A Beautiful Day on the Lower Laguna

 Ryan always wants to fish. He reminds me of myself, when I used to come home from Virginia once a year to fish for two or three weeks, spending every day on the water till late afternoon. My family grew accustomed to seeing me sunburned and sleepy, falling asleep on the sofa, dead tired. My brother would fish with me as often as he could, but he would inevitably return to the boat way ahead of me, and sit there watching and waiting for me to expend my last bit of energy for the day. And now it was my turn to face the enthusiasm of my son, who will wade as long and as far as time will allow, positing theories about what might lie just beyond reach that justify endless excursions into areas usually devoid of life, but not always. 

I couldn't leave the house without Rosie. I'd taken her to the vet the day before, and the doctor had drained some pouches of fluid and sent them away for biopsy. Maybe cancer, the doctor said. Rosie is 13, and each trip to the Bay could be her last, but it's hard to leave her home when she stands in the doorway at 4 am, wagging her tail, knowing full well what's up. I pretend that all she wants is a treat, but her tail keeps wagging after the second bit of fake bacon. It's the boat, stupid, not the silly treats that she can have at any time of the day or night. So I call out to Julie in the dark, "I'm taking her." And then I move the passenger seat back to make room for her, and we leave for the bay, perhaps for the last time together. Who knows the time allotted?

Ryan and I had disagreed the night before on when we should plan to launch. The forecast called for 80 degrees before midday, but the small print said it would be 49 at daybreak. Much too cold for my old hands, which grow numb when it's below 65. Reynaud's syndrome, I think. Anyway, I suggested that we launch around 7:30. Ryan thought we'd be competing with a crowd, but I didn't mind that as much as the chill factor of predawn air. I won since I'm still the nominal daddy, and there's no tie breaker. Later, he admitted that I had been right: Hardly anyone was at the launch, and neither of us was looking forward to the cold ride.

We went north into Paytons Bay, thinking that birding could be on. But no, there were no birds working. The wind was supposed to be 3 mph at dawn, but it was closer to 10, and the north wind made for a slight chop  that drowned out any visible signs of fish. Running in and out of Paytons, we turned south toward Cullens Bay, about 12 miles to the south. "We need more sun before we can see fish," I yelled above the Yamaha's throaty roar, and Ryan nodded. It was really cold, and my hands were so numb that I could not tie a knot if my life depended on it.

As we approached the entrance to south Cullens Bay, Rosie began acting strangely. She started circling the console, going round and around while Ryan and I looked at each other. What the hell? Then she climbed onto the front deck, walked up to the bow, and got ready to go overboard in 12 feet of water. "She's got to poop," I yelled. Spinning the boat around, I sped down Cullens channel, and ran aground on a spoil island. Rosie jumped off the bow into thick mud, and I followed, sinking up to my knees in soft mud. Rosie ran 10 feet, and gave way to a wet one. I walked over, apologizing, while she looked up with gratitude in her eyes. An unmistakeable look.

Ryan and I were happy to take a break from the long run. So I walked with Rosie onto the spoil island, half expecting to see a peregrine falcon sitting on one of the man-made hills of dredge tailings. Then we retraced our steps through the thick mud and covered the boat with it.

We poled the skiff along the spoil banks on the outside of Cullens Bay, and had a couple of good shots at very large reds. Ryan missed them and proceeded to punish himself verbally for his imprecision. I have found that it's not much use to say, "You should have caught that fish," because self-loathing never improves the next cast. I genuinely don't hold it against anyone who misses a good shot, because there's more learning to be had from near misses than the catch that gets posted all over social media, where the considerable influence of sheer luck and the need for further refinement is quickly forgotten amidst the "likes" and thumbs up.

There were tailing reds to be seen, but they were intermittent, and the low wind and the white clouds on the horizon conspired to create a glare on the water, preventing us from seeing the abundant reds and trout that we had seen when running. It was frustrating, and Ryan's memory of failure grew in stature until his mood had hardened. So after two rather lengthy, fruitless wades, we headed east for the sand.

Oh my, the sand was a sight to behold. There was no moisture in the air, so the Padre dunes were brightly lit against the azure sky, and the water was crystalline. Turtle grass sprigs covered the sand, and the water seemed only a foot deep or less given its perfect clarity. Actually, the water was knee-deep when we started seeing reds fleeing from the boat. And then we saw our first of many schools of 50 plus reds, and we could go no further. Coming off of plane, we staked the boat and stepped into the warming water. Rosie leapt from the bow and took up her customary position just behind me as we waded north toward a visible school. We could see their wakes, and then their tails and backs as they slowed down and resumed their meandering movement. Within a couple of minutes, both of us we casting to subgroups of the school as they cruised by. It was frustrating, though, because the small cohorts would turn to the fly and dog it for 20 feet before nipping at it, and usually missing under the heat of competition, and then blowing up to the sight of the crouching angler. 

We moved twice, blowing up multiple schools each time. We weren't looking forward to admitting our low percentage success, but after catching a few reds, we chalked up our struggle to the fact that the reds had been surely harassed by boats and anglers all day, and had lost that unthinking zeal that characterizes unmolested redfish. Anyway, it was an excuse that we could agree on. We had no complaints at the end of the day, however. Rosie was tired and clearly happy to be with us, and our bond was as strong as ever after cheering each other on, without a shred of competition or of regret.  

Well, I just wrote a lengthy blog entry and somehow deleted it. Suffice to say that Ryan and I went out to survey the fish kill, and found things to better than we'd feared. Some fish were floating, and a considerable number of trout and drum, in particular, could be seen strewn over the shorelines adjacent to the ICW. The smell was horrendous downwind of these shorelines. We also went east, and found little evidence of dead fish on the flats, except for an occasional large drum. Of course, it's been almost two weeks since the freeze, and the tide has had a chance to flush the bay of some of the dead fish. The tides are rising in response to the sun's position in the spring, and the increased tidal flow is probably working to cleanse the bay of some of the carcasses. 

 We headed to one of our favorite big redfish spots, and found a lot of fish in the area. Even though it was very windy and cloudy, we felt we could see the fish in the 10 inch water, so we waded for a couple of hours. Both of us had four shots at 28+" reds, feeding singly. We'd see them approaching with their backs slightly exposed. Putting the fly in the right spot was nigh impossible, however, given their movement, the lack of water clarity, and their extreme wariness. Indeed, I blew up three of mine, and and only got one to take the fly before coming loose. The one that took my fly was 30+ inches, and hit the fly only 20 feet from Rosie and me. Yes, Rosie is still wading with me, fortunately! 

I flew my new Mavic 2 Air drone yesterday with my friend Jay Blackburn. It was fun and much easier than I'd expected. I fully expect to be able to take off and land it on the front deck of the Stilt. I look forward to introducing drone photography to my flyfishing videos soon. Ryan and I are flyfishing four days with our friend Henry Bone and his son Ethan from Austin in mid-April, and then I turn around and guide two of my favorite old clients, Tony Woodward and Scott Minnich in early May.

Hard Freeze Threatens Fill Kill

 Those who have lived down here for most of their lives will remember the historic freezes of 1983 and 1989. I believe that 1983 has been the most serious freeze in my lifetime, when nearly the entire bay froze over, and the tall fan palms and most of the citrus tree population, died. Following 1983, big trout were few and far between. But they repopulated quickly, and it only takes 6-8 years or so before a female trout reaches 27-28 inches. Then, again in 1989 that bay froze in places, and huge numbers of trout came to the surface, stunned and dying along shorelines, asphyxiating from the low oxygen context of the freezing saltwater. Unconscionable people gathered to snag, hook or net them in their most vulnerable state. Game wardens intervened to keep opportunistic SPI guides from making multiple runs to areas filled with the dying fish.

The freeze we just experienced--with nighttime temps in the low-to-mid 20s--and will suffer again tonight to a lesser extent, may not have had the devastating impact on the lower Laguna that it apparently has had on the waters around Rockport. Pictures of shorelines covered with big trout have been showing up among anglers who have made early visits to the bay's edge. And yet, the rumors among guides and serious fly fishers 100 miles south in the Rio Grande Valley are cautiously optimistic, as reported by my son Ryan, who always has his ear to ground, and networks with several area guides.

From the warmth of my arm chair (after going without electric heat for two days!), I have nothing definitive to say. But the mortality levels among trout, and usually to a much lesser extent among relish, are starting from historically high populations of both species. Indeed, the big trout population has had 32 years to prosper to unprecedented levels of larger fish since the last serious or "hard" freezes of 1989, defined by subfreezing temperatures over a long period of time. A flash frost normally poses no threat. But a sustained 8-12-hour period of subfreezing temperatures quickly transforms the bay from a normally temperature tolerant ecosystem, to a body of water that eventually "catches up" with the  air temperature. The available oxygen in the water plummets and the larger fish, which normally gravitate toward shallow water for feeding advantage, get caught unable to thrive in the low O2 frigid conditions. 

Reds can tolerate temps from the low 50s to the upper 80s before they have to relocate, but the "optimal temperatures for spotted seatrout are between 69° - 80°F. They will seek out cooler(deeper) water when it is warmer than 88°. Likewise, when the water is colder, they may hold in deeper channels or holes where the water may be warmer. They may die at temperatures below 48 degrees. (http://recon.sccf.org/sport-fishing/spotted-seatrout)

Another reputable source summarizes as follows:

• Above 60 degrees Specks are happy
• 50-60 degrees Specks live a normal life. Moving towards areas with deep channels and shallow flats.
• Under 50 degrees metabolisms begin to slow dramatically. Movement and feeding is reduced.
• Somewhere in the 40-degree range, the threat of fish kills begins.(https://www.wafb.com/story/37469520/bigfish-speckled-trout-fishing-heats-up-as-water-temperatures-rise/

And yet another source sets the lower survival limit at 37%:

"If spotted seatrout are trapped for an extended period in water below 41 F or the water temperature changes too quickly for the fish to escape, then the fish may become stunned. Most fish seen stunned do not survive. Spotted seatrout have an absolute minimum water temperature of around 37 F, below which there is very little chance of survival.

And another source, https://www.westernbass.com/article/spotted-sea-trout-management-after-cold-stun

summarizes the trout's adaptation to cold as follows:

"Like all species, spotted seatrout select habitats within a water temperature range optimal for survival. If water temperatures fall below 45 degrees Fahrenheit , spotted seatrout will begin to experience stress and try to move to warmer water. If spotted seatrout are trapped for an extended period in water below 41 F or the water temperature changes too quickly for the fish to escape, then the fish may become stunned. Most fish seen stunned do not survive. Spotted seatrout have an absolute minimum water temperature of around 37 F, below which there is very little chance of survival.'

In the next few days, I hope to report a visual and more definitive scientific assessment of the impact of the "Freeze of 2021," which it will surely be called.

Meanwhile, the freeze has not greatly dampened my enthusiasm for flyfishing the bay just as soon as it returns to normal. And "normal" this time of year is wet wading during a warming trend in the seasonally low tides. February is better than March, weather permitting, for big trout, because the tides remain low enough to sight cast for the trophy fish.

But if that doesn't happen on my "available days," I've already planned a four-day retreat on the water in April with my son Ryan and good friend Henry Bone of Austin, and his shown Ethan. And then during the first week in May, I have the privilege of guiding one of my favorite client teams of Tony Woodward and Scott Minnich. Mid-April to early June has to be the "sweet spot" of the early season, with October to mid-November being my other favorite period, during which I will be guiding another "legacy" pair of clients from Virginia--Ted Thomas and Dennis Matt. Meanwhile, Ryan will be guiding new clients this season, COVID and schedules permitting.

In summary, Nature does its thing. Hard freezes were more common in the 50-80s, and then climate change seems to have significantly warned our winters. Those who live here have witnessed the migration of flounder north, and the explosion of black mangroves along the shorelines--both indications of sustained higher temperatures overall. But now they are saying that the warming of the ice caps will result in a more frequent spillover of the "Arctic Vortex" to the southern lands, a paradoxical effect of overall rising temperatures. Go figure. Regardless, the occasional hard freeze has been a part of southern Texas life for as long as anyone can remember. And take heart; The flora and fauna of our subtropical ecosystem recovers quickly. The temperatures and fertility of our terrestrial and aquatic ecosystems are resilient and responsive. We will surely see Nature adjust to this latest event, and leave only those who have carefully tracked the rhythms of their home waters with any member of her most dramatic moods.