The Battle of The Pedernales: Prelude to War

Part One: Prelude to War
by Brandon Robinson

The first day of this overly frustrating debacle, I was fishing with my regular fishing buddy, Shawn. We had read about some really good fishing on a river I had never gotten around to trying. Now it’s seriously Africa hot here in central Texas and our rivers are shriveling up like salted slugs. Simply put, it is oppressive. This fishing though, was reportedly spectacular.

I for one, wanted in.

Deciding I was going to take advantage of this intel, I announced my intentions to any who would read them on Twitter. Word was received back, hastily a plan came together (Shawn would be leaving straight from work, wade fishing jeans and tennis shoes…). Work had been especially annoying, FlyStock preparations were seriously cutting in to my fishing time; I was desperate. Shawn was too, but for different reasons.

OH-HOLY-CRAP! The drive out there was hot like the surface of the sun.

We arrived, after some debate, rigged up and headed down to the river.

The Pedernales is a beautiful river, even at these levels, and there was, *gasp* water flowing! This was going to be a good day. Sometime you have to get out of the city to Austin to remember why you came to Texas in the first place.

My fly of choice was an olive and orange clouser with gold flash (size 8 or 10), recently acquired from a fly shop on the way. My cast was ugly but, BAM! Ugly casts catch fish too. The slam of the take traveled up the fly line with a tremendous amount of energy and I sent the hook-set back with equal force.

The fight was on, and it was good. To hand, it was a little over 14”, a beautiful Guadalupe Bass (Texas Trout). “This is going to be a good day.” Assuming the air of confidence that only a first-cast fish can give you, I boldly swapped flies.

Not my smartest move.

The takes were few and far between, the day was getting hotter, and the snags along the bottom were becoming more frequent. With the atmospheric ovenstill set to ‘Self-Clean’ I pressed on, swapped my fly two or three more times, before finally settling back to what I started with. My cast was getting lazier by the minute and my back cast popped along the rocks on the shoreline.

Something didn’t feel right. Checking my fly, I see a zap-a-gap hole where the lead eyes used to be. Crap. Back to the box. Then I remember what I had read. The author who wrote the report was killing on a size 18 Hare’s Ear.

The closest thing I have to the dull and buggy texture of a Hare’s Ear is some little contraption I don’t remember buying, but can’t remember ever not having. It was a wet fly tied to look like a drowned wasp. Not expecting it to work, I tied it on and cast it without much confidence. Bump. Lalala… Bump. Wait, was that a…? BUMP. Crap! I set the hook and the fight was on! Two seconds later it spit the fly. With a racing heart I cast back where I estimated the fly was taken, on the sunny side of a large submerged boulder. I felt the softest of sips and set the hook, with adrenaline. I watched with chagrin as the rod tip strained down and without a pause, flexed back straight. Cast again. Soft set, but not too soft, a trout set. The fish flashed me, silver colored and torpedo shaped. Shad. BIG Shad. Crap, they have soft mouths, don’t they? My internal question had its answer as he started to run. Pop goes the weasel, out comes the profanity.

I made another quick cast back at the rock, as the wind blew my line a little sideways, I landed off my mark. I decided to let the fly drift, and keep a close eye on the tip of my line. I popped the line as gently as I could and felt something. Jumping the gun, I set the hook, right into a log. Insert more profanity here.

This is where the Pedernales River made it clear she didn’t approve of my presence. I worked my way around the hole, trying to free my working pattern without blowing all the fish out of there. I pulled every trick I know for freeing the fly before I heard a sickening crack as the tip of my fly rod snapped in two. It surprised me so much that no profanities escaped my lips.

I did not utter a single sound.

I just stood there mouth open, frozen in time, and completely dumbfounded by what happened. It wasn’t like I was abusing it, it just popped. I snatched the tippet right off the fly, tied on a new one, and fished dejectedly with a busted rod. No more fish. Sure, I had a backup rod and I fished it, but the fly that was working the best was stuck in the bottom of that pool along with my spirits. The heat eventually got to me and I went swimming instead to cool off. Sacrilege, I know. Did I mention the oppressive heat?

The Pedernales won today, but I’m coming back soon. Bet your ass.

Go to Part 2 – The Battle for the Pedernales: Escalation of Hostilities

Brandon is prior military who discovered the therapeutic “zen” of fly fishing upon return to civilian life and has been the founding force behind FlyStock, a fund raising event for Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing. A non-profit organization that is widely recognized for its work with our returning warriors.

Read more about his motivation for this fundraising event at The Functioning Fishaholics blog