The siren song of the Texas redfish | Hatch Magazine

It’s not often that a place sings to you, and calls you in. Some places play more alluring tunes than others, and, while I think it’s safe to say that anglers hear siren songs more than most folks, these magnetic and rhythmic sonnets conjured up by water and fish are always fleeting, always remarkable.

For years on end in my late 30s and into my 40s, I was drawn to the Texas coast, where, on a family-man’s budget, I’d rent a cheap motel room and wander the wadable flats in search of redfish and speckled trout for a long weekend every year or so. I’d climb the dunes on South Padre Island and fish the sandy leeward flats of the Lower Laguna Madre, or I’d wander the flats behind the airport in Rockport. Success was fleeting, but there was enough of it to pull me back, particularly when winter overflowed into spring in eastern Idaho, and I needed some sun, some warmth, and the pull of a hefty saltwater beast.

But, time passed, and other mind-bending, watery tunes began to worm their way into my simple angling being. Almost as powerfully as the Gulf Coast siren song first pierced my psyche, it faded into the ether. Until recently, I thought it was gone altogether.

It turns out, though, that the songs don’t stop. Sometimes, we just tune into different music. Different wavelengths. As Doron Lovett and I skipped across a flat riddled with oyster beds on the fringes of coastal Texas’ San Antonio Bay in his shallow-draft skiff earlier this winter, I recognized the tune that I thought had played its last ethereal notes some time ago.

The pull of the Texas flats never really stopped, I realized. The line might have gone slack as I was seduced by other fishy destinations, but I was never off the hook. When Doron, who guides out of the ideally located Bay Flats Lodge in nearby Seadrift, killed the boat’s motor and we glided over a stretch of mostly clear water that might have been a foot deep, Texas attacked my senses once again.

The fishy flats that stretch from Galveston Bay all the way south to Brownsville might offer the most consistent sight-casting to hefty redfish anywhere in the country. And it didn’t take long for me to feel the familiar reverb this corner of the Gulf is known for. There are literally thousands of square miles of fishable redfish flats along the Texas coast, and, at any given time, they deliver on their world-class reputation for consistent fly fishing. As if I needed a reminder, not two minutes after Doron climbed the poling tower, I had my first duo of cruising reds in my sights.

“It feels good to be here, again,” I said, as I stripped fly line off my reel and began to work my way into a solid double-haul. “Really good.”

The perfect fly-rod fish

Redfish are no secret among the sporting community, and certainly not the fly fishing crowd. They get big. They fight hard. And there’s nothing quite like coaxing a big Gulf Coast red to a fly. They’re not terribly finicky like a permit can be (although, like most fish, they have their tight-lipped moments). They’re not overly spooky or abundantly cautious, which are adjectives generally used to describe bonefish on the tropical flats to the south. Instead, reds are … steady. I wouldn’t say that redfish are terribly predictable — they can turn off and turn on as well as any fish on the flats. But they are dependable. I’ve had redfish days where I’ve never put a fish on the boat, but still felt like I had my shots. And I’ve had redfish days where, for whatever reason, everything came together just right and I’d spend my evening rubbing sore arms and shoulders and self-medicating with a stiff drink while giving up trying to count how many gregarious drum came to hand.

Even better? I’ve caught redfish on days when I’ve had to kick the ice off the gunnel of the boat to keep from going ass-over-elbows into the chilled January waters of the Gulf. And I’ve caught redfish on stifling, sultry, hot August days on the marsh when the sun beats down with the extra weight of southern humidity. Reds are fish for every season, which, when it comes to inshore saltwater fly fishing, makes these bullies of the flats the ideal target for long rodders.

Photo: Pete Kaple.

After Doron and I recorded what was, in my book, an exceptional first day on the water, I sat at dinner with Chris Martin, owner and operator of Bay Flats Lodge, and talked about the day. With every fishy tale I recounted, Martin would simply smile and nod. A veteran fly fisher who runs the lodge just south of Seadrift, right on the green waters of San Antonio Bay, Chris has likely seen it all when it comes to chasing reds.

Bay Flats is a spacious resort, and Chris and his team cater to a wide range of sporting clients. In the fall and winter, the marshlands of the bay are popular with duck hunters. The deeper waters — maybe six or seven feet at most — bring out the baitcasters and the spin fishermen all year long, regardless of the calendar (it can get a bit chilly on the Texas coast in the winter months, but cold fronts are fleeting, and the redfish don’t seem to care). But he says, no matter the weather and no matter the season, fly fishing for redfish is his favorite thing to do.

“Listen,” he says, “I get the traditional desire to go out and harvest fish and bring some home after a vacation on the bay. But I tell all my bay-fishing clients that they really don’t know what fun is until they get off the bay boat and stand on the casting platform and start fly casting for redfish. There’s no comparison. When the reds are cooperating, they can make a convert out of anybody. I think they’re the perfect fly-rod fish on the flats.”

Photo: Chris Hunt.

Lovett agreed, nodding appreciatively that first afternoon as we lost count of the fish we put on the boat after kind of a herky-jerky start, where we were seeing fish but not able to convince them to move on the fly.

“Sometimes it just takes a while,” he told me as we waited out the slow period (and, for the record, the “slow period” still consisted of shots every few minutes — the fish just weren’t eating). “And then, for no reason at all, they turn on. At the flip a switch.”

And, for us, the switch flipped just after lunch. Fish that would scatter at a fly dropped in front of their faces at 10 a.m. on this 65-degree December day, suddenly couldn’t wait to grab the streamer and take off on a reel-screaming run toward the mainland once the water warmed up just a bit. Most of the fish fell within “the slot,” a seemingly random measurement used by Texas Parks and Wildlife to determine a keeper red. The slot is presently set at between 20 and 28 inches. It’s a wide margin based, presumably, on best management practices for red drum in coastal Texas waters. For perspective, the average 20-inch red weighs three or four pounds. The average 28-inch red? Closer to 10 or even 11 pounds. We did manage a couple of fish that topped 30 inches, which is a solid red for inshore Texas reds. These fish pushed the scales to 12 or 13 pounds — plenty big for an 8-weight fly rod.

Photo: Pete Kaple.

“That’s a nice fish for us,” Doron says. “We get some big bull reds in the winter, but not like they get to the east. But our numbers are probably better overall, and nobody’s gonna complain about a 15-pound redfish.”

Nobody indeed. Particularly not me, the erstwhile saltwater angler who spends most of his time contained by the Rockies.

We caught deliberate cruisers, finning through water barely deep enough to cover their backs. We caught tailers that pushed up into marsh grass and meandered through the vegetation, actively hunting for the crabs, shrimp, and baitfish that use the weed beds for cover. And the flies? Nothing fancy. Doron tied on what I would describe as a purple Tarpon Toad, and I don’t think we changed flies all day. The fly induced spirited charges, deliberate gulps, and just quick, opportunistic grabs. Or, as Doron put it, “they’re doing what redfish do.”

After dinner, as I was chilling with a cocktail and a little playoff college football in the lodge’s gorgeous outdoor bar, I was in agreement with Martin. The reds along the Texas coast might be the best fly-rod fish on the flats.

Photo: Chris Hunt.

The redfish barstool

A couple of days later, after yet another stellar day on the water sight-casting to reds and the occasional black drum on the flats of San Antonio Bay, guide Dane Scott met me at the lodge on a foggy, south Texas morning. The air was cool and heavy, and, even though the thermometer read a perfectly pleasant 62 degrees, the day felt downright wintry. The fog was thick enough to delay us from heading to the put-in, just out of sheer caution. Visibility was extremely limited — as we stood by Scott’s trailered skiff, I noticed we couldn’t see the truck that was towing the boat.

“I know where we’re going,” Dane said. “And I have GPS. I’m just worried about the other guy.”

So we cooled our jets for a bit, and, when Dane felt better about launching, we headed to the boat ramp, and slid the skiff into the December-cool Gulf of Mexico. As I hopped into the skiff, I noticed what, to me, looked like a simple barstool lashed to the casting platform, and, after asking Dane about it, he was quick to declare the contraption as “the next big thing.”

“Just wait,” he told me. “You’re gonna love it.”

Guided by GPS, because I’m damn certain Dane wasn’t riding through the dredged boat channel by sight under this veil of dense fog, we took our time. San Antonio Bay was eerily quiet, and glass-calm. The fog muted the sound of the outboard as we worked our way along the designated boat channel. Pelicans and gulls perched atop nearly every piling marking the dredged channel as we slowly motored by, and the water’s surface was only broken by our wake, or when a pair of curious bottlenose dolphins joined us for a minute or so as we pushed ahead.

It took a bit longer to get where Dane was taking us, but, as he cut the motor and glided into a hidden bay, I knew right away that we’d arrived in a redfish paradise. Tails poked up through still water and were visible in spite of the fog, just a few feet from the boat.

“You want to try something on top?” Dan quietly asked me in a hushed voice that seemed totally appropriate, given the quiet of this particular morning on the flats. I’d fished for redfish at least a dozen times before, but I’d never tried to coax them to a top-water fly. But, squinting through fog, I could see no less than three sets of tails, as the redfish in this quiet stretch of the bay were happily feeding, seemingly without a care in the world.

Photo: Pete Kaple.

“Uh, yeah,” I replied, trying not to sound overly enthusiastic. After two excellent days of redfishing under my belt on this trip to Texas, I was wondering what might make the experience out of Bay Flats any better. As Dane tied a fat foam Gurgler to my tippet, I had my answer. Reds on top.

I hopped up on the casting platform and plopped my bum on the heavy-duty barstool — Dane was right. After two days of generally standing on the platform or bracing myself against a lean bar, the “redfish barstool” was perhaps the coolest flats-boat accessory I’ve ever seen. I never actually cast from the stool, but it was sure easy to go from standing to resting a tired back while enjoying a nice cushion in the process. If I ever own a flats skiff — and that’s unlikely, honestly, because I’m too much of a fly fishing dilettante — the comfy barstool will be my first purchase. And not just because I like barstools. That said, catching redfish and doing it from a barstool I could rest upon? I felt pampered. Like … a redfish princess.

Dane was quick to offer advice on how to work the Gurgler. My instincts, of course, told me to give it a violent tug, and move water with it. But, he counseled, that’s not the preferred method. Instead, he said, the idea was to draw a bit of attention to the fly while trying not to be overly aggressive.

“Leave a wake,” he said. Just enough so the happy, hungry reds would see it. “But don’t go crazy.”

With limited visibility, we weren’t going to see the fish in the water until they were likely too close to the boat to effectively pull off a cast — the sun simply couldn’t pierce this soupy fog. Instead, Dane said, “we’re just going to cast at tails.” And on this day, my cup runneth over. There were literally tails everywhere. Given the ethereal feel of this quiet flat on this particularly misty December day, I openly wondered if I’d managed to somehow die in my sleep the night before, and this was the version of Heaven I’d chosen for the afterlife. And, frankly, I could have done a hell of a lot worse.

With tailing fish only visible about 40 or 50 feet out due to the persistent fog, I didn’t need long hero casts that we all work to perfect while on the flats. Instead, I needed precise and accurate casts to a target about the size of a basketball. And it took me some time to adjust. But, once I put Dane’s big foam Gurgler within sight of a tailing fish, it usually didn’t take long for the tell-tale wake to develop behind the fly

“Keep it moving,” Dane coached. “Not too fast, but keep it moving. Eventually, they’ll eat it.”

And the actual “eat” is spectacular. It’s not a ferocious explosion that a pike or a bass might perform. Instead, you’ll see the fish come up behind the moving fly, and you’ll see its eyes perfectly trained on its prey. Then, and I swear this is true, you’ll hear the redfish’s lips smack as it opens its maw and just pulls the fly into its jaws. It’s a visual ribeye. A sight-casting delight.

Photo: Chris Hunt.

The song persists

In just three days on the flats, I was able to tune back into the siren call of the Texas Gulf Coast. It didn’t take much to remind me why this place has always been so special. I was reminded that its redfish are a fly-fishing delight, and the landscape along this lonely stretch of Lone Star coastline remains pretty wild, especially given the encroaching civilization and the presence of some seriously bustling cities, like Houston, San Antonio and Austin, all within three-hour drives.

Here, the coastal marshlands remain largely intact and, thankfully, many are protected by national wildlife refuges, designated wildlife management areas, and even state parks. Matagorda Island, directly to the south of Bay Flats Lodge, is gloriously inaccessible by anything but a boat (there is a small Air Force Base, however, so you might see flying military hardware now and then). In the winter, Aransas National Wildlife Refuge, just across San Antonio Bay from the lodge, is probably the best place left on earth to see extremely rare whooping cranes that winter in the marshlands.

The song may fade again as another swoops in to take its place in my slightly tilted fly-fishing brain, but, I now realize, it’ll never completely go away. This corner of Texas, where the Gulf of Mexico meets the marshes and the mangroves, is wonderfully unique. Its redfish play the chorus in this piscine band, and the beat … well, you can cast to it. And that’ll keep me coming back again and again.

IF YOU GO

Getting there
The closest airport is in Victoria, Texas, and a larger regional airport is situated in Corpus Christi. Paid shuttles from either airport are available to the coast. Otherwise, flying into a larger metro airport is likely the best option, with Houston, San Antonio, and Austin all reasonable choices. From there, San Antonio Bay is about a three-hour drive away.

When to go
Texas redfish are year-round residents in San Antonio Bay and all along the Texas coast. There’s not truly a bad time to come to the area, as redfish are resident in the bay all year long. Weather, however, can be a consideration. Summers are hot and muggy, and winter (December through February, really) weather can be unpredictable. Cold fronts are generally short, however, Fall and spring are considered by many to be ideal, but there’s always a chance for rain and wind. It is the Gulf Coast, so, generally speaking, weather is pleasant, but prone to the occasional squall (or something much bigger during hurricane season, which officially starts June 1 and wraps up at the end of November).

Where to stay
Anglers have lots of options for lodging, and guides can be hired by the day, but the only real option for fly fishers looking for the ideal combination of comfortable accommodations, excellent daily meals, and daily guided fly fishing trips out of Seadrift is Bay Flats Lodge. And it’s an excellent choice, not just one born of necessity — it’s a true fly-fishing destination in its own right. Operated by veteran guide and angler Chris Martin, Bay Flats offers stellar accommodations for couples, fishing buddies, or large groups. The service reflects the expected Texas hospitality, and the lodge is beautiful, boasting outstanding gathering areas, and lots of room to get around. It’s also minutes from the bay and the boat launch.