Outdoor Odyssey

    
Early April 1970 offered some beautiful Gulf coast weather. Light winds and warm days had raised the water temperature to over seventy degrees, the speckled trout, or specs, had spawned and now had moved onto the sand/shell flats prowling for food and it was mine and Jim Buck, my Brother-In-Law’s, plan to intercept some of these monsters.
 
Our ambush point was the sand flats, on the south side of the spoil banks of the Intercoastal Waterway, just west of Greens Cut, but not as far as Karankawa Reef where the sand flats turned into mud/shell. Two months earlier, on a warm February afternoon, the mud had offered us some good fishing, but now the specs had changed to their spring and early summer pattern.

Jim and I were using live shrimp under a popping cork, but weren’t blind casting and drifting. Our targets were the slicks made by the specs gorging and regurgitating bits of their prey. The oil released will pop to the surface as a pail or washtub size, shiny, oily slick and the trout will be under the slicks. A telltale sign produced by the slicks is a distinctive water melon, smell and many times we’d pick up the odor before we found the slick.

We were idling along in my new seventeen foot, deep vee, cross wind to a light southeast breeze, and sure enough, Jim said, “I smell ‘em” as I also picked up the unmistakable scent of watermelon. Scanning the immediate area, we both saw slicks popping to the surface less than a hundred feet to our left and cutting the outboard, we looped short casts between two of them and were both rewarded with solid strikes. After a few short runs, a boat circling battle ensued and we let the specs tire before slipping nets under them and claiming a brace of fine three pound, trout!
 
Pictured is my new, 17', deep vee. It was so new I hadn’t even applied the state required registration decals.

Restarting the motor, we continued looking and sniffing and came upon a tub size slick to our front.  Jim shot a cast toward it, popped his cork once, a spec smashed the shrimp and headed off across the bay. Rod tip held high, Jim’s fish began the first of three circles of the boat, each being closer, until laying on its side, I easily slipped the net under it and hefted a nice five pounder aboard. Jim had been fishing for specs for the past four years and this was his best one to date. He was happy and, smiling, told me, “I’ll drive the boat and you catch the next one!”

Within fifteen minutes we both caught the scent and as I cast toward the emerging slick, I remarked to Jim, “I’ll bet this'l be a nice one.”  No sooner as the shrimp hit the water, there was a smashing strike! The fish headed “south” and all I could do was hold on. Finally, stopping the run, I was surprised when the fish headed back towards the boat. Most times a good spec will begin circling, conserving its energy, then really put up a scrap beside the boat, but not this one.

Reeling madly and barely keeping pressure on the fish, it rolled a short distance from the boat, revealing a flash of silver and we both remarked, “That’s some spec!” It made several short runs and stirred the water to “a froth” around the boat, but finally tired as Jim netted it and held it up for both of us to admire. We guessed that it weighed over six pounds.

We had already filleted the other three fish and belatedly decided to, at least, take a picture of the big ‘un!

We had four very nice specs in the cooler and called it a day. We loaded the boat and drove to Red’s, 7 Seas Grocery, to weigh my big fish. Red, the owner, was holding court with several of his friends, and even though it was before lunch, he and his pals were well into the sauce. Declining his offer to join into the festivities, I asked if we could weigh a big trout that I had just caught? “By all means,” he replied.

Showing off the big fish, it brought “ooohs and ahs” from the group and placing it onto his meat scales, the meter stopped at seven pounds and two ounces. This was a “best” for me for the next twenty-one years!

New Year’s Eve of 1981 was a memorable event because we, the three couples that collectively owned the bay house in Bayou Vista; Jim and Shellie Masters, my brother-in-law and his wife, Jim and Pat Buck and my ex-wife and I, decided to jointly put on a big New Year’s Eve party at our beach house.  

The party was a success and rolling along, but by 10:00 PM I had lost interest in all of the small talk and went down stairs to sneak me a dip. Sitting on the boat dock, I heard the unmistakable “pop” of a trout hitting the surface of the canal right out from me. “Pop”, another one hit.  Up in a flash I ran into the ground floor of the house, grabbed the closest rod and reel, this one with silver spoon and a yellow, bucktail.

The only light was from a full moon overhead as I whipped a cast almost across the canal, began a rapid retrieve, “Whamo” a good trout nailed the spoon and the fight was on!  Standing on the dock, at least three feet above the water level, it finally dawned on me, how, without a long handled landing net, was I going to land this fish?   In my haste I had forgotten to bring out a net!  Swinging and flopping the trout out of the water up on to the yard, I ran over to it, got the hook out, carried it inside and put it into a forty-eight quart cooler, sans ice.

Back outside, this time with a long handled net, casting out again, another “Whamo”, another solid trout, which I subdued, netted and added to the cooler, just as Jim Buck came downstairs asking, “Brother-In-Law, are you OK?  I thought you may have fallen in,” as he saw me putting the fish into the cooler.  

He rushed inside, grabbed another rod and reel, this one with a M-52 Mirror Lure attached and made a cast.  We caught four more specs before the school moved on, all nice fish, two to two and one-half pounds.  We got some ice out of the downstairs fridge, covered the fish with it, washed our hands and went back upstairs to the small talk.  

Nobody else missed me but Jim.

One fishing trip, during the early summer of 1979, would change my fishing patterns completely.  My Uncle, George Alvin Pyland, better known as Unkie, Dave Miller, a friend, and I, in my new seventeen foot, deep vee, packing an eighty five horse outboard, were heading in after a morning of fishing around Swan Lake, east of the Galveston Causeway.  

We headed under the big bridges of the Causeway and were preparing to turn east into the channel to the Pleasure Island Bait camp, when Dave said, “Look at those new channel markers going toward Tiki Island and Jones Lake.”  We turned west into the new channel and started a little exploring, not knowing of the changes that it would bring to our fishing.  
Unkie said he had fished Jones Lake once and remembered it being shallow.  Dave said it was new to him, so we followed the new channel markers; bamboo poles with flags on them, stuck into the sandy bottom and cruised under the Tiki Island Bridge.  Tiki Island, at the time, was a new bay home development, and has since grown into a large, up scale community (with permanent channel markers).

Entering lower Jones Lake, we idled the motor and slowly headed toward some low lying islands and reefs that ran southeast to northwest and bisected the main section of the lake.  Two of these islands had small, crude, fishing shacks built up on pilings, very basic accommodations that four years later, in 1983, would be blown away by Hurricane Alicia.  

The lake is not big, probably five square miles.  Not deep, probably five feet at its deepest, but the bottom, in 1979, was studded with live oyster reefs and clumps of grass.  Now, most of the grass is gone but some live reefs still remain.

We headed toward the second island/reef, just about in the middle of the lake, and I said,
“We’ve got some dead shrimp, let’s try a few casts.”    Starting our drift in almost four feet of water, little did I know that my first cast would change my fishing tactics for the next twenty-six years.  

My popping cork hit the water and within a minute, the cork started moving slowly to my right, against the incoming tide, and Unkie said, “It’s a red, give him a second to get the bait in his mouth good.  Now hit him hard!”  Which I did, getting a good set on the small hook, and the red took off, almost spooling my Ambassadeur 5000C that was packed with fifteen pound, line.  

To get some line back, Dave started the boat and the chase was on.  What a fight, long runs, swirls at the top of the water, head shaking, which was really the red trying to rub the hook out of its jaw on the bottom, and finally we got it to the side of the boat and it was too big for the landing net, so Unkie got a good hold behind its gills and heaved it aboard.

Unkie holds up the big redfish, thirty-three inches long and we estimated that it weighed fifteen pounds.  That day I caught one more, red twenty-nine inches long.  This was all before a twenty to twenty-eight inch slot limit was set for the finny battlers.

For the foreseeable future, I was hooked on Jones Lake!

As spring turned into summer I was really getting the feel of the little Boston Whaler and its small size and shallow draft had helped me to find a short cut from Jones Lake to all of the fine fishing in upper, West Galveston Bay - Greens Cut, Confederate Reef, the wrecked shrimp boat, and North and South Deer Island.  The short cut changed a twenty-five minute trip down to ten and remained my favorite route for over ten years.

Here I am guiding the Whaler over safer waters!

Randy, my son, and I were heading out, under the railroad bridge, to chase the birds around Greens Cut and he asked me, “Dad, let me drive the boat.”  “Sure,” I replied, adding, “We’ll take my shortcut and I’ll guide you to it.”

We were skimming along close to thirty-five miles per hour and I told Randy, “See the stake up ahead on the right?  Steer close to it and we will be OK.”  This stake was the right side of a four, foot cut, in a live oyster reef.  We found out the width of the cut on this trip.  

For some reason Randy did not steer as close to the stake as he should have and CRUNCH!   We hit the left edge of the reef and missed the cut.  As the boat unexpectedly stopped, I flew over the bow, tucked quickly and covered my head with my arms, did a half flip, and crashed down, on my back, into the twelve inches of water covering the reef.

Randy was half in and half out of the Whaler.  When we hit the reef, he had the presence of mind to pull back on the throttle, idling the engine, and since it had no shear pin, it was OK.  Randy got all the way out of the boat saying “Gee Dad, I’m Sorry.  We missed the cut!”  My shirt was shredded and my back was cut up, but I stood slowly, thankfully I wasn’t hurt bad.  I told Randy, “Don’t worry, I’m OK.  Let’s lift up the front of the boat and make sure it’s not damaged.”

The boat was fine, Whaler can really make ‘em!  We still had our shrimp, there’s not much wind and the tide was coming in, so I said, “If you’ll wash off my back with salt water and clean out the cuts we’ll go ahead and fish.”  Later that morning, while we were catching speckled trout, Randy said, “Dad you’re a tough old guy!  I thought you were going to end our trip after my wreck.”  I thought to myself, “Old, I’m not even 60.”

On this particular morning’s fishing trip, Brad, a nine year old and by then, an accomplished fisherman, and I were meeting my Uncle, and his Great Uncle, Alvin Pyland, better known as, Unkie, to sample some of the great trout action, under the birds, on the east side of the Galveston causeway.

Unkie is pictured holding up two nice specs from another, less harrowing, fishing trip.  

During the spring of 1957, Richard Frazier, an ROTC buddy of mine, and a newly commissioned 2nd Lt. In the U.S. Army, and I had been hearing stories about the great fishing behind Earl Galceran’s camp near the old Coast Guard Station at the far west end of Galveston Island.  It was a private place and without a boat, we couldn’t figure out how get to it?

Earl’s camp was really several thousand, prime acres, leased for dove, quail and duck hunting, plus it had access to some of the best trout water in the state.  At the time, live bait wasn’t available in the immediate area so our only option was artificials, like the Dixie Jet silver spoons, pictured, with a yellow buck tail attached.
   
Richard had an idea that since we couldn’t sneak into the area, why didn’t he and I go ask Earl Galceran, already a fishing legend, if we could fish behind his place.  We could sight our lack of funds, honesty and Richard’s newly commissioned status as reasons we could be trusted not to do any damage to his property or equipment. Or, my idea, we could just drive down there and act like members, wave and smile and just wade out and start fishing. 

We choose the latter approach, correctly thinking, “Always beg for forgiveness and never ask for permission.”  If apprehended, we would plead ignorance of the private property and say we were just following the road to West Galveston Bay.

Arriving at the open gate to Earl Galceran’s we drove to a parking area, parked, grabbed our rods, and stringers and headed for the bay.  Out came Earl, we smiled and waved, he smiled and waved and went back into his trailer.  Whew!  We must have looked like members.

Reaching the edge of the bay, a light southeast wind was blowing at our backs, as we looked out over trout paradise, a slight ripple on green, clear water with grass growing and swirling right up to the surface.  Like the Rockport and Port O’Conner areas today, grass grew in abundance and the holes in the grass reminded me of holes in the moss in fresh water lakes.

No hesitation and in I went and found a hard sand/shell bottom and I couldn’t believe the grass.  On my first cast and spoon landed silently past a hole in the moss, I began a rapid retrieve and whamo, a three pound, spec nailed the spoon and the fight was on!  When a big trout hits, you know it, a jarring, pounding, rod bending hit, not the sideways, slow hit of a big red picking up a shrimp.  Landing the trout bare handed, I secured a firm grip behind its gills, slid it on to the stringer and looked over at Richard who was also in the middle of a fight with a nice fish.

“This is some place,” I exclaimed, as I sailed another cast past a likely looking hole in the grass, and got another whamo!  The hook pulled out, no fish.  What I didn’t know then, but have since learned, the trout lurk in the grass beside the holes and ambush baitfish as they swim through the open area.

Another cast, another jarring hit, and this one’s hooked solid and I’m soon stringing another three pounder.  Several casts catch grass, and before you know it, whamo, another fine fish soon to be on my stringer.  Thirty minutes of fishing, wonderful conditions, bait in the water, trout all around and three solid three pounders on the stringer.  What a day this will be! 

Wait a minute, what’s going on?   My stringer was caught on something.  That something brushed my leg.  That something was a shark!  “Shark,” I yelled, as I stepped back and looked down at my stringer, which was tied, not looped, onto a belt loop of my jeans.  Another lesson learned, “Never tie, always loop.” 

Two bites and the shark, a four foot plus, black tip, clipped off the last two trout on my stringer, swirled around me, brushed my leg again, and came up to the surface and grabbed the last trout, all of this right by my right hand that was futilely trying to pull the fish away from the snapping jaws!  The shark won, bit off the third spec and swished away!

I heard Richard laughing.  I didn’t think this was funny at all.  I’m left with three trout heads on my stringer, heart racing and he’s laughing.  I guess Earl Galceran kept these sharks around as pets to feed on his “guest’s” fish.  I quickly got out of the water and sat on the bank for a while cooling off and by that time Richard, still laughing, came out of the water with five nice ones on his stringer.  He said “You ready to call it a day.”  I didn’t reply, just turned around and started back to the car.

I went back to this place by boat in 1970.  A big chemical plant had been built in the mid ‘60’s, on Chocolate Bayou which feeds into Lower West Galveston Bay above Earl’s old place and the grass was gone.  Trout fishing changed in Lower West Bay to anchoring on reefs, fishing under the birds or drifting, with not much wading.  Earl Galceran moved to a houseboat set up in the Chandleur Islands off of the Louisiana/Mississippi coasts.  From what I have heard, he took some of his sharks with him.

That summer, Richard went on active duty at Ft. Hood as a Platoon Leader in a basic training company.  One of his recruits was Elvis Pressley.

What do you do when a five foot black tip shark hits your speckled trout outfit, runs fifteen yards towards you (I thought it was a big red fish.), jumps out of the water ten feet in front of you, splashing water on you and, then, heads for Mexico, stripping off all your line?

In the spring of 1954 trout fishing had been very good along the broad sand flats from Galveston’s East Beach Lagoon around to the base of the South Jetties, a curving distance of approximately two miles protected from any wind except north or northeast.  This area was at the far eastern tip of Galveston Island and the western side of Bolivar Channel that cuts between the island and Bolivar Peninsula.  This is also the mouth of the Galveston and Houston ship channels.  It was good fishing and just plain fun to go down there and watch the ships and the girls.  We always tried to plan our trips when the wind was light and the tide were coming in.

The week before today’s event my cousin and fishing buddy, George Pyland, and I had made a “killing” on school trout on the north side of the flats.  The fish were everywhere, plugs or live shrimp, even a bare hook.  We spread the news among our fishing group and everyone awaited a break in the weather.
 
I got a early morning call from one of my partners in crime, Bobby Brown, saying “Things look good for the flats this afternoon”.  My reply was “I can’t.  I have a date”.  This was totally unacceptable to Bobby.  His girl friend didn’t like to go fishing and he was free today and tonight.  My girl friend was game for anything.  She didn’t fish but liked to wade out and watch us fish.  After saying, “He would buy the gas”, all of $.18 per gallon, I called my girl and told her of the change in plans and she reluctantly agreed to go with us.

The tide was running in and the wind was light when we bought shrimp at Bobby Wilson’s East Beach Bait Camp and headed for the flats.  Wading out about seventy-five yards to waist deep water, the fish were there and we started catching some nice specs, up to two pounds.  Bobby, to my right, and I were about 30 feet apart and girl friend was behind me, my stringer floated off to my left with the breeze and incoming tide.
 
My cork went under and as I set the hook I remarked, “Hey, this is a real nice fish probably a big, red”.  I struggled to keep the line tight as the fish bored toward me, my companions watched intently.  Ten feet in front of me a beautiful five foot long, black tip shark, cleared the water, mouth open, teeth getting my attention, hit the water splashing some on me, and headed off to my right towards where I thought Bobby was located.  My valiant fishing partner and girl friend had already halved the distance to shore and left me alone to battle the denizen.

Not much of a battle, fifteen pound braided line on a Shakespeare Direct Drive reel and a fiber glass popping rod, all being no match for an eighty pound shark.  The shark headed to my right and I headed straight for the shore where my stalwart friends waited for me.  At least the shark didn’t get the fish on our stringers!

This area, the East Beach Flats including Bobby Wilson’s Bait Camp no longer exists.  Natural erosion assisted by a small hurricane that came up the channel in the mid 70’s, completely changed the landscape, eliminating one good fishing spot.

Girl friend never went wade fishing with me again.

During the spring of 1970, drifting around Greens Cut in Galveston West bay, I caught, at the time, a personal record, 7-1/4 pound, Speckled Trout.  In the late fall of 1991, I tied, or maybe surpassed this feat.

January of that year, our rancher at our Brady deer lease, let us know that he was hiring a foreman and that we would loose our spacious accommodations on his ranch.  I understood  his requirement for a ‘ramrod’ for his 2,000, acre, ranch, but it galled me that after 10 years we were being ‘evicted’.  I’d show him.  I’d just buy my own spread, which I did, but that’s a lot of ‘rest of the stories’.  The end result of the rancher’s decision and my frustration was that on opening day of Quail season, I didn’t have a place to hunt.  Solving the problem was easy, I’d just go fishing!

Just after sun up, the last weekend in October found my Son, Randy, his
friend, Doug and I drifting toward a shell island in Jones Lake.  There
was a light wind blowing from the north and the tide, that just
changed, was rushing in, and wouldn’t be high until well past mid
morning.  Spotting a shrimp hopping on the top of the water, Randy
looped a cast, a shrimp under a weighted popping cork, and was rewarded
with a solid strike, a nice Speck and the fight was on.

Many
times, foraging fish will drive Shrimp to the surface, causing the
Shrimp to hop around trying to escape the hungry predators.  When Sea
Gulls spot these tell tale dimples in the water they rush over to
inhale the hapless Shrimp.  A well placed, cast usually results in a
savage strike from a Speck or Red.

Randy’s fish was netted and
put in the cooler and Doug and I, both with fish on, soon boxed our own
Specks. The action slowed and we moved out into the lake to start a new
drift and about 200 yards ahead Randy spotted 3 Gulls circling what
must be fish ‘on’ shrimp and a closer inspection showed 2 birds
floating on the water, another sure sign of fish.

Cutting back
the throttle, we eased toward the birds and randy and Doug let go with
two long casts and started vigorously popping and retrieving their
baits, and bam, bam, two hard hits.  Under these birds there was a nice
school of Specks and for the next few minutes we thinned their
numbers.  The fast and furious action ended and admiring our almost
full cooler we decided we’d try one more spot and maybe try to pick up
a couple of Reds.

Easing several hundred yards towards a
channel marker, we started our drift over a hard shell bottom.  If a
Red and a Shrimp were around, the prey couldn’t burrow in the mud and
would be inhaled by the Red.  

Casting toward the channel
marker, and only keeping my line tight, I let my rig sit for several
minutes and didn’t pop it.  Then one pop of the cork and it disappeared
and I felt the weight of a very nice fish.  The fish made a long run
and I couldn’t tell if it was a Speck or Red,, until, a long way out
from the boat, it started to circle us.  This tactic is reserved for
big Trout and after a long, spirited fight, Randy slipped the net under
the monster Speck.

The Trout was shining, with the black spots
seeming as big as dimes.  It was a beauty laying in the net on the
bottom of the boat, spent from its loosing fight and I noticed one egg
had slipped out of the fish’s vent and right away, as I carefully
measured her, I told Randy, “Slip the net and fish back into the
water.  We’re letting her go!”

It wasn’t long before I gently
removed the fish from the net and it swam off.  In our cooler we had
enough for several ‘messes’ and we were happy that this big one, that
measured over 28 inches and probably weighed well over seven pounds,
would be free to spawn for the second time that year!