This redfish may be a bit oversized, but certainly put up a scrappy fight.

Goodland is one of the last frontier outposts in Florida. Situated between cosmopolitan Naples and the rustic isolation of Chokoloskee Island, the settlement’s defining virtue is that it serves as both a northern gateway to the Ten Thousand Islands and a direct route to the offshore reefs and wrecks that pepper this portion of the Gulf of Mexico.

Miles of mangrove shoreline provide a backdrop more appropriate for Calusa warriors than electrical subcontractors, although both have left their mark here. Despite a weathered dock or two, Nature appears to be pervasive. I might add that Her influence extends to the bottom grasses and oyster bars that define the local shallows—not to mention the trees, islands and shoals rearranged last fall by Hurricane Wilma.

There’s human influence, too.

The first time I saw Goodland, its number one attraction was a waterfront saloon that hosted a Mullet Festival. I’m happy to report that Stan’s is still standing, even after the Category 3 storm, and that organizers looked foward to a big Festival Jan. 20-22 this year.

At one time, this was strictly commercial fishing country. Species like mullet, snook and seatrout provided the region’s inhabitants with a living for decades. Then things changed dramatically. Someone might go so far as to wonder what’s in store for Goodland, now that gill nets are a thing of the past.

I believe there’s an answer and it lies in the region’s light-tackle guides who’ve made the transition from mesh to mechanization with the help of rods and reels.

Goodland is the geographical epicenter of thousands of square miles of waist-deep shallows that stretch endlessly toward Florida Bay. Navigational charts identify hundreds of shallow bays and nearshore grassflats.

Captain Keith Thompson is a third-generation local who knows the fishing here like the back of his sunburned hands. Mike Keetch and I met Keith at Calusa Island Marina, although he normally docks closer to Marco, which reminds me that if you don’t have a map in front of you, Goodland is actually located on Marco Island.

While we were motoring from the marina, I asked Keith to describe his typical customer.

“I cater to a lot of trout fishermen, but my customers also like to fish for snook and redfish,” he said. “During wintertime when the trout season shuts off, we’ll drift the grassbeds and jig for pompano.”

Other migratory species also enter the local fishery. According to Keith, “We get a lot of Spanish mackerel and bluefish over the inshore reefs and grassbeds. It’s mostly a winter fishery, but lately, the mackerel have been hanging around all year.”

It’s ironic that the first catchable fish I saw that day was a leaping Spanish mackerel. When I say catchable, I’m making the distinction between fish that strike lures and the countless legions of mullet that choke the local shallows. Something else that immediately caught my eye was the juxtaposition of wilderness and opulence. The air was redolent of swamp gas, but new construction was visible everywhere. When I questioned Mike about it, his lament had a familiar ring:

“They’re building more condos.”

I also saw million-dollar homes, which in all fairness to the architects, at least paid lip-service to Frank Lloyd Wright’s concept of form following function. We passed another marina. It appeared to be reasonably busy.

Keith put the boat on plane and we began running south in silence. When he finally throttled back, it was deep in the Ten Thousand Islands. If you asked me where, I’d say that I didn’t know for sure—except that Keith and Mike kept talking about pumpkins. We subsequently made a series of other stops, each time lingering just long enough to check out a particular shoreline. Keith had us casting jigs tipped with a piece of fresh shrimp and after a slow start, he was the first to hook a fish, a small mangrove snapper.

A moment later, Mike hooked a second mangrove and soon Keith was fast to another.

“C’mon, Sean,” a voice chided, “you’re missing out on the action.”

Angler Mike Keetch and fishing guide Keith Thompson introduce a backwater snook to a modern by boat.

Unfortunately, I had hooked a mangrove of my own. Despite Keith’s offer to help, I hesitated to interrupt their fishing, choosing instead to wait until after the snapper spate subsided to motor to where I could recover my jig from the rubbery mess.