Selection of the cane pole is the main element in the manufacture of a proper jigging pole. It must be a minimum of sixteen feet long, with plenty of whip or bend, with a slight downward curve at the tip.

Wrapping the pole with sixty pound, test, braided fishing line is next. The wrap should begin about three feet from the butt end of the pole and include a wrap every six inches. To hold the wrap in place, every eighteen to twenty-four inches tie a half-hitch knot in the line around the pole and continue the wrapping. The last two feet of the pole, the wraps should be not more than two inches apart, with a secure knot tied on the tip, but leave the tag end of the line hanging down below the tip.

Eight inches below the tip attach the first hook. The hooks can be one of several sizes, but, to prevent straightening, must be steel, long shank type. When the first hook is attached, clip the line below the hook, then slip another hook of the same size over the point of the first hook, slide it to the hook’s curve and then crimp it on.

Just before fishing, attach two pork rinds, spotted green works best. Attach the first rind to both hooks then attach the second rind to the bottom hook only.

For best results, press the rod butt along the bottom of your forearm, grasp the pole securely and gently tap, tap tap, the rod tip on the surface and you’ll notice that the tip makes dimpled, circles in the water. That’s the right way. The bait jumps and slides below the surface and the fish will explode into the bait. There is no hook setting, just holding on to the pole. Then hand over hand on the pole until the fish can be reached then net or jerk it into the boat.

This is a two, person job, one jigging the other driving and a skiff is the ideal boat. Propulsion of the skiff can be provided by paddle or electric motor. Just be sure the propeller doesn’t bang into too many limbs or stumps.

When Buck and I jigged it was usually around the edges of a pond or lake in water from one foot to four. Don’t hesitate to fish over an area two or three times, because Buck believed that a bass would finally hit the bait out of frustration! Once, on a bet, he and I fished around the stumps on Lake Sam Rayburn’s south side in up to twenty feet of water and hammered the bass. He won the bet!

Now, the hardest part of all may be finding the right Calcutta, cane pole, or even finding one!

Slowly tapping the sixteen foot, Calcutta, cane pole tip on the surface, the bait, two pork rinds, attached to two hooks, seemed to slide and jump, just under water, beside the dead tree. An explosion on the surface, bigger than a “blow up”, and the big strike bent the long pole over half way down into the water. The pole sizzled through the water as the fish ran in a wide circle around the aluminum skiff.

Unceremoniously, hand over hand, I brought the big, bass to the surface, jerked it into the skiff, smiled and held it up for Buck to see. He said, returning my smile, “Boy, you handled the jigger pole just right!” The bass was over six pounds and a personal best for my attempts at jigging.

An eight, pound, bass was the best that I ever witnessed him catching. Buck said that his most exciting jigging event was in South Carolina when he caught an alligator, and in his words, “I quickly let go of the pole and let the ‘gator worry about it.”

He had learned this unique, fishing technique, jigging, and the manufacture of the equipment from, of all things, an old Indian (native American type). This same old Indian made a poultice to cure Buck’s numerous sore throats, Buck drank the potion and passed out from the taste and the “fire” in the mix, but after he awoke, he never had a sore throat again. It probably just ate out his tonsils!

Before WW II, Buck, my former father-in-law, lived in South Carolina, across the Cooper River from Charleston. Buck was a wild thing then, a Klansman, a former professional boxer, a tailor and a hunting and fishing guide. He once guided Nash Buckingham, maybe the best bob white, quail shot ever, on a duck and goose hunt on Currituck Sound, in North Carolina.

Buck perfected his jigging techniques in the numerous ponds and irrigation ditches in the South Carolina lowlands. He was an expert with a cane pole, jigging for fish, primarily for bass, but anything in fresh water, even alligators, will hit a jigged lure. The secret that he passed on to me, was in the manufacture and preparation of the cane pole, hooks and pork rind baits.

“Rigging Up For Jigging” will be posted on June 30.

World War II ended in August 1945 and by the summer of 1946, military surplus stores were booming. Eliminating the middleman, one of my industrious Uncles, Austin Bryan, a Navy Sea Bee, had appropriated a two man, inflatable life raft that had been “lost” off of a Catalina flying boat. It had never been used so Uncle Austin made a plywood box for it and shipped it back to the ‘States, to his Brother, my Dad. We now had a “fishing boat” and me, being young, thought pumping it up was neat.

Our first trip was with our neighbor, Dave Miller, a WW II veteran and former student at Texas A & M College (now University) and his son Bill, to an oxbow lake off of the Brazos River, south of Richmond, Texas. This was a very “private” lake on a large State Prison Farm. This trip being arranged by another Uncle, A.C. turner, who, at the time, was the Rehabilitation Director for the prison sysytem.

We drove to the lake, inflated the boat and then “took turns” fishing out of the life raft. Bill and I went first and learned quickly the art of paddling a life raft. Our first attempt resulted in an inglorious circle! Our fishing results were better, several small bass, that were put on our communal stringer and then we headed to the shore and turned the raft over to our Dads.

Left on the bank while our Dads were working on the bass, Bill and I caught some grasshoppers and went to bait fishing. Not much wind, a real nice afternoon and we noticed a snag drifting near our spot. It drifted up and stopped and quit drifting. Being nine and eleven years old we thought nothing of it and kept fishing.

Our Dads were headed back our way with a couple of more fish on the communal stringer and Dave yelled to us, “What’s that in the water out from you?” Being young we answered, “Where?” My Dad said, “Boys, watch where I cast,” as he cast a wooden, Lucky 13 plug, toward us and across our “snag”.

He twitched his rod tip and reeled one turn at a time, “walking the dog” back over the “snag” and then the water exploded and a big, it seemed five or six feet long, alligator, our “snag”, cleared the water in a twisting, mouth open, teeth showing jump, made a great splash as it returned and then took off, at top speed, pulling the life raft behind it!

My Dad’s Calcutta rod was dangerously bent! He was yelling because the ‘gator was stripping line from his reel, and the reel’s only drag system was his thumb! Trying to stop the ‘gator’s run, his thumb was being blistered because he was using it to put pressure on the reel spool. The ‘gator jumped again, the plug pulled loose and came sailing back toward my Dad and, a ducking Dave and settled on the water behind them. “Whoopee” exclaimed Dave, followed by a “Damn” from my Dad, as both anglers paddled back toward us.

Laughingly, my Dad told us “ ‘Gators like to eat little boys if they can catch one and this one was sizing both of you all up for a dinner.” Silently we deflated the raft, packed it in its plywood box and did not enjoy his attempt at humor!

In a picture box display, in the main hall of my ranch house, are all of my Dad’s old fishing plugs, including the tooth scarred, wooden, Lucky 13 that he “walked” over the ‘gator.

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.”

All day long I had been trying to get a hold of my Son, Randy, to help me with a sticky problem on my Blog. Finally, in the evening he called me, very frustrated. He had “snuck” off and gone fishing, a noble achievement!

He was frustrated that he had lost several nice bass, because he had made a mistake of epic proportions. He forgot to put the hook on the, new H&H Spinner Bait, that he had just purchased.

This particular product comes from the manufacturer in a plastic bag with the hook separate and the fisherman must attach the hook to the spinner bait before using it. In Randy’s excitement and impatience to get to the fishing at hand, he had neglected to attach the hook.

As I laughed at his omission, my thoughts went back, years ago to a hastily planned fishing trip that I went on with my Uncle Gus, George Alvin Pyland. He and my Dad were both from Marlin, Texas. That particular summer I was working on another of my Uncle’s, Shelton Gafford’s ranch, outside of Marlin. Finishing my chores early I went into town to make a purchase at the local sporting goods store, that happened to be owned by Sam Pyland, Uncle Gus’ brother.

When I walked into the store, surprise, there was Uncle Gus talking with his brother. We hugged and shook hands and exchanged some small talk, and one of our favorite subjects, fishing, came up. Mentioning that Uncle Shelton had gotten me permission to fish in a stock tank, that was not fished by it’s owner, and had been stocked with bass by the state five years earlier. I was on my way out there as soon as I picked me up a couple of yellow Piggy Boats. Uncle Gus volunteered to go with me. He was in town for a short visit and would be happy to “help” me thin out the bass in this particular tank.

I don’t know who manufactured Piggy Boats Spinner Baits, I guess the Piggy Boat Company, but I do know that the company that made them had been sold to H&H, the current manufacturer and H&H now had just been sold to a large retailer. But, whoever the owner, this particular spinner bait remains one of the best baits for stock tank, small lake and stream fishing for bass. In saltwater I have even caught red fish and speckled trout with them.

Uncle Gus had no tackle, but I had an extra rod and reel with me, and he purchased two Piggy Boats with yellow skirts, told his Brother good bye and we headed out to catch some bass. Arriving at the stock tank that was in the middle of a one hundred acre field covered with red buffalo grass, I got out of my truck, walked to the edge of the water and made a cast and was into a nice bass immediately. Uncle Gus said, “Wait for me Jon Howard” as he hurriedly attached the Piggy Boat to his line.

Uncle Gus looped a cast along the bank near us and had a strike that almost jerked the rod from his hands, the bass ran toward the center of the tank, jumped, mouth open and the Piggy Boat came flying back towards us. Uncle Gus was a salt water, fisherman of great skill and perseverance, but muttered, “Dang, that’s funny, the hook didn’t get set good even with that hard strike.” as he prepared for another cast.

Another cast, another jolting strike, another lost fish caused him to mutter, “Jon Howard, these bass are harder to hook than specs.” He was a great Uncle to me, and a good Christian man, but when he lost his third bass I was afraid my rod and reel were going into the water. Before that happened I asked him, “Why don’t you bring your rig over and let me check the hooks?” “What hooks?” he replied. I tried hard not to laugh, but in his haste and excitement he had forgotten to attach the hooks to his spinner bait

Slipping the hooks on his lure, he cast out and, whamo, another hard hit, but this one was hooked solid and soon landed and put on the stringer. We both got to the business of catching bass, along with a couple of goggle eye perch, and ended up with a nice mess of fish.

The story ended well, but after Randy’s “hook” problem, it got me to thinking. You know, both Randy and Uncle Gus are former students at Texas A & M!

From 1966 to 1970 I was a member of an “exclusive” hunting and fishing club south of Danbury, Texas. The club catered to duck hunters and when it didn’t conflict with the hunting, allowed fishing and frogging. The club offered a nice air conditioned and heated lodge that slept twelve, a complete kitchen, including a cook and caretaker during duck season, game cleaning facilities and six, flat bottomed, aluminum boats and, on top of all of that, family members could use the facility for fishing, etc. without the member being present.

Besides the camp house and a hundred acres of woods, the club consisted of three lakes, or rice field reservoirs, of about twenty acres each. A deep channel was cut all around a square impoundment with the excavated dirt piled up to form a type of damn. There was about ten feet of shallow water along the damn’s inside before the excavated channel dropped off to over six feet. The channel, the only structure in the lake, was approximately thirty feet wide, sloping up to a large, shallow flat, two foot deep, which covered the center of the lake. The lakes were over twenty years old and had excellent aquatic vegetation flourishing in and around them. Plenty of snakes but, strangely, no alligators

My Dad was retired and his fishing buddy many days was Brad, his Grandson and my Son. Brad was five or six at the time and loved fishing with his “Poppy”. I was meeting them down there one Friday afternoon and my Dad and Brad went down early. When they arrived, the owner was draining one of the lakes. He was going to clean out the channels to increase the holding capacity of one of the reservoirs and it was down to only a square channel of twenty feet, or so, wide.

My Dad had told stories about low water conditions and pounding something against the bottom of a floating boat. This made vibrations under the water that caused the fish to jump into the air, some falling back into the boat. Hookless fishing! When flounder gigging in shallow water at night, I’ve seen salt water mullet become excited and jump into a boat.

Launching a boat into the channel, he and Brad, climbed in and while Poppy paddled, Brad smacked the bottom of the boat and the fish started jumping in. Brad was excited and laughing at the sight of the fish landing and flopping in the boat. Most of the fish were thrown into one of the adjoining lakes but Poppy kept three for supper that night.

I got down to the club in time to take this picture that clearly shows the low water channel behind the fishermen. One of the two adjoining lakes is visible in the background.

As soon as the picture was taken, Brad started jumping up and down wanting me to take him fishing and see the bass jumping into the boat. I did, and we quickly “caught” six more (in the boat) and put them in one of the other lakes.

What if a four or five foot alligator gar had jumped into the boat?

During the spring of 1972, Jake Schroder and I spent a lot of time fishing in Lake Pleasant, a twenty, minute, drive, north, up I-17. Now Phoenix and its suburbs have nearly encircled the lake.

We would put his original, Skeeter Bass Boat with a flat bottom and stick steering, in at the State launch ramp at the lake and head straight for the dam and try to fish inside the restraining cables. . The dam had a watchman, or Troll as we called him. We never met him but almost became friends, because he ran us off from inside the restraining cables so many times. He must not have been a fisherman.

Until the Troll would run us off, we would cast up on the dam and bounce our special multiple jigs back down its side, awaiting a strike from a white bass. White bass in Arizona you say? Yes, years before, Texas had traded millions of white bass fingerlings to Arizona for a large number of Rio Grande turkeys. Texas repopulated the state with the birds and Arizona created a great fishery for white bass in Lake Pleasant.

This particular trip was on a beautiful desert morning, clear, with no wind. As we neared the lake’s damn, I asked Jake, “Do you see the Troll,” “No Troll in sight,” he replied, so under the restraining cable we went. For a while, we were the only ones fishing around the dam and after several casts I had a strike with some “weight” behind it. Must be a catfish I thought. Then it made a nice run, more like a red fish, swirled at the surface of the water and took off again. Soon we lipped it and swung into the boat, the biggest white bass ever, maybe. We estimated it was seven pounds or more. What a fish! Onto the stringer it went, and back to casting.

Catching one more fish, much smaller, out came the Troll. “You boys get behind the restraining line, OK.” His first warning was always nice. We waved to him and kept fishing. “Behind the restraining line!” More firm. We waved and kept fishing. He was beginning to annoy us. “Move that blankety-blank boat or I’m going to give you a blankety-blank ticket”.

It was time to leave, so we started up and headed away and noticed a fisherman in a boat right up to the restraining line, laughing at our encounter with the Troll. He said, “I saw you caught a nice one, let me see it.” We showed him and said we thought it would weigh seven pounds or more. “Real nice,” he said as we motored off. We took both fish home and ate ‘em.

Several months later I got a call from Jake and he said, “You remember that big white bass you caught out at ‘Unpleasant’,” our new name for the lake. I said’ “Sure do, it fried up real good!” He went on to tell me that the fisherman we showed the fish to was an outdoor writer for the local newspaper, and of all things, he wrote and was published in a national outdoor magazine, an article about the white bass fishing in Lake Pleasant, and most embarrassing, about two Texas boys who caught a monster white bass, easily a new state record, didn’t register it with the state, but like all good “meat” fishermen, took it home ate it.

Always remember, that if records interest you, most times the state will keep the fish, and you can’t eat it

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 Formula, deep-vee boat with a hundred and sixty-five, horse engine and Mercrusier 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.

During the spring of 1966, severe flooding over the Trinity and San Jacinto Rivers and the headwaters of Buffalo Bayou had flushed out Galveston Bay. The bay water was fresh and muddy and almost all of the baitfish had left and taken up residence at the jetties and along the beachfront and were quickly followed by the trout, red fish and flounders.

The flooding and bad, bay water combined to present a real opportunity to catch some fish and try out my new boat, a sixteen, foot, semi-vee, pushed by a seventy-five horse, outboard. This particular day in May 1966, my Dad, being retired, and I had decided to sneak off early in the morning, fish my South Jetty spot and be back in town by 10:00 AM so I could make my afternoon appointments.

We bought a quart of shrimp and then put the boat in at Bobby Wilson’s Bait Camp and sped at thirty-five miles per hour, around the East Beach Flats, no more wading for us (only if it was too rough to get around the end of the South Jetty). No problem today since the wind was blowing lightly out of the north- east.

Just after sunrise we motored up and slipped up close to the jetty, quietly dropping the anchor and letting out enough line so that it would grab hold. Looking up and down the jetty, we were the only boat out. We ended up thirty-five or forty feet from the rocks, in ten feet of water. The depth dropped from zero to ten feet in forty feet! The tide was flowing to our left toward the beach. It is funny that when the tide is flowing out of the channel you get a reverse effect on the Gulf side of both jetties. Bait fish were crowded against the rocks. We knew the trout were here.

Daddy had just the right tackle; a new, red Ambassadeur 5000 reel with fifteen pound line, mounted on a six and a half foot fiberglass “popping” rod. I was armed with a Mitchell 300 spinning reel, ten, pound line and a semi-stiff, six and a half foot spinning rod. Ok unless I picked up a big red or jackfish. We were free shrimping with a BB size split shot attached about ten inches above a small, treble hook. Trout poison! For the record we had two coolers, a foam one for food and drinks and a new forty-eight quart Igloo for the fish. Funny thing, at that time, Igloo was one of my customers.

We baited up and cast toward the rocks, dragging the shrimp slowly along the drop off and whamo, whamo, we are both into two very nice fish. We began the “Jetty Shuffle”, which was circling around the boat, passing rods under each other to prevent tangling or lines crossing, al thel while keeping pressure on the fish. We netted both fish in the same landing net, removed the hooks and placed them in the new forty-eight quart cooler. The fish were identical, twenty-six inches long with their tails curling up the side if the cooler.
We shook hands, baited up and cast out and whamo, whamo, two more nice fish! We repeated this over and over until we had the new, forty-eight quart cooler full to the top with a minimum of ice left in it. Twenty-nine trout, all twenty-six or twenty-seven inches long, almost two hundred pounds of fish. All of this in less than two hours!

My Dad, John H. Bryan with the four specs we kept after selling the others!

Looking up, I saw Wayne Thomas, a real jetty pro, and one of my old college and baseball playing buddies, pulling up slowly outside of us. I yelled across the water, “Wayne, let me pull up the anchor and you all ease in here and you can catch some fish.”

Making my afternoon appointments on time, I read in the next day’s Houston Chronicle, that Bob Brister, the Outdoor Editor, wrote that the “jetty pros” hammered the trout at the NORTH Jetty. Funny, I guess he really could keep a secret.

In the early, 1960’s, my Dad and I had found a great place to hunt ducks and squirrels and fish for some hungry bass. The place was in the Trinity River bottom, between Dayton and Liberty, Texas, but before we could “bring home the bacon”, we had to conquer a truly, terrible road.

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

The road was only part of the challenge. The leaseholder of the land, we never met formally, would come by several times during the week to check on his cattle and hogs and to scare poachers out. He chased us out one time mounted on a horse! When the river was up and out of its banks you couldn’t possibly get in. But when you could get in, the creeks and sloughs provided some of the best bass fishing and duck and squirrel hunting to be found.

After hearing my Dad and I talk about the fabulous hunting and fishing opportunities, my brother in law, Jim Buck, was desperate to get down in “The Bottoms”. Just a month before, in one of the many sloughs, my Dad and I had a very enjoyable afternoon fishing there, catching one to two pound bass. My dad had a friend with a jeep with mud grip tires and a “new” Warn winch that was mounted on its front bumper. If we got stuck, we hooked up to a tree and let the winch pull us out. That’s the way to conquer “The Bottoms”.

Well, Jim found, for $500.00, a 1947 Jeepster Station Wagon, four wheel drive, a rusted, green color, but mechanically sound, that he promptly purchased. “Jimmy, we need a winch. Did you get one for the front bumper?” I asked him. He replied, “No, I have something better, a hand winch which we can use front or back.” At that time, I had a very elementary knowledge of mechanics and uses of a hand winch so I thought we were fine. I quickly learned different!

The Jeepster easily made the trip to the Kennific Fire Tower and it turned out that it ran very well on a smooth road. Pulling up to the gate in the not light, early morning, it was locked, but we knew where the key was hidden, and since there was no sign of the leaseholder, in we went! Many times during the day to follow I had wished for the evil leaseholder to show us up and “help” us out of this infernal place.

We navigated the first six hundred yards and came to the first boggy spot. The Jeepster, and its skinny road tires, we never had thought about mud grips, plowed gamely through the muck and deposited us safely onto solid ground. “Piece of cake”, we thought.

Another low spot, spinning tires, mud flying everywhere, then stuck! No problem we had our hand winch. There was a tree close by in front of us, very convenient, and we hooked on and began cranking the winch and the vehicle moved, all of six inches. Twenty minutes of cranking and we were out of the mud and sailing down the “road”.

Winching through three more bogs we noticed the sun was up, it was hot and humid and the mosquitoes were out in force. We had missed the sunrise fishing we had planned on. No worry, so little fishing pressure where were going, the bass would hit all day.

More bogs, more winching. We were both wet and covered head to toe in mud and it was getting close to noon, we wouldn’t have much time to fish. We gamely “soldiered on”. We hit this one spot that I had worried about on the way in – a fifty foot run through bog, mud and water – and we splashed in, four wheels spinning, and made no progress. Stuck again.

No tree was close by, so I volunteered to push. Maybe that would help. It did for five feet. Still, no tree near, and we were really stuck! Finding small logs and branches to give our street tires some traction, we inched forward until we could reach a tree with our winch line. Crank, six inches. Crank, six inches. Crank, six inches. This ceased to be fun. Crank, six inches. Solid ground and we broke for a late lunch.

We assessed our situation. Over the past seven hours we estimated that we had made about three miles. We were almost out of water. We had been stuck twelve times. If the Jeepster didn’t break, at this rate, we would get to our fishing spot about dark.

It finally dawned on both of us that, maybe, we didn’t have the right equipment. We could always blame the Jeepster – no mud grip tires. We could blame the weather – that last big rain really made a mess of the always, bad road. We could blame the leaseholder – maybe he had come in with a Dodge Power Wagon and deliberately ruined the road. Admitting a tactical defeat, we turned around and headed out.

Even though we didn’t even wet a line or catch any fish, there were some good things to come out of this ill-fated trip. We only got stuck seven times coming out. We got out just before dark. I did not have to push. We “made” the leaseholder some new road. And, best of all, we dried out before we got home!

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.

This area, ten or twelve square miles, bounded on the east by the Texas City Dike and Pelican Island; on the south by Galveston Island, on the north by the mainland and west by the causeway, had been a consistent producer all spring.  I told Unkie to be at The Pleasure Island Bait Camp, our fishing headquarters, at 7:30 AM and be ready to catch some fish.

We had purchased a beach house in the Jamaica Beach subdivision, ten miles west from the end of the Galveston Sea Wall.  Launching at Jamaica Beach, we were now five to ten minutes from some great bay fishing spots; Green’s Cut, the Wreck, Confederate Reef North and South Deer Islands and only thirty minutes by boat, from my favorite South Jetty spot, less time than it took us to drive, launch and then motor out to the jetties!  Previously, early in the spring, I caught this 7-1/4 pound spec just out from Green’s Cut.

By 7:00 AM Brad and I had the boat in the water at the Jamaica Beach launch ramp and had started our fifteen, minute trip to meet Unkie at Pleasure Island.  I noticed storm clouds in the Gulf south of Galveston Island.  Rain coming.  What’s different about that?

After picking Unkie up at the bait camp and buying a quart of shrimp, we headed out to find the birds.  Trout, feeding on shrimp, push the shrimp to the surface, the sea gulls see the disturbance, and always looking for a free meal, the gulls literally swarm over the shrimp and feeding trout.  This is fast and furious action, trout are “jerked” into the boat without using a net, and many times we would use artificial baits rather than taking time to re-bait the hook.

Seeing several groups of birds in the distance we sped toward the nearest ones and began a morning of catching specs as fast as we could, and a morning of, we didn’t know then, high adventure.

We noticed the storm that I had seen earlier had moved almost to the island and storm clouds were also gathering north of us over Hitchcock and Texas City.  Being in the bay, in a big bay boat, we felt secure since we were but a short run back to Pleasure Island.  Then the southern storm moved on to the island, and we found out later that it had dropped ten inches of rain on the city, and shortly, a lot of that fell on us.

We kept fishing and catching specs, with northern storms getting closer.  We paused to look at them and noticed they both seemed to stop right at the edge of the bay.  Storms north and south of us, and birds working, so we started back fishing. I have since learned to not “tempt” Mother Nature.

All of a sudden, barreling east, right down the bay, and coming right toward us, there was a large electrical storm, lightning popping all along its front edge and it filled the gap between our northern and southern storms.  We were one mile east of the Causeway and the new storm was about two miles west of it.  Plenty of time left, keep fishing!

Craak!  Boom! Lightning hit a channel marker not three hundred yards from us and then Unkie uttered his infamous remark, “I’ve got time for one last cast.”

He casts out and hooked a nice one, which cost us valuable time to land.  During the fight with the fish, I got Brad’s life jacket on him and donned one myself.  Craak!  Boom! Another bolt hits a channel marker not one hundred and fifty yards from us.  “Let’s get going,” I yelled as the rain started to batter us

Really getting pounded by the storm, we saw that we couldn’t head back to the bait camp. There was almost a solid wall of lightning between us and there.  The storm was still heading our way.  Full speed ahead to the northeast, our only partially open choice.

Northeast of us was the Texas City Dike, a nine mile, red granite, wall built out into Galveston Bay.  Its purpose was to smooth the bay waters for the Texas City harbor and channel, however, and I repeat, however, we were heading in on the rough side!  The wind hit us then, the waves built up, all working to slow our speed.  We barely kept ahead of the lightning, and the rain was blinding!

We kept heading northeast and kept getting pounded by the storm, wind, rain and four- foot waves, which were huge for the bay, since the distance between the wave crests is probably only ten feet.  Very rough!  Wave tops in the Gulf in four-foot seas are twenty-four to twenty-seven feet apart.  Lots of up and down for us, and luckily the drain plugs in the boat did their job and at least we didn’t swamp.  Looking down, I believed Brad liked this and glancing over at Unkie, he didn’t have a care in the world.  Personally, I was scared to death!

Plowing on through the rough water, we finally spotted the dike and could make out a bait camp on our side and headed straight for it.  Closing in on the dike, I anchored the boat with the bow pointing into the storm, which had slacked off some.  With the rain pelting down, we got out of the boat, soaked to the skin and waded to the dike and then some smart aleck, under an awning at the bait camp, asked, “Kind a rough, wasn’t it?”  If my nine year old hadn’t been along, there would have been violence!