Photography can be like fishing; sometimes it boils down to being in the right place at the right time.

I visited Lake Texoma, Texas, guide Scott Bridgess at his boat house today, ostensibly to take a picture of this strange catfish he caught recently. SB was attempting to facilitate an adoption by either Cabela’s or Bass Pro so that people could see this strange, apparently genetically created catfish. What SB found out was that these cats aren’t all that uncommon, and unfortunately they (according to potential adoptees) revert to a more natural color pattern once in captivity for a short time. With no takers, I did photograph SB releasing the fish in the marina.

The wind was kicking up pretty strong on Texoma, but after releasing the cat, we hit some spots close to the marina late today. There were birds working bait, and we did see good surface action, as well as what are called “blackouts” on the fish finder. However, it’s just a bit more difficult to get to these spirited stripers with a fly rod. I was using one of SB’s rods lined with a shooting head, and although it took some adjusting, I was able to catch a couple of small (about 14 inch) stripers.

In the end the sunset was the biggest catch of the day. It simply exploded in vibrant orange hues just as we were done fishing, and all we could do was watch as every 30 seconds the hues changed, brighter, wider, finally to grey and it was over. We were at a loss for words as we headed back to the marina, but I couldn’t help but think about the profound good luck – visual luck – of an otherwise average day on the water.

A dragonfly rests on a stick in the fall sunlight today at Lake Ray Roberts, Texas.

I saddled up the Land Cruiser, loaded up the 6 weight, and headed out to the flats today for one last hurrah with Joel Hays.

This late in the year, there’s just not much one can do to entice wily carp into taking a fly. Today was no exception, with a stiff wind, cooler waters and the sun riding lower in the sky, the carp had the advantage in just about every department.

They had already been skittish for about a month, and the last two weeks of rain did a lot to confuse their senses. Earlier this week, while it was still raining, I had talked to JH about a best case scenario coming today, and if it were a couple of degrees warmer, it would have been a great scenario.

As it was, we did see carp, tails and lots of mudding going on. They were holding deeper and every bit as skittish. Joel went with the bonefish bitters, a classic go-to fly, and I worked my way through my box with no takers.

JH managed two carp while I pestered several with my flies to no avail. By the time I caught up to JH, we were near the midpoint, the wind was going stronger, making it much cooler than anyone fly fishing for carp typically encounters.

We made our way to the end of the usual run. I was fishless, skunked, and really didn’t think much of it … just a victim of circumstance.

Our conversation turned to cold water fishing; trout, Broken Bow, Blue River, the Guadalupe and tying flies. Somebody always comes up with a great pitch on a new place, but on the list for a weekday, when conditions are right, is the Blue River. Off the list is Broken Bow since there is an imminent epic manmade disaster forecast when the gates of spillway are opened to facilitate repairs on the generation gates. On my wintertime list is salt. Given the choice and the time, why not zero in on some winter action along the coast?

I still had an itch to scratch, so we said our goodbyes, and I headed for another, more sheltered spot inside Isle Du Bois park on Ray Roberts. As if to send me off, I caught my first carp after two minutes and caught two more within twenty minutes. These carp were feeling frisky and fearless. Once I got my fix and before the entire area was spooked, I called it a day, and headed for home.

The persimmons are ripening, the leaves are turning in their subtle north Texas colors, and summertime is in full retreat. El nino is waiting stage left, and Elvis has left the building.

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After getting over the fact I had finally made the Port Mansfield Cut, and the fact the water was perfect but completely void of gamefish, I decided to get back to the largest visible group about five-hundred yards back down the beach.

It was difficult to know if the truck carrying the food would be staying there or I would have to chase it one direction or the other, but by the time I reached them I knew that was the summit for that group, and there was plenty of food left. Note – I think the guys at LMFFA would benefit greatly with some kind of radio communication for this event. It would serve as a good safety measure, and to keep the group a bit tighter.

As we ate and fished, occasionally some of the “contestants” would drift southward looking for tarpon signs. Shane sighted one, but it was too far offshore and too random to really drop the sandwich and pick up the ten weight. The handwriting was on the wall.

We turned around and started the journey back. It was going to be a bit more interesting as the tide was taking away the hard sand little by little. The sun had moved further west, and with the benefit of modern polarized sunglasses, it was like being on the submarine at Disneyland.

With only a breeze gusting to ten, the bait looked to be flying through green air. There simply weren’t any dark shadows chasing, and only occasional hints of blowups. Also visible was this brownish algae-looking substance that came in patches that completely masked the aquarium from time-to-time. There is a science and ecology to this fishing every bit as critical as a caddis hatch in the Rockies. I have thrown this observation out to some of the fellow runners, but from other news reports, I am gathering it may be a brown tide.

Nevertheless, the water was mostly stunning, and unlike anything I remembered, with resonant colors ranging from simple sand to jade green and shallow blues. Sand bars, all of them visible, were meandering strips of brown that occasionally broke down allowing currents to funnel bait close to shore and sweep it away just easily. Christo should never see this because he would find a way to wrap it in something.

We stopped, and started, and stuttered and stared at the water – looking for signs of struggle between predator and prey. I finally caught a glimpse of a shadow chasing parallel to the shore. It was shaped like a football, twice as big and moving like a cruise missile. I was out of my depth when it came to identifying unusual saltwater fish on the move, and it didn’t matter anyway because it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. We fished of course, but the action moved away as quickly as it came. I found out later the mysterious shape was a Bontio. What I would have given to get a hook on a Bonito or one of the larger jacks that occasionally pushed a wake along a small wave.

Finally, on one stop, everything came together. The bait was in close and silver flashes revealed something larger at work. They were in the first cut, and so close to shore that they were made virtually invisible by the sand being churned in six inch waves. Keep in mind, I still had nothing that fell into the category of fish porn.

Shane tied into one of the flashes, and the bend of the rod told me I could relax. He landed a very respectable speckled trout, and I landed the article in the Lone Star Outdoor News. Porn sells.

As we approached the end of the sandy sojourn, the newly crowded beaches made the driving more about avoiding humans, cars and sinking trucks, and less about watching the water for signs. The road didn’t go on forever, and this journey was at the end.

Post Script
Of course, thanks to my Grandma, soon to turn 90, for letting me wander along the beach for twelve hours of my visit ostensibly to see her.
Many thanks to the friendly group at Laguna Madre Fly Fishers Association. They welcomed me as if I were a charter member, and some of these friendships are bound to go on. David McDonald, who I met in person in the summer of 2008 was instrumental in providing the spark that lit the fire of this journey. Jim Palumbo, current president of LMFFA, and Shane Wilson, past president, were especially helpful, and as is so often the case, one story leads to another. Shane spearheads a non profit venture called Fishing’s Future, a non-profit organization, that will obviously make TFC if all the stars of scheduling and travel align properly.