Chasing Pink Elephants In The Everglades

[FIELD ETHOS]

Chasing pink elephants in the everglades | Field Ethos

By Vincent Bini I was recently asked why I love fishing the Glades so much, and for a…

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By Vincent Bini

I was recently asked why I love fishing the Glades so much, and for a second, I was stumped. I’ve been fishing there for so long that I almost forgot what keeps pulling me back. And how the hell did I even end up there in the first place?

Fishing and I go way back. My dad took me as early as three years old, which was a feat in itself because I was a wild little bastard. I remember standing on the bank, tossing my Zebco into the water, hoping for a monster.

As I grew up, I lived on and in the water—swimming, diving, spearfishing. Before I figured out where I belonged, I had two career goals: ninja or Navy SEAL. Turns out, ninja jobs don’t exist, and before I could hit the military recruiter’s office, I got sucked into the fire service. But water was always my thing.

I started with bass fishing—before school, after school, sometimes during school. Then came flats fishing in the Keys for bonefish, permit, and tarpon. This was the late ’80s, early ’90s—no Google Maps, no GPS. If I wanted to learn an area, I studied charts and books. My buddy’s dad took me under his wing since my dad lived out of state, and together, they taught me all about the Keys fishery.

But everything changed on a Saturday morning in the fall of 1990.

That’s when they took me to Chokoloskee.

Journey Into the Glades​

When they asked if I wanted to go, I said, “Sure, but what the hell is a Chokoloskee?” They told me it was a tiny island at the far southern end of Everglades National Park.

I remember crossing Alligator Alley when it was still a two-lane death trap. After that, we headed south on SR 29, an even narrower road lined with pines, oaks, and cypress. The ditches teemed with wildlife—herons, wood storks, ospreys—each hunting the canals and marshes. I was in a trance.

Then we crossed Highway 41.

Only a few miles from Chokoloskee, I saw something that changed my life. The black water snaked under mangroves painted in shades of red, brown, yellow, and green. The grayish-black mud banks stretched along the shoreline. When I rolled down the window, I got my first hit of the Glades—a pungent mix of mud and sweet brackish water that I still can’t put into words.

Crossing the final bridge onto Chokoloskee Island was like entering another world. The green mangroves against the dark, tannin-stained water—it was mesmerizing.

We launched the boat and started winding toward the Gulf. I was used to running the clear waters of the Keys, but this was different. The water was black, and beneath it? Mud, if you were lucky. Otherwise, oysters, rocks, and storm-toppled trees.

After a short ride to the outer islands, I saw the open Gulf. We fished a few spots, caught some trout and small reds. Then my buddy suggested we head into the backcountry.

I had no idea what that meant.

The Pull of black water​

We shot south of Rabbit Key and up the Huston River. If you’ve never been there, imagine one of those kids’ menu mazes, the kind where you follow a winding path to the other side. Except here, the path is full of oyster bars, sandbars, and other things that could explode your lower unit or leave you stranded.

Once we made it upriver, everything changed. The landscape, the feel—it was like stepping into another world.

And it was the world I wanted to be in.

Racing through those winding blackwater creeks hooked me in a way I couldn’t shake. Right then, I knew this was it.

I bought every chart I could find and studied them like a man on a mission—because I was.

For the next few years, I hardly fished anywhere else. I spent countless days blazing through the Glades, learning every twist and turn. I used to joke that I hit everything there was to hit out there—twice. And to be honest, I still hit things. The place is always changing.

And no matter how bad it treats me—and trust me, it can be brutal—I keep coming back for more.

Scorching heat, freezing cold, blinding rain, bugs so relentless you question your existence—none of it matters.

Some people call it an addiction.

But crack ain’t got shit on this place.