The Fighting Red Fish of the Gulf 
Story of the Thrilling Contest and Information As to Where Great Sea 
Fishing is to be Had 
By F. B. Jones. 
Trout, bass, pickerel, muscallonge—all have their 
many admirers, but as to just why the red fish 
has escaped the notoriety usually given to the 
game fish is immaterial; the request for a fish 
story, however, recalls to our mind the most se¬ 
vere test of what little skill we had acquired in 
forty or fifty years’ experience as a fisherman, 
yet at the same time the most thoroughly satisfy¬ 
ing sport in that line that we ever enjoyed. Even 
the prolonged pleasure of bringing to gaff a sea 
bass of 63 pounds in the waters of Hell Gate, 
with both wind and tide against us (some fight 
of itself) some 40 years ago, or a tarpon of 124 
pounds off the coast of Florida in more recent 
years only add to our exalted opinion of the 
fighting qualities of the red fish when in his 
prime and on his chosen feeding grounds. 
Recalling the incident, brings the location and 
the surroundings prominently before us and as to 
why Galveston, Texas, that perfect paradise for 
fishermen, is seemingly so sadly neglected and 
other very inferior places in comparison, so thor¬ 
oughly exploited, is possibly explained by a want 
of or lack of knowledge as to the facts. Little 
inrormation therefore as to those points may not 
be amiss. 
Galveston, as is well known, is on an island of 
that name on the coast country of Texas, the 
city itself being practically surrounded by water, 
the city limits extending to the waters of the 
Gulf on the south and east, and to those of Gal¬ 
veston Bay on the west and north. In these 
waters maybe found tarpon (the silver king), red 
fish (not the red snapper of Campeche Bay), 
Spanish mackerel, salt water trout, sheep head, 
pompano, flounder, and many other species of 
minor importance in very large numbers. You 
can sit or stand in the city limits or within 500 
feet thereof, and hook most or all of these fish 
every day of the year. We recall a day’s fishing 
on the south jetties, just beyond the Forts, when 
we very frequently hooked and landed two large 
sheep head at a single cast, while our companion 
was doing much better, landing three at a clip 
and once four that weighed close to twenty 
pounds. 
As the red fish only has to do with our story 
and it is not found in many localities, a short 
description might be in order. In color it is 
rather light, not red as the name would suggest; 
in younger stages almost creamy white, under¬ 
neath, with a very faint bronze tint on the sides, 
growing all the while darker until joined at the 
center of the back. As the fish grows older the 
color takes almost a coppery tint much darker 
and more beautiful than in younger stages; hence 
the name red fish. When young they are built 
very much along the lines of the brook trout, but 
as they grow older become, evidently from their 
chosen environment, gradually thicker and broad¬ 
er until when about 40 or 50 pounds (very seldom 
taken) they become more like the fresh water 
“salmon,” caught in the rapids of the Wabash 
river just below Vincennes, Indiana, some forty 
or fifty years ago, than anything we can recall. 
The chosen element of the red fish appears to 
be just in advance of the coming tropical storm, 
when they come within touch of the shore line. 
lie in the deep waters just off shore, allow both 
tide and wind to reach their utmost limit. Then, 
with the surf beating upon the beach in great vio¬ 
lence, the ebb tide just beginning to flow, every 
particle of the Gulf in sublime turmoil and con¬ 
fusion, if you would enjoy genuine sport, are ac¬ 
tive, a man of steady nerve, cast your line—he, 
the red fish, the king of the finny tribes, weight 
for weight, is there in his element and will give 
you a fight that will not only test your sporting 
qualities but your endurance as well. 
Under just such conditions we had waded out 
into the surf waist deep, cast our hand line about 
two hundred feet in advance, just had time to 
steady ourselves against the strong undertow, 
when we felt the strike. For a few seconds we 
thought ’twas a veritable whale, it was a strug¬ 
gle to hold our own, in fact, during the first fif¬ 
teen or twenty minutes we had lost considerable 
ground, with prospects very favorable that we 
would either have to abandon our (?) prize (an 
unthinkable procedure) or be dragged into deep 
water. You can imagine our relief when we heard 
very faintly above the roar of the surf—“Need any 
help?” Instinct and experience informed us that 
those on the beach had realized our predicament, 
that help was within arm’s reach if absolutely 
necessary. Too busily occupied to answer or 
even to glance behind, we picked up courage, re¬ 
newed our fast failing efforts and by the aid of 
the now fast-receding tide, were soon in shallow 
water, in our element, with our prize sure enough 
now, in tow, and we landed, after two hours of 
the most strenuous labor and glorious enjoyment 
a red fish of but thirty-eight pounds; our weight 
at that time was about one hundred and sixty 
pounds. 
Lying on the beach for a “blow” in the full 
enjoyment of our prize it was only upon exam¬ 
ination that we found our catch to be a female 
almost ready to spawn. For the sake of a 
couple of hours of sport we had robbed Na¬ 
ture of millions of millions of fish, enough 
to provide all Manhattan with fish for a week, if 
left undisturbed, and a fact was impressed on 
our mind never to be forgotten—Nature provides 
in very great abundance, but mankind wastes 
more than consumes—especially Americans. 
V : jH 
WITH THE SPECKLED TROUT IN 
NORTHERN CANADA. 
Gowganda, Ont., May 29, 1915. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
In May the thoughts of all followers of Isaac 
Walton naturally turn to the fishing haunts and 
many hot discussions arise as to the relative 
merits of rods, reels, lines and flies. 
It was in the third week of May that Sheppard, 
Taylor and I, desiring to prove our various con¬ 
tentions, organized a trip up Calcite Creek, six 
miles east of Gowganda. 
Picking up our equipment at Wigwam we com¬ 
menced our journey and were soon poling up the 
short rapids at the head of Lost Lake. 
We then entered Calcite Lake, a deep narrow 
stretch of water. After paddling across this 
lake we entered Calcite Creek and here encoun¬ 
tered another portage. 
Two men took the canoes and Shep, who is an 
old-timer on the trail, insisted in spite of all 
our protests on taking the heaviest and bulkiest 
pack. We made short work of this portage 
and then after another short paddle negotiated 
another short lift and were then headed up the 
creek with straight paddling to the fishing 
grounds. 
Arriving at the junction of Wilson Creek with 
Calcite we unlimbered our rods and hurried to 
see who could catch the first fish. 
Well, the first man ready caught the first 
one, and for a time we pulled them in almost as 
fast as we could bait the hooks. They would 
average about ten inches in length, but we caught 
one fourteen. 
We kept moving up the stream and fishing 
down with the current, holding our canoes by the 
brush on the banks. About 5:00 o’clock Wilson 
and I went about two miles upstream to the 
rapids near Beauty Lake portage to try there. 
This portage goes about three and a half miles 
across country to Beauty Lake, where there is 
some of the finest lake trout fishing in the North. 
In the rapids here we had about thirty minutes 
of as lively work as one could wish landing 20 
speckled beauties. 
We then went back to Wilson Creek where we 
decided to camp for the night. After a hearty 
supper we pitched our tent and unpacked our 
blankets. When we did so Shep discovered, to 
his intense chagrin, why Taylor had not insisted 
on carrying the blankets. Some joker in town 
had wrapped about 30 pounds of rock with them 
an d Taylor had found it out. We all had a good 
laugh at Shep’s expense. 
We tried the trout again in various places, in 
the morning, but they refused to bite, so we left 
for Lost Lake. We were able to run two of 
the rapids going down and were soon at Wig¬ 
wam waiting for the arrival of our rig, after 
a very pleasant trip on which, besides the out¬ 
ing, we were able to secure 75 nice brook trout. 
G. R. Crann, M. D. 
BEST THAT EVER WENT TO PRESS. 
Wernersville, Pa., May 26. 1915. 
Editor Forest and Stream: 
I am sending you the names of a few of my 
friends who are very fond of fishing and hunt¬ 
ing, and I am going to ask you to send them 
each a sample copy of Forest and Stream for 
June. I also wish to state that I think your 
May number of Forest and Stream surpasses 
any outdoor magazine that ever went to press. 
B. L. Lord. 
