Part Two: Escalation of Hostilities
by Brandon Robinson
I wanted a rematch, especially after reading about another great day on the Pedernales. I would again have company, this time in the form of TRB’s head Honcho. He would be tagging along to shoot pictures for the story of my triumph over that cagey river. We mapped out a plan, set a time, and I dreamt of the vicious pounding I was going to give that river.
Work tried to intervene, but I was determined. Nothing was going to stand in my way. My people would write songs about this day that would be sung for generations. My name would be synonymous with those like: Spartacus, Hercules, Sitting Bull, Genghis Khan, Robert E. Lee, and Owl Jones.
David and I met up at the predetermined spot and headed out. We are both prior Air Force, so the conversation is always easy. Still though, this day wasn’t just about the Pedernales, I had FlyStock business to attend to at a local fly shop. While there I prudently picked up some new flies, since my last fly that was working the best was slowly rusting away in the river bottom. We loaded back up, grabbed some grub, and soon there was nothing but time and asphalt between me and my victory.
I was down to this one rod, and I hadn’t been fishing since the last failed attempt at conquering the Pedernales. Still, the sun was bright, the birds were singing and the 105+ heat could do nothing to melt my spirits. Part of this elation was due to the fact that the “rod of the day” was my very first fly rod. She was an old friend, that rod. It had been a long time since I had fished her, but like any good friendship once we reconnected it was as if no time had passed. She was a five-weight, a bit on the slow side, and I was going to throw a WF six-weight “bass bug” line on her. I tied on a pattern that was basically a chicken leech with rubber legs, and the whole time I could hear David clicking away with his camera.
I tried not to think about the attention, but it was kind of neat. It added to my confidence that this day was going to be nothing short of legendary. The heat was starting to get to me standing in the parking lot rigging up. With no shade to speak of, my go-to wading shoes offering zero thermal protection, and the anticipation was steady building, so I swiftly made my way down to the river. I think I was stripping out line before I actually got in the water, and I was definitely casting out line before the water had a chance to cool my feet off.
When I am the tree falling in the woods and no one is around, I make no noise. With the knowledge that someone was there, taking pictures of my casting, I definitely made a sound. Several of them actually. Most of them were profane. By myself casting, I am on par with Tim Rajeff (ha, riiight). Now that pictures were being taken, tailing loops, wind knots, and bungled casts showed like B rated actors starved for paparazzi attention. The water was foaming profusely, a result of my line whipping the water of its own volition. I finally landed a cast out in the spot I was aiming for and immediately felt the take. It was pretty, little, and toothy, a Guadalupe Bass.
Posing for the “Oh-how-cute” instead of a “grip-and-grin” due to the size of the fish, I had to admire the color of this little guy. Spotted up, it looked almost reptilian. I bent over to let the fish go, and he didn’t want any of that. With all his might, this tiny specimen of a fish hung on to my thumb like an aquatic pitbull with a taste of blood. I couldn’t help but laugh in amazement at the Chicken Hawk attitude he sported. Finally shaking him loose, I gathered up my line to cast again. Two or three casts later I felt the line, just get walloped.
I lifted to set the hook and the fish pulled a hard right, running just slightly parallel to me. He was on long enough I knew he was going to be a good fish. That however, was as close as I was going to get to finding out. At the end of his run, he flipped around, turning into me and spit the hook. Suddenly I was pitching fits like John McEnroe, which is completely out of character for me. All the elation of the day was in danger of disappearing with the fish of mysterious proportions.
A second to breathe, then before morale could drop I cast out again. I was quickly rewarded for my perseverance as another fish took my fly. I could feel, and said as much, that it was better than the first, but smaller than the last. With the fish at hand, I estimated him at just barely legal, stopped for another couple of shots, and retuned the fish gently.
I felt the heat building as it neared the hottest part of the day, and on my own mental score card, I considered this pool “beaten”. Smugly, I sauntered to the next hole up stream. This next skirmish almost wore me down. I fished several different patterns with little or no success.
This was the hole, by the way, that ate my fly rod during the last encounter.
I had to win here. This was a war of man against nature, and this battle before me might secure my victory. I fished, stopped for lunch and then a short dip to knock ten degrees off the day. I called it ‘Texas Air Conditioning’ and once cool, I resumed fishing. After several dinks, I caught a Rio Grande Cichlid of decent quality and considered this a victory by a narrow margin. It wasn’t a complete triumph, a coin toss and it might have been decidedly different. None the less, I pressed forward. As I advanced further into enemy territory, I saw my next target.
There in front of me, spotted before I was discovered, was a pod of 3 or 5 monster carp in water barely deep enough to cover them, and devoid of shade. These Golden Ghosts seemed to enjoy the devilish heat, as if they were spawned in the River Styx itself. That should have been a clue. Feeling a tad bit cocky, I switched to a straight black chicken leech and cast out just slightly behind the pod. My line hit the water, and all but one of them scattered.
The remaining carp was the biggest of the lot, and seemed to fear nothing. I twitched the fly and slowly dragged it underneath him. He was starting to lazily drift away when the fly jumped, sending up a tiny puff of silt. He wheeled, sucked up the fly, and I set the hook. A second later, the warrior realized the position he was in. My brain saw what was happening long before the signal reached my finger. The carp suddenly bolted in the opposite direction and my finger had a firm grip on the line. The rod bowed and in slow motion, I could see the fly firmly hooked in the fish’s mouth and could feel the rod vibrate in an odd way, then spring free.
A split second later it hit me, my last fly rod just snapped.
Spinning on my heel I turned and javelined the rod downstream while a primitive yell boiled deep within me. I watched it arc upwards with fly line streaming behind it and land reel first in a fairly deep pool. That was it. That was my last fly rod, and it too had been consumed by the Pedernales. I was spewing profanity that would make my mother disown me. Broken and fully bogged down by the reality laid out before me, all I could think of is, “How soon could I get back?”
This wasn’t finished. Not by a long shot.
Go to Part 3: The Armistice Agreement
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