The Other Venice: Delta Dawns
To the masses, Louisiana only really means one thing, the year long party on Bourbon St. culminated by the actual Mardi Gras celebration. Other than that, I’m not sure why most people visit. I, on the contrary, argue there are two better reasons to head towards the Gulf of America. The first, everyone can get on board with, and that is the food. In my travels to the state some very unique and exquisite meals were discovered. Some fancy, some coming from an Airstream. The real gem is clearly stated on Louisiana’s license plate, “Sportsman’s Paradise”. The defining location, or more appropriately, the end of line, is Venice. Don’t bother taking your family, it’s not that type of vacation destination. But for those of us who live and breathe the outdoors and so related adventures, it’s a must do.
Arriving in New Orleans late on a Wednesday, I crawled into bed not knowing for sure how this would all play out the next couple days. Having a great friend who knows the ropes, and has a boat, stacked the odds in my favor for a positive outcome on this bucket list adventure. All great adventures start with a challenge and getting up at 3:30 AM was the first. The next was the pouring rain that formed a curtain just outside the lobby doors. All of this speculation and concern was erased when the hotel receptionist exclaimed, “What the hell is that…it’s a big ass boat”. That was my cue that Tim and Kenny had arrived to take me to the end of the world. With a devilish grin I stated, “That’s MY ride!”. Bouncing out the doors she tried to tell me there was no room to get that boat out of the parking lot, Tim accepted the challenge with swagger.
Due to shift change at an ongoing Petrochem construction site, what should have been an hour and a half drive down the one way in one way out roadway turned into a four hour excursion. The delay timed our arrival at Venice Marina just as the precipitation made its departure. Trucks, trailers, and plenty of mud puddles in the gravel lot greeted us as we prepped the boat for launch. After likely catching a communicable disease from a toilet that was so close to the stall door it couldn’t be shut, we launched into this premier fishing destination.
Captain Tim navigated the maze of waterways past decrepit ships, abandoned concrete and steel structures, and working shrimp boats. Eventually, the passage widened and I assumed we had entered the gulf. Two days later, I would find out it was actually the Mississippi River. With purpose, our trio motored down one of the larger passes in the Delta trying to find some speckled trout.
After limited success, we settled on a flat the captain had previously caught fish on. As I cast to Tim’s suggested locations, Kenny fished from the back of the boat on the opposite bank in deeper water. After the fourth fish, I abandoned the experience and went with the hot hand. Before long. a healthy haul of trout had become closely acquainted with the onboard fish box. Pulling around the point, knowledge and familiarity took back over. Tim noticed a line in the water where the tide was running out of the cut, around the shallow area of the point, and heading towards the Gulf. Cast after cast he reeled the keeper speckled trout in. I horned in on his spot and it wasn’t long before we had a limit. Tired, it was time to find our floating home for the next three nights.
Idling through the marina, it was an aquatic based community. House boat after house boat stacked like there should be a cul-de-sac at the end. We docked the boat at our back porch realizing the only people around were either duck hunters or fishermen. Dog shit littered the docks from the duck dogs and questionable ramps led to each domicile. As the rain moved back in, the three of us cleaned fish under the front awning at one of the two provided fish cleaning stations on our small rental. Did I mention that this was a sportsman’s paradise?
Traveling light we opted to eat our evening meals at the restaurant inside the marina. This would provide an opportunity to get the full experience through local cuisine. Hunters and fishers abounded along the wooden sidewalks through the neighborhood and more gathered in the outdoor bar attached to the restaurant. Stories of success could not be drowned out by the rain as this community gathered to drink, eat, and be social. Wanting to try something I’d never had an attempt to order snapper throats was made. They were out so I settled for some fresh local fried fish. Exhausted and satisfied we headed back to the houseboat.
Friday morning was expected to be cold but nonetheless we were up before dawn. The duck boats could be heard firing up about an hour before we rode out confirming most people in the area were willing to sacrifice sleep for a chance at glory. The chill was real and I was thankful a portion of the previous day had been spent baking a pair of insulated bibs in the oven.
The rain from the morning of day one alerted us of a leaky receptacle and without a clothes dryer we were forced to improvise. In the dark racing down the Mississippi, a bass boat must have felt we were going to take his spot and went full send to get out in front of us. We weren’t worried, there is so much real-estate to fish a 100 bass boats could have been racing by and we’d still have ample opportunity. Note, I mentioned bass boats. While we may have been targeting speckled trout and redfish, the diversity of the Delta and Gulf brings in all types of fishermen. You could try for a catfish from the dock or tuna from the oil rigs, Venice has it all.
The sun started to turn the sky all shades of orange and violet as we neared our chosen pass. Before we could make the first cast earth’s star peeked above the reeds and grass on the East bank. It was a gorgeous dawn and expectations were high. Working up and down the pass we found consistent catches but would certainly need to fish the whole day to limit out. Curiously there was a boat that camped out at the mouth of the pass the entire time we motored back and forth. Drifting a little closer to the stationary fishermen, Kenny casted to the opposite bank we had been fishing, towards a mud flat. From that point forward the trip went from great, to unbelievable. Those of us occupying Tim’s boat couldn’t help but catch trout. Never had I seen anything like it, nor may I ever again.
After another fish cleaning session, Tim treated Kenny and I to one of his favorite fishing dishes, ceviche. Damn! Served on tostados, with a splash of Valentina hot sauce, coupled with a local beer from Parish Brewing Co, I’m not sure I’ve had better. The only problem being that Kenny and I aren’t convinced we didn’t contract some sort of parasite while gorging ourselves on the acid cooked fish. Apparently, some of the fish had worms that usually aren’t a problem when cooked properly. After some internet research it doesn’t appear citric acid from limes is effective at neutralizing the parasites. At this stage, only time will tell. I still sleep well at night knowing that if I did contract some sort of unwanted passenger that if I do ever get eaten by a bear or cannibal, I’ve got a secret gift I’ll be leaving with them.
That evening, dinner was again at the marina. This time we had knocked back a few more beers before our arrival. Wanting desperately to taste test what in the north they would qualify as walleye wings, I attempted to once again order snapper throats. To my chastising, “snapper necks” were requested. My so-called friends burst into uncontrollable laughter and without missing a beat, our wonderful waitress informed me they were out of snapper necks but had some shrimp shoulder in the back if I was interested. Red beans and rice would have to suffice.
For the last of our time on the water, Tim wanted desperately to get back to our hotspot from the day before. That meant an even earlier morning to make sure nobody beat us there. The only other people out were the tuna boats getting a jump on their trip out to deeper water. Needless to say, we had our speckled trout honey hole all to ourselves.
A few casts in the predawn darkness came up empty but as soon as the sun poked over the marsh grass, it was fish after fish. By 7:30 AM we had our 45 fish limit. Since only a few redfish had been hooked and we had the entire day ahead of us, the red drum would be our target for the remainder of the outing. Hitting cut after cut, we mostly came up empty. That was until Tim’s brother who was also out fishing that morning, texted us that he had found some reds. He wasn’t far and as we came around the bend they caught three while we approached.
Switching from artificial bait to shrimp, it wasn’t long before our trio got in on the action. Strangely, there was a very specific spot the redfish were actively feeding. The two boats from our party were practically on top of each other as everyone was hauling in reds. Drums fought significantly harder than the trout adding another perspective to the delta fishing experience. To both the delight and dismay of our party we eventually ran out of shrimp. Happy we had caught that many fish, sad we had to call it a day.
Soaking in the sunshine and mild weather on the way back to the houseboat, it wouldn’t be long before I was back to below freezing weather. Following our routine, fish were cleaned and beers were drank. We talked to some of the crew in the house next to us and found out they rented their house for a month or two for duck season. A large group got together and would come and go as their schedules allowed in this magical place. One of nature’s most thriving environments brings all types together to do the things that make us feel alive.
That final afternoon however, I realized it wasn’t necessarily the fish that drew me. It was the friendship and experience. The filets were just an excuse and a welcomed side show. Parting the traffic at the airport drop off the next day, I looked back at the boat, looked at my buddies, gave some manly hugs, and started planning my return.
