The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of fishing trips

My friend, Bobby Whiteside, once said that we usually only remember the real good and real bad fishing trips. I would add that we also remember when something very unusual happens. I have experienced two trips in that category recently.

The first was a trip with my brother, Wayne, at Aransas Pass. It was a beautiful early February winter day. The temperature was moderate with low winds. We caught 39 fish - most of them undersized speckled trout.

Wayne was far ahead of me in numbers. I knew my only chance of redemption was to land some large keeper fish.

We moved to a new spot, and I put a big redfish in the icebox. Then a nice fat trout gave the redfish company. A 19’’ redfish followed quickly. I was feeling better.

We were about to call it a day, so we stopped at a grassy shoreline not very far from the boat ramp. As we worked our way down the grass edge on the Intra- coastal Waterway, I saw the tail of a huge fish break the surface up on top of the grass bed. The water was about 1.5 feet deep.

“Wayne, the tail of a huge fish just popped up,” I said.

Then I saw it again. Wayne was now watching with me. Suddenly, we saw a huge fish swimming on top of the grass. Instantly, we both made a cast. Wayne missed too far behind the fish that we guessed was a big redfish. My cast was at a perfect angle and as the little three inch white gulp shrimp tail passed his mouth, he ate it. I set the hook and the rodeo began.

He powered out of the shallow grass into the depths of the ICW. I was fishing a little trout rig and the drag on the reel was buzzing. The fish stayed deep and put up a powerful fight. He pulled us north down the canal then turned and pulled us south. My lite 16 foot skiff was getting quite a ride.

The fish slowly began to tire. His runs were shorter and he grudgingly began to give back some of my 10 pound test line. He finally surfaced and we saw that it was not a redfish but a huge black drum.

“He’s not going to fit in your net,” Wayne said.

“Maybe if I bring him in head first you can slip the net under him,” I reasoned.

It worked. The fish was in the landing net but Wayne could not lift him. Together we pulled him over the gunwale into the bottom of the boat. He was massive. We estimated a minimum of 50 pounds.

After taking pictures, we released the beast to fight another day if he didn’t die of old age.

Two weeks later my neighbor, Tom Ray, and another friend, Bill Noftz, and I took our kayaks to Lake LBJ directly below the Inks Dam to fish for white bass.

Lake LBJ is one of the Highland Lakes, formerly called Granite Shoals. My old friend, Jesse Pogue, who ran a fish camp below inks said. “Jimmy, the fish stopped biting on the lake when they changed the name to LBJ.”

But they really didn’t stop. My wife, Beth, and I lived five miles below the Inks Dam when I pastored the Buckner Boys Ranch Baptist Church. During February and March, I fished several times a week in my Jon boat that I kept in a boat house on the lake. White Bass were always abundant. 55 years later, nothing had changed. The white bass still run up the Colorado River arm of the lake to spawn.

We got our kayaks into the water just at sunrise and immediately began to catch fish. The bite was not as strong as it will be in March but still plenty of action.

Bill had never fished from a kayak, so we had to take a picture of him in his tiny boat with a fish.

My fish bag was getting heavy so I went back to the dock to dump them into a large icebox in the bed of my truck. It felt good to get out of the kayak and stretch my legs. I got back into my 10 ft kayak and pushed off the dock. My push was too erratic. The boat dipped and I went overboard.

Wow! That water was so cold. The kayak stayed upright, but I was swimming for my life. I had a jacket, two layers of shirts and pants, plus my boots. People fishing from the dock were trying to help me. It was tough for this 82 year old guy to make much headway.

I had on an inflatable life preserver but I didn’t want to pull the rip cord since I was only 30-feet from shore. My feet finally touched the bottom and I waded out of the lake.

Back at the truck, I shed my coat, dried off my clothes with a towel, put on a warm raincoat and a fur cap before launching my boat to fish some more.

The raincoat blocked the wind from giving me a chill, the hat kept my head warm and warm sunshine was absorbed by my black pants. My buddies said that we could leave any time but I was catching fish.

About 11 a.m. we loaded the kayaks into the truck with an icebox full to the brim with big white bass and freshwater drum.

I won’t quickly forget that trip and I hope no repeat happens.