Outdoor Odyssey (Entries tagged as fishing)

Honey Hole

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Tue, 25 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

As things sometimes will do, events happened to cause me to change my entire attitude about salt water, fishing. Bobby Baldwin, my high school fishing buddy and close friend, had access to a twenty-three foot, cathedral hull, boat with a hundred and sixty-five, horse engine and outdrive, a real boat! We took it offshore fishing twice and both times stopped by the Galveston Jetties where I was shown a spot, on the Gulf side of the South Jetty that became my honey hole for the next forty years! I caught the biggest trout of my life there in 2000, but that’s another story.

My first trip to this “secret” spot was in late May 1964. We, Bobby, Freddy, his brother, his father-in-law, Tom and I, were headed off shore but stopped to sample the spec fishing. This was the second time out for me, the first being in 1953, a long time between trips, but that soon changed!

We caught several nice speckled trout, but since the wind was only blowing five to ten out of the southeast, we cranked up and headed for the twelve mile, rig. Trolling around it we caught several nice kingfish and then, for safety’s sake, headed in early. The boat owner, Tom, didn’t want to be caught out after dark with any kind of a problem.

Heading in we talked about boating safety and how treacherous the Gulf of Mexico can become with very little notice. Hearing Tom, but being young, some of his sage advice stuck, but it took several big, storms later in my life for it to really sink in!

Several weeks later, our next trip out was cut short by the weather. Just after we anchored up at the “secret” jetty spot and had cast out, one spec was hooked and landed, then the wind came up. With the boat beginning to pitch, Freddy became very ill. This was my first brush with, mal-de-mere, or sea sickness, but definitely not my last.

Getting the anchor in, we headed across the Galveston channel and stopped to fish behind the protection of the North Jetty. Fred’s sickness responded to the calm water and he became well again. We had virtually no luck except for a three pound, spec that I landed. But, before we headed in, we spent time casting spoons among the twelve inch, bluefish, catching several. These are blues that by the time they migrate around to New England, weigh thirty to forty pounds!

This salt water fishing was beginning to catch me too, it was exciting, add the uncertainty of the weather, along with the fish’s hard hits and big pulls and going fast in the boat, were things that I really liked! Little did I know that within two years, I'd own my first boat and get very serious about salt water fishing.

Fly Fishing

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sun, 23 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

Being a self taught fly fisherman, I’ll have to admit that it was never my cup of tea. Having purchased an outfit in 1957, using it sparingly for several years, only once in Colorado and then for the last time in 1969, I never really gave fly fishing a chance. And yes, I have excuses. One, most of the places that I fished for bass on had real brushy banks and rolling a cast up under the brush wasn’t the easiest thing for me. Two, not many folks in Texas were salt water, fly fishermen. Three, fly fishing from a boat was iffy at best. And, four, I never became a proficient caster.

But, gearing up for some serious top water, bass fishing, 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.

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 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. 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 with a slight tug on the line that I was holding in my left hand, the small plug twitched once. Nothing. Another twitch and the 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, two pounder to my stringer.

Adding a big bream, I guessed its weight was a pound and a half, I called it a day. Catching them on this light stuff was fun, but casting was a problem for me!

Ralph caught four nice, bass while I was fumbling around!

More Trot Lining, The Rest Of The Night

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Mon, 17 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

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

Pulling up the first line there were firm tugs coming back to us, we had five more cats on the first line, two blues, two yellows and one funny one, my 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 second line, more pulls, had three more cats, all yellows and several twisted stages. It looked like we were loosing more than we caught! We kept the eight we’d caught in my wet toe sack and went back to bed, but my 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 both lines, six more cats, two blues, three yellows and another high fin. Crossing to the other side we rolled up the first line, returning, we checked the second line, took the fish off, walked back across the river and rolled up our second line and set to, cleaning the fish.

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

Trot Lining

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sat, 15 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

Mid spring of 1952 my Dad and I were visiting Marlin, Texas close by the Brazos River. We had come up to sample some of the fine cat fishing that was available just above The Falls. My Uncle Shelly had called and said, “Boys, come on up and let’s go trot linnin’. The cats ‘r here!”

Our camp was on the bluff of the Brazos River, where over a hundred years past 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 ten foot water falls, but the river changed course and today the falls are only two to three feet. In the old days, this marked the end of steamboat travel up the river. Now there was a low water, concrete drive across the river, which made two 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 had 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 two bait buckets full of small perch and minnows and headed to The Falls. The water was almost cold and jolted me when we waded out. The spot we’d picked had a good, rock bottom all the way across the river. First off we had to stretch Uncle Shelly’s trot lines across the river and there must have been a fifty, or more, hooks on each of the two 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 ninety 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. I guess this was part of growing up. I was carrying the toe sack and bait bucket, more growing up? We pulled up the first line and there was a tug meaning we had a cat on somewhere. We came across a line, a stage, all twisted up and figured we’d lost one on this hook. Soon we came to our first fish, a yellow cat, four pounds and great eatin’. We flopped him into the toe sack I was carrying and soon another, but that was all for the first line. The second line produced two more, one five pounds, another four, all yellows.

Our fire was down when we returned to our camp, but using our flash lights, we cleaned the cats, walked down to the river to wash off and hit the sack (ground).

On the DL

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Tue, 11 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

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. I was playing first base, my normal positions being either left or center field, and at the last moment, the throw rose above my outstretched glove and nicked the end of my middle finger on my right hand, splitting it and knocking the nail off. Ouch!

This put me on the DL for two 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. 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 drive.

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

These 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. My Dad had caught two keepers and I hadn’t even scratched. All of a sudden, my next cast was greeted with a solid strike, the bass, a nice one of over three 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 words. 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 and fifteen 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, enjoyed our outing.

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

The Gravel Pits

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sun, 09 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

In 1954, May was a good time to drive up to the gravel pits outside of Romayer, Texas, north of Houston. If we left before sun up the drive, in non air conditioned cars, would be pleasant, 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 we purchased in 1958.

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

Enough esoterics, anyway, we started off with yellow Piggy Boats, during the first thirty minutes we only picked up a couple of small bass, but threw them back. For some reason, then 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 two 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 ten of the beauties, beauties to catch and beauties to eat!

The white perch stopped hitting so my 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 three footer, was jump, jump, jumping, frothing the water. It then tried to spool him, made one last jump and the white, Piggy Boat pulled free, (thank goodness). Daddy said that the gar hit right as he was taking the lure out of the water, it scared him sufficiently to cause him to yell out and then the fight was on!

It took ten years for us to encounter another alligator gar and thank goodness again, we had long nose pliers!

Across The Tracks

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Mon, 03 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

In 1957 there was an ice house in Perry, Texas that was, at that time, the home of the cheapest gasoline in our part of the State. I’m talking about $.18 or $.19 per gallon, when all the other stations in central Texas were selling it at $.25 per. The proprietor of this establishment was a man called Zippo. No other name, just Zippo.

My Dad, John H. Bryan, had, as is said, never met a stranger and accordingly he and Zippo became fast friends. They were such friends that Zippo told my Dad that he could go fishing in his small lake, approximately one acre. The lake was located on a dirt road, just over the railroad tracks, across Highway 6, from Zippo’s place. There was one stipulation my Dad could only keep one bass!

Being hard at work in college, I couldn’t make the mid May trip up to Marlin and I especially missed going to Zippo’s little lake. Our technique of fishing small lakes and stock tanks was to begin walking around the edges casting our trusty, yellow “Piggy Boat” spinners. Then we would wade out until the water was belt deep and cast back toward the shore using Lucky 13’s. During the heat of the day we would switch to Pico Perch’s, an early plastic, swimming minnow type plug.

My Dad started off the Lake Zippo epic by walking around and casting his yellow spinner toward “bassy” looking spots. His first cast produced a three-pound, bass! Now he faced a dilemma, stop with this one or try for a bigger one? He released the first bass, kept fishing, the bass kept hitting and he kept releasing.

Finally, having caught a dozen or more, his dilemma was solved when the bass, pictured, a five, plus pounder hit his spinner bait, jumped four times and was finally slid up on to the bank. He kept this one. Calling it a day, he stopped by Zippo’s, showed him the fish, filled up his gas tank with the cheap gas and drove back to Marlin, where before filleting the fish, my Aunt Lil took this picture.

Shortly after this, Zippo, closed his operation and either died or moved away and we lost contact with him. Every time we would pass through Perry, my Dad would comment about the little lake and the nice bass he caught the one time that he fished it!

Making Do

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sat, 01 May 2010 08:05:00 -0700

Day was just breaking as Jim Buck and I rounded the end of Galveston’s South Jetty and headed toward our favorite fishing spot. We knew that with the lack of wind, the gently rolling Gulf of Mexico and the clear green water that we would hammer the speckled trout this morning!

We eased up towards the rocks, Jim slid the anchor into the water, and right away, we knew that we were in trouble. The anchor line dropped straight down, the boat didn’t swing around into the current because there wasn’t any current. There was no water movement, just the slight breeze blowing into our faces off of the rocks. No water movement meant no speckled trout movement. Looks like the tide charts were off a little!

We decided to make the best of this bad situation and cast our live shrimp back toward the rocks. We were using our standard jetty rigs; six and a half foot popping rods, red, Ambasseduer reels, loaded with fifteen-pound line, with BB weights clipped twelve inches above a small, treble hook.

As our shrimp swam and bumped along the rocks, both of us had solid strikes! Surprised, we set the hooks and held on as the fish ran along the jetties, no rolls or boat circling like big specs, just a dogged pull. Soon, both of us saw Jim’s fish, a big, sheepshead that we netted. Then, netting mine, a duplicate of Jim’s, I muttered to him, “Any port in a storm”, and we baited up and cast out again.

Sheepshead, Archosargus probatocephalus, when properly cleaned and prepared, are fine tablefare. They are found around rocks and pilings from the mid Atlantic to the Texas coast.

Within two hours we had filled up our eighty-eight quart, cooler with two to three pound, sheepshead and headed back on into the yacht basin. No specs today but we decided that since I had just obtained a commercial fishing license, we would sell these fish. The local commercial fishing house on the harbor paid me $39.00, around $.40 per pound for this catch.

It was still early, the tide was just starting to move, so we re-shrimped and headed back out to the south jetty to have a go at the specs.

More Outdoors Pictures, April 20, 2010

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Tue, 20 Apr 2010 08:05:00 -0700

It’s a lot of fun receiving the pictures that friends send to me. Big fish, big animals and unusual outdoors pictures fit very well within the scope of Outdoor Odyssey. This post has some big fish!

Randy Pfaff, an e-mail friend from Colorado, sent me this picture of two of his son’s friends and the very nice rainbow trout they caught in the river that runs along his property.

James Crumley returned from a fishing trip to Lake Amistad, along the Mexican border, with pictures of some big, striped bass they caught. That’s not all the story however. On this trip they were beset by gale force winds, big waves and miserable, scary conditions that finally settled out, enabling them to snag these big ‘uns.

This is the biggest of the bunch at twelve pounds!

Big Trout

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 08:05:00 -0700

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!

Book Publishing

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Wed, 14 Apr 2010 08:05:00 -0700

The following story about "The End Of The Line" was written by Tammarrah Pledger, Associate Editor of the Goldthwaite Eagle newspaper and appeared in the April 8th edition.

“Mills County Man Has First Book Published

Local man Jon Bryan said he started writing for his children. Now that he’s had a book published, however, everyone can enjoy his work. “The End of the Line,” is Bryan’s first published book, although he’s been writing in various forms for many years, he said.

Born and raised in Houston, Bryan earned a business degree from the University of Houston in 1959. He is a fifth-generation Texan, and spent his business career in the computer industry. “Most of the jobs I’ve had have entailed a lot of writing,” Bryan told The Eagle. So, although he didn’t go to school for writing, per say, he always did the writing needed for his jobs, and many times for his coworkers, too.

Although this is Bryan’s first published book, he has been published other places. He is a staff writer for “Water and Woods,” an online magazine, and has also had articles published here in The Eagle, as well as the “Buckmasters” Web site and magazine. Bryan also has other book projects in the works, he said. He said his children told him they wanted him to record all his wild stories and events of his life, which is what got him started on the path to writing books. In 2005, he began by editing a book by his Great Uncle, Lee Wallace, “A Waif Of The Times”, copyrighted in 1946. During the editing thought to him self, Hey, I can do this too! This started his second career as a writer.

“The End of the Line,” Bryan said is a compilation of true stories that happened to him. “Half of the people (in the book) are still alive,” he joked. In his own words, Bryan said the book “Is more than a collection of fishing stories. Famous people turn up unexpectedly, times change, equipment changes, techniques change, smugglers are captured and arrested, and the reader is subjected to some of the worst and most dangerous weather boaters can encounter.”

Of the writing experience in general, Bryan had this to say: “Over the past nine months, I have been involved in one of the most rewarding projects that I have ever tackled — having a book published! It became a full-time job. Where do you find the time to be active in your church? Where do you find the time to take part in your Grandchildren’s sports? Where do you find time to hunt and fish? Where do you find time to play senior softball? Where do you find time to do all the chores around the ranch?” He continued, “Managing and balancing everything was a challenge. But now, seeing my name on the cover, re-reading some of the stories and holding the book in my hands, it was all worth it!”

“The End of the Line,” published by RoseDog Publishing out of Pittsburgh, Pa., hit shelves in late January of this year. Bryan said it is all so new, so he hasn’t received much feedback just yet. He has a few copies of his own, and copies are available through RoseDog, he noted.

Currently, Bryan is working on other book projects. He said that the next to be ready, a compilation of all of his hunting experiences is “Why It Is Called Hunting”. Other books he’s working on include one about storms and extreme weather events he’s experienced, and one about his family’s history and genealogy.

When he’s not writing, Bryan finds time to be active in his church, he said, as well a his grandchildren’s athletics, his blog Outdoor Odyssey, hunting and fishing, and senior softball where his team has won National Championships in 2002, 2003, and 2008. He is a member of the Texas Senior Softball Hall of Fame, and the Softball Players Association Hall of Fame. He and his wife, Layla, have owned property in Mills County since 1992, he said, and they retired to the Texas Hill Country in 2005.”

An Unusual Catch

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Fri, 26 Mar 2010 08:05:00 -0700

The period of my life from 1960 to 1964 was spent finishing up my Army Reserve duty, working three jobs and welcoming my first child, Brad. All of this left precious little time for any outdoor activities. However, several times during this period I did have the opportunity to spend a Saturday hunting or fishing in the Trinity River bottoms, between Dayton and Liberty, Texas.

We would enter “The Bottoms”, as we called it, at a remote place near Dayton, at the Kennefic Fire Tower, then proceed down seven miles of probably the worst road in the United States. This road was always flooded, mud axel deep on a jeep, deceiving ruts that covered bogs and the home of the largest mosquitoes on the Gulf Coast.

In March of 1964, my Dad and I, along with our redneck, friend from Philadelphia, Mississippi, John Henley, braved the bad road with John’s Jeep and hauled a twelve foot aluminum boat into the oxbow lake. Surprisingly, going into “The Bottoms” we only got stuck twice, no problem with a big winch and a lot of cable!

John took out for an afternoon of squirrel hunting, while my Dad and I hefted the boat into the lake for a go at some bass. We would meet at twilight to head back to civilization. This oxbow lake was, in reality, an old river channel that always had water in it but the depth varied according to rain and subsequent flooding of the Trinity River. The river hadn’t flooded this year so the lake was “down” a little.

We both were “armed” with six foot, bait casting rods and red, Ambassaduer casting reels loaded with fifteen, pound line. My bait of choice was a yellow, Piggy Boat spinner and my Dad was using one of his favorites, a Pico Perch, a swimming bait with a tantalizing wiggling action. The action was hot and heavy and during our afternoons fishing, I don’t believe we changed our lures one time!

After we launched the boat, for silences sake before casting, we paddled up the lake for a hundred yards. My first cast was met with a solid strike and the fish, a two-pound, bass, took to the air, spending more time jumping than in the water. My Dad’s second cast was a duplicate of mine, so within five minutes, we had already boated two bass! The bass kept hitting and within an hour we had a good mess for supper and started culling the fish, only keeping the good ones. Several times during the afternoon we heard John’s .22 crack, so we knew that he too was scoring on some squirrels.

Casting into a likely spot, just as the spinner hit the surface, I had a savage strike, but didn’t get the hooks set. My Dad sped up his retrieve so he could cast into the likely spot, but with the change of pace of his retrieve, he had a big strike too. Feeling the hooks, the fish, a three- foot, alligator gar, went airborne immediately! Several short runs and five or six jumps later the gar tired and as my Dad kept the pressure on, I was able to grab it behind the head. Long nose pliers made getting the Pico Perch out of the gars mouth easy, but looking at the teeth, I couldn’t do it fast enough!

As the afternoon wore down, we started rowing back to the Jeep, casting to fishey looking spots. My Dad had a heavy strike and unlike the bass and gar, the fish didn’t take to the air. It made a long run down the middle of the channel, we both wondered, what kind of fish was this? My Dad said, “This ones fighting like a red or a big drum!” Another long run and a wallow at the boat only told us that it was a big fish. Neither one of us could identify it. As the fish tired, Daddy grabbed it by the lower jaw, or lip, and held on. The long noses helped retrieve his lure, we slipped a stringer through both lips and then tied it down.

We guessed the fish was a fresh water drum, but, back at the Jeep, John correctly identified it as a buffalo, Ictiobus bubalus and said that they were quite bony. (No, he didn’t know the scientific name.) Before we released the buffalo, we weighed it and it pulled the hand scales down to the max, twelve pounds. The fish must have weighed fifteen or better?

We had a good mess of bass, good memories of the gar and buffalo, and John had a bag full of “tree rats”, so this afternoon’s fishing/hunting trip could be called a success, however, the drive out still awaited us! It was “a piece of cake”, we only got stuck three times and winching out in the dark wasn’t so bad after all!

What Was That

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Tue, 16 Mar 2010 08:05:00 -0700

Along the upper Texas coast, in early March of 1991, spring had sprung. Water temperatures were up above seventy and the pelagic species of fish, namely big, king mackerel had moved in to the near shore waters, almost up to the beach. Kings traditionally spawn in late summer, but I’ve heard that the big fish spawn early. I don’t know, but I do know that several of my friends had caught a couple of fifty pounders right off the end of the Galveston jetties this past weekend.

Unpredictable March is a tough one to plan offshore trips for, but the Wednesday morning after my friends big catch, the wind wasn’t too bad, ten to twelve out of the southeast, some gusts to fifteen, temps in the mid seventies, but it was cloudy. It was one of those mornings that seemed cold, but if you put a jacket on, you started sweating.

My Bayou Vista neighbor, Carl Parkinson and I braved these conditions in my deep vee, twenty-four footer, with two one twenties and right after sun up, as soon as we slid past the end of the jetties, we put out two lines. Both rigs were stout, six foot boat rods, medium weight Penn Senator reels, both loaded with sixty pound line, just the ticket for big kings. For bait we used jigs, one with a green plastic, tail and the other with yellow feathers.

We circled around the end of the south jetty and about a hundred yards out from the rocks, began trolling back toward the beachfront. Our first hit wasn’t the screaming run of a big king, but more like trying to stop a Greyhound bus. The bus turned out to be a twenty-pound, jack crevalle that Carl landed, but even on the medium/heavy tackle, it put up a bruising fight. The jack is one of the pelagic species that isn't good table fare, so we released the fish and continued trolling.

Our second hit, again on the yellow tail, took off for the Yucatan and peeled off a blazing fifty yards of line. Again, Carl grabbed the rod and held on! From the long run, we figured that it was a big, king and as it grudgingly yielded to the pressure, we saw the silver flash that identified it. After a couple of short runs and several splashes around the boat, we gaffed it, whacked it on the head with a billy and put the thirty pounder into the big cooler.

The fishing slowed, we kept trolling within sight of the jetties and around 10:00 AM Carl said he believed that he’d had enough. Coming about, the lines slackened, and right then, the line with the green tail was hit by something. Carl grabbed the rod, didn’t set the hook, just bowed back and let nature take its course. Setting the engines in neutral we started drifting and it seemed to me, we were being pulled, by the big, fish. Carl said, “Jon, I can’t stop this thing and it’s taken almost half of the line. Better chase it!”

Putting the engines back into gear, we eased forward with Carl keeping pressure on the fish. Carl said, “You’d better speed up.” I did, and the line went limp. No fish! What happened?

It was a big, big fish that Carl couldn’t stop. From all appearances, it was hooked very good. Surging the engines forward, did this create a little slack and the hook fell out? Was the fish just holding the bait in its mouth and spit it out when the tension eased off? Did the hook just pull out? Maybe it was one of those Russian subs?

We’ll never know, but we’ll always wonder, what was that?

Business Trip, Part 2

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 08:05:00 -0700

This is the second part of “Business Trip” and it covers the fishing excursion. The action was hot and heavy and some good pictures were taken!

The Captain gave us instructions about how to apply the hook to the whitebait. He said to hook them just above the pelvic fin and that hook placement makes them spin around on the bottom and, in turn, excites the predators into striking. We baited up and looped casts into the area behind the boat.

My first strike was solid, the fish made a nice run, then headed towards the boat. Another shorter run and, keeping the line tight, I reached over and grabbed the nice bonita by the tail and lifted it into the boat. Before tossing the fish back into the water, our host posed with me as I held it up.

We only caught one more bonita, but the kingfish moved in and supplied us top flight, action. With our medium/light tackle, their initial runs were spectacular and they battled us all the way in, until subdued with a coup de grace, a billy to the knoggin.

We fished for over three hours and the action was constant. On one cast of mine, as the bait floated toward the bottom, my rod was jarred with a heavy strike. My first thought was another king, and I braced myself for its characteristic long first run. But to my surprise the fish came straight up, out of the water in a beautiful arc.

The fish was identified as a barracuda and I started getting ample instructions about landing it. The instructions were interspersed by how good it was going to taste! After several more jumps, the mate gaffed it, careful to apply the gaff in the barracuda’s head area. It was bonked on the head with a billy and into the cooler with it. For me, I will have no part in eating that fish!

We took this picture of the barracuda as we were unloading our catch. The two smaller ‘cudas, pictured, are under twenty-eight inches and supposedly free from ciguatera. The one I caught was over thirty-six inches and, I imagined, full of the disease.

Cruising back into the dock area, we counted up the fish we kept, ten kings and three ‘cudas, a good mornings outing! As the ‘cudas were being cleaned, I commented to our host that I still would have no part in eating one!

Business Trip

jbryan@centex.net (Jon Bryan) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 08:05:00 -0700

This is the first of a two part story about a business trip that my business partner and I took in February of 1996.

We had opened our computer related, business in early 1994 and by the end of February 1996 it was rolling along very well. One of our suppliers in Florida invited us down to get to know them better and to try some mid winter, off shore, fishing. The last part really interested us and we took them up on their offer!

In the afternoon, we flew into Tampa and early the next morning, met our hosts for breakfast and drove on down to meet our Captain and get loaded up for the day’s trip. First thing on our agenda was catching bait for the day. The Captain had his fish finder on as we cruised along a sandy shore, the finder flashed showing bait fish, we stopped and began chumming and several times the Captain tossed out his cast net and we helped him pick out the bait, he called “whitebait”, but they were really a type of sardine.

We cruised on out under the big bridge that spans Clearwater Channel and headed on a course west/southwest for about an hour and anchored in fifty feet of water. The Captain said we were over scattered rocks and as we cast out he said we could expect to catch different kinds of grouper, kingfish, barracuda and maybe even, an amberjack. We could catch all of these species out of Galveston and Freeport, but the barracuda were an added treat.

Barracuda are pretty rare out of our Texas ports and if we caught one, which wasn’t very often, we would throw it right back into the water because of the chance to acquire ciguatera. This is a disease that is prevalent in the tropic zones, not deadly, but has no cure and causes extreme diarrhea!

Grouper, amberjack, snappers and barracuda feed on reef dwellers that feed on the coral that carries the disease, which is then transferred to the flesh of the predators. Cooking or freezing will not eliminate ciguatera! Fish shorter that twenty-eight inches are supposed to be free of the malady?

We were told that we would keep all the barracuda that we caught and I didn’t want any part of that.

Part two will be posted on February 24.