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Guadalupe River Fever

Yesterday we drove to the Guadalupe and I lay in cypress roots by the side of the river and thought I was going to die.  I’d been nauseous driving, and then at some point over the three hour drive it struck me:  “hey! I’m sick!” I’m quick that way.

I was going to sleep in the car while Kris fished but no, I’m a manly man and thought I needed to at least try the river.  Last week I’d rigged nymph rigs, but being sick and stupid I’d left them at home. I rigged from scratch which took forever, and then  my line was threaded wrong through my reel.  How did that happen?  How did I do that?  I always thought the feminine name was the worst part of a Hardy Duchess. Can reels be girly?  But the worst part of the Duchess reel is that the line is supposed to thread through a closed window.  Unlike every other reel I’ve ever owned, you can’t fix line problem by removing the spool, re-routing the line, then putting the spool back in.  You have to start all over.

I still like the reel though.  It’s a lovely thing. I’m sure it appeals to my feminine side. And I guess really good fly fisherfolk never screw up their rigging.

We were parked at a steep bank below a high bluff.  There were stairs down and then a path along the river.  I made it maybe 100 feet downriver, enough to get away from Kris and the other guy fishing.  Then my dropper rig got tangled before my first cast.  Do you know how to keep dropper rigs from tangling? Fish with streamers.

It took awhile, but I worked out the tangle, then cast four or five or ten times, then got tangled again, then cut off my flies and lay down in the cypress roots. I have always loved cypress, and the roots going down into the river look like something made up by Tolkien.  When I was laying in the roots and deciding whether to throw up I wondered, do I barf in the earthy space between the roots,  or go for the river?  Either was ready to hand, with my feet in the water and my back on the knobby roots.  I decided on the earthy space, but lay back down and the nausea went away.  Still thinking about it, just in case, I decided the ground was the right choice.  Barf floating downriver doesn’t sound pleasant.  Chum?  Maybe carp? I had no upchuck emergers.

So I lay in the roots and looked up through the tree limbs and wondered if this was how it felt to be a wounded soldier on the field of battle. I get dramatic when I’m sick. Honestly though, to get out of there I had to climb up the bank through the tangle of roots and then up the stairs to the car and I just didn’t think I would make it.  If there had been anyone to haul me out I’d have agreed. I did it though, sooner or later, and I didn’t even break my rod.  We drove home and I slept on the drive then slept through to this morning.

On the upside, we did find kolaches, at the recommendation of my friend John Geddie, at The Original Kountry Bakery in Schulenberg.  I hadn’t realized I was sick yet, so I ate two, a cherry and a poppy seed.  They were perfectly acceptable, though I thought the sugar glaze was gilding the lily.

And oh yeah, Kris pointed out that all those nymph rigs were in a box in the car, right where I’d have seen them if I’d just looked.

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Nymphing Rod Fever

I’ve got fly rod fever.  I’ve been reading Dynamic Nymphing, and I’m not sure how I’ve survived without a 10′ rod.  I need a nymphing rod. It’s a wonder that I’ve ever successfully mended a line, and maybe I haven’t. That set me off on an internet search where I learned many things but most of all that what I need is not just a 10′ rod, but a 3 weight rod.

Now I have an old 3 weight somewhere that I bought many many years ago.  It’s a two-piece.   I may have even used it once. Are two-pieces back in vogue yet?

The reason I need a 3 weight is because each of those subtle takes I’m going to be feeling will just not telegraph well through the 6 weight that I had settled on–mostly because a have a surplus of 6 weight reels.  So when I surveyed the rod-makers websites, Hardy, Thomas & Thomas, Orvis, Winston, Scott, all the usual suspects, plus Fenwick and St. Croix, seemed to make exactly what I needed to catch fish.

Yesterday when I couldn’t stand it any longer I bailed work a bit early and started trolling shops.  I made it first to Gordy & Sons, which is elegant, spacious, and new.  It’s a three-story purpose-built temple that worships some kind of British custom shotgun and also sells high-end fly fishing gear.  They keep an Islamoralda skiff down in the parking area just to prove  they’re serious.  They have a casting pond.  They have cigars and whisky.

They also have Scotts and Winstons.  “We sell a lot of the Winstons.”  Marcus said they were likely to have a 3wt. upstairs.

I went from there to Bayou City Angler, but they were better than Gordy at spotting a man with the fever and had me out in the parking lot casting in a trice.  Both were 4 weights, and they had no long threes. The Winston felt oddly heavy and awkward to me. For trout rods I’m usually a Winston kind of guy, green is my favorite color, but this time no.

Maybe there was a reason for that clunkiness.  These are rods for trout nymphing in all situations. Unlike any other old 9′ 4wt., nymphing rods are designed not for delicate presentations to delicate fish (though every manufacturer assures me that they are the very thing for that very thing) but for responsive protected tips for delicate takes by big fish. The butt of the rod has to be substantial for landing bigger fish.  Hence I’m guessing the odd awkwardness of the Winston.

The Thomas & Thomas cast much better, plus my last name is Thomas! Plus it was blue! Plus it was 20% off! It was the Avantt I think. They only had a 4 weight, but they assured me they could get the 3wt.  Checking on line this morning though there doesn’t seem to be a 3wt., and I just don’t know if I could catch fish with a 4wt.  Not, of course, that I catch fish now.  But it’s 20% off! And my last name is Thomas!

And it’s blue!

Nobody around here sells Fenwick or St. Croix, so I’m tempted to buy one online, but what if I didn’t like it? And don’t I owe a duty of loyalty to my local shops?  I think I do, really.  But I like the idea of St. Croix, and it’s American made.  The cheapest, Fenwick, is Korean.

I’m certain that a nymphing rod will allow perfect mends. It will be so much fun and excitement and the joy of the world to perform perfectly that Czech-method straight-line nymphing that I’ve been reading about. I’ll have to learn some Czech, or maybe  some Polish, so that I can properly address the fish I’ll be catching.

I want to try the Orvis Recon still.  It gets very good reviews and is a very good price.  I don’t know if the fish will like a second tier rod, but then I suspect Thomas & Thomas is about to roll out a newer model, and the fish may not like that Avantt either.

Of course I know that if I just hold I’ll be over this in a few weeks, and the Buddha tells me that the satisfaction of one desire only begets new desire.  Sounds true to me, and I’m not even Buddhist. But then I’m going to West Virginia in May.  I need this rod for West Virginia.

 

 

 

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I’m Going to Disney World

Actually I’m not.  I’m going to West Palm Beach in 23 days, where the Astros will play the Nationals in the first spring training game of the season.  Maybe somewhere between Mickey Mouse and 331  lynchings of African Americans, between Where the Boys Are and Scarface, there may be some there there in the Sunshine State.

I like to travel, and I’m old enough to know that at best when you travel you get some passing notion of a place, and you get some interesting tales with which to bore your friends.  There’s not much method in how I choose where I go:  I go places for business, or family, or to watch the Astros play.  Sometimes I go to fish.  But how I approach the place is usually similar. I try to get ready for travel by reading some books about the place I’m going.  If nothing else I at least read a mystery novel or two. I try to put together a music soundtrack of the place. I try to stay at a hotel with some history. I find it easiest to visit cities: there are civic buildings, there are museums, there are restaurants and baseball stadiums and public transportation.  Recently I’ve made it a point to go fishing because it gets me into the landscape.

We’ve booked a guide in Florida, found a place to stay, and bought our baseball tickets.  It’s a quick trip in and out to a place I went once, many years ago.  I didn’t fish then.  I saw no museums.  I drove around, went to the beach once, and saw nick-knack shops.

Getting ready to go to Florida I’ve been listening to Finding Florida by T.D. Allman. In many ways it’s a good book.  Did you know that Florida has no metals and no igneous rock? That makes it hard to advance to the paleolithic if you’re not already there, but apparently the aboriginal Foridians did quite well with what was to hand. I gather they ate a lot of oysters and made arrowheads out of fish bones. The pre-Columbians did not do so well with disease or the Spanish, and disappeared.  The Seminoles were not natives but refugees from Georgia, and would have to wait for the Americans to be mistreated.

Ponce de Leon never searched for the Fountain of Youth, and that favorite story of my childhood was made up out of whole cloth by Washington Irving.  Andrew Jackson was a bastard, but I had suspected as much. Allman criticizes the economic and racial reality of The Yearling, my mother’s favorite coming of age YA novel about a boy and his deer.  It was published in 1938 when she was 21.

Which is the problem with Allman: his unrelenting moral outrage.  Everybody was a bastard, at least among the Europeans and their descendants. No doubt the only things ever produced out of Florida were racism, cupidity, and film-flam, though being a Texan I don’t know why that makes them so special.  But truly, I really doubt that every Floridian woke up every day thinking I’m going to go out today and do something evil, or at least really stupid. Allman can even get indignant about Stephen F. Foster’s “Old Folks Back Home” for what seems like acres of print.  It just hardly seems worth the effort about a fake sweet song about longing.  All that righteousness does get wearisome, and honestly, I don’t know what he wants me to do? Not go to Florida? Tell all Floridians whose ancestors weren’t either Seminoles or slaves that they are deeply flawed?  Of course there is Florida Man.  Maybe they are deeply flawed.

Which gets back to how hiring a guide to go fishing for four hours is just a bit like going to Disney World, but then all travel is. At worst I’ll have a thrill ride courtesy of some poor fish, at best I’ll understand just a bit more of the world. I do need to watch Where the Boys Are.  I haven’t read Allman’s criticism of Spring Break yet.

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Damon’s 7 Lakes

Crappie spawn when the water hits a bit below 60, but pre-spawn they go onto the flats in a feeding frenzy.  I’ve hit the frenzy twice, years ago, once at Lake Raven in Huntsville State Park and once on a farm pond, and it’s unforgettable.  After the hard freezes last week the Houston temperature has climbed back into the high 60s, and I thought I might catch the frenzy.  I didn’t, There were no crappie in the shallows so I fished for bass.

Damon’s 7 Lakes is a cluster of private lakes in Brazoria County about an hour from our house. Brazoria County was part of the original William B. Travis land grant, and pre-Civil War it was the richest county in Texas.  It’s wealth was slave based, producing sugar and cotton off slave plantations.  A  great-great grandfather and grandmother, William Hamilton Todd and Martha Ann Mangrum Todd, are buried nearby in the Confederate Cemetery in Alvin. I don’t know why he ended up in Alvin (since he didn’t get there until 1880 or so), and his son, my grandmother’s father, left for the Oklahoma land rush after the 1900 Galveston flood.  At least I think that’s when he left.

The community of Damon sports the highest point in the county, rising 144 feet above sea level. There’s no significant temperature change because of the higher elevation, so there are no trout streams.

We’ve been going to Damon for five or six years now, and I think Kris is a little bored.  She spent the day birding.  I like it though.  I like to cast and there’s no good reason not to when bass fishing.  Cast and cast and cast.  Cast 20 feet, cast 60 feet, boom one out there or not.  As long as there’s structure you’ve got as much chance at a fish on one cast as any other.

Even better though is that on the way to Damon’s, only a few miles out of the way, is Pena’s Donut Heaven.

I know that Mr. Pena is a retired Houston firefighter, and I know that he is a donut genius.  I had the red cake donut with the cream, the maple and bacon, and the blueberry with sprinkles.

On the way home, only a half-hour out of the way, is Killen’s Barbeque.  Mr. Killen is a meat genius. I had never seen Killen’s without a line down the street, but it was close to 3 when we got there.  Kris ordered the fried chicken, which seemed like apostasy, but it was pretty good.

And my brisket sandwich was certainly good.

I fished my 7 weight, a Loomis Asquith (presumably named after something, but I can’t figure out what) with a Tibor Back Country reel.  I had a winter redfish line on, because that’s my usual saltwater rod, and I was fishing an olive meat wagon.  Caught three bass, two small and one ok.  We fished about an hour.

Probably not my last Texas fish in this project, but it’s my first state, Texas.