’s a simple plan really, and from Dallas on Southwest Airlines, it is a hop-skip-and-jump to New Orleans. One stop on this flight in Houston, and we are on the ground in New Orleans in about three hours time. With no plane change and flying Southwest, checking a valuable bag of rods and reels is a less risky proposition.

From the airport, we’ve got to get downtown to the hotel. (TIP – We took the airport shuttle at almost $40 each round trip. Do some research, and see if you find a better way.) The ride takes us right into the heart of New Orleans, and it’s still easy to recognize landmarks brought to us in living color – courtesy Hurricane Katrina. The photojournalist’s search for waterlines, any telltale flotsam and jetsam is, for this photographer, unavoidable. It looks untouched, much different from the time I was here about six months after the hurricane – even cleaner it seems than when I was here for the IFTD show last year.

We checked in, dropped bags, and hit the street for some Cajun food. If you are going to stay in the Big Easy, you are going to be eating – a lot. I can think of no better place to stay, nor any more practical solution for the cohorts who may be traveling with you (not fishing), than to be in the heart of New Orleans. They can have their fun while you indulge your addiction. The food, and lodging in The Big Easy does come at a price though. It depends on the time of year, but you’re looking at a four $$$$ on my artist’s five scale. *Check comments for restaurant details.

We hold our priorities in order, and are lights out by ten on a Sunday night. Sleep is easy, even though the onetime city, now a town, never ever sleeps. Shut eyes, alarm goes off.

On a Monday Morning Sidewalk

Captain John Iverson pulls up in a beautiful example of a bygone era, a 1994 Ford Bronco, two tone brown over gold, perfect on the outside. Attached is, I rub my eyes for luck as much as sleepiness, one of the sweetest boats on the street – a Mitzi. Does it get any better?

Introductions, and we find a place for our rods in the back of the Bronco, and are off hitch rattling echoes down the empty city streets outside the Quarter proper, to the Marshes. Captain John gives us a rundown of where we are going -the Biloxi Marsh, and where we are launching – Breton Sound Marina. The boat ride will take about an hour.

“You get your fishing licenses,” he asked and we replied in unison, “No.” So many different states, and the usual idea is to hit some sweet smelling bait shop, scribble out the forms, get a copy and off to the more important things. “No problem. You have smart phones? You can do it online or call this number, ” The Captain had it together, but do yourself a favor and purchase your license in advance, and forget about navigating a governmental website with a smart phone – make the call if you’re on the road.

Talk amongst guides inside Penny’s Cafe.

Just about the time I confirm the billing for a day’s worth of legal Louisiana redfishing at $8.50, we stop at Penny’s Cafe in what I guess is Hopedale. A shrimp poorboy and ham and egg sandwiches are waiting inside. Captain John stops to talk shop with a few guides gathered at a table in the restaurant – the early birds. A couple of them have a serious case of the raccoons, those goggled eyes from their sunglass coverage, the exposed skin extra Cajun crispy.

Gassing up the Mitzi at Penny’s Cafe. Just another day in paradise.

Back in the truck and on the move, the banter bounces around the inside of the Bronco, and passes through enough fly fishing talk to give Captain John a clue of the skills of his clients. We talk sighting, and how to directionally “clock-in” to twelve o’clock high. “Another guide said it’s like playing a video game with a broken console,” in reference to zeroing a client in to sight a red. We laughed on that for a while.

Captain John Iverson at the wheel of his 1990 Ford Bronco, headed for the boat launch as the sun finally shows through in South Louisiana.

TO BE CONTINUED …