Hill Country morning

Okay, I'm starting to feel a little too much like Mr. Sensitive New Age Guy ... here's another paddlin'/fishin' story. This first appeared in Texas Fish & Game magazine in Feb. 2003.

------------

I heard my mother's voice as I stood waist-deep in the frigid water, momentarily too stunned to react to the events that had just overtaken me.

"Pride goes before the fall." As the oldest of three children in our house, I spent the better part of my childhood repeatedly proving my mom's favorite admonition, a paraphrase of Proverbs 16:18.

To all appearances, I had done it again.

I shook myself out of my reverie, noting that the oddly out-of-place blue object racing downstream through the rapids was my cooler, and remembering that inside its zippered pocket were my wallet and keys. I sprang, wetly, into action.

Righting the boat, I leapt aboard and stroked ferociously after the soft-sided Igloo (retrieved with billfold and keys soaking, but intact). A quick turn to intercept a bobbing water bottle.

Running down a mental checklist: rod and reel most likely on the bottom, where I went over. A sweep stroke to point the bow upstream.

I leaned into the current and realized that the narrow touring blades were not going to overcome the water rushing through the channel. I quickly beached the boat and began wading against the torrent.

In the bend, caught in the submerged branches of the massive pecan that had been the architect of my embarrassment, I found the ultra-light spinning outfit.

I sighed in relief, then glanced furtively over my shoulder. Still no sign of my compadres ... maybe, I thought, I could pull this off without revealing the full extent of the disaster.

As Dub Dietrich and Wade Cherry carved their way down the chute, pulling up short in front of me, Dietrich coolly surveyed the meandering high-water mark across my shirt, then glanced to the disarray on the deck of the kayak.

"What happened?" he asked, in a voice betraying only mild concern. "Did you fall off the boat?"

"Something like that," I mumbled, unable to meet his steady gaze.

Finally, as I prepared to resume fishing, I realized the one item I had not recovered was Dietrich's tackle box--the one he had painstakingly put together for me, for this river, for this outing. Time for a full confession.

A wry mile touched Dietrich's face. Then this, in faintly mocking tones of wonderment: "Man, what kind of person capsizes a Ride? I'm just sorry I didn't see it."

Good question. The same question, in fact, I had posed earlier in the day when Dub told me the worst thing that had happened in a year of guiding kayaking trips in the Hill Country was one fellow flipping the famously stable sit-on-top boat.

On my personal list of things that can go wrong, capsizing a kayak and losing a tackle box on a fine, warm, early winter afternoon don't rank very high. Dub threw me a jighead and a couple of curly-tailed soft plastics, and--bashful blush receding from my cheeks--I was back in business.

The dunking did serve as a reminder, though, that even the seemingly benign waters of the clear-running Llano River deserved a modicum of respect.

It was part of my education that day; an education that included insights into everything from 500 million-year-old rock formations to the habits of Guadalupe bass to the ingredients of a pretty darned fine salsa.

Growing up on the Texas coast, the Hill Country had always been a sort of mythical, enchanted place for me, defined as much by its sweet, fast water as its limestone crags. Childhood forays to the Frio and Sabinal Rivers had reinforced the notion that the largely unpeopled land--and the rivers that ran through it--were, in a very real way, the heart of Texas.

Dietrich, a native of far West Texas, reached the same conclusion early-on, and for the past two decades has put it to the test by systematically exploring and fishing some of the wilder stretches of water most people glimpse only from bridges and the occasional low-water crossing.

A little more than a year ago, the independent oil and gas geologist launched Hill Country River Adventures, a kayak-based guide service catering to fishermen and naturalists.

"You just can't beat these rivers," Dietrich told me. "It doesn't get much prettier than this."

An understatement if I ever heard one; the five-mile stretch we paddled that day near Mason delighted me with its changing moods and breathtaking vistas. And lagniappe: the barred owl sitting high atop a crenellated limestone cliff; the green kingfisher--smallest and most colorful of three species in Texas--flitting along the bank just ahead of us; the spray of purple asters falling to the water along one quiet stretch.

Oh, and the fish. Lots of fish.

"If you like fish action, rivers are the way to go," Dietrich said. "You're going to catch a bunch of fish, but you're going to have a shot at one or two big fish during the day, normally. Most people come out here thinking they're going to fish five or six hours and end up fishing 11."

A late start and, possibly, the high-pressure system that had just settled over the area, slowed the bite for us that day. I brought to hand and quickly released about 30 fish--sunnies (red-breasted and green), largemouth bass, and Guadalupe bass.

Dietrich and Cherry each did a little better, with Cherry taking honors for the biggest fish--a bass over the 2-pound mark. Dietrich's personal best on the river is 5 pounds, and he's seen a 7-pounder taken from the waters. A good day is 75 fish per angler; the one-day record, so far, is more than 160.

"Occasionally, you'll find an area that will have some big bass in it, but that's kind of the exception, not the rule," said Steve Magnelia, an inland fisheries biologist with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department. "Typically, what you'll find on all these Hill Country streams is, the harder the access, the better the fishing will be. Wherever access is tough, that's where you're going to find a lot of fish."

Access, and expert knowledge of what is around the next bend, is maybe the most important thing Dietrich offers his clients.

"If you don't live in the area, there's no way you can research it without extensive effort," he said. "I did an overnighter in March last year. A norther blows in, and we're paddling 11 miles into the wind."

With more than 80,000 miles of rivers and streams, Texas offers anglers plenty of river fishing options. Dietrich specializes in trips on the Llano, Blanco, Colorado, and San Marcos Rivers--the last not really a Hill Country stream at all, but one he returns to again and again. Like the others, the San Marcos boasts long stretches that see few if any fishermen on a given day, with the added attraction of the only cichlid species native to Texas.

Each river has its own attractions. On the Blanco, it is a remnant population of smallmouth bass--the vestiges of a TPWD stocking program that was put on hold in the 1970s after smallies and the indigenous Guadalupe bass began hybridizing.

The run on the Llano near Mason is one of Dietrich's favorites, a stretch of water he prizes for its solitude and its wildness (he told me he's never seen more than four other paddlers during a trip).

"On the Llano, there are no big towns or developments on the river, so it's still rugged hill country," he said. "There's very little trash. The only trash is from people partying at the low-water crossings."

About 20 percent of the remaining public land in Texas is found in streambeds, and while a guided trip can help ensure a safe and enjoyable day (or two) on the river--especially for first-time river anglers--as Dietrich points out, "it's not rocket science."

"Fishing from the kayak is simple. It' enjoyable," he said. "It's finding the right runs that's the work, and the right bait."

TPWD's Magnelia recommends downsizing everything when fishing a Hill Country stream: ultra-light conventional tackle; 5- or 6-weight fly rods, if that's your pleasure; and diminutive topwater, crankbait, and soft plastic lures.

"I'd go with some lighter stuff," Magnelia said. "You're generally fishing for smaller fish than you'll catch in a reservoir." Magnelia added that he was surprised to find so many fish (including aggressive, lure-slurping channel catfish) in the riffles, the edges of the fast water.

For the adventurous or those setting out on a follow-up solo trip after a guided one, Magnelia recommends picking up a copy of B.L. ("Bud") Priddy's 1994 classic, Fly-fishing the Texas Hill Country. Conventional anglers read it for the information about access points and river characteristics.

The Roads of Texas, distributed by Shearer Publishing, and the DeLORME Texas Atlas & Gazetteer are also useful for identifying put-in and take-out spots.

Dietrich has spent the winter months (when bookings slow) exploring new water.

"You see a river you want to do, I can do it," he told me before the holidays.

How 'bout all of them?

For more information on guided fishing trips in the Texas Hill Country, call 512-292-8215, or see Dietrich's website, www.kayaktexasrivers.com.