PARADISE LOST

The redfish cruised the edge of the reeds, unhurried and unalarmed. The U-shaped push of the big blunt head was coming straight toward our flats skiff. I was in the right place at the right time. Only one person could screw this up now.

I roll-cast the crab fly from the palm of my hand, backcast once, and lay the fly against the marsh bank. I wince—the pattern lands a little short.

“That’ll work,” says my guide, Michael Evans. “Leave it.”

The fish stays the course, 10 feet from the fly and closing. Play this right, I think, and this could be as perfect as it gets when it comes to casting for Louisiana redfish.

“Now,” Evans commands.

I strip-set the fly, and line rips from the reel as the redfish bolts across the shallows. I whoop as the fish surges three times before Evans hauls it overboard, and all is as it should be—green marsh, blue sky, and a redfish in hand. It is a gorgeous morning in one of the most iconic sporting landscapes in America. But the worry is, it could all be falling apart in south Louisiana.

I was so focused on the fish that I initially missed a few significant details: The marsh edge here is corroded and eroding, with chunks of black muck and reeds calving into the open water. Dotting the shoreline are posted signs, and I can see that the only other boat out here is working over