Surviving the Guadalupe

Evil Cypress Roots

In my younger days getting up long before sunrise and fishing until sunset was never an issue. Today, with many more miles on this old vessel, such is not the case. I still enjoy fishing just as much, maybe more, because I now know much better how to enjoy it.

This trip included a jobsite stop for some quick touch up and with any luck with that an afternoon of fishing the Guadalupe River. This adventure had many challenges for my creaking, misshaped and aging physique. Rising really early was the first test. I was up at 4:30 a.m. ready to begin the quest. A four-hour drive to Austin was made less of a senior event only by the good company of my also growing old fishing friend and a stop in West for some Czech breakfast goodies. Once at the Austin jobsite manicuring the gazillion blue tape spots for an hour or so contorted my joints into new and sometimes vocal complaints. I was sure I heard creaking and popping. Finished at last we headed for the Guadalupe. A stop at a quirky local BBQ eatery made me forget the joint insurrection. Lunch was downed hurriedly and soon we were on the old familiar River Road and had picked a starting point for our afternoon of trout fishing.

Getting suited up for fly-fishing has always been an adventure in itself. There is so much stuff that has to be donned and the pressure is huge to get on the water. Put it on in the right order, get it right the first time, or you have to start all over from where you jumped track. Being some pounds heavier than I once was makes the application of waders to my torso much like stuffing sausage in a casing without a funnel. It is not a pretty sight.

Finally things are rigged right and we descend to the river. It's low, lower than I have ever seen it. The cypress trees lining the river had much of their twisted tentacle like roots exposed creating an obstacle course that instilled terror in my joints at the sight of them. Determined to make these few hours fishing time we had carved from this day worth what I already had invested I plodded on looking for a fishy looking deep hole that might hold some trout that hadn't had their scales scared off by kids, dogs, tubes and kayaks piloted aimlessly by spring breakers that were all already in the river.

Traversing those roots was much more difficult than I expected. Between each step from one gnarly root to the next flashes of my long life zipped through my mind. I was pretty sure I could die on the Guadalupe tripped and consumed by a mass of dastardly cypress tree roots. After about fifty yards or so of this bankside toil and trouble I came upon a promising pool. Being rather fatigued by now and glad to be alive I made my first hopeful cast from the bank and atop a pile of those evil roots giving no thought to how I would land a fish from that perch should I be lucky enough to hook one. That thought came seconds after the take.

A strong trout doubled my 5wt fly rod and headed downstream toward an undercut bank. After the second run like this I knew I would have to negotiate the tangled roots between me and the river and get in the water if I ever wanted to land this fish. What followed was something just shy of a miracle. I danced (I’m not sure danced is this the right word because it certainly was not graceful) from one root to the next, heart pounding as I could feel my balance failing, recovered then catching myself against a cypress trunk lucky enough for me to be in just the right place. I splashed into the river's edge, all the while holding my rod high and doing battle with the trout, once again feeling blessed to be upright, in one piece and alive.

The fish made one more lunge and then began to succumb to the rod. I netted the trout being careful not to lose my footing on the narrow ledge along the drop off where I had landed at the end of my precarious descent to the river. She measured sixteen inches and put up a good fight. Not a bad catch but being somewhat wiser in my old age not sure worth risk I took to catch her. One more fish, a hand sized blue gill and it was time to crawl my way back upstream to where my friend was safely in the middle of the river trying to entice the trout with fur and feather. He offered to share his spot with me but I decided sitting, catching my breath and counting my blessings was in order. Mike fished and I watched for another twenty minutes or so until a glance at the watch told us it was time to pack it up and head north. The trip back involved the usual sluggish episodes on I35 that added untold time to your trip. I made it home just before midnight. I wouldn't have to be rocked to sleep. I had survived another senior adventure, had a great time and caught some fish in the process. It was good to be alive in spite of all that.