Battle of the Pedernales: The Armistice Agreement

Part Three: The Armistice Agreement
Story & Photos by Brandon Robinson

This renegade river had essentially killed my entire working fly rod collection and had eaten a whole box’s worth of flies. Some might blame the angler, but this is my story. Mistakes were made, but it was that river’s fault in the end. My justification of this fact is that I wasn’t having this rough of a time with any other river. Desperation had forced my hand, requiring me into a box store earlier in the week to procure a new fly rod. It had to be tested so; Brushy Creek, the Llano, and the San Gabriel all became proving grounds for this new addition. My new rod preformed beautifully, so I called Shawn. Plans were drawn up and a date was set.

Once again, I was going to battle the Pedernales.

During this time a separate and extensive search had commenced. I had been on the hunt for a new fiberglass rod since losing my Scott F-2 to a vindictive fly. One lead took me to a hole-in-the-wall tackle shop in Austin. They didn’t have it, but they did carry graphite rods, including Okuma’s Crisium model, the last rod claimed by the Pedernales. When I explained everything, the staff there offered to fix it! Without even asking a price, I agreed to let him have at it. Once the surgery was done, the rod that heralded me into the world of fly fishing was now a little shorter, a little faster, and two eyes were kind of squished up on the end of it; but my rod was back in the fight. Excited as I was, the search for a suitable glass rod continued.

I finally found a 6’6” Eagle Claw Featherlight, exactly what I wanted. It was ordered, shipped, and rigged before you could say ‘Glass geek’. This rod would also accompany me on my third trip to the Pedernales. It would be an excellent proving ground for it. Sadly, with a new glass rod, and a returning veteran, the new guy would have to sit this one out. I was okay with that.

I suspected the Pedernales had heard of my intentions and was planning to thwart my victory, so Friday morning I changed plans. Shawn and I would ride into battle that afternoon. It would be a late, late start for effective fishing. The conditions would be “less than ideal” and by “less than ideal” I mean; 1,500⁰ Kelvin, near-cloudless, and late in the afternoon. It would not be expected for me to show up so late to the fight, with surprise on my side I would prevail. I was operating under the belief that rivers have ears, of course.

Shawn and I arrived and geared up. I looked down and saw half of a wine cork sitting in the parking lot. Hmm, someone else who frequents this river is known to bring wine on his outings… Did I just stumble upon die Fische sign? Back on track, it started to remind me of one deployment when I was still Active Duty, “Weapon ready? Check. Extra ammo? Check. Hydration? Check. Protective gear? Check. Emergency rations? Check. Alright, let’s do this. Get some!”

The “battle plan” called for a hopscotch attack upstream, then doubling back to advance downstream. Shawn and I descended upon the field of battle and commenced the attack. We fired off volley after volley at the target with limited success. I switched weapons opting for the sub-compact Eagle Claw. We continued fire. Then Shawn calls out, I look over, and his 4wt is doubled over. He got a hit! Moving upstream the battle raged on. The heat was intense but we were warriors determined to achieve total victory. Truth be told, I suspect Shawn might have just been fishing instead.

The fight raged on for about an hour or so, Shawn’s fish count was 4 or 5 I think, my count was easy to remember… none. The Pedernales really wasn’t fighting back though, she was largely ignoring me or my efforts had zero effect on her. I started to sweat, mentally. Self-doubt and desperation were devils on my shoulder working in tandem to cloud my judgment. I had nothing that counted as a “win” in my eyes and the shadows kept getting longer and longer, subconscious reminders that my window was closing.

Casting my way up to real estate that looked fishy, I finally caught one little Rio Grande Cichlid. It was nothing special, just a well-executed display of fishing prowess. I can’t control the size of the fish that fell for it, but I wasn’t skunked. As I continued my upstream advancement slinging flies at any opportunity, I stumbled across something that brought life back in to focus.

In a tiny puddle, no bigger than my fist, was an even tinier Guadalupe Bass in full-on panic mode. It was freaking out at the sudden appearance of a giant predator and the knowledge that it had nowhere to go: this little fish was in a no-win situation. This puddle was a good distance from the main flow in fish terms and I wondered how on earth the little guy got into this mess to begin with. If I hadn’t taken the time to stop and pay attention, this little guy would not have made it much longer. That’s when it hit me…

Fly fishing is my relaxing pastime; it isn’t war. I have been coming at this river from all the wrong angles! The Pedernales wasn’t my enemy; she was a beautiful stranger I was trying to seduce. It wasn’t her fault that my advances had been too forward; she reacted just like any true Lady would at such a frontal assault. The two busted rods were the metaphorical combination of a slap and a drink to the face. I needed to relax, and let nature work its course. So, I picked up that little bass, took one picture of him and returned him to open water before the heat could get to him. After that brief episode of “Hillbilly Hand Fishin’” I felt calm and relaxed: I stopped looking for a fight and just enjoyed the day.

There was daylight left and I wasn’t going to let any of it go to waste, this was the first time in 3 months that I didn’t have to worry about work the next day. Even though the battle was over, I was in no hurry to leave. I decided to keep moving upstream, looking for another shot at some monster carp. I didn’t see any harm in that.

Finally, I spied a pair. They were a flirty little couple circling a little section that had a fairly good riffle coming in from one side, a rock structure to the left, and a surprisingly deep trough in between. Besides canoodling (I assume, if fish are versed in the art of the canoodle) they seemed to alternated feeding from the main flow entering the head of the trough, then circling to feed from the riffle on the left, then mudding through their way back to the main trough. I sat down to watch several repeats of that same pattern.

Grabbing the 5 wt, I rigged up a size 10 hares ear and started trying to drift it through them. They seemed to not notice the little morsel drifting past them. I picked up the glass rod, which had a little weighted sculpin pattern on it, and tried it. They seemed to like it. Two more casts and then I felt the fly stop. I set the hook, the carp shook for a split second and then I was staring at the end of my leader. This was frustrating, but the carp didn’t seem to be aware of anything unusual so I tied more tippet and mad chicken leech on the leader and continued to fish. I was in a good position, sitting on a rock downstream from the lovebirds so I stayed where I was and cast back into the pair. The skin on my right calf felt strangely tight so while waiting for the fly to settle, I looked down to see blood running down my leg.

For a second I thought I had been bitten by another snake (I had already racked up one snake bite in my fishing career: one snake bite is two bites too many). The blood was coming from one place instead of two, so I dismissed the whole thing while stripping line slowly and cast back to the honeymooners. A couple of snags and a thousand casts later I was running out of leeches and developing a seething hatred for Rio leaders when I decided to try once more. It was a take! That little fiberglass rod was in over its head, which by then was scraping my knuckles as I held on for dear life. I looked up and shouted for Shawn, who was nowhere to be seen.

While I was counting my fish before the catch, the carp had other plans. She spit the hook while I wasn’t paying attention to her. I guess she decided she had enough of the attention and took off through the shallow water with the boyfriend close behind. That was entirely my fault. I stood there grinning at my rookie mistake and scratching my calf. Wait, why am I scratching my calf? The blood had washed off, but the point from where it was bleeding was swollen and red.

Really, Pedernales? I thought we finally had something going here.

I tried to think of what could strike without me noticing, draw blood, and cause my leg to swell up. I came up empty, but I did check the rest of my vitals. Aside from the itching and swelling I was okay, but I thought it best to pack up and get closer to medical attention if things turned south.

The sun was setting slowly to the west, the river wasn’t going anywhere, and an armistice agreement was reached. I caught only one fish, turned two others, and even though the Pedernales may have taken one last parting shot at my leg, I didn’t lose anymore rods. That has to count for something, plus thinking back I had a really good time. I think I can be happy making peace with this river, for now.

Epilogue:

All and all the Pedernales River is a beautiful place to fish. My leg was fine the next morning, apart from a little itchiness but I continued to keep an eye on it till it went away. Still have no clue what got me though. I also removed the cork from the pavement, I now use it to store littered hooks I find while fishing.

If you don’t find joy in your hobby, you have no reason to keep doing it. That’s what a job is for. Maybe letting the river get to me was good for storytelling, but I lost sight of the bigger picture. While most people were at work or drinking away their issues, I was on a beautiful secluded river, with a good friend, and I wouldn’t trade that for all the trophy fish I could catch. Besides, don’t days like these make the good days even sweeter?

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