Living on River Time

Two years ago my partner and I decided to start taking trips out of state in the winter time. Since we moved to Alaska in 2020 we have been brainstorming what to do with the snowy months that span from late October to April. Neither of us ski or snowboard and we don’t have a snow machine, so our winter activities have been limited. Our options were to pick up another hobby, save up to buy a snow machine and all of the things that entails, or travel. We already have too many hobbies and buying/storing a snow machine is a lot, so we opted for traveling.  Once a year between the months of December and February, we would take time to go somewhere the sun was shining and it was above 65 degrees.

In 2022 Corpus Christi, Texas was our first destination. The trip was in conjunction with Rugged Outdoor Adventures and our friend Dayton who facilitated helping us get kayaks for our fishing excursions, shuttling, and guiding during our few days of stalking redfish.

I say stalking because as someone who doesn’t have good coordination to begin with, fly fishing from a kayak is a challenge. Fly fishing for redfish on the flats, from a kayak, turned out to be more of a wildlife viewing excursion for myself than actual fishing. But more on that later.

We arrived in Corpus Christi, Texas with a weather forecast of cold and rainy for the entire time we were scheduled to be in town. All of those visions of it being warm enough and sunny enough to wear my brand-new bikinis quickly evaporated into the misty drizzle of a south Texas winter. So, we picked up our fun rental car and went sight-seeing.

We visited the USS Lexington and spent an entire day taking all of the historical tours available. We also visited the Texas State Aquarium and were able to feed the rays, watch the dolphin show, and just be overall nerds in a neat place with fascinating creatures. Not far from our Airbnb there was a golf cart rental. For the days we didn’t have a vehicle we rented a golf cart and took it out on the beach to collect seashells, rocks, and people watch.

The weather cleared up to give us three beautiful days of no rain and sunshine. We soaked it in.

The tidal flats of Nueces Bay were our main destination for redfish. Dayton got us set up and we all set out through the canals. The further back into the canals we got, the more protected from the wind we became and the temperature rose well into the 80s. The surface of the water stilled except for the disturbance of our paddling.

It took awhile for my eyes to adjust to what to look for: shadows and ripples on the water to indicate tails or backs of fish. Redfish chase baitfish, crabs, shrimp, and anything else they can find in the shallows when the tide comes in. I got comfortable enough to stand in my kayak using my paddle as another point of contact to the water for balance. Throwing a shrimp pattern, it was easier to spot fish standing up. Things got complicated when I needed to set my paddle down, retrieve my fly rod, all without making a sound, disturbing the water, or losing sight of the fish. More often than not I felt like a one-man band juggling a fiddle, an accordion, and a set of drums. It was a miracle I didn’t fall off my kayak the first day.

With no fish landed for either of us, we set out on day two and day three with determination to at least hook up to fish. My heart skipped a beat when I finally spotted a red within casting range. I soundlessly stowed my paddle, picked up my fly rod and situated my line. I knew I would only get one cast. I stood slowly on shaky bambi legs and false casted once, twice, and dropped it. Twitch. Twitch. Strip. The redfish turned its head. Denied. I let out a huff of disappointment that ended on a cuss. Spooked.

This process repeated itself for two full days. No matter what fly we threw or how strategic or quite we were the answer was always the same: Denied. Spooked. Spooked. Denied.

By the end of the third day my sense of defeat was only trumped by the heartbreak I had experienced on my first steelhead trip on the Situk. Paddling back to the launch, I decided to relax and soak up what little bit of sunshine we had left. It was then that Wes tapped the back of my kayak with his paddle. I stopped paddling in the shallow silty water and looked over my shoulder to see him point with his paddle 100 yards in front of me. The water swirled gently and something poked through the muddy surface that wasn’t grass or a log. As quietly as I could, I back paddled and switched him places in the narrow canal. He stowed his paddle, picked up his fly rod, and casted to the swirl. A swoosh like a toilet bowl and then the water erupted. Whatever it was – it was big.

“Now what?!” I called. Laughing and reaching for the net stowed on the back of his kayak. I couldn’t get out of the water here, the silt was too deep. I paddled my kayak to the front of his as he fought this fish that really had nowhere to go in the narrow space. With some effort and a whole lot of balance I didn’t know I had, I found myself sitting on the front nose of my kayak with the head of the biggest black drum I’d ever seen in the net. The rest of it’s body flopping out of the net because it was too big to actually fit. Seeing that the net was utterly useless, I reached down, tailed the giant fish and looked back at Wes who was grinning from ear to ear.

We did it. We didn’t get skunked. Thanks Eeyore.  

Special Thanks to:
Rugged Outdoor Adventures – Dayton
The Fly Trap – Chris