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Category Archive:   Texas Rivers


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In reality i probably shouldn’t have been out wandering the shores of my beloved Pedernales. I had spent the previous week with an illness that found me slowly slipping back and forth between 14 hour days of sleep and walking around my work like a zombie trying to keep busy just so i wouldn’t notice how miserable i really was.

While i was lucky enough to acquire many wonderful traits from my parents, i was also unfortunate enough to inherit a healthy dose of stubbornness that causes me ignore the advice of others (“Go home and get some rest!”) and do what i think i need to do (“Strap on a 20 pound pack and head out to wade in a raging river and try and catch some fish dam it!”) despite the fact that i really probably should have waited for the illness to leave and the flows to get back down to something resembling normal.

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This scenario played itself out recently when i hiked into the lower waters of the Pedernales with all intents of breaking up the monotony of the sleep/cough/zombie shuffle. Although flows were only hovering around 250CFS that’s enough of a flow in this shallow riverbed  to turn the water into heavy flows from bank to bank. Pools that had previously been waist high and wadable were now over head high and full of such powerful flows that simply trying to stand your own was a chore.

Making my way along the shore i eventually found temporary reprieve in a small pocket out of the main current. Working the ubiquitous black Wooly Bugger through the mellow waters i felt a sudden tug that i figured would likely be an eager sunfish trying to scarf down a quick meal.

As the line went taut, i struggled to catch a glimpse of the sunfish only to find myself playing tug o’ war with a small gar that seemed a little peeved to have been fooled. I oohed and awed over the fish, snapped a couple of quick photos while informing him/her that he/she was my first gar of the season, a noble title to be sure, but the fish just kept eyeballing me without any discernible change in attitude.

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Shortly after that spotted, and needle jawed wonder, i turned and headed back to the car, sweating, exhausted and seriously wondering if i could make it back to the car without passing out. Maybe everyone else was right and i should have stayed at home?

Not that there was ever really any question of course, the great thing about stubbornness is that it not only makes you want to prove everyone else wrong, it also makes you want to prove yourself right.

Exhausted but smiling, i made it to the car, returned home, laid down and immediately fell into an incredibly restful sleep where i dreamt of flowing crystal waters, lines tearing into backing, stalwart cypress, endless sand, majestic black spots and radiant, prehistoric golden scales glistening in the sun.

Maybe stubbornness isn’t always bad after all.

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Pulling into Colorado Bend State Park, the expectations were running high indeed. With the drought of the last few years, the flows where the Colorado River flowed into Lake Buchanan had essentially become non existent, physically cutting off the white bass from their natural inclination to head upstream and spawn. Fortunately with all the recent rains of the last six months, much of Texas is seeing life move back into areas that they once called home. Chief among these are the white bass and the fisherman that chase them, both once again calling Colorado Bend SP home.

If you’ve never fished for white bass before, it can be summed up rather succinctly by stating that “It’s all or nothing.” Traveling in schools as they do, if you’re fortunate enough to find one, you’ll probably find many more. Because of this, one persons skunk on a particular stretch of water one day can easily be someones double digit bonanza just 24 hours later.

While there are many spots around central Texas to wade in hopes of finding some of these white magic bullets, Colorado Bend State Park is one of the classics. However the drought of the last few years has kept the flows from being enough to facilitate the bass making it from the lake up into the river. Fortunately, this year the rains have been kind and the white bass are once again moving up the Colorado again which meant it was time to cash in some favors and spend some time alone with just water, fish, a rod and myself.

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The first sign of abundance happened as soon as i pulled into my campsite and placed a few random items on the pot marked and weathered picnic table. The wind whipped into a furry and instantly sent a stove, a sleeping bag, two boxes of flies, and various other items over the edge of the table and scattered them on the ground as though it wanted to play a round of Pick-Up Stix. I’m not sure why, but i just chuckled and laughed at the chaos, possibly because i was on the beginning side of three full days of fishing. One thing is for sure, i was not laughing about the wind long after that, and certainly not at the end of the trip, after being buffeted by 30-45mph winds non-stop for three days solid.

While a steady wind is nothing short of nerve wracking, a steady flow of water can be absolute bliss and that’s where the river delivered, showing no signs of ebbing over the three days i spent moving up, down, and across its gripping current. While the heavy flows would have kept lesser fish wary due to the one inch visibility, these fish were here, they were horny, and more than anything else they were hungry.

How hungry? Despite the chocolate milk consistency of the water, double digit fish within an hour were far from uncommon. While my new 7’6″ Winston 3WT was complaining out loud with every gust that blew the water upstream, it definitely doubled over in laughter with every hook-up and bolting bass caught despite the ceaseless buffeting of the wind.

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After a couple of days of way to much sun and wind on the river i headed out to the Spicewood Springs trail in the park eager to see it once again full of flowing water. It’s a small but heavenly creek full of waterfalls, verdant plant life, and crystal clear spring waters. Many years ago, when water was still abundant, my family and i had hiked this trail and the sunfish and small bass were plentiful to a degree that i now realize was a blessing. Now, using the two weight, three inch fish that had obviously never seen an angler were caught and released quickly. Back on the river, 20-30 fishermen were casting uncomfortably close to each other in muddy waters, but here it felt like fishing in Eden, despite the small size of the fish.

The last day was more white bass, more sun, more wind and more frustration about the two things (in addition to the wind) that had been plaguing me since i pulled in to camp that first night. One was the incessant rumbling of a tractors engine that was blown upstream by the endless wind. The other was that i had lost my waterproof camera of 5+ years in the first evening of fishing, lost (i imagined) in the muddy waters of the Colorado while grabbing a fly box.

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Breaking camp, i headed out on the dirt road only to hear the tractor hum that had plagued me for days approach, and feel the anger caused by this audible abomination to nature swell up in me. At the peak of frustration i realized what they had been doing, using an auger to plant a plethora of trees throughout the park. Smile.

So inspired was i by the fact that my frustration had turned out to be something so wonderful, i actually made a choice at the moment to embrace the positive aspect of every seemingly annoying setback. After stopping in the park rangers station a couple of times over the last few days to inquire about my lost camera only to be disappointed, i decided to make one last inquiry based on this recent turn of events.

Standing there inquiring about an “orange camera” i noticed the park ranger smiling in a peculiar way that had me wondering what was going on. When she returned with the camera my desperation / exaltation must have emanated from every pore.

Turns out that a young angler named Will had found my camera in his campsite (the one i initially took before moving sites) and turned it in that day. Turning around, i headed back to the small trailer that Will and his grandpa were camping in and was lucky enough to encounter them walking up the road to take a break from slaying the fish. I practically tripped over myself offering Will gifts and praise, grateful as i was for his honesty and virtue.

If you haven’t been to Colorado State Park yet i suggest you head there ASAP, it’s an amazing place with some incredible fishing . If your lucky, the wind and muddy waters will be long gone, but i’m sure the fish and positive vibes that Will tapped into will still be there for you to enjoy.

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After years of fishing specific waters during certain times of the year i was determined to to make this year different. I love trout, and i love the Guadalupe, but in an effort to stay true to the raison d’être of this blog i wanted to make every effort this season to push the central Texas fly fishing possibilities as much as possible. Unsurprisingly this adventurous hunt to see what fish might be stirring this early in the season has been mostly populated with tiny, naive fish and many, many skunks.

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As the saying goes though, “A big front has a big back.” and on a recent exploratory trip to the mouth of the Llano river near Kingsland the stars finally aligned, the universe eased up, and my curiosity was handsomely rewarded with one of the most epic days of fly fishing i’ve ever had.

The day started at Sportsmans Finest where flies were bought in earnest, and potential white bass spots were debated with an intensity otherwise reserved for this carnival of an election we’re going through. At the encouragement of Lyndy, i decided to stay focused on my initial plan of hitting the Llano, despite the fact that the general consensus was that it was still to early for the white bass to be making their way up the Llano.

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Thanks to some random acts of kindness i was hooked up with my first shot at private access. The property, unbelievably, lead straight down the bank and to the exact pools on the Llano that i was hoping to explore, ones that lied close to the intersection of the Llano and the Colorado river, the first spot that the whites would be haunting.

For the unfamiliar, normally fishing for whites on this stretch of water means parking on a low water crossing (The Slab) notorious for its meth head break ins, and making a laboriously long hike on shifting sands downstream to the deeper pools and water that the bass love to hole up in.

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Afforded the luxury of starting at the deep end and working my way up to the shallower unproductive waters was a welcome change since i could head back to the deep pockets whenever i wanted. With only the occasional fish spotted or landed on my way upstream, i eventually turned back around in hopes of really working the lower waters before calling it a day.

There are very few days i can recall where random decisions like these have been rewarded so handsomely. An hour or so later after landing 30-40 white bass on the stellar new Winston 7’6″ 3WT Nexus i’d recently received as a warranty replacement, i actually had to eventually bow out due to hunger, thirst and the fact that my arm was actually was getting tired from landing so many fish.

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If you have yet to experience the white bass run on this lower stretch of the Llano, i highly recommend making your way there now. Just remove everything from your vehicle except for the equipment you plan on using, park at the “Slab” and be prepared to hike a ways through some amazing scenery to get to the fish. They’re a ways down now but will be working their way upstream over the next few weeks so don’t rule out the upper stretches.

Worst case: You get to stumble through endless sand bars and take in the crystal waters and limitless amount of wild flowers that are sprouting everywhere.

Best case: You luck on to a school of these little terrors, watch your line bolt and glimpse your rod doubling over in laughter as you break out in to hysterics yourself.

I sure did.

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On a recent lunch break i was strolling through a nearby park when something small, fragile and beautiful caught my eye. I sauntered over to the short but full tree and stared at the buds on the branches the way i imagine an elderly person might stare at a young loved one. I knew instinctively that the still forming pinkish bloom had meaning that somehow related to fishing, but it was a hazy memory and i walked away with my mind running circles trying to remember the significance.

A few hours later, back at work, during a random exchange that had zero to do with fishing, the mental chasm was breached and the connection came to me…

“Red buds, the white bass are returning!”

Desperate to intersect the elusive white bass, i headed west the next day intent on heading to Kingsland, a spot that requires a long drive and an even longer hike on fine sandy banks. Stopping for some Hill Country Clousers at Sportsman’s Finest, i was re-directed by Casey to the much closer and hospitable Reimers Ranch.

Having fished Reimers regularly over the last few years (during our drought) i’d gotten used to knowing the park as a giant sandbar with narrow, shallow waters that were almost impassable for small sunfish, much less the larger white bass trying to make their way upriver. It had been a well known spot for the white bass run in the past, but for me it’d been a go to carp / gar spot with low flows and little to no angling pressure.

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What i pulled up to the other day though was a completely different watershed than i had ever witnessed. Gone were the shallow sand bars and wadable pockets, replaced by bank to bank water, pools deep enough to drown in, and flows sufficient enough to allow the white bass to return to this stretch of water for the first time in years.

Fishing some of the faster rapids i glanced up as a kayaker approached decked out to the nines and smiling like a madman.

“How did you do?” i inquired, unsure whether i and all the yak anglers present were delusional in hoping that the whites were this far upstream so early in the season.

“Full limit!” he replied, gesturing to the now obvious stringer of white bass draped across the bulkhead of his kayak.

Nonplussed by the sight of dead fish, i never the less felt a jolt of excitement run up my spine, after all, it meant they were here somewhere, and the spot i’d observed him fishing seemed the perfect place to start. Scrambling upstream i hit the deep pools tucked into the bank, as the kayaker had mentioned, and quickly found myself hooking into some eager black bass that seemed to be relishing the abnormally warm weather by sporting their tank tops and smacking the crap out of anything that crossed their path.

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Further up the bank i let the line sink to it’s limit, stripped slowly and felt a forceful tug on the line that felt abnormal yet slightly familiar. Turns out it was a curious (or starving) channel catfish that bent the 3WT like a wet noodle as it tried to duck and cover under every unseen cornice far below.

Shortly after that cat i did manage to hook and land the white bass in the title. It’s hard to sum up in a few words what that white meant to me, so let me use more than a few.

After years of trying to “figure” this fly fishing thing out through many days on the water and countless (actually 898) posts, i’ve recently rediscovered the passion for discovering not just new waters, but new possibilities on familiar waters throughout the year. There’s a magic in challenging commonly held beliefs (trout in winter, gar in summer, etc.) that is just to tempting to push the boundaries of. That cat fish (“nobody” catches catfish on a fly rod) and that white bass (“it’s to early / late”…etc) were proof positive that with enough skill, luck and determination any illusion can be shattered. Granted, most of the time it doesn’t work, but when it does it’s magical.

P.S. On the way back from Reimer’s i happened to spot a food truck (ubiquitous in Austin, but rare in these parts) that lured me in and turned out to be one of the most amazing meals i’ve ever purchased from a wheeled vehicle (and there have been a lot). The beef sliders (farm raised beef, melted brie cheese and made from scratch rosemary aoli) and french fries (rosemary and parmesan) presented by H12 Outdoors Cafe were so infectiously good that i’m already chomping at the bit to get back to Reimer’s partly to enjoy the outdoors but partly to sample more of this delectable truck fare.

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