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Archive for 2018

Hello friend. It’s been a while, right?

Not only has my current job consumed all my extracuricular energy (everyone should be so lucky to have their “job” be something they love to pour all their heart, soul, and time into) but the “trout season” down here on the Guadalupe has been nothing short of a punch in the gut for me, meaning many days of skunks while everyone around me cleans up like janitors. As both my job, and the trout lie in a southernly direction from Austin, I’ve spent countless hours on I-35 listening to an endless streams of podcasts while trying my best to no become some sort of unwilling collateral damage in one of the many “Fast and Furious” showdowns that I’m party to at least twice a day.

All of which is to say that when I pointed the nose of my motorized chariot west for the first time in a LONG time there was a exaltation of the spirit that had been missing for many months. The giddiness arose from the simple notion that I would be seeing a good friend I’d not seen in months, my confidant, my shrink and the provider of numerous days of adventure that fill the recesses and folds of my psyche. I refer, of course to the holiest of holies, the Pedernales River.

As any angler worth his salted cod knows, between trout and bass seasons around here there is a special time known as “The White Bass Run”. It doesn’t get the airplay that the previously mentioned seasons do, it’s more of the “second chair” in the orchestra, or the EP release of your favorite band that is just about ready to drop their LP anyday now! Suffice to say, it doesn’t get the love it deserves as most folks are pining for trout or yearning for the largemouth behemoths that lurk just around the chronological corner of time.

The odds weren’t in my favor, the internet being largely devoid of any recent reports of runs other than the Nueces, and the word at Sportsmans Finest (where I was picking up some of the obligatory Hill Country Clousers) sounding at best, pretty damn bleak. Still, just the fact that I might be able to get skunked on some different waters sounded like a wonderful change of pace.

Pulling into the north parking of Reimers Ranch I was beside myself to see that there wasn’t a single soul in the area. I hurriedly made my way down the ancient steps and hustled off down to the banks of the river trying to keep my expectations in check. Sitting there rigging the sinking tip and fuddling with knots I struggled to recall, I was suddenly shocked when the waters just a few feet away from me erupted in a violent display of baitfish being hammered by something strong, hungry, and ferocious…white bass.

Working the waters from the banks, the fish slowly came to hand, approximately one fish for every four casts. Sometimes it was an eruption of fury that was quickly cast into where an aggressive bass might be summoned, but more often than not it was just working though pools of activity and getting the “random” hook up that would bend the 3WT towards the muddy flats and have me practically choking in reverential laughter at the sheer amount of joy that this day was providing. After an hour or so of watching the bass slash the surface just beyond my reach I set aside my flip flops and worked my way barefoot through the mud and out to the main channel, easily sinking to my knees in spots, but still coming closer and closer to the rustling waters previously out of reach.

In short, shit was epic. Forty fish easy.

After so many months of some strange trout curse that seemed to suck the joy out of the air around me it was an immensely amazing display of the potential that a day could possibly proffer. I suggest you head there soon to partake of this wonderful, temporal, diversion which as for now is still devoid of human distraction.

The blank page sits there patiently, haunting you from the periphery of your vision and your thoughts. The white emptiness, lacking characters and verbage, fills your thoughts.  There is the constant nagging feeling that words must be stacked together cautiously and carefully, ready to foster the flames passion in the reader. But where would these words come from? For you alone know you have no experience to relate, or at least nothing out of the norm for any casual fly fisher that pursues beaten paths on similar soils to your own.

This thought, and the possible words surrounding them have been eating away at me for months.

In short, I’ve taken on a job that I am deeply passionate about, one that has consumed my time, skills, and thoughts to an almost feverish degree. It has brought me an immense amount of satisfaction and joy, but also has consumed so much of my creative energy that this blog has in turn suffered from the love, care, and attention that it had slowly become accustomed to over the years.

Doubtlessly this is also the reason my trout season here on the Guadalupe has suffered so. While my job at Gruene Outfitters is mere minutes from the stocked trout plantations, I’ve somehow only managed brief late evening outings punctuated by lacluster days off, which have been mostly fruitless and dis-heartening episodes hardly worth mentioning in conversation, much less writing about.

I sense it all on the verge of turning around though in 2018. I’ve more or less figured out the rhythm of my job, know the expectations I’m held to, and have FINALLY figured out how to leave my job at work and shift that attention to my family and personal effects such as this blog.

Stay tuned!