slightly better day to be a fly caster

Fished the Brazos Sunday morn. Brent and I managed to avoid the skunkage, despite the strong aftertaste of banana flavored cereal.

Brent started pulling smallish to decent sized Striper out a deep pool with his lusty TFO axiom rigged with equally lusty Rio clouser line. I, relying on heavy lead eyes to sink my worn out floating WF, didn’t have the patience for the pool and moved into the main shallowish channel hoping for some loner teenaged slab gorging on baby Shad.

Instead, I found myself picking off the rugrats of the Brazos’ nursery school. Four Black Bass, two Striper, and a Catfish found themselves deceived by a prototype of mine.

Fumbled footing and the subsequent flailing spooked the children, and I moved on down to fish a narrow channel lined with cut banks and downed timber. I tied on an olive woolhead with a dark bunny tail hoping to lure a largemouth out of the cover. Instead, I was suprised with a highly agitated Gar tangled in the leather of the bunny strip. Though he thrashed himself free in less than 10 seconds, this story, when retold over delicious amber colored beverages, will conclude with a caught, clubbed, and pressure-cooked dinosuar.

We concluded our trip by trying to clean our plates of 2 pounds of chicken fried steak, two fistfuls of fries, and a bowl of salad slathered in ranch from Mary’s Cafe. I would have taken a picture, but I didn’t want to suffer any ridicule from the loud, opinionated, yet loveable local patrons.