Moist with Plenty of Bark

Brandon wanted barbecue and he wanted it at Rudy's. He got no argument from me. We started south.

But the bottom dropped out and our weather apps flashed red, warning that between us and the Brownsville BBQ joint swirled an active tornado cell. As the rain lashed the YJ's loose ragtop, we pulled off the road and weighed our options. South Texas drivers handle rainy conditions like North Carolinians handle snow, Brandon relayed. Poorly. That sobering thought (along with visions of prairie twisters, made more plausible by the Jeep's fast-flapping fabric) turned us back towards the Queen Isabella Causeway and South Padre. Our caution overrode our appetites, but just barely.

I don't understand the near-religious warfare that exists between eastern and western barbecue followers. It's like fighting over the difference between bananas and doorknobs. I love me some good ol'e Dixieland vinegar-based pulled pork Q, but I'm all over that red Texas brisket when I can be. What's to argue?

Rudy's was out so we found a fallback. Lady and the Pit took care of us just fine, although Brandon had his concerns until we were sure that the smoker was out back. Good brisket and better sausage. The sides were a bit sweet (Who sugars their collard greens, anyway?) but they suited me just fine. And while the storm raged outside we had only to soak up the sweet tea and diet Doctor Pepper refills until it passed.

And we happily let that take a while.

Diablo Day

It was a tough three days on South Padre. Traveling a couple thousand miles for a virtual skunking puts a man to mumbling to himself. But the worst part was not that we struggled to find fish; it was that the conditions didn't allow us to spend enough time with the Diablos.

I was first introduced to Diablo Paddlesport's fine fleet of fishing kayaks a couple of years ago on the northern Laguna Madre. Thomas Flemons, co-owner of Diablo, towed a fleet of his boats out to a remote cabin outside of Baffin Bay where a handful of us gathered to spend a few days chasing redfish. I quickly fell in love with the Adios.

Diablo's craft are a hybrid of kayak and stand-up paddleboard, "thinner and wider, like a SUP board, but still has all the comforts, such as dry storage, wet storage, paddle and drink holders as well as a comfortable seat." I happily paddled about the salt flats, cruising for tailers, staking the boat out and wading when I wished. It was a couple of very good days.

Fast forward two years and I found myself back on the Laguna, this time further south, and was thrilled when Brandon arrived with a trailer of boats - his green Diablo Chupacabra and a couple of the new roto-molded Amigos. And not just any Amigos. Thomas's personal craft, complete with a couple of prototype accessories for us to fiddle with.

The plan was to paddle the flats as we had two years before, but the wind had other ideas. Blowing a steady 20 knots out of the south, it chopped the water severely making sight fishing impossible and paddling a challenge, even with the low-riding, sculpted Adios.

We did get a morning in, paddling around the waters just north of South Padre, and reacquainted ourselves with these sleek, sturdy craft that floated easily in a couple of inches of water. They were as good as I remembered.

I just wish that we could have done more.

Note: A huge thanks to Thomas Flemons for the loan of the craft. Diablo sits at the top of my list of personal fishing boats and I look forward to their continued evolution and success. If you're thinking of getting into a kayak, this is the place to start looking.

A Walk in the Dunes

Mark Twain has been credited with calling golf a "good walk spoiled." Seems, now, that he didn't actually say it, but he should have.

Similarly, our sojourn across the dunes at the Padre Island National Seashore was a good walk spoiled by the absence of redfish, but the company and the place more than made up for it.

Enjoy.

Where the Redfish Are

Can you keep a secret?

It's always good to get the skinny from the locals - to get the inside poop on where to fish in an area that's new to you. And whether it comes in the form of a GPS coordinate, the description of a landmark, or a scribble on a bar napkin or hotel scratchpad, it's welcome insight. There's a lot of water out there, particularly when you're searching the salt, and it's nice to have a clue where to start.

So just between you and me, here's where to find the reds in South Padre, shared in confidence with us by Shane Wilson, founder of Fishing's Future, SPI resident, and all-round good guy.

Keep it to yourself.

The Jetty

When you get blown off the water you’re forced to get creative. After months of anticipation, our first day’s disappointment at being unable to sight fish the wind-chopped flats could only be overcome with a little initiative and a serious reduction in standards.

“Let’s go to the jetty.”

We hemmed and we hawed for a moment or two until Chris free associated the possibility of finding migrating tarpon and, with that pretty delusion as quixotic motivation, we jumped in the jeep and drove south.

Our lofty ambitions of bowing to tail-walking kings from majestic rocky positions (as waves crashed dramatically with each silver leap) quickly degenerated into attempting to snag sea slugs as they drifted past on the outgoing tides.

We fishermen are nothing if not flexible.

Finding My Texas

Four days in McAllen. Might as well have been Cleveland.

Airport to hotel on the shuttle. Hotel to convention center by air-conditioned bus. Return and repeat. Views of the city through dark safety glass. Interior courtyard and square meeting rooms. Southern climes masked by thermostats set to “Icebox.”

I longed for the Lone Star vibe.

So as the meetings came to a close it felt good to get in the rental and go. To head east out of town toward the Gulf. But I wasn’t in Texas even then. Seventy miles-an-hour on Interstate 2. San Juan, Weslaco, Mercedes. Southwestern labels, but indistinguishable from anywhere else with their end-to-end Home Depots, Burger Kings, and La Quintas. The ubiquitous acres of Wal-Mart. Only the occasional HEB gave a clue.

So I tried to shake my case of the “wherevers” by turning on the radio. Satellite XM, Outlaw Country, seemed a good place to start. But it was country as generic as the asphalt I traveled. Corporate cowboys, polished and precise despite the clodhopper drawls. Sterile. I was looking for roots, dirt and all.

I-2 dumped east into Texas 83 and I switched to FM. Began to feel the southwest sun and attitude creep into my bones. Strip mall sprawl gave way to cattle land, manicured six lanes to concrete divided four, and meticulously mastered rock to something more earthy. Something more don’t-give-a-damn. Digital perfection acquiesced to analog authenticity. Big stage to front porch. A grittier sound on a grittier track.

But I wasn’t there yet.

I escaped the expressways onto State Road 100. Shook off the highway and found my two lane. Rolled down the windows and punched up AM. Sagebrush and mesquite flew by never-ending. Fruit stands, flat land and big sky with a soundtrack of scratchy mariachis. The soft background hiss of carrier wave, like tires on pavement, lent texture and life to squeezebox and guitar. White vinyl noise swaddled voices in cotton as if they’d been packed away for generations like precious artifacts. Canciónes that crossed cultures and borders and time.

I understood little of what was sung as I drove, but that didn't matter. Enough of the words were transcendent. Señorita. Bonita. Cerveza.

I’d finally found my Texas.

Into the Backing

Let's start with an apology.

I haven't been around much of late. The blog has been quiet and I'm sorry. There are a handful of factors in this vacancy; some good, some not so much. Simply put, life and times have taken me deep into the backing and, for the moment, that's enough said about that. It's time to tighten the drag and start recovering some line before the next inevitable run.

Spending three days with good friends and a Jeep full of fly rods is as good a way as any to stall life's headlong race, so we'll start there, in the southwest, Texas-way, where we tried once again to coax Gulf Coast reds from the shallow warm waters of the Laguna Madre. A smattering of scenes should do nicely. From there, we have some catching up to do. We'll get to it all in due time.

So thanks for sticking around in my absence and for helping me start to reel things back in. Let's put a bend in the rod, crank on the largest arbor we've got and wrestle this thing to the boat.

Let's go to Texas.

Top Ten Texas Outtakes

Just when you hoped pleaded prayed thought that the Texas chronicles were over...

Enough happened while chasing them redfish down south that many noteworthy tidbits fell through the cracks. You simply can't report them all - for a variety of reasons. So, in true Letterman/Pink Panther style, I thought I'd end the series with the Top Ten Texas Outtakes. Here goes.

Warning: Those readers of tender constitution might wish to look away now.

#10. Self portrait: On the flats with my little friend. (above)

#9. On the plane: “In the unlikely event we have cabin pressure loss, four oxygen masks will drop down. Put the mask over your nose, stretch the tube to enable the flow of oxygen, and breath normally.” Are you f**king kidding me?

#8. Todd Quote #1: "I must be on vacation in Texas. At home I don’t even walk on carpet barefooted."

#7. Todd Quote #2: “Do you notice how everyone who slept within earshot of me last night is taking a nap right now?”

#6. First fish of the week: Brandon nabbing a schoolie spec in the spotlights. (left)

#5. Brandon and I agree: Loralie Gilmore. 'Nuff said.

#4. Gavit Quote As We Embrace Our Inner Texan: “You came out here to catch redfish and now you’re trying to foul-hook mullet from the dock. Welcome to Texas.”

#3. Scenes from a (Texan) Italian Restaurant: Feelings. Wo-o-o, Feelings… Hey, barkeep. Another piña colada here.



#2. Thoughts Upon Departure: There’s a different feel to early-morning starts, those heading out for an adventure and those returning. While the former is electric, the later exists muted and bittersweet. Subdued. For the journey – and every adventure is a journey complete - is coming to an end and the longing for the familiar, for the normal, exhibits an attraction stronger than that for the exotic. The tidal pull of home remains quietly relentless.

And the number one outake of the week:

#1. Moon over the Laguna Madre

If that doesn't put a proper "end" to these Texas posts, I don't know what does. Hope you enjoyed them.

Adios, Texas

3:30am. Out of bed. 4:00am. On the road. Out of South Padre, heading back to San Antonio to catch our late-morning flights. It's time to go home.

And so it ends, this redfish excursion, with a sleepy-eyed stumble to the truck, an uneventful early-morning drive through the south Texas flatlands, and a hasty goodbye to buenos amigos from the car rental courtesy bus.

Seems anti-climactic. How could it be otherwise?

To be perfectly honest, the fishing stunk. Five days waving a fly rod in Texas Gulf waters and I brought to hand just four. But it was the combination of tough conditions and my well-established piscatorial ineptitude that was to blame, not the place. The place is world class - on better days.

But if you choose to go only when you know - really know - that you’ll catch something, you’d never do it. If you measure the success of a trip by the number of fish caught, you’ve missed the point. I could go on, but won’t. You don’t need an old man blithering on about metaphysical intangibles in this age of rip-lipped video clips. I’ll simply say that I’d do it again, travel thousands of miles to these wonderful waters to catch little or nothing. With Chris and Todd, Brandon and Jen, Austin and Gavit, Thomas and Banning alongside, I’d gladly fish all day and take my skunking with a smile.

For despite the lack of results, I waded the incredible Laguna Madre salt flats, spotted and stalked tailing fish, paddled seaworthy craft, and watched the sun rise and set from the best vantage point imaginable. I sat on the front porch of an off-the-beaten-track salty cabin and laughed ‘till my sides hurt. I toasted good times with aluminum cans and glass goblets - with new friends and old. I cursed the wind and praised the beauty of it all.

In the end, I went to Texas to catch redfish and I did. Never mind that it was only one and accomplished through no skill of my own, but rather by the near statistical impossibility of my blind cast intersecting with his vector through the flats - the belligerent surf god's single concession of the week, perhaps. In the end, I did what I went to do.

But I did so much more. And I look forward to doing it again.

Adios, Texas.

Blowout

Heavy surf. Really?

We knew we were screwed as we drove north to the end of the beach road and saw, suspended above the dunes, dozens of windsurfing kites. The urgency with which they pulled against their restraining wires told us that our angling day was shot. The kites might as well have been flying No Fishing signs – signs that our final day to cruise the South Padre flats was a blowout.

But that’s not to say we didn’t try – just a little – but the wind gods were against us. Rather, we spent the bulk of the day wandering the dunes, looking longingly into the Gulf surf for diving birds or Jack Crevalle-driven baitfish, and taking one last half-hearted, unsuccessful shin-deep dip into the waters of the Laguna Madre. Disappointing.

But, I’ve got to admit, if you're forced to deal with disappointment, this is a mighty fine place to do it.

Keeping the flags straight.

Prayers to the local surf gods go unanswered.

But there's beauty in the dunes.

And ugliness. (O)ops indeed. Pack it out, asshole.

Practicing. Just in case.

But if the fishing's poor, this ain't a bad fallback.

A day well spent - fish or no.

A Fine Bit of Fishin'

It was a fine bit of fishin'. Perhaps the best sequence I've ever witnessed. As fun to watch as it was to do.

After a tough morning fighting the winds, we had taken a leisurely lunch at the Palm Street Pier, imbibed a bit to drown our disappointment in the conditions, and contemplated our next move. In truth, not much contemplation was really necessary. We settled our tab and Chris and I headed back to the flats. Wind, be damned.

The blow gave us no quarter, ignored our attempts to dispatch it with mid-day spirits, so we moved northward, pushing a mile up-island, around a wide sweep of dunes in hopes of getting a little protection from the blast. We were moderately successful in attaining the protection, but there was no improvement in the fishing. Until…

Fish, says Chris. Where?

There. Three of them. Forty feet, along the edge. Looks like sheepshead. I saw nothing.

Chris casted. The fish looked. Hesitated. Wandered on. At least that’s what Chris said. I still saw nothing.

He quickly stripped in his line and dug in his fly box. Crabs, he said. They eat crabs, which, we had noted earlier, we had seen none of.

But he dug out a small, leggy, tan crustacean-looking piece of fluff, tied it on, and resumed looking. Said his “fish eye” was dialed in. I still saw nothing.

There. Eighty feet. Same three. Moving away. One shot.


And he made it. One false cast. Laser straight. Dropped it on their noses. Eighty feet. In the wind. It’s only right that a cast that good gets a take. And it did.

It was a fine bit of fishin'. Perhaps the best sequence I've ever witnessed. As fun to watch as it was to do.

But don’t tell Chris that I said so.

El Viento

I should have followed Austin’s advice.

As we sat around the cabin’s front porch a couple of nights earlier, the conversation had inevitably gotten around to fly casting. What? Doesn’t yours? It beats the hell out of talking politics, my friend.

Anyway. Austin suggested that, when the Laguna wind gets to howlin’, it’s easy to cast your entire fly line. You simply strip it into a pile at your feet, pick up the pile, and throw it as high into the air as you can. El viento will take care of the rest.

Today, I could have added my backing.

We had a wicked tailwind as we drove north out of South Padre, up the island, Gulf of Mexico over the dunes to our right, the Laguna Madre over the dunes to our left. Twenty-five to thirty-five knots the disgustingly cheerful weatherman had said. He, obviously, wasn’t a fisherman. Sand blew across the road like snow drifts in a Montana blizzard. Stung like bees. Simply stringing our rods was a challenge.

Over the dunes and across a half-mile of tidal flats, it never relented. Once on the open lagoon, our loose fishing shirts whipped us like we were thoroughbreds fading down the stretch.

Todd remained close to shore, focusing around the small isles held together by scrub brush, fishing what he knew – structure - unable to wrap his head around the vast, featureless body of water that spread before us. Chris and I waded out without a focus - a quarter-mile, a half, more, the water never reaching our knees, as we embraced the apparent endlessness of the flats. We had hoped to sight-fish, what this body of water is famous for, but instead we blind casted into whitecaps, unable to see more than churn, let alone redfish.

We put our left shoulders into the wind and casted perpendicular to the howl. Facing opposite would have us draped in line, at best - playing pincushion to airborne clousers, more likely. Casting directly into, or with, the wind was impossible.

It seemed hopeless, but after an hour of prospecting I heard a yip from upwind and turned to see a blessed bend in Chris’ Hardy. The persistence in his quest for Texas reds had finally been rewarded. Not a particularly big fish, but the species was represented. I waded over to get a picture, a high-five, and the pattern he was using. Orange and yellow.





I got close – an orange and brown from my box – and within fifteen minutes received my blessing as well. Another small red that, despite his modest size, insisted on being on the reel and stripping his share of line. I can only imagine what a big one can do. My first, and ultimately only, redfish of the trip. Dumb luck, I figure, but I took it.

From El Viento, I’d have taken anything.

Note: Read Chris' take on this windblown day at Sandblasted. He captures the frustration so much better than I.

Texas Transition

From the upper Laguna Madre to the lower Laguna Madre.

From a postage stamp, sliver of land to the plushy spring break destination of South Padre Island.

From a one-room cabin to a three-bedroom hotel suite at The Inn at South Padre.

From a cold-water, gravity feed, cistern shower to a 102˚ jacuzzi hot tub.

From crap 3G to WiFi and 100 channels on the TV.

From a 23-mile boat trip for gasoline to walking-distance bar-hopping along the SPI strip.

From meals on a tortilla to dining on linen at Marcello's and the Sea Ranch.

From PBR and Lonestar in cans to margaritas and turbo piña coladas in fru-fru stemware.

From chasing Texas redfish with friends to chasing Texas redfish with friends.
The important things didn't change.