On Being Ready

I’d tied a hundred flies for this trip. Mostly clousers - 2s thru 6s. Chartreuse and white. Pink and white. Olive and white. Grey and white. Tan and white. White and white. Pink and chartreuse. Olive and grey. Orange and brown. Two big bugger barns. Slam full.

I’d tied rust and tan Borski sliders. I'd ravaged my bass boxes for poppers, gummy and gulley fish, gurglers - flies of all configurations and colors that I thought might, just might, come in handy. I'd even nicked some candy-colored spoon flies (I'm sorry, I’m weak) from Todd’s box as he slept.

I was loaded. I was ready.

I didn’t have black.

The damn fish wanted black.

Luckily, any good fish camp has a central, vital, station - the tying table - and Austin, Brandon and Jen were on the job. Need black? Have a seat.

And, honestly, how could I think I was prepared? Saltwater boxes look nothing like what I'm used to. More Victoria's Secret than Bob's Fly Shop. Even my outrageous largemouth box is drab by comparison.

So while the salt mavens were better prepared, not even Austin was ready with black.

But it didn't take long to fix that.

Please pass the marabou.

Bohemia, TX

When eight guys and one brave lass occupy a single-roomed cabin, things can get a little, shall we say, bohemian.

Toss in a bunch of fishing gear and predicate the gathering on the pursuit of redfish and you end up with a certain level of single-focused chaos that warms the soul.

Tidy goes out the window.

Charm remains.

So here's a glimpse into a day on the island - images of the precious clutter that accumulates between forays onto the flats.

Here's visual evidence of a sliver of time well spent.

Here's to Bohemia.

Redfish Palace

Looking North

Gavit's cabin felt like home immediately - the gathering, like family. Perched on pylons above a tiny sliver of "land" in the upper Laguna Madre - Baffin Bay to the north, King ranch to the west, Padre Island visible on the horizon across the intercoastal waterway and a couple of miles of salt flats - it was the perfect locale for this gathering of fly fishermen, and a fisherwoman, brought together by their connection in the modern blogosphere and a shared, ancient, love of the water.

I've been struggling for a week now on the right angle to take with these posts, the right way to present this place and this gathering, but my meager writing skills have failed me. It's nothing new.

So what my pen can't accomplish, perhaps my camera can. So for the next couple of posts I'll be visual, not verbal. I'll show rather than tell. I'll shut my mouth and open your eyes. I suspect that you won't mind. Especially the shut my mouth part.

So, let's start with the place...

South

East

West

Next, Bohemia.


Note: Be sure to click on the images to see them in a larger format.

Laguna Sunrise

There’s movement in the bunk above me. Austin. Five-thirty already? Seems I’ve just put my head down.

I thumb the illumination button on my watch to be sure. The battery's low and, for weeks now, rather than being lit, the display simply fades away. I know this, but thumb it anyway, with predictable results.

Austin cautiously climbs down the makeshift ladder so, in the absence of digital confirmation, I accept that our planned departure time is at hand. I slip from beneath my light summer bag, pull on a pair of quick-dry pants, a shirt, and tip-toe through the dark cabin in search of a Clif bar and a Mountain Dew to kickstart the day.

Gavit and Banning also rise and step onto the front porch, gently pulling the door behind them. Speaking in low tones, they plot their upcoming day, mentally arranging boats, tides, gasoline, gear, and, of course, the movement of redfish.

The others slumber on.

Austin and I gather the gear we’d roughly staged the evening before and head for the Diablos beached on the west side of the island. We load the boats – which means little more than mounting a fly rod and tossing a box of flies and a bottle of water or two under the seat - and drag them to the eastern shore, a full thirty feet. We wade into the warm waters of the Laguna Madre. With few words, unwilling to break the spell of salt and silence, we mount the sturdy watercraft and paddle into the darkness. There’s only the sound of lapping water and the occasional scrape of paddle on hull.

With quiet, steady strokes we cross the intercoastal waterway, a thirty-five foot deep trough cut through the laguna, and quickly find ourselves in shin-deep water once again. On the liquid surface the transition is seamless.



The eastern horizon begins to glow and we paddle a mile, maybe more, to the east. Dark waters turn pink, then molten, as another day’s sun begins to emerge from the distant depths. We continue in silence, gliding on a sea of fire.

A tail, a dark flag against the blazing waters, appears. Then a second. Three more. “Blacks” says Austin. “Let’s go find some reds. These will be here when we come back.” I nod. Having opened my black drum account the day before, I, too, am anxious to find redfish. We paddle on, each silently contemplating our violation. Don’t leave fish to find fish.

Let’s go find some reds. These will be here when we come back. We don’t. They aren’t. The morning goes fishless.

And I don’t really care.

We Have Your Redfish

Jefe. We have your redfish.

If you wish to see them again, leave the following in the bed of a rusted El Camino parked in the back lot of Marker 37. Let the air out of the left rear tire so we can tell which Cami it is. Maybe you'd better let it out of the right front as well. Just in case. Hell, just put a sign on it. But no authorities.

Anyway, leave the following:

Ten 5-gallon cans of gas
Two full propane tanks
A big-ass cooler of ice
Nine cases of bottled water. No store brands.
One case each of Corona, PBR, Coors Light, and Lonestar
Make that two
Two gallons of tonic water
One gallon of Gilbey's gin
Make that two
A nickel bag of black marabou
A quart of Bullfrog Quick Gel
A bottle of Pepto and a tube of Neosporin. Original.
Eight pairs of earplugs
Tortillas. Lots of tortillas. No fucking whole wheat.
Fish seasoning and a clove of garlic
Four bags of Kingsford
Amber Heard's phone number
300 feet of tippet material. 15-20lb floro. None of that mono shit.
An impeller kit for a Suzuki DF25R
A case of Charmin
Make that two

Do it. Every day you delay another black drum gets Weberized.

Oh. And do something about the crap 3G signal out here. Seriously.

We're watching you, Jefe. We're watching.

Do it. Or your redfish are toast.

Do it.

Roadkill

I’m home. I’m tired. I’m roadkill.

No. Not just roadkill. I’m south Texas salt flats roadkill. Sun-baked, mud-caked, wind-blown, sand-in-every-orifice, plastered-to-the-pavement, buzzard bait roadkill. My duffle (and probably my hide) smells like the back of the truck where the flats boots have been left to ferment each night. It ain’t pretty.

And I’m good with that.

So let me grab a nap and then I’ll catch you up. I’m no storyteller so I’ll simply give you some snippets, some images, some vignettes of our redfish excursion - the essence rather than the substance. The details are unimportant. It’s the impressions that come home with me, not the timeline.

It’s the moment that sticks.

Sticks like boots in the tidal mud. Sticks like red brisket to the pit of my stomach.

Sticks like roadkill to the steaming Texas pavement.

Touchdown in San Antonio

The tarmac touchdown in San Antonio was a bit heavy but it was "wheels down" so I guess I can't complain. When the captain blessed the resumption of electronic activity, I joined the chorus of cell phone startup chimes and found waiting the following text from my fishing buddy Chris who, along with Todd, was to be arriving an hour later from Salt Lake to begin our quest for Texas redfish.

Just a heads up… you may be driving this afternoon. Hope you’re not snuggled up to some floozy of a flight attendant and getting free drinks. We’ve already done that… so… have your driver’s license handy.

Followed shortly by:

Good news. The next is a dry flight! We’ll see you in a bit.

That SA landing might be just the beginning of the bumps.

Stick around for the ride. This could get interesting.


Note: I have no idea how he could make such a speculation regarding my deportment with the fine Southwest flight staff. No doubt it was just the bloody Mary(s) talking.

Another Note: Follow Chris' perspective on the trip at Eat More Brook Trout. But don't believe a word he says.

The Photo Bin - April 2012

I know, it's only been a couple of weeks since my last "monthly" photo bin. But the rest of April looks to be rather full (more on that in a minute) so I thought I'd sneak this month's edition in early. Besides, there's always an odd image, or three, floating around here to share.

Spring raced through here at a breakneck pace, as though Ma Nature wished to be done with it and move straight to summer with no more than a howdy-do. The trees went from bare to lush, seemingly overnight, but I did manage to shoot the emerging mottle of greens, posed against a crisp Carolina sky - a wisp of the moon for added interest.

And Wilderness Dog Sammy's always good for a cameo. He's been doing reasonably well of late, despite his age and arthritis. We finally seem to have found a decent balance between un-medicated joint pain and drug-induced stupor - a balance which makes for a livelier and more active little guy as well as happier dog owners. Here he's taking an Easter stroll in the yard of our friends' lake house, lookin' for the big dogs.

Finally, in preparation for that "rather full" rest of April, referred to earlier, I've spent a few evenings at the vice, tying a couple of Bugger Barns full of clousers and sliders that I hope will appeal to some South Padre redfish.

Yes, Texas, here I come. You'll be hearing more of that in the days to come.

Consider yourself warned.

Oh, and a spot of Maudite and the Allman Brothers channel on Pandora make the flies fly by nicely.

So, to steal my buddy Tom's post-closing convention, see you on the Gulf.

It's a Boy, And a Girl, And ...

Quintuplets

Bring It, Spin Boy

Yeah, it's your lake, your boat, your domain. 

But let's go. Let's see who's got it this fine Easter weekend. 

My fly rod against your spinning tackle. 

Best fish wins.

Oh crap! Nice start.

But I finish well enough to be in the arguement.

And there are some things we can agree on.

So we call it a draw and enjoy our time together on the lake.
That's how it should be.

Thanks, my friend, for putting up with my fly fishing fetish.
You're a good man...

...for a spin boy.


Admonishment: Do not imbibe and boat. Bad. Bad. Imbibe and enjoy the view from the dock. Good.