Goin' Big In Da Bayou

Drifter Photo Essay of Shell Beach, Louisiana

Goin’ Big in Da Bayou

Photos by Eli Fulford and Charlie Shalley

Morning fog rolls off the marsh like steam from a pot of gumbo. As the sun stretches over the spartina grass, it is hard to think of a better place to enjoy a warm cup of coffee, or to make a new friend.

Last week, we wrapped up our final Redfish Camp of the year in Louisiana. After one more trip to Baja this November — chasing striped marlin with the Los Locos crew — we’ll tie a bow on 2025 and start preparing for year two of this wild experiment called “Drifter.”

Over the past twelve months, we’ve chased redfish along Florida’s Big Bend, stalked permit on the Yucatán Peninsula, tangled leaders on the Missouri in Montana, and hunted bonefish at East End. We camped on a houseboat in the Chandeleurs, shot marsh hens over redfish flats in St. Augustine, and chased bull reds in the quiet backwaters of Shell Beach, Louisiana.

It’s been a wild ride — full of laughter, long days, and incredible memories — just like we drew it up.

This first year has taught me a lot. I’ve paid plenty of dumb tax figuring out all the moving pieces that come with something like this, but what I’ve gained has been far more meaningful than anything I could have imagined.

This might sound cheesy — well, it is cheesy — but we set out to build a club and wound up finding a family. One big, diverse crew of anglers trying to have as much fun as possible and stack up stories for our inevitable rocking-chair days.

*Mike Free and Captain Charles discuss their game plan for the day ahead.*

When you arrive in Louisiana, the presence of the marsh is unavoidable. If you’re used to cookie-cutter coastal towns with manicured lawns and neatly paved roads, you’ll find yourself saying, “We’re not in Kansas anymore,” long before you hit Orleans Parish.

Hogs line the roads. Raccoons prowl the banks. Shrimp boats glow in the fog, wafting scent across the water like a redneck Bath & Body Works. It’s perfect. I love it.

Down here, the culture runs deep. The colors are different. The accents are different. The food is different and distinct. It’s a place where you can show up, embrace everything it gives, and realize there’s very little that ever needs to change.

As a Floridian, I’m used to variety — Biscayne Bay with its clear flats and high-end hustle, New Smyrna’s laid-back surf-town rhythm, and up around Homosassa and the Forgotten Coast — my home waters — where you’re more likely to see boots than flip-flops while drinking an evening beer. It’s a melting pot of people and places, all connected by our sandy, salt-filled soil.

But Louisiana… Louisiana has its own rhythm. The culture here isn’t borrowed or blended — it’s bold, distinct, and proud.

When we started the Drifter Fish Club, the vision was simple — build a community of people who love visiting wild places, eating good food, and sharing laughs that last long after the trip ends.

Our week in Shell Beach was exactly that.

*If I told you what Richard said....we would all be in trouble.*

Drifters from all over the country — Texas, Georgia, Florida, California, South Carolina, and even Puerto Rico — came to chase big drum dreams, enjoy cold drinks and drive-through daiquiris, and trade stories over homemade beignets and bread pudding with rum sauce. Porch banter was unlimited, and laughter came easy.

We handed out red beads on the boats for every redfish caught. Next time, we’ll add colors for blown shots, black drum, and bycatch — so when someone hops off the skiff, you can tell how their day went before they even speak.

*Shoutout to Eric Homme and Eli Fulford for checking off their first redfish on fly. Watching members land that first fish is one of the biggest highlights of every trip.*

Throughout the week, we soaked in every bit of marsh-infused culture we could — gumbo simmering on the stove, jambalaya heavy on the spice, po’ boys for lunch, and a seafood boil that gifted me a mild, middle-aged-onset allergy (more on that another time).

Our mornings smelled of bacon and strong coffee, anchored by our staple Redfish Camp Burritos* — little savory cylinders that glow in their foil like ornaments on Christmas day.

Pro tip: add Bear & Burton’s Breakfast Sauce.

Our guide team, led by Ty Hibbs, crushed it. They cooked an incredible gumbo our first night, then schooled us on how to do a proper Cajun boil — which ended with our camp hand Bailey chugging a small bottle of boil mix (do not try at home).

Ty also sat down for a Captains Collective podcast to talk about his work with the American Saltwater Guides Association and what it takes to protect this incredible fishery.

Listen to the Podcast Here

Chasing bull reds on the flats is something every sight fisherman should experience once in their life. They’re the heavyweight prizefighters of the marsh — big, bronze, and unapologetically strong. When that orange glow slides along a shoreline, it feels like time slows down.

That’s the magic of Louisiana — a place that doesn’t need to prove itself.

It just is.

Trips like this remind me why we started Drifter in the first place. Not to chase perfection, but to chase moments — the kind you carry home like the smell of shrimp in your clothes.