Entering the Covenant
October 1997. Scott continued to work on his book about fly fishing, the quest for big trout, and the midlife passage, but in the process of writing about his family’s past, he realized that his brother and he had offsetting strengths and fears. Scott had always been anxious about flying, while Chip had been an Air Force pilot and owned a high-performance plane capable of aerobatics. Similarly, Scott had wielded a fly rod since he’d been 12, but he’d been unable to convince Chip to take up the sport. In an attempt to forge a middle ground upon which they could become closer, Scott suggested a deal. He agreed to travel to Texas to do barrel rolls with Chip in his plane, if Chip agreed to fly fish with Scott. Chip caught the vision, and gladly agreed. So we headed south again for the second time that year.
Our first morning proved to be less than conducive for either fly fishing or flying, since an early cold front was blowing through the area. We opted to tour Laguna Atascosa Wildlife Refuge located just ten miles or so from Rio Hondo. This preserve has over 45,000 acres and is growing in size as the government works with private foundations like the Nature Conservancy to ensure that some of the virgin south Texas brushland survives the encroachment of farming and development. Its presence on the west side of the Lower Laguna protects the estuary from development, and thereby protects our fishery from overuse by boaters and jet skiers, and from overfishing. We are so fortunate to now live just one mile from its boundary, and many of its inhabitants wander through the yard from time to time, or fly over on the way to their nesting sites.
The primitive South Texas landscape is home to a variety of native tropical and desert trees and shrubs, such as mesquite trees, the thorny and golden-blossomed huisache trees, prickly pear cactus, Spanish Dagger and the rock-hard ebony trees. This austere and forbidding landscape provides home to the Texas Tortoise, green jays, javelina, road runners, and so much more. Out of the remaining 80 to 100 ocelots -- a wild cat that is smaller than a bobcat -- in the United States, 35 make their home at the Refuge. There are approximately 500 bird species that inhabit the area, either year-round or during migration periods, including the sandhill crane, the Aplomado falcon, and piping plovers. Not surprisingly, we rarely watch television. Nature provides us with so many interesting experiences right out our back door.
From the very first visit in August of that year, Laguna Atascosa proved to be a mystical place for us, one that Scott discovered during his retreat. He was amazed that having lived in the Rio Grande Valley all of his childhood and early adult life that he’d never visited it. We had many magical wildlife encounters during our August stay. We watched an Aplomado falcon stoop over her prey and javelina -- hairy, black pig-like creatures that emit a musky aroma detected from quite a distance -- feast on prickly pear cactus. There was something about the land and its creatures that made my heart sing.
As we drove around the 15-mile Bay Drive, just one of the many trails at Atascosa, I sat in the back seat, Chip rode shotgun, and Scott was at the wheel. It was a blustery autumn day, and I was grateful for my fleece and windbreaker. The gray sky and the wind made it feel colder than it actually was. I only half-listened to the conversation floating toward me from the front seat. Instead, I focused my attention on the landscape -- the coastal prairies, the grasslands, and the thorn forests.
We rounded a bend and I gazed out over a field of low brush. Something shifted inside me and I suddenly felt as if I was looking through someone else’s eyes. I was actually seeing the landscape of the Refuge through another being’s consciousness, and yet I was completely aware that it was happening. It was frightening at first, but also comforting. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak, I could only watch as we slowly made our way down the road.
I had the sense of experiencing the land in the distant past. Native American heritage is important to me. I studied some traditions early on in my spiritual seeking, and I have a great-great grandmother who was Cherokee. But never had I felt “me,” being overshadowed by some other soul force.
“Are you, okay?” Scott asked from the front seat.
I turned, and looked at him, still in a daze, but seeing him through my own eyes. “Yeah, fine.” Those were the only words I could manage, as I felt drawn back into the altered state.
Later he said, “When I looked back at you, your face had changed. You looked very much like an Indian.”
“I think I was,” I said. I went onto explain the shift in consciousness that I experienced.
I believe that this incident was confirmation of my connection to this area. All my life I had been searching for home, somewhere I felt truly comfortable. I spent thirty or so years in the Hudson Valley, a brief foray in Connecticut, and then four years in Indianapolis before moving to Virginia Beach. While I made myself comfortable, had friends and good work in each location, I was always yearning for something more. Someplace to really settle in and be more of who I am. The night before Scott and I headed back to Virginia Beach during my first trip to South Texas, I stood on the dock saying good-bye to the land, the water, and its creatures. Tears welled up in my eyes unexpectedly. It was in that moment that I became aware that I had found my home. Seeing through the eyes of some other consciousness only cemented that feeling deeper into my soul.
I got my chance to fish the Bay wielding a fly rod within a day or so of that ride around Atascosa. As I entered the water, I was subtly aware that my movements changed. I no longer walked as though I was on pavement or around the house. Every step became deliberate, my senses heightened. I saw my surroundings more clearly and more attentively. I smelled everything around me, the salty air, the fishy silt bottom, and I heard the flutter of wings and the cries of the birds more sharply than in the past. I became a huntress, much like my Native American ancestors must have been.
Scott wandered off in search of his own fish, not wanting to get in either Chip’s or my way. I had been practicing and while my cast was less than perfect, it was my intent that mattered most at this time. I gave it my best shot.
At one point I came upon a grassy edge near a spoil bank. The spoil islands, or spoil banks, are deposits of dredgings from the creation of the Intracoastal Waterway, which the Army Corp of Engineers dredged in the 1930s. The ICW is used not only for recreational boat traffic, but commercial fishermen and tugboats with barges, carrying cargo such as gasoline, grain, and benzene, traverse this waterway, which once was maintained from Maine to Texas. The spoil islands provide nesting sites for a variety of birds, and feeding areas for the game fish. I saw redfish working the bank, moving along in search of food. Their backs were out of the water and their tails waved like ship’s flags. They were unconcerned with my presence.
Chip was nearby and I felt myself hold back. I didn’t want to get in his way. I encouraged him to join me and take his shot at the bounty before us. While he did venture toward me, he insisted that I take a shot. His gesture allowed me to feel like a peer. I felt embraced by the camaraderie of another fisher, someone other than Scott. I took my shot, actually several, but the fish just wouldn’t pay attention to my presentation. It was less than perfect, but it was an attempt. Neither Chip nor I scored with our fly rod, but we did give it the old college try.
We joined Scott at the boat (actually Chip’s boat), compared notes, and made a plan for the next venue. At one point Chip pointed to a rod holder, and said, “I brought along a spinning rod for you in case you wanted back-up.”
I shook my head. “No thanks. I’m here to fly fish.”
Scott beamed at my dedication.
Henry David Thoreau said, “I know of no more encouraging fact that the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by conscious endeavor.”
I made a conscious decision to learn this sport, and I was bound and determined to stick by it.
Redfish and speckled (or spotted) sea trout are the gamefish of choice for anglers on the Lower Laguna Madre. The most popular quarry for fly fishers is the red drum, or redfish. After the state of Texas designated redfish and speckled trout as gamefish, declaring them immune from commercial harvest once and for all, the population of redfish exploded in the Lower Laguna. Aided by the release of hatchery fingerlings into the Bay, the redfish numbers are as high as ever, and holding, providing fly fishers with ample opportunity to stalk fish from 3 to 10 pounds in clear, shallow conditions. Stalking is very much like hunting. We first see our prey and then go after them, casting to them only when we think we can reach them with our reach.
Redfish live in the Bay from hatching until they reach spawning size, around 28 inches. It is then that they congregate near the passes to the open Gulf and lay their eggs in the late fall. As a rule, the spawning-size reds remain in the Gulf, but we sometimes catch fish in the 30 to 35 inch range in the Bay, as well.
Many fly fishers who have fished for bonefish say that redfish are definitely more challenging to catch. This might be surprising, given the redfish’s reputation as a “blue-collar” bonefish. Bonefish traverse the flats in Florida and exotic tropical locations, and most fly fishers will travel for days to fish for this species. Redfish, up until late, have been seen as just a meager substitute for the bonefish. But experts, such as Fred Arbona -- who has fished the world over -- say that compared to redfish, bonefish are “boring and predictable,” except perhaps in the Florida Keys where they’ve been pounded by flies. While there can be days when redfish attack anything you throw at them, however poorly, they are as a rule very sensitive and quick to reject your presentation, (your fly’s placement on the surface of the water). Indeed, on the Lower Laguna, they are known to be unselective when it comes to fly pattern, but highly sensitive to poor presentations. So the rule of thumb is, if the fish rejects your fly, the presentation is at fault, not the fly.
Despite knowing how tough it was to lure a redfish to a fly, I never went back to the spinning rod -- no matter how frustrating my attempts to hook-up on a fish became. During the first few years, after moving to our home on the banks of the Arroyo Colorado, Scott’s father would call and ask for a report after each of our fishing excursions.
“Did you get your redfish yet?” he’d ask in his charming Alabamian drawl.
“No.” I answered.
“Well maybe you ought to consider picking up that spinning rod again.”
The thought horrified me, and I had to remind myself that his was not a malicious comment, nor was he questioning my ability. He merely wanted me to catch fish and in a way that was familiar to him. In all his 83+ years, he has not fly fished, and he’s likely not to pick up the sport, although he thoroughly enjoys going out on the Bay with Scott or sitting on our dock catching small trout in the Arroyo.
When guests come to Kingfisher with the intention of fly fishing on the Bay, many for the very first time, Scott usually finds a way to let them know of my commitment to the sport and tells of my putting my spinning rod down and never turning back. Many squirm in their seats. But there are those whose eyes twinkle at the suggestion, intrigued by the challenge.
Other than cleaning around the spin rods that we have on hand for our fathers and our children, I haven’t touched one since that August trip, several years back. I set my intention on learning to fly fish and I’ve stuck with it. Many of our guests have a spinning rod along, just in case. Just in case the wind is too high, just in case the fish are too spooky, just in case they get tired of casting. They hedge. I’ve discovered that there is no room for hedging in this sport -- or in life in general -- if you wish to have deep meaningful experiences. With fly fishing, you have to go into it all the way especially if you expect to achieve any degree of proficiency.
It’s much the same on a spiritual path. You either surrender fully to the process, or you go through the motions and achieve no real breakthroughs on the path to enlightenment. Once you completely surrender, there is no going back, either on your path to oneness with God, or your journey into the world of fly fishing. Once the hook is set, there’s no getting off the line.
In some of our many conversations about spirituality, my friend Berna remarked that there were many times when she wanted to jump off the spiritual path, concluding that ingorance is indeed bliss. But both maturity and experience have convinced both of us that once the covenant is made, there is no way to break the contract. You can never step foot off the path, even for a moment without dire consequences. A spiritual quest is not for “sissies”, nor is fly fishing as my friend and fly fishing mentor Wanda Taylor says.
The urge to back out of a commitment occurs at difficult moments. This typically indicates a crossroads when if the right choice is made progress on the path is ensured. Both an overtly spiritual path and the fly fishing journey are filled with tests of commitment, courage, and perseverance.
In Eastern traditions, when one studies with a guru, the guru at some point usually puts the disciple through some test of their commitment before they consent to imbibe greater teachings upon the student.
For instance, when the great Tibetan guru Milarepa went to study with his teacher, Marpa, he faced a series of tests that would have turned most followers away. Marpa knew that Milarepa was full of pride, and a lust for power, and had to be humbled. Marpa began by having Milarepa construct a building, and then would tell him that he had built in the wrong place, or had done it all wrong. He would tell his disciple to tear it down and build it again. Whenever Milarepa asked Marpa for a formal initiation into his order, Marpa would scream at him, and throw him out of the temple. Unaware that Marpa would retreat to his quarters and weep over the pain that he had to inflict on his disciple, Milarepa even considered committing suicide at the depths of his ordeal. But he persisted in the face of humiliation and rejection, and eventually went on to become Marpa’s successor.
The Mother Lagoon exhibits a similar capriciousness at times, and has put me through many tests -- not only to my commitment to my spiritual path, but to fly fishing as well. Each time I was tempted to retreat into complacency, a little voice urged me to pick myself up by the boot straps and carry on. It truly is the only way I’ve gotten to where I am today, both on and off the water.
Purchase On the Mother Lagoon: Fly Fishing and the Spiritual Journey