Back on the Yak

    Today's outing was one which I have been long anticipating. Before I left on my recent travels I was faced with a choice. I was going to have to leave either my bike or my kayak behind, only one would fit on top of my truck with my current setup and lack of time for adaptations. I chose to bring my bike, thinking it would be less of a logistical problem as far as size and storage. Sadly, I did not ride my bike once and had to kick myself every time I passed a glassy new body of water just waiting to be fished. 

    After being separated for so long, I was chomping at the bit to get the yak back on the water. Unfortunately we have been experiencing some actual winter weather here in Texas Hill Country, and nice days were scarce when I first returned. Eventually, as it always does, that warm Texas sun came back out and the beautiful seventy degree days I came for were here again. I called up my fishing buddies to see if they were free,  loaded up my boat, and headed over to pick up my com-padre Grayson. We were headed to a spot I hadn't fished before in search of San Marcos Smallmouth Bass. The prospect of new water, Texas sun, and feisty smallies had me on the hook, pun intended. 

    

    We drove to the put in on the lower San Marcos River, and headed upstream. The first pool was a wide deep bend with lily pads on the slow side, passing under the highway bridge where we parked. Up river it became very shallow with narrow riffles pouring into deeper holes. This was smallmouth territory for sure. We started out swinging streamers through the riffles, but were finding no fish in the shallow water. We continued paddling upstream, and were forced to do nearly as much wading with boats in tow due to low water conditions. 

    Offering our best drifts and every color and pattern we could think of, we were still coming up fish-less. I could feel the sun and the upstream wading catching up to me as the "hanger" began to appear. Hanger is anger caused by hunger, the really nasty crabby kind you get when you just need a freakin snickers. So, we stopped on the bank and I enjoyed a couple tacos from my favorite San Marcos taqueria. Machado and al pastor, gifts from the heavens when your sugars are dropped and all you can seem to do is jumble your fly line up into a mangled bird's nest. A little

 hydration and a safety meeting and our lines were back in the water.

    In much better spirits after some caloric intake, we headed further upriver. The next hole looked promising. A steeply cut bank with a downed log, probably six to eight feet deep at most with solid current. We split up and began probing the murky water with the silhouttes of our dark streamers. About five minutes or so went by when I heard Grayson behind me, "Fish on!" I picked up my slack line and turned to see his rod tip diving as the fish made a strong run, this was a decent fish for sure.

     I hurried over to the bank and grabbed a net from the boats. As I made my way over in the direction of the fish, it surfaced. It was a really nice smallie. Probably around sixteen to eighteen inches and meaner than hell, it was testing grayons four weight fiberglass and even taking some line. I positioned myself downstream, and readied myself for the fish to swing over in the current. As the fish swung my direction, I dropped the net. The current was far stronger than I expected however and turned the net. The fish careened off of the side of my net, bolted across the hole, spit the fly out, and disappeared back in the the murky San Marcos for another day. I felt terrible, I lost this one. Grayson was kind and didn't give me too much shit. 

After several more casts at the one that got away, we continued on to the next hole. Their were some challenging log jams which required some creative portaging, but we were able to push on further. We were starting to wonder where the hell all the fish were. The conditions were perfect, sun shining, bugs hatching, beautiful fish holding water, but still no fish in the net. Finally, Grayson coaxed a rowdy little smallie from the outer bank of a bend in the river. I matched his color and pattern and continued searching for the subsurface bite to no avail. We drug and paddled upriver fishing every potential pool, but the bite just wasn't on. The river was getting the better of us. There were more lost flies, lost fish, and curse words murmured than I care to admit.

        We made it back to the last hole, a much slower pool with shallows and lilly pads along one side, while the opposite bank was steep with some submerged fallen brush. It was approaching dusk, and streamers had not been producing so I decided to go topwater. I tied on an new pattern I learned to tie recently called a Llanolope.  Within a few casts, I started getting hits in the shallows. Most of them were missing the hook, so I guessed I had found some sunnies. After a few more tries, I landed a nice Bluegill. Several Red Breasts followed suit, offering an entertaining fight on my three weight. The bite was picking up, and apparently the Llanolope was looking pretty appetizing.

    After a landing a few sunnies, I got my first real bite of the day. The kind of blowup that you imagine in your head while you chug your popper along in anticipation. A bass came out of the water, arching downward on top of my fly and dove straight down with it. This was a crushing smallmouth bite without a doubt. Once the fish was on the reel I could immediately tell the difference in fight between that of a largemouth. The smallies dive with reckless abandon, and seem to never tucker out like a Largemouth Bass.

    This fish was strong, it was working my three weight for all it was worth. It pulled me under my boat repeatedly before I was able to bring it up to the surface to get a good look at it. Probably around fourteen inches, and beautifully colored with fiery red eyes. I fought it for a couple minutes before it dove and spit my hook with embarrassing ease. Smallmouth are wily fish, much harder to land than I had imagined. 

    Fortunately, I would get another chance. In fact I would get numerous chances. The bite really began to heat up on top, and as we paddled our way back to the take out my popper was getting crushed by airborne bass. Though many of them never made it into my net, each hook up provided a heart pumping fight no matter what the size of the fish. I probably landed around eight to ten lovely smallies, most around ten to twelve inches and my best around fourteen. I imagine i lost close to as many. So, although it was a challenging day of fishing, I learned why smallmouth are so revered. I have not found a more tenacious fish on the fly, I will most certainly be back in search of the airborne smallies of the Lower San Marcos.

    Exhausted, sun baked, and totally content, we drug our boats back to the truck. And in classic form we managed to fish util the absolute last sliver of daylight. I squinted to fasten the last ratchet strap around the kayaks, another minute and I would have certainly had to brandish a flashlight. We all know the curse of the fisherman, "One more cast........"  

Tight Lines

Back to Where It All Started

    Tonight I was reminded of just how far I have come in my journeys into the world of fly fishing. I have been a fisherman for as long as I can remember. My father was the one who first put a fishing pole in my hands. Poor guy, it was years of climbing in trees to fetch snagged lures, whining kids, chiggers, backlash, and all of the other trials that build the saint-like patience of an experienced fisherman. I grew up in East Tennessee fishing backwoods ponds full of plate sized bluegills Those tenacious coppernose gills would make my eyes light up time after time as the ultralight spin rod bowed over helplessly, bobber dissapearing into the murky pond water. I began of course, with a spinning reel chucking treble hook clad rapalas and spinners, eventually graduating to soft plastics. I still have my absurd box of rubber lures, and crank baits that I have since retired for a few small boxes of flies.

    Years later, after moving to the Hill Country of Texas I was fortunate enough to be gifted my first fly rod. My girlfriend of the time had received a fly rod for Christmas from her mother. As to be expected, she was not terribly excited seeing as she had no clue how to use it. I on the other hand took quite an interest in this new piece of equipment. Wasn't long before I was wishing for one of my own. My birthday rolled around, and I was surprised with a trip to Cabellas and a credit card and told to pick out my gear. I, having no clue whatsoever what I was looking for, began fiddling with every rod in the store. Then I looked at the price tag on a few of the ones I liked, nearly passing out from shock at the 500 dollar price tag on the Sage or whatever it may have been, I began looking for something for a little more reasonable price. I came to find an 8'6" Temple Fork Outfitters Professional Series 5wt rod that immediately felt like it was meant to be in my hands. It is still to this day my favorite overall rod in my collection.
    It was all over after that. I now tie my own flies, which of course comes along with boxes of absurd materials, own four fly rods, and plan on building another one with my old man in the spring. I am fortunate enough to have landed a lot of beautiful fish of varying species, in some truly incredible places, and am no doubt a lifetime fly fisherman.

    For the past year and a half my dog Clyde and I have been traveling and exploring along the mountains and coast of Northern California and Oregon. It has been an incredible journey filled with epic beauty, trials and tribulations, and fly fishing on some of the most beautiful waters I have ever encountered. There are many stories to be told, but not that will have to wait for another day. I am back in Central Texas now for some rest and recovery over the winter. More importantly, I'm back for some good ol fashioned freshwater fly fishing. The kind I cut my teeth on. Topwater blow-ups from big San Marcos Red Breasts, and rowdy Guads in the Pedernales. For those strange and beatiful Texas Cichlids, and of course the ever sought after Large Mouth Bass.

  Tonight's outing, however, was a completion of the circle. My dear friend called me and said that he decided to go for it, he had bought his first fly rod. He asked me if I would teach him how to fly fish. I always hesitate when people ask me this favor. Anyone who has learned the art of fly fishing knows that it is not the sort of thing you just teach someone in a lesson. It is a lot like golf, you play your whole life but never really master it. There is always some new scenario, some new current, new hole that will test you in a way you have never been prepared for. That is the beauty, and the battle of choosing to begin the journey of a lifestyle such as fly fishing. However, to my surprise, he was fervent about learning this new skill. So after about an hour in the driveway, and some helpful instruction, he was actually casting like a champ. Nice tight loops, setting his fly line down softly, it was time to hit the water.
    We went to spot that I though would be good for easy casting, and let him loose. He had focus like I have never seen. After tossing a yellow popper for a while I suggested he switcthed to something more natural. About two casts after tying on his muddler minnow he got a  nice little pop from a sunfish. As was the case for most of us on our first topwater hit, his eyes got as big as silver dollars and he jerked the fly right out of the fishes mouth as his fly line went all over the place. But I could tell, he was hooked right then. He was determined to catch a fish. The bite was really tricky, they were taking caddis on a long still drift but were sipping so gently that they were not sticking on the hook. After the sun went down, we went to a spot where I knew we could fish under the lights. His determination was ten fold as we neared the end of the session. Finally, "I got one!!" I looked over to see his rod high and and he pulled in a tiny but beautiful Red Spotted Sunfish. It was incredibly rewarding to teach him to cast, and see him put a fish on the line in one afternoon. I felt as if I had  truly come around full circle. There is no greater gift I could think of. Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime.

Tight Lines