I left the truck parked on the shoulder of a gravel road and started bushwhacking through the East Texas foliage and undergrowth. Droplets of sweat dripped from my forehead and rolled down into my eyes. It was a blistering day as I made my way through the bottomlands of pines and hardwoods. My mission was to find and fish the headwaters of a local river.
Finally, the banks of the sandy-bottomed stream came into view. The water was clear and tranquil. I eagerly scrambled down the bank into the shallow water and began sloshing my way upstream. While trudging along, I rigged up my fly rod, heedless to where I was walking.
Unexpectedly, something squirmed next to my feet. I let out a reflexive cry in surprise and jumped to the side. A cottonmouth immediately curled into a defensive position a couple of inches from my boot. Its white mouth snapped open to the sky, exposing its namesake to the green canopy above.
Clearly the snake was agitated by my carelessness, and so was I. My heart was pounding in my ears as I took a couple of steps back, berating myself under my breath.
Once I moved a safe distance away, I began to collect myself. The jolt of adrenaline I just received had my endorphins flowing.
I finished rigging up my 3-weight and turned back to the snake, it was still coiled. I felt I would be justified by picking up the nearest hefty stick and giving the snake a fatal thumping, but I felt a pang of guilt as I mulled this over. This was East Texas after all, and those damn cottonmouths were everywhere!
I thought about all of this for a second, and then pointed at the snake with the tip of my 3-weight fly rod. The serpent stared back at me with its soulless slits for eyes. I gave my 3-weight a quick snap and the rod tip delivered a smarting pop to the snake’s back. It acknowledged my threat with a flick of its tongue, and slithered off. We went our separate ways, neither of us the worse-for-wear.
Now that my escapade with the poisonous reptile had come to a close, I decided to get down to business. Clear and tranquil pools lay before me. Each one teamed with a variety of warm-water fish species. Best of all, these fish were oblivious to the trickeries of a small-stream fly angler.
Approaching a pool from downstream, and being careful not to disturb the placid water, I crouched down and spooled out a couple of arm-lengths of line. I chose my target. A conglomeration of a tangled roots. The roots wormed their way along the cut bank, fingering down into the pool. It looked fishy.
I made a cast towards the jumbled roots and stripped in an arm-length of line. I felt a strike and set the hook. A small fish came splashing to the surface of the pool. Valiantly, the fish dove, trying to swim back to the refuge of tangled roots. The pressure from the 3-weight turned it easily. I stripped a couple more times and watched a feisty warmouth frantically flipping its tail. It tried to make another run for the roots but its efforts were futile. I had him.
Gently, I held the warmouth, and popped the small streamer from its lip. The pattern and color of its scales were impressive: olive, brown, and yellow. A natural camouflage. Upon closer inspection of my catch, I noticed there was a conspicuous bright red dot at the tip of its opercula. It looked as if someone had meticulously painted the vibrant color onto the fish, giving it a little pizzazz.
It was a beautiful creature, crafted by nature, designed from a blueprint by The Almighty Angler.
Hours later, I made my way back to the truck. The sky was turning a pinkish-orange hue as the sun sank low on the horizon. The edges of the green leaves were laced with gold from the evening light. Far away, the distant call of a barred owl could be heard.
When I jumped in the truck and turned the key, a smile came to my lips. I cut the wheel and pulled onto the gravel road, stepping on the gas. A cloud of dust billowed out from behind the truck. The last rays of sunlight flashed from behind the tree trunks like a natural strobe light pulsing into the truck cab. I headed for home, still smiling. It was a great day for a small-stream angler.
