Outdoor Odyssey

The second installment follows about the night spent trotlinin’ and the rest of the night spent wading the cold (to me) Brazos River.

Something was shaking me, maybe hogs?  “Boy, time to go check the lines!”  It was my dad and checking my watch with radium numbers, it was 3:00 AM.  Wiping the sleep out of my eyes, down the riverbank and back into the cold water, and it was really cold now, but keeping a stiff upper lip, I said nothing, more growing up.

Shelly pulled up the first line there was a firm tug coming back to him.  It turned out that we had 5 more cats on the first line, 2 blues, 2 yellows and a funny one, Dad called a high fin blue, but later I found out that it was a channel cat.  Baiting up as we went, we found many twisted stages meaning we had lost more cats than we had caught. The toe sack was almost getting heavy and we had another line to run, lots of good eating though!

Dad ran the second line and more pulls. It had 3 more cats, all yellows, along with several more twisted stages.  To me, it looked like we were loosing more fish than we were catching!   We kept the 8 we’d caught in my wet toe sack and went back to bed, but Dad was up with the sun.  More shaking, more hogs, no, just my dad, saying those cold words, “Let’s go check the lines.”

Gasping when the cold water hit me, saying nothing, more growing up, we checked the first line and it had 6 more cats, 2 blues, 3 yellows and another high fin.  Crossing to the other side we rolled up the first line, returning, we checked the second line, no fish but probably 10 twisted stages, Dad and Uncle Shelly both said that we needed bigger hooks on the stages.  We walked back across the river and rolled up our second line and set to, cleaning the fish.  This was kinda’ like work, cleaning the fish, walking back and forth across the cold river, but it was worth it!

Our total for the night was 18 catfish, which meant some good eatin’ for everyone!  However, I was still suffering chills from the cold water!

This is the first part of a 2 part story about an all night trot lining adventure my dad and I went on in 1952.  In mid spring, Uncle Shelly, Shelton Gafford, a very well to do land owner in Falls County, Texas, called us and said, “Boys, come on up and let’s go trot linin’.  The river is full of cats!”

We camped on the bluff of the Brazos River, where over a 100, years before one of our ancestors, Buck Barry, had crossed on his way to Austin.  This crossing was named “The Falls of the Brazos” because of rocky outcroppings and a fall line that in the 1830’s caused 10 foot water falls, but the river changed course and today the falls are only 2 to 3 feet.  In the old days, this marked the end of steamboat travel up the river and today there is a low water, concrete drive across it, which makes 2, falls now and Uncle Shelly owned the land on both sides.

This land was colonized in the early 1830’s and in 1834 Sterling Robertson, one of Stephen F. Austin’s early impresarios, established a town on the west bank of the river, Sarahville De Viesca.  The Comanches quickly put an end to this early settlement and in 1845, when Buck Barry crossed here, again they had just struck the only settler at The Falls, taking off with his wife, daughter and female slaves.

This history’s fine but we’d come up to fish.  Seining several of Uncle Shelly’s stock tanks, we caught 2 buckets full of small perch and minnows and headed to The Falls.  The water was almost cold and jolted me when we waded out and all the way across the river the spot we’d picked had a good, rock bottom.  First off we had to stretch Uncle Shelly’s trotlines across the river, over 100 yards wide, and there must have been a 50, or more, hooks on each of the 2 lines.  

With both lines secured we came back toward our side of the river and began the process of baiting up.  My feet were getting cold now but I soldiered on.  Holding the bait bucket while my Dad and Uncle Shelly baited up the lines they would put a couple of minnows on the hook then a perch and continued this process back across the river.

All baited up, we retired to our camp, started the fire, it was only 90 degrees right now, and began supper.  After eating the stories started and my dad chipped in with Buck Barry’s story about the Indian raid just before he crossed here.  Then, my dad said, “Let’s go check the lines.”

It was dark and our flashlights helped some, but it was still dark!  We eased down into the water and, to me, it was cold, but I said nothing, thinking, This was part of growing up!  Carrying the toe sack and bait bucket, more growing up I was sure, we pulled up the first line and there was a tug meaning we had a cat on somewhere.  We came across, a stage, all twisted up and figured one had pulled off of the hook.  Soon we came to our first fish, a yellow cat, 4 pounds and great eatin’.  We flopped him into the toe sack and soon bagged another, but that was all for the first line. The second line produced 2 more, one 5 pounds, another 4, all yellows.

Using our flashlights, we cleaned the cats, washed the fish off our hands, walked up the bank and hit the sack, better said, the ground with a sleeping bag under us!

The second part of this story will be on May 16.

Fly-fishing was never my cup of tea!  My beginnings with the sport was spotty, I didn’t follow through and become a proficient caster, but in May of 1957 I used some of my hard earned money and purchased me a fly rod, direct drive, reel and loaded the reel with a floating line, Adding leader material along with some small poppers with one small hook, decorated with little feathers, I was ready to go after ‘em.  Knowing what I know now, I should have saved my money!

Being a self taught fly fisherman, I never really gave it a chance.  And yes, I have excuses; most of the places where I fished for bass had real brushy banks and rolling a cast up under the brush wasn’t the easiest thing for me; at the time not many folks in Texas were salt water, fly fishermen; fly fishing from a boat, for me, was iffy at best, and I never became a proficient caster.

From my reading I knew that the line was cast out and there was no “slinging” out of a plug, so hieing down to a near by school ground for some practice, I flailed the air, finally gaining a slight degree of proficiency.  Being young, it never dawned on me that plenty of room was needed behind the caster and this fact didn’t show itself until after tying on a little, popper and making a failed, back cast.

Ralph Foster, a college and fishing buddy, and I drove up to the gravel pits outside of Romayer and seeing some bream beds along the sides of a pit beside the road, I decided to try out my new gear right there.  Attaching a small, yellow popper, I attacked the little fish.   My first cast in anger, resulted in the line and little popper hanging up on a low bush behind me (see above paragraph).  Rearranging myself, with no back cast foul up, my second cast was a flopper with all the line “globbing” on the water in front of me.  Amused at my antics, Ralph said, “Jon, you look kinda’ silly with that line all wrapped around you!”  Back to the drawing board!

Finally, after a successfully presented cast, the little popper dropped quietly on to the water.  The rings of the displaced water quieted and holding the line in my left hand, with a slight tug on the line, the small plug twitched once.  Nothing.  Another twitch and the little popper was engulfed by a small fish, type unknown.  After a spirited battle I slid the little, hand sized, bream up on to the bank and admired my first catch on a fly rod.  Throwing it back, while adding several more hand sizers, that also went back, I switched plugs, tying on a chartreuse, popper.

My first cast with the “glo” bait was met with a different kind of strike.  This one hit going away, and cleared the water, a keeper bass!  This bass actually pulled line from my left hand and jumped several more times.  It definitely put a bend in my rod, but the rod and pressure of the line finally became too much for the fish.  Reaching down to lip it, I clipped the almost, 2 pounder to my stringer. Adding a big bream on the “glo” plug, I guessed it weighed 1-1/2 pounds so I called it a day.  Catching them on this light stuff was fun, but still, casting was a problem for me!

While I was fumbling around Ralph caught 4 nice, bass!

In May of 1955 I had agreed to play semi pro baseball with a local team and our first game was on a Saturday.  Lining a sharp single to right field, I was feeling good about my new team and the prospects for the new season.  By the bottom of the fourth we were up 5-2 and their first batter lined a shot towards our shortstop.  Knocking it down, he pounced on it and cut loose his throw.  Playing first base, my normal positions were either left or center field, at the last moment, the throw had a tail on it and it rose above my outstretched glove and nicked the end of the middle finger on my right hand, splitting it and knocking the nail off.  Ouch!

This put me on the DL for 2 weeks, but the afternoon of the injury, with a finger stall on my injured digit, I talked my dad into taking me fishing to the gravel pits outside of Romayer, Texas.  We’d been there the weekend before and caught 10 nice white perch and he was a pushover whenever anyone said, “Fishing!”  Showing him that I could cast and reel OK with my middle finger sticking out we loaded up for the one-hour, no air conditioner drive.

Grabbing my rod, reel and fishing hat, not your normal fishing hat, I was ready to go.  A fishing buddy and I had sewn snaps onto our straw hats and then clipped on our favorite plugs, Piggy Boat spinners, Lucky 13’s and Pico Perches.  We believed they were the “coolest” fishing hats in the world.

The gravel pits were spread out over a wide area and my dad and I walked to the back of them, almost a mile, and began casting. Dad had caught 2 keepers and I hadn’t even scratched.  All of a sudden, my cast was greeted with a solid strike, the bass, a nice one, over 3 pounds, ran a short distance and jumped, and jumped, and jumped, successfully throwing the spinner bait.

Back then I was kinda’ tempery and I grabbed my special fishing hat with the plugs attached and threw it to the ground muttering a few choice expletives.  Then I made a foolish mistake and kicked my hat toward the water, but the hat didn’t sail out into the water because one of the hooks had caught in my Chuck Taylor, tennis shoe lace.

Laughing, my dad let me stew over my predicament, but 10 minutes later, having had to cut up my Chuck Taylor tennis shoe, lace, I was back fishing.  We caught several more bass and even with my injury, and the hat-kicking incident, enjoyed our outing.

Driving home it crossed my mind that maybe this wasn’t “my day”.

Before the time of car air conditioners, May was a good time to plan fishing trips, so this particular day in 1955, my dad and I planned a trip up to the gravel pits north of Houston, just outside of Romayer, Texas,.  If we left before sun up the drive in a non air conditioned, car would be pleasant and if we fished ‘till dark, likewise for the drive home.  For the record, our first car with A/C was a 1956 Chevy, Bel Air that was purchased in 1958.

This particular spring day, Dad and I left our house well before sun up and at first light we had already picked out the gravel pits that we would assault.  This one was elongated with an irregular shape that reminded us of a hand with 4 fingers extended.

Enough esoterics, anyway, we started off with yellow Piggy Boats and during the first 30 minutes we only picked up a couple of small bass, but threw them back, then for some reason, my dad changed lures and attached a white one.  His first cast, slipped under a low hanging willow tree, was met with a strike, not the solid head shaking hit of a good bass, but just firm pressure.  The fish tugged and made one short run, but soon yielded to the pressure of the rod and drag, laid on its side and my dad then slid a nice 2 pound, white perch, crappie, (sac-au-lait for my Cajun friends), on to the bank!

We never took pictures of the white perch we caught and I had to get this one from Wikipedia.

That got my attention and, quickly changing lures, I hurried over beside him.  He had already strung the first one and had cast back out and was into another that turned out to be a mirror image of the first.  My cast was met with a strike and I reeled another white perch in.  This was repeated until we had strung 10 of the beauties, beauties to catch and beauties to eat!

The white perch stopped hitting so Dad walked around to the next finger of the pit and I moved to the one past him.  More small bass, no keepers, but I heard Daddy yell, “Son of a gun!” and as I ran around to him, my first thought was snake, but as I cleared the point I saw him locked in a struggle with a good sized, alligator gar.

The gar, at least a 3, footer, was jump, jump, jumping, frothing the water.  It then tried to spool him, made one last jump and the white, Piggy Boat, thank goodness, pulled free. Daddy said that the gar hit right as he was taking the lure out of the water and scared him sufficiently to cause him to yell out, then the fight was on!

It took 10 years for us to encounter another alligator gar and thank goodness again we had some long nose pliers along with us!

The Royal Hare never knew what hit him.  It was feeding on the tender shoots of new spring grass, 50 feet upwind of the hunter and never noticed the threat approaching. Boom, the shotgun belched out a cloud of foul smelling smoke, blowing it right back on Shaw Wallace and as it cleared, he saw the hare flopping on the ground.  

Hunting on his Father’s land in County Derry, Ireland, it never occurred to Shaw that the large rabbit would be anything but a fine dinner for his family.  His Father, Jesse, was a well to do farmer and head of Clan Wallace in Ireland, a post Shaw would one day hold.

What Shaw did know, but paid little attention to, was that he had just committed a crime against the Crown.  He was only 19 years old and enjoying an afternoon hunt, but in 1842, the King of England owned all of the wild game in Ireland and it was a crime, punishable by death, to kill a Royal Hare!

Shaw’s family, the Wallace's, were originally Orangemen who came over from Scotland in 1608 to conquer and repopulate England’s Plantation, Ireland.  The battle had been going on for over 200 years and a practical stalemate had emerged, with the Protestants dominating Ulster, a northern Province, and the Catholics the southern three.  The British Government’s first attempt at apartheid was well underway!

Shaw hefted the hare over his shoulder, loosely carrying the shotgun in his other hand, and began his walk back home.  The next thing he knew was, “Hold it right there, you poacher, you’re under arrest.  You red headed scum, you think you can kill the King’s game and get away with it”, the Royal Game Warden barked at him.  Startled, Shaw backed up, but the Warden said, “I’m taking you in and within a week you’ll get a taste of the King’s justice, a noose around that thick neck of yours.”

Shaw knew he was in trouble and without thinking, dropped the hare, distracting the Warden, raised the shotgun to hip level, cocked the left barrel and in one motion, fired, Boom, knocking the Warden back and down.  The smoke cleared and the warden was dead!  Not reloading the gun, he picked up the hare and started running home.

His mother, Margaret’s sobs and wailing almost drowned out his father’s calm analysis of the situation. “Boy, you’ll surely hang if we don’t get you out of the country fast” and before Shaw could reply, his father continued, “Up quick, kiss your mother and brothers and sisters goodbye.  We’re saddling the horses and heading to Lee Wallace’s warehouse in Derry to try and get you out of Ireland.”

Lee, Shaw’s Uncle, had an import export business in Derry and was familiar with swift British justice.  He recommended putting Shaw in a barrel, marked pickles, and “shipping” him to the United States.  He had a Captain friend that was sailing for New Orleans in 2 days and Shaw could get “comfortable” in his barrel until then.

Shaw knew he would likely not ever see his father, uncle or family again.  With teary eyes he hugged each man, told them goodbye and prepared for, what he knew would be a long ordeal.

Two days later, Uncle Lee, with a straight face, paid his friend for shipping the pickles to New Orleans.  The hoist groaned lifting the heavy pickle barrel and it was stowed in the forward hold and Shaw was on his way to the “New World”.

The ship left on the afternoon tide and by the following afternoon the headlands at Ballygorman were behind them and Shaw could tell from the roll and pitch of the schooner, they were on the open sea and that turning around and handing him over to the authorities was out of the question.

The First Mate found him making his escape from his barrel and roughly grabbed him hissing, “A stowaway!  I’m a good mind to pitch you over the side.”  The man’s strange accent, obviously from the United States, startled him, but Shaw gathered up his courage and said in as strong a voice as he could muster, “Take me to the Captain!”

The Captain, Captain Allen, proved to be another rough customer with a strange accent, and barked at him, “Pickles?  You smell like horse droppings!  Lee Wallace paid for a barrel of pickles to New Orleans, and what do I get, but a thick necked, red headed, kid.”  He added, “You must have killed somebody for them to go to all this trouble sneaking you out?”  Shaw answered, “Yes Sir, Captain Sir, I killed an English Game Warden.  It was him or the gallows for me!”  Shaw continued, “Uncle Lee paid for shipping pickles, but I’m strong and could work my way across.”  “Very well”, Captain Allen closed the discussion, telling the First Mate, “Get him cleaned up and set him to scrubbing the decks.

Turning back, Captain Allen asked,  “Boy what’s your name and what will you do in my country?”  Shaw stood up straight and said, “Sir, my name is Shaw Wallace, and Uncle Lee said that I should get to The Republic of Texas as soon as I could!”   Hiding his smile, the Captain turned and walked away.

So, in 1842, Shaw Wallace, one of my great grandfathers, found his way to Texas!

My dad told me the following story about him and about my family’s past association with the Klan, yes the Ku Klux Klan. It all began on the hot, dusty, smoke covered battlefield of Chickamauga, where our Southern, Army of Tennessee, routed the Union forces, driving them out of Georgia, back across the Tennessee River and into Chattanooga.

In early 1862, my Great Grandfather, Brinson Murrill Bryan, had been in Sumpter County, Alabama, visiting relatives when he enlisted in the 40th Alabama Infantry Regiment. He was a sharpshooter and was attached to and later permanently assigned to the 10th Texas Cavalry Regiment (Dismounted), and finished the war with them.

During the opening morning of the battle of Chickamauga, Major General Nathan Bedford Forrest, became separated from his cavalry division and assumed command of Ectors’ Brigade (Texas), the 10th Texas Cavalry, Brinson’s unit, being part of this Brigade. They held a key bridge over a creek and prevented Union reinforcements from reaching the main breach in the Union lines. The tenacity and courage of the Texans excited Forrest, who later said, “When the Texans charged at Chickamauga, it excited my admiration.”

One year later, during Gen. Hood’s disastrous retreat from Nashville, Forrest was assigned to command the rear guard. His choice of troops for this grinding, week long battle was a Texas Cavalry Brigade and two Texas regiments of dismounted cavalry, the10th being one. The Texans won each battle and skirmish and was even recognized by Union Gen. Thomas, who said, “Hood’s Army on the retreat from Tennessee was a bunch of disorganized rabble. But the rear guard, however, was undaunted and firm, and did its work bravely to the last.”

After the war ended, the South was in chaos, Reconstruction was beginning, noticeably absent was law and order and influential Southern leaders, Forrest being one, joined together and formed a protective association that grew into the Ku Klux Klan. Brinson, who had "Rode With Forrest", returned to Alabama to marry, and, if Bedford Forrest was a founder, that was all Brinson needed, and he joined this new association and for a time was an active member. My dad told me that my grandfather, Peyton Bryan, had also been a member.

When my dad was 19, he joined the Klan in Falls County, Texas, and his first assignment was to take part in a Klan rally and march in a parade through the town of Marlin. My Dad put on his sheet and joined in the rally and parade. After the parade was over, the Klansmen removed their hoods and sheets and retired to the local saloon.

Soon the Sheriff entered the saloon and said, “There was no parade permit issued so I’m arresting everyone who took part in it! Everybody line up against the wall!” My Dad, being smart, said, “Sheriff, I have been standing at this bar during the parade, drinking this cold glass of butter milk and I’m not guilty of anything.”

Grabbing him by the arm, the Sheriff escorted him bodily to the wall and said to him, “Johnny, my boy, your boots are dusty. They didn’t get that way from standing at the bar! You’re under arrest!”

After spending the night in the Falls County Jail, the “paraders” were released and my Dad resigned from the Klan. He didn’t even get to finish his cold, buttermilk.

One Sunday afternoon in late April of 1970, we were down at our beach house in Jamaica Beach, on the west end of Galveston Island, and, Norman Shelter and I decided to take a run out to the Galveston Jetties to try and hook up with some white, sea trout or sand trout, Cynoscion arenarius.  These are fine eating fish, but because of their soft texture they are difficult to freeze.   The best way to try and keep them for any length of time is to freeze them in water and be sure to squeeze the air out.

With a light wind out of the southeast and big, 10, foot swells rolling over both the north and south jetties, it was a strange day and I had never seen anything remotely resembling it before.   Both jetties served their purpose well and broke the big swells, but as Norman and I rounded the end of the north jetty, it was gut check time.  We should have gone through the boat cut in the north jetty, but decided that the shortest way to the fish was to go around the end.  So, at an angle, I raced up the side of 2 big swells got my timing, then sped down the front of the next one and, just like that, we were safely into the calm water.

Anchoring up, we bated our lines with fresh, dead shrimp and cast back toward the rocks.  We were fishing on the bottom, right among the rocks, about 35 feet down, with 6-1/2 foot, popping rods, red, Ambassaduer reels, loaded with 15 pound line.   Both of our casts were met with solid strikes and after short battles, we boated a couple of nice, sand trout, 2 pounders.  Good fish, since the bigger ones like this were usually caught miles, off shore.  Both fish had a mouth full of small teeth, no spots like speckled trout and a pretty, a bluish hue covering their heads.

This was repeated over and over until out 88, quart cooler was full of fish (and ice).  Then, Norman said the famous last words, “I’ll just make one more cast.”  He cast out toward the open gulf, the bait had no more hit the water and he was greeted with a savage, strike!  The fury of the strike identified the fish, hurling the king mackerel 10 feet or more out of the water then the king ran, stopped, but on the light tackle, began another run!  Rasslin’ with the anchor, it finally pulled loose and I started the motor.  As I came about, the king, a nice one, 40 pounds or more, spooled Norman, hit the end of the line and the line gave a popping sound as it separated from the reel.  

Since our cooler was full and our anchor was up, we decided to go on back in, we headed back to the yacht basin to take the boat out, but this time we smartly chose to use the boat cut!  Anyway, we didn’t have room for the kingfish!