by Rocky Whiting
I left work early one evening to try my newest hand-tied flies on the Medina River. The sun was already past the horizon. A previous kayak trip had given me fresh intel on where a good bass liked to hang out and it was one of the only places I could get to from the bank.
The frogs were tuning up their instruments, and the mosquitoes were collecting their trespass fee. I left my work boots and socks on the gravel bar and rolled up my blue-jeans like I did as a kid. The water was clear and provided a small relief from the June heat. The rocks dug into my soles but were forgotten as soon as I started the first cast. I checked my back cast to avoid a donation to the snag branches.
A flood decades ago pushed over a cypress tree and the river current runs along its trunk. The root ball is undercut creating a great spot for fish to hold. I cast upstream of the root ball to give the fly time to sink down the water column. A few casts in, the fish weren’t interested in my kitchen table version of a Game Changer.
In every direction, the lightning bugs lit and lifted, only to fade and drop. Two turkeys flew overhead to roost in cypress tree safety; their wingbeats the only thing louder than the white noise of the crickets. As the daytime colors were greying, the sky backlit Mexican free-tailed bats chasing moths in erratic flight.
I paused my fishing to breathe in the menagerie of buzzing, flying, roosting, singing, living creations that encompassed me. I didn’t notice the weight of a busy day lift. Somewhere between my boots and the rocks I was standing on, I became a little lighter. The Medina River will do that to you. Standing in the fading light, I knew I was in a special moment. Before this moment, I was the main focus. My importance was quickly diluted into a scene far greater than myself.
I cast my fly into the current. The light was so dim that I was fishing by feel and not sight. As I retrieved the last cast of the evening, I felt the pull of a fish strike. I set the hook and the fish pulled back. A 21 inch bass fought downstream, and then upstream, in the near darkness. The fish gave in and I lipped him above my bare feet and below my rolled up blue jeans.
The outdoor writer Tom McGuane describes this type of experience, “Every once in a while, angling provides an episode one can keep for life. It is not necessarily about big fish…, nor difficulty overcome. Rather, it’s a kind of poetic singularity. Sometimes you’re even aware of it as it’s happening.”
This Medina river experience was a moment I get to keep. My mind holds this place and experience special. The Devils River in West Texas gave me another moment I get to keep.
Standing on the edge of Dolan Falls, I looked downstream at the long and wide pool. At the end of the pool the river narrows and gets shallow, causing the current to speed up. Fifty half-submerged boulders are spaced a fly rod cast apart. Each of these boulders is the size of a pickup truck and the current forms lanes and eddies- ideal for fly fishing.
My problem was twofold. My vehicle was 1 mile upstream and to fish this boulder field meant portaging down the 12’ waterfall and then back up to get back to my vehicle. I had never even heard of someone portaging up a waterfall. The idyllic fishing spot was a mere 200 yards out of reach. I felt a pull to be on those boulders to find out if the fishing was as good as the water read. It had to be.
It took considerable effort to get the kayak and gear down the falls. I paddled to the boulders and beached my kayak. The riverbanks are lined with shade trees and the rock bluffs can be seen beyond. The hillsides are more grey rocks than vegetation. Sparse clumps of prickly pear cactus and dagger plants are the only color contrast. The dryness of the desert is in obvious contrast to the clear currents I am wading across. The overhead sun is focused on the bluff face and creates rising air currents. Buzzards catch the air off the bluffs and ascend above the entire scene.
I tied on a confidence fly, the Clouser Minnow, and stood atop the first pickup truck sized boulder. Each boulder created a unique current and eddy. The boulder next to it caused a different set of conditions and the whole system of currents and boulders was alit with potential.
Sweat collected around my collar until it ran down my spine. The sound of the rushing water from Dolan Falls hangs in the air with the buzzards. I wade to the next boulder and fly cast from the top. The back-and-forth rhythm of the cast meets the cadence of the current. They belong together.
I was in a moment I get to keep. I felt that I was in a pristine place, doing an activity that made my soul happy. The river expanded my soul to be larger than just me. I continued fishing, aware of my moment. I was right. There are bass in the boulder lanes. And they are willing to eat a Clouser Minnow.
The moments I get to keep tether me to a place. This tether is stronger than a memory- more like an emotion. An emotion yet to be labeled by modern language.
My moments I get to keep have always been quiet, solitary, and set in grand scenery. The moments are very specific- a spot on a river, a time of day, the temperature, the lighting. These are all details I keep in my mind and I get to replay the whole scene almost in third person. These moments are more about the experience than the fish. The fish brings me to the place, but the environment creates the moment. I leave the moment wondering if I am chasing a fish or if I am chasing a moment.
