That trademark overbite points to a diet of crabs, shrimp and other bottom critters.

By now the sun was up, and what had been featureless silhouettes were lit in burnt orange and tipped with electric blue. Redfish were everywhere, waving their tails in the air as they fed. It was a beautiful sight, and it was evidence that the spot-tailed residents of Estero Bay, in Southwest Florida, were invigorated by the changing season. But, the tide was near dead low and the fish looked alert, so I knew we would have to use every advantage built into my 16-foot flats skiff.

We approached a pair of fish cautiously. I was on the poling platform; up front, good friend Robin Doyle and Emily, his 18-year-old daughter, were ready to go with live greenbacks and 8-pound spinning outfits. At the right moment, they cast in the path of the tailers, well out front so as not to alarm the fish.

No bites.

We were dumbfounded. The reds had already ignored a gold spoon and soft-plastic shrimp, both great lures at this time of year. We’d used some valuable fishing time cast netting the greenbacks under some diving birds.

“Okay, time to quit the finesse stuff,” I announced. “When his tail is in the air, hit ’em on the head.”

Robin was the first to land his bait on the mark and was quickly rewarded by a long, hard run. We boated the 24-incher and got back to business. With Emily up front we approached another tailing trio. Taking a page out of her father’s book, she too hooked and landed a 2-foot red. With tails still waving across the flat, Robin couldn’t resist, and grabbed his fly rod.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I’d go with a shrimp pattern,” I said.

Moments later, Robin was putting the fly on fish. He must have hit over a dozen on the head before finding a taker.

“Hit him Robin, hit him,” I urged as the line drew taut. And with a splash the first run started.

“Emily, get ready to cast,” I ordered, as I poled us ahead to another tailing fish. Within range, the greenie hit the mark. In a pop and swirl, and powerful flips of a spotted tail, she was hooked up, too.

Anglers circled the boat in a redfish dance, each working the fish closer. At one point, father and daughter stood back to back on the bow, each with rod doubled over. Five minutes after Robin’s hookup both fish were in the boat. We quickly measured each at 25 inches, and paused to snap a photo of Robin’s first redfish on a fly. We slipped the fish back into the water and returned to the ramp.

We had experienced Estero Bay redfishing at its finest, and agreed that there was no way we were going to do any better. Besides, it was time for lunch, and our opportunity to retell old Estero Bay stories and plan for ones yet to come.

Estero Bay is a 7-mile-long shallow water playground between Naples and Fort Myers that provides a variety of fishing environments for the backwater enthusiast. Flats, mangrove shorelines, oyster bars and channels offer productive fishing for redfish and other species at all tides year-round. And while located off the beaten path, it is not a hard place to get to.

Summer’s end is one of the best times to visit the bay, when the water is cooling and the reds are feeding in anticipation of winter. Fish begin to school, sometimes in large numbers, and push big wakes ahead of them. Live bait, artificial lures and flies all take fish. My favorite way of catching them is to sight fish for tailers along the flats of the eastern shore. Such was our plan when Robin, Emily and I launched the skiff at sunrise at Weeks Fish Camp.

Located at the end of Coconut Road, west off US 41 about five miles north of Bonita Springs, Weeks Fish Camp has been around for ages. The facilities are small and rustic, but the bait is good and the people are always willing to talk fishing, which more than makes up for the lack of polish. Departure from Weeks or nearby Carl E. Johnson Park, midway between Bonita Springs and Fort Myers Beach, puts you into a marked channel for immediate access to Estero Bay, but before racing away from the ramp, a word of caution: Navigating Estero Bay without mishap requires experience, especially at low tide. Being 200 yards from shore does not guarantee safe passage as large flats extend beyond this limit, as do lower unit-eating oyster bars and mounds.