A Southern Ramble
A Southern Ramble
by Riverhorse Nakadate
There is something intangibly beautiful about a 3 a.m. fishing run. The stars get far more illuminating once I put the rest of life in the rearview mirror, making my way into the piney woods and hills of all things Texas northbound. Why is it that some of my favorite moments fishing are actually that of being on the cusp of immersing myself in it?
The truck is loaded with a canoe on the racks. I've got homegrown sandwiches of slow-smoked brisket with a brown sugar rub on sourdough bread, a few Shiners on ice, and some leftover peach pie in the cooler. There are a couple fly rods under the seat, a hand-made western cedar paddle, a dozen 02 deer hair frog flies, and wading boots still wet from endless consecutive days of fishing.
A couple hours later, I pull in to a small town bakery that is already up and at 'em, and go for a bear claw to add to the stash. Bear claw versus apple fritters? Nice try. With just a few minutes before first light, I pull the truck down the gravel path alongside the lake and drop the tailgate, light a portable titanium propane burner, simmer water, then pour it into a French press with the coffee grinds already in it. I throw in a bit of organic cream and fill the beater thermos, all the while taking sips to wash down the bear claw. I am ready to fish. So much of life is thinking. Finally, here is the doing.
I can't quite see yet, but quietly unrack the canoe, throw the six weight together, and change a fresh leader to 16lb. With the rest of the gear placed alongside the gunnels, I kick off the bank with my left foot. There is a light fog sensually lilting off the water, and as everything comes into focus, things just have that vibe—I can feel it in my gut. The lake looks greasy and willing. In fact, I can smell it, things are about to happen.
photo: Copi Vojta
We all have our tried and true go to patterns. I throw top water frogs anywhere and everywhere, from the Arctic Circle to the lower 48, and today is no different. I'm not into fishing deep pockets, and am well aware that often there are far more consistent fish waiting down there. That's fine. I'd rather have the wicked siren call spank and heckraisin’ whollop of a surface eat any time. How are they even legal, they are so darn fun? Let’s see, white belly or yellow belly? Oh, decisions.
I take my time paddling across the lake and make my way around a bend into the first cove. There is a mellow point of land coming out and it's as fine an ambush spot as it gets, so I arc out a few false casts and air the frog out about 60 feet just past the wraparound. The sound of it landing is equal parts rowdy and juicy, and that's one of the reasons these flies are special to fish. Some days, while stripping in the fly, my mind wanders and I think about life and don't always pay attention to things, but today, I zero in with an incomparable fascination because I just know it's on.
There is the frog sliding ever rudely across the surface, and a few errant bubbles gurgling away sending out concentric rings and ripples, there is the stunning swirl and crush of the take, and there is a fly rod melting down in my hands as a serious bass pours the coals to it. My lawd. This is one of those fish that stand the test of time, are there for us to draw on during the ebb and flow of life and amuse us. For a couple minutes it is all I can do to guide this bucketmouth out of the weed tendrils and keep it from breaking off under the front of the canoe.
There are three separate legitimate freight train runs, all lumbering, driving, bullishly headstrong and shoulder-filled. The bass comes up for a few seconds before taking a last dive, and I realize that the canoe has been pulled some thirty yards. It is corpulent, porcine, and all there. Hips and lips. Damn. After savoring the shimmer and tremble of verdant green life in my hands, I watch the fish swim off, and reach down to pour some more coffee. It's barely 7 a.m. I've got nothing but time and the rest of the day ahead.
Riverhorse is part of the extended Umpqua Family, author, adventurer, environmentalist and musician. He is most often found on the fringes of a southern salt marsh with his cherished canoe, a journal and an eight-weight.