The Meat Whistle hit square on the thickest part of a large partially submerged shrub with an audible knock, like I was knocking on wood for luck. As soon as it hit the water a largemouth bass roiled it in like a Dyson Vacuum – all sucking action and no bag. It didn’t take long to realize this, oh say fourteener, was as wild as a March hare. Left, right and at a distance of no more than 12 feet, a complete endo after clearing the water by a good, oh say fourteen, and goodbye. Sometimes you just know when you’ve stepped into a real natural fish, and this was one of those. The judges give that fish a 9.7 because everyone knows there are no 10′s in the Fish Olympics.

I am guessing there are plenty of purists out there who cringe at the words “meat whistle”. The fly is after all, a true abomination. When Bart handed me one at Tailwaters last week, he said, “Don’t ask questions. Just take it.” And I did. They’re huge, tied on a 90-degree jig hook, and as gaudy as … a Sunday morning in the French Quarter, near cousins to many of the monstrosities thrown in the name of money at big bass tournaments. In fact they may be overdressed, or under sharpened – because the next, much smaller, largemouth shook it off after its own version of synchronized convulsions – score 8.0.

I spent the earlier hours of the day stalking the ultimate spook, Carp, in the flats on Lake Ray Roberts. Talk about an exercise in frustration; I saw as many mushroom clouds of mud as they darted for parts unknown, as I saw Carp. No that’s a fish tale. I saw many more clouds than carp, because if I had seen the Carp there would have been fewer clouds. I trudged along in the flats of North Texas loam that was probably some farmer’s garden, or field, now submerged and evolved into a vast plateau of algae, grass, weeds, sticks and roamed by aquatic rodents like Carp and Alligator Gar. About a half mile into my shoreline stroll, I rounded a corner and I stumbled onto the actual homestead; there was the old tornado shelter, completely above ground and in tact (Made In USA), fences and gates like the ones that would have been close to the farmhouse. The shelter was in such good shape it appeared something was living in it, but there’s no way I was looking inside to see what was there (yes I scare easily). This part of the shoreline was also home to a herd of Carp. I scared off a bunch of them, like I was cutting the one I wanted from the herd, and finally coaxed a three pounder onto my freaky “breminatorish” fly. We had a few good runs and standoffs, but after a few minutes we came to an agreement and I released the sucker unharmed.

What is it about these Carp? The challenge they offer is daunting, and at the same time they are there for the taking. They seem to be so smart. They just belly up to the banks, chew their cud, and roll their eyes at me. Heck, maybe these guys, the ones that stampede the herd, have all been caught before. They were so much work, that one was enough. I declared my Mission Accomplished, and then worked my way back to the submerged road where I thought the Bass must be suspended.

And they were. The abominable Meat Whistle performed as billed, as did some more subtle flies – flies that were eventually surrendered to the weeds, branches and underwater traps. It was a hard day on the fly count, but I was out there at a time when everyone was calling and saying “You gotta’ be fishing. This weather is too perfect!” It was, and I was. You can bet I will be out there again tomorrow as well.

Sitting on the front porch just waiting for the weather to make up her bleeding mind. We are on the edge of a cool front, Texas style, and that means heavy weather threats in the form of thunderstorms and the obligatory hail (heaven protect my Airstream), wind, tornadoes and all that is part of living in the middle of Tornado Alley.

None of that detracts from the Partagas Sabroso leaf or the Masi Campofiorini fruit – fermented of course – and the yuppie dad walking by with his wife’s Gucci size frufru dog. Around here, we call those dogs “snackdogs” – snacks for big dogs.

I finally broke down an bought the most recent issue of the Drake, and on first read (of it and their web site), the Drake seems to thrive on the perception of an “irreverent” or as a “rebel” rag about the fly life. If you read widely enough, you might know the real rebels lie in the skate industry (one of my favorite looks). Throw in a few four letter words and you’re a rebel, I guess. Maybe I need to read a little deeper? No doubt they are cutting edge when it comes to the way they feature photography – compared to other fly mags. No doubt, I would love to have images show in those pages as well.

On the home front, one of the participants in this weekend’s upcoming fly casting lesson (hosted by TFC and given by Joel Hays), is my esposa. I guess that means I will have “my own” flychick who fishes (had to mangle that one for the sake of the Flyfishchick). I just hope she digs the TFO 8’9″ 3 I got her for her birthday. It should be just the stick for her week on the trail in the South San Juans this summer. Meanwhile, I guess I will be hanging on the Conejos, waiting for her to get off trail. All things being equal …

The bats are about to begin our neighborhood harvest of bugs, and it’s time to get a fish taco.

With a darling article in the New York Times on the Denton music scene, locals can begin to worry – and not about this past weekend’s mayoral race which garnered a paltry 3,330 votes (6 percent of registered voters), but worry about music executives showing up to “Discover Denton” and shine up the skids that have defined Denton for decades of music fans.

Denton has always been “about to happen”, the “next Austin”, a place where we know what we have and we don’t talk too loud about it lest we be overrun by the Metroplexians from another galaxy far, far away right down I35. Sure it hasn’t happened like the business folk (like myself) thought it would, or as soon as we thought it would, but then it really is a hobson’s choice anyway.

Relax. We are probably still safe. Besides, how else could the voter turnout be explained? It’s just a sleepy, content, no-growth Texas town of more than 100-thousand. Nothing unusual there.

ON THE FISHIER SIDE

For those of you unknown readers, but just starting out fly folks, there will be a Casting Clinic this Sunday, May 18, at South Lakes Park. It will be offered by Certified Instructor Joel Hays (JH) and starts at 6-pm. This is a class for those who have never fly fished, but want to get started in the sport. If interested and wanting more information, simply enter a comment on this thread and I will flesh out the details.

CARP are out and about at Ray Roberts, and if you never thought about the sport of catching carp on the fly, you are missing out. It’s not just the element of “Culture on the Skids”, but a real stalking, casting and fighting adventure. It has so many of the same elements of saltwater flats fishing, and so few of the expense hangovers that go with getting to good salt. If you are looking for someone to introduce you to the fineries of Carp on the Fly, go to dfwflyfishing.com. This is a site I am working on and it should be ready to go this week.

Meanwhile, I am also trying to get back to the coast. This time I am looking at Galveston area and Christmas Bay flats. Christmas Bay intrigues me by its size and bathtub depth throughout. I managed to pick up a very detailed map by HOOK-N-LINE, and it has amazing detail for kayak / wade fishing adventurers. A recent chance meeting of William McLaughlin at an invite only (very sheshe) Orvis event, only served to stoke my interest – with stories of sharks, Reds and Specks. I would love to get my hands on the “Texas Coastal Bend” book, so if anyone has seen one on the shelf, please let me know where I can find it.

So many fish.