Random fishing camp remembrances: The last trip.

[coachlaw]

As often happens when I am home, something tonight made me think not just of the old days on Bayou Cook, but of specific events. Most of you here have no memory of the stories I once wrote regarding the halcyon days of my youth on the bayou. Given a few glasses of wine and an extended period of front porch sitting, an endeavour I am still participating in at this moment, I thought I would perhaps regale you all with this quaint memory.

It is amazing what we store in our brains. I can take a trip back in time to almost every event. The more I think about what I remember on the surface, more and more details become evident. I remember the sights, smells, and feelings I experienced. I've often been encouraged to put these stories into a book, but I don't have that high of an opinion of it all. I think we could all do this given a little free time. Thankfully I have the Summer, just as I had back then.

It was July of 1997. A day previous I had sat at 7am in a bar on St, Charles Avenue by the name of Igor's. Bar, gameroom, grill, and laundromat, Igor's is a New Orleans treasure. I can't think of how many fantastic adventures began there. The bars I worked in usually closed around 5-6am. After work, you'd look for a place where you could wind down with others in your profession and have a little fun telling stories and sharing commiserations from the night before. On this particular Sunday morning, I sat there having my first beer and listened to everyone's complaints of big checks and small tips. I stared at the rapidly sun filling avenue outside the door. Joggers running by, families headed to church in their finest. I thought to myself how nice it must be out on the bayou on a day like today. I sipped my beer, stood up and said, "Who wants to go fishing?" 8 hands shot into the smoky air, and the trip began.

My dad's boat was nestled in a nice boat shed down in Empire, so I didn't need to worry about trailering it all the way down the river. I did however need a vehicle to get it the 3 blocks or so to the Delta Marina. Back then my everyday vehicle was my '54 Chevy Bel Air. Something would need to be procured. Amongst the crew's daily stable of transportation was a bicycle, a Ford Taurus, a Geo Metro, a Jeep CJ and various other useless vehicles. Nothing was a match for my dad's boat. So we all piled into the Bel Air and headed to my parent's house on the outskirts of New Orleans.

My dad was not at all upset at my awakening him. He only wished that he could go with us, but he had to teach a class on Monday. He graciously exchanged my car keys for his truck keys and sent us on our way. 6 in the cab and 3 in the bed, we, this motley crew, lit out for the Delta. It didn't take me long to figure out that I was with a bunch of greenhorns. Not one of the idjits had a fishing license. Unhappily this caused a half hour of rigamarole at the bait shop. By the time we got to the boat shed, it was 10am. The heat of the day was pounding on us as we hooked up the Ugly Mudda, a 24 foot flatbottom aluminum monstrosity my dad had acquired from his noted shipbuilder friend, Harold Halter.

As we got to the Delta Marina, the ever dependable Jimmy Martinez hooked up the hoist and launched the Mudda with great care, ****y Hingle inside went to great lengths to satiate our order for what must have been 30 cases of beer. Not one thought had been given to food, but we would have just enough beer for the trip, and that was all that mattered to this collection of bouncers, bar-backs, and bartenders. Iced up and beers in hand, I fired up the twin 75 Mercs and we made for Bay Adams. A cacaphony of questions were met patiently with answers as we made the 20 minute ride to my favorite place on Earth.

We arrived as we always did and the feeling I always had as we pulled up to the dock was with me. It was a feeling of great expectations melded with avarice and satisfaction. I suppose if I were to describe it to you, it's similar to seeing a girl you like, the butterflies you get, smiling at her and having her smile back at you. It was as if a magnetic attraction was nearing satisfaction. This was "The Camp", or as the guys on the bayou called it, "The Pastel Palace". 3 rooms, shotgun construction out of an amalgam of creosote pilings, plywood, cypress planks, and a tin roof. She was built by the Red Cross in 1969, and acquired by my father from an aging oysterman in 1970. It was what most would call a shack. To me it was finer than the grandest palaces of Europe or the most opulent plantation homes of the South. It was my Versailles. It was my Tara.

The crew was put to work unloading, sweeping coon ****, opening windows, and when all that was done . . . . we went to sleep. Sure you might find that strange, but for folks that show up at work for 8pm and get off at 6am, it's only natural to sack out at noon. The nap would not last long as the heat of the day and the dearth of a breeze began to make sleep impossible. I finally crawled from the sheets, so dampened by sweat and proclaimed it looked like a good day to hit the beach.

Out from Bayou Cook and across Bay Bastian lay Shell Island. A true barrier island, with a fine beach and good fishing, became the place for us until the heat of the day began to recede. While the greenhorns frolicked in the surf, I, as usual, walked the length of the island's shore, looking for lost treasures. When you own a fishing camp, you learn to be a scavenger. Almost anything you need can be found on the beach at Shell Island. On this particular day, I acquired a massive 16 inch diameter, 23 foot long piling as well as a 50 foot length of 2 inch diameter rope. How does one person move such items to a boat? I rolled the piling into the water and attached the rope. I remember feeling like Robinson Crusoe as I pulled the train behind me. When I got close enough, help arrived. I remember being amazed what 9 people could do with a piling that one could not hope to do alone. We got the piling and rope back to the camp as the tide ebbed.

We had a weak point in our dock, and I wasted no time putting my newly found booty to use. I picked the spot and hammered a pipe through the shell crust, working it in a circular motion to make a hole for the piling. As I stood in the water with one other guy helping me to guide it, 7 others manhandled the piling into position. Following my instructions, everything went like clockwork and the piling was driven down to the river sand deep beneath. It was the perfect length. I secured the piling with 2 nails, thinking I would come back later to make a more secure attachment. There was fishing to be done.

One of the most wonderful things about where our camp was was the trout fishing. On an outgoing tide, the water would pour out of Bayou Cook into Bay Bastain. The mouth of the bayou was very deep, about 30 feet, but just past the mouth was an oyster reef. The specks would pile up on the shelf waiting for the bait. We'd simply anchor there and catch all we wanted. This was a daily thing, as dependable as a Rolex. So I put us there and rigged everyone up. We had just enough rigs to go around. 4 on the bow, 2 on the roof, and 3 in the stern. We caught well over 200 keepers and the guys were beyond blown away with this experience. For almost all of them it was the first time they had ever been fishing.

With the sun hanging heavy on the horizon, we headed the 200 yards back to the camp. Of course I was the only one who knew how to clean a fish or cook, so I spent the entire evening doing so. Remember earlier I mentioned that nobody had thought to bring any food? We'd all be there 3 days and all we had to eat came from the water. I did grilled and fried trout for supper and we all tied one on something aweful. There being very little breeze that night, we would have suffered to sleep, but as most were sufficiently pickled, it became less of an issue. Folks slept where they fell, some in beds, some on the floor, one on the porch. He had a close encounter with a coon and came inside in a rather animated fashion late in the night.

As I always did back then, I awoke with the sun. The promise of the Summer day was written across the sky as the orb peaked just above the horizon. In the distance I could hear screaming outboards, which told me I was late as usual. In theory, having a fishing camp should allow you to hit the fishing grounds before everyone, yet the previous evening's shenanigans almost always led to a later than desired start to the fishing. I quietly gathered what I would need for a day in the marsh, stepping over the sleeping bodies strewn about the floor in each room. I hastily assembled what some people may or may not have considered a breakfast and lunch.

The playmate loaded with a 6 pack of Dixie, a trout sandwich, and the requisite dead shrimp was placed precariously on the shell pile as I withdrew the ancient and porous pirogue from its strorage rack beneath the camp. Doing so was an inherently noisy enterprise, yet I tried to keep the decibels to a minimum, knowing that I did not want to disturb the future hangover victims upstairs. As quietly as possible, I dragged the old pirogue across the shells to its launching point. She was a grand craft, probably built sometime in the early 1970's. Age and use had hobbled her, but she was a dependable shallow water craft. I had dubbed her the "C.S.S. Hunley" after the first submarine in history to sink an enemy ship. With others at the helm, she often sank. You had to pay attention. She leaked much like a collander, but that was easlily remedied by a Mardi Gras cup. I'll never forget the Hunley. She was a magnificent boat.

I launched her and quickly headed to my favorite redfish spot. Given the ease with which trout were acquired, I knew we'd have no problem reaching our 9 man limit by the time we left. Redfish were a quarry not so easily brought to gunwale. This was the hunt I relished. Just me in a pirogue with my grandfather's old fiberglass rod, a Penn reel, and a shad rig (speck rig) under a cork with dead shrimp. It took me no time at all to find my targets. The marsh surrounding the camp was teaming with reds and sheepshead. I was very selective regarding keepers. 16 inches being the lower limit in La., I resolved to keep no fish larger than 18 inches. Any bigger than that and they just aren't as succulent.

The limit at that time being 10 fish per person, I reckoned I could catch my limit and head back to the camp to see if anyone had woken up. I quickly had 5 or 6 in the box that were just in my personal slot range. Then I had the experience which made the trip memorable. I spied a red feeding on a flat, with his back halfway out of the water. This was a situation for a gold spoon, so I quickly rigged up for it. (Only a few weeks before I had shot a red on this very flat with my M1 from the porch of the camp. I don't think such things are legal any more.) It took me 3 casts, then the battle was on. This was not a fish that was in my slot range, he was easlily a 29-32 incher.

He ran into deeper water, then inexplicably ran back into the shallows. What happened next was beyond my comprehension. As I fought the fish and he struggled across the flat, I realized he was headed for a gut on the other side of the flat. I pulled my anchor up so that I wouldn't be caught on the island if he made it around the bend. Just then a coon ran out from the marsh. The SOB ran out to the red, grabbed it, and took off into the marsh grass. Meanwhile I'm pulling as hard as I can with my 12 lb. test and I can't gain anything. The coon took the fish deep into the grass and ZAP. My line snapped.

Now folks, I see people on here every day complaining about potlickers, but has anyone else had a terrestrial mammal steal a fish straight off your line? I wasn't going to keep the fish anyway, but the dad-gum coon also made off with my spoon. I had never before in my life had anything like this happen to me. At that time I was 24 years old and I'd been fishing those marshes alone since I was 7. I just couldn't believe it. In many ways I still can't.

I fulfilled my limit and headed back to the camp. I told the story, and the guys I was with were kind of "ho-hum" about it as if this sort of thing must happen all the time. So I was left to whine about it by my lonesome. Yet the trip continued. I put the others on many fish and we even made a trip offshore. There are many more memories from this trip, but my story is already too long.

When it came time to leave, I brought down the flag and noticed it was tattered. I packed it in my bag so that my grandmother could repair it. As we pulled away the next day. I did as I always did since I was a little boy. I said, "Goodbye Camp, we'll see you next trip." Of course everyone looked at me as if I must be crazy. We'd all had such a wonderful trip, everyone wanted to do it again the following week.

Alas this was the last trip. On July 18th, a small category 1 hurricane by the name of Danny would take my paradise away. I would be 10 years without a camp. I visited again this past Winter and oddly enough the only piling left from the old dock is the one we drove that last trip. The flag was saved, but all else was lost. You see that flag in my avatar.

So there's a piece of life on Bayou Cook. It would not be the end of my times there. Others whom we had as guests over the years had bought camps on the bayou and had us as our guests afterwards. Katrina washed them all away. I still visit our pilings, and I always shed a tear for all that once was. This Summer I cannot visit due to the spill. Thankfully I have my memories, and I can always visit them, gleaning every detail I ever witnessed. This was a blessing from God. He giveth and He taketh away. In my case He has seen fit to give me a second chance. Count your blessings folks.

As my signature always says, "From 1970-1997, true heaven on Earth existed on the banks of Bayou Cook. "Hey Dad, Thanks for buying the Camp."

Here's a couple of pics.