The Dogtown Dispatch: Gulf Coast Recap

treylfinton
Dec 11
4 min read

OFF THE SAND — GULF COAST GRIND

Sometimes the salt pulls you in a different direction. This time, it wasn’t Pacific sand or tailing corbina — it was muddy flats, oyster shells, and redfish with shoulders down on the Gulf.

This trip had been high on the list ever since I caught the saltwater bug. There’s something about redfish and black drum — the way they move, the water they haunt, the brute way they eat — that gets in your head and stays there. Lucky for me, one of my best buddies from college, Jacob Commer (Guided Redfish Fly Fishing on the Gulf Coast - Commer's All Season Anglers), now happens to be one of the top guides in southwest Mississippi. So, this wasn’t just a shot at two bucket-list species — it was a chance to reconnect, laugh about simpler times chasing bass, bad beer, and better women.

As the trip crept closer, the weather crept worse. Forecasts looked like hell — wind, rain, all of it. But I’ve always liked those kinds of days. The ones where the smart ones stay home. Where the marsh gets quiet. Where the fish forget they’re being hunted.

Day 1 — Mud, Marsh, Mayhem

Wheels up from LA at 6:30 AM, touchdown in New Orleans by lunchtime. First stop: The Dusty Pelican for an ice-cold beer and a fried po’ boy that hit like a punch to the soul. Home base for the trip was Pass Christian, MS — a sleepy coastal town that still smells like boat fuel and bayou.

By morning we were on the water. A 4-minute drive to the ramp, boat in, and we were off — gliding through broken grass lines and winding cuts into the Mississippi marsh. The jitters settled somewhere between the first beer and the second channel marker. Game time.

Jacob laid it out quick: Rule #1 — Don’t FUCKING trout set. This ain’t a drift boat. This is the marsh. You see the eat, you hammer that strip set home — no rod lift, no hesitation. And for the love of God, don’t smack the fly on their heads unless you want to watch them ghost out like you were never there in the first place.

We started poling. Not five minutes in — “Redfish. 9 o'clock. Facing away.” Cast was clean. Strip strip. Nothing. My brain started doing cartwheels, but Jacob just laughed. “Don’t lead ’em like a bean. Stick it in their face.” Noted.

Then: tail.

A big black drum doing its thing in the shallows. I got the cast off, three strips, and boom — tight. If you’ve never fought a black drum, imagine trying to walk an English bulldog through wet cement. Hearty, grumpy, pure torque. After a solid battle, we brought him to hand — my first. Hands shaking. Full grin. First blood.

Next fish came fast — another tail, another cast, another eat. This time, a bull red. Ran hard, peeled into the backing twice, and gave me every bit of 10 minutes. When we finally tailed him, the tape read 33 inches, pushing 22 pounds. I was buzzing.

Then came the fish.

Redfish, facing away, swimming off our stern. I backhanded a cast over the back, stripped twice, and felt the rod stop like it hit concrete. No run — just raw pull. He yanked the boat around the marsh looking for deep water. After a 20-minute slugfest, he surfaced: 42 inches, nearly 30 pounds. A legit slab. The one I came for.

The rest of the day was full of shots but no more takers. Didn’t matter. We rode back with empty beers, smoked hands, and full hearts. Gulf shrimp and cold ones capped off one of the best Day 1s I’ve ever had on any trip.

Day 2 — Dirty Water, Dirty Eats

The next morning brought more weather. More wind. More rain. But if Day 1 proved anything, it’s that the drums don’t stop beating when it blows.

New plan. New water. Same hunger.

We poked through creeks and lakes, scanning muddy edges for movement. The fish were around — we just weren’t seeing them until we were nearly on top. Then it happened.

We slid into a shallow lake and spotted a tail. Redfish, working the opposite bank. Jacob poled us into position, I laid one in. Couple strips — nothing. I started lifting to recast when the fish exploded, turning on a dime and charging the fly to the surface. Wildest eat I’ve seen in 17 years of fly fishing. Zero to psycho in half a second.

Still catching my breath when we spotted another — this time a big black drum. Followed the fly to within feet of the skiff, then ate with zero hesitation. A full-body eat. Right there at the tip of the rod. Two eats, back to back, that I’ll be replaying in my head for a long, long time.

The wind picked up hard after that and we called it. But the trip? Total knockout. Big eats, heavier memories, and the kind of days you spend the rest of your life trying to chase down again.

Final Take

This place is special. It’s raw. Wild. Full of fish that pull hard and guides that know where they live. Massive thanks to Jacob Commer for putting me on ‘em, poling through the wind, and reminding me what real Southern water feels like.

This trip’s going on the calendar every year from now on. Rain or shine. Cold beer, hot eats, and fish with fists.

If you're looking to get down there, let us know — we’ll get you lined up with the right crew, and you can see for yourself what all the drum is about.