Last Cast

Hooked On LA Heaven

I have no idea how many times I’ve made the three-hour drive from New Orleans back home to Pensacola. But, I do know one thing. I always have the same feeling of total exhaustion and lingering guilt from having way too much fun.

There’s usually a dull body ache from pulling in monster redfish and consuming mucho adult beverages. At some point, usually between Slidell and Mobile, I vow—to whomever I’m riding with—that I’ve officially quit any type of hot sauces, Boudin sausages or anything made by someone named Boudreaux. Bottom line, the folks in Louisiana and especially NOLA (New Orleans, Louisiana) live very, very large. They eat with gusto and drink with even more, all to a constant backdrop of excellent music.

I’m proud that I have survived the city—just barely—on numerous occasions. The first time, I was only 13 and a new friend had invited me to Mardi Gras. We zipped around on bicycles and avoided getting squished by the massive floats and crazed crowds fighting for cheap beads. We broke every cycling safety rule, but no one, not even the cops, even noticed. My Mardi Gras friend eventually evolved into my best Louisiana fishing buddy and remains so to this day, some 40 years later. We met as kids when his family came to Pensacola for the summers. We’d troll the Gulf for king mackerel in his dad’s old Stamas. Or my dad would take us out for blue fish in our beat up Glaspar. As the years passed, we stayed buds, even during the three-year stint when I dated his sister.

Speckled trout heaven! Anglers load the box on a typical day fishing near Venice.

When we reached young adulthood, he began to spin stories of catching trout and reds near Venice until his arms were too tired to reel anymore. Like most fishing buddies, we lied to each other with frequent regularity so I didn’t pay much attention until he invited me to the New Orleans Fishing Club. There are plenty of fancy schmancy places in New Orleans, but the New Orleans Fishing Club ain’t one of them. In fact, it’s not even in New Orleans; it’s 20 miles south of Venice down the Mighty Mississippi. Or, well, it was there before Hurricane Katrina wiped it off the map like a windshield wiper taking out a skeeter. Even in its heyday, the Club was a shanty built in the swamp along the river. The only way to get there was by boat, yet they had bunk rooms and a full kitchen with servers and cooks. Trophy fish from reds to tuna to blue marlin hung on the walls. All of it was swallowed up by the hurricane.

After Katrina ate up the Fishing Club, my old buddy, Trey, already had a perfect backup plan: a 90-ft.-long floating fishing “camp” docked directly in Venice. Sidetone: they call it a “camp” for many reasons. First and foremost, is to make it sound so rustic that wives won’t be interested in going. Secondly, because it’s basically a two-story house trailer set on a barge. There’s no shopping, no hot-rock massages and no mimosa brunch. It’s not the kind of place the fairer sex desires to visit.

They call it a “camp” for many reasons. First and foremost, is to make it sound so rustic that wives won’t be interested in going.

I first visited the fishing camp, or what I now call “Man Heaven,” in the early 2000s (pre-Katrina) and we caught so many redfish that were so big that I had to throw back four Advils, among other relaxation concoctions.

But, alas, friggin’ Katrina grabbed Trey’s barge and washed her almost a mile inland where she rested for several months. But never underestimate Cajun ingenuity blended with a massive oil-well crane. Long story short—they managed to drag that sucker back to the river and get her floating again. I returned a couple of years ago and they had rebuilt Man Heaven into a pre-hurricane, modestly habitable fishing camp that most women would still hate. Added was a super-charged air conditioning system, an industrial ice maker, a six-burner gas stove and a 24-ft. center console with a 300hp go-fast engine. Ah, yes. Heaven, indeed.

Accommodations on the bayou. Photos: Courtesy of Dr. James “Trey” Todd.

I guess there are tons of places on this giant water orb of a planet where you could put a barge and a boat. But, the truth is, there are not any locations like Venice. First of all, it’s kind of ugly with all of the oil industry stuff —wells, ships, barges, etc.—scattered about. Far more importantly, it’s on the doorstep of possibly the world’s most prolific fishery. Sure, ya gotta know where to throw your line, but that’s why you hire guides or build lifelong friendships with people from Cajun Country.

I’m fortunate to have the kind of friendship where I can ask myself over for fishing rather than the other way around. As long as I’m not infringing on deer or duck season, Trey tells me to get over there so we can talk about old times, catch a bunch of bunkers, eat like pigs and indulge in the bon temps of Louisiana heaven.

Fred Garth

For the past 25 years, Fred D. Garth’s articles have appeared in numerous books, magazines and newspapers around the world.
Read his blog at: GuyHarveyMagazine.com.