Bullfishing

I had one more full day in Texas. And all I wanted to do was to catch a fish, preferably a largemouth bass. Ideally, one that was six pounds or larger. This was my second and last opportunity to catch a Texas bass. Tomorrow, I’d be flying home to the cold late-winter weather of Minneapolis.

The first time I tried to catch a Texas bass on this trip was two days prior. I was on a boat on Lewisville Lake north of Dallas. The winds were high. The waves were choppy.

I was standing on the bow of a bass boat tossing a crankbait into the chop while my friend Henry worked the trolling motor. Then a high wave pitched the boat at least four feet in the air and flipped me off into the rolling water.

I was not wearing a life jacket. Yes, I know, stupid, right? I had a life jacket. It had been by my feet on the deck of the boat. A lot of good it did me as I plunged below the surface.

I was stunned and disoriented as I moved through the warm, churning water. Then it dawned on me. I was moving in the wrong direction, away from the surface, toward the bottom of the lake.

I’m an adequate swimmer at best, but I was able to flip myself around underwater. I broke the surface just as another wave slapped my face. I felt like I’d swallowed half the lake.

I heard Henry calling my name. He tossed my life jacket toward me. I was able to grab onto it. About this time, a park ranger’s boat chugged alongside. Two rangers pulled me into their boat. I remember one ranger saying, “Don’t you know it’s too choppy to be out here in a bass boat.” Well, if I didn’t know before, I knew now. Falling off a boat is a great teacher. Thankfully, I’d survived this misadventure, but I hadn’t caught my fish.

I was now down to my last day and my last chance to land a Texas largemouth. After my unexpected dip in the lake, I wanted to fish from dry land. I was also now fishing solo. Henry, a Texas native, my sort of friend, kind of guide on this trip would be back at his day job at the tractor supply store, but before he clocked in he offered to drop me at what he guaranteed was a “sure-thing” fishing spot.

His Uncle Lew owned a few acres northwest of Ponder, Texas. The acreage included a decent-sized stocked pond. Had Henry ever fished there? No, he hadn’t. But he heard the pond held some decent largemouth.

In fact, his uncle had recently texted Henry photos of lunkers he’d pulled from the pond. All genuine Texas largemouth bass, all at least five pounds or larger. And Uncle Lew practiced catch and release. So those fish and probably many more like them were still in the pond.

My last day of Texas fishing was sounding better all the time. But, would his uncle mind if I fished the pond? Henry said, he wouldn’t, and he likely wouldn’t even know I was there. There were no houses on the property or anywhere nearby. Henry said his uncle used the land to graze a few cattle.

Henry dropped me on the country road by the fence row bordering his uncle’s property with my tackle box, two rods, and a small cooler filled with sandwiches and bottled water. Before he drove off, we agreed to meet at the this spot around noon, during his lunch hour. That gave me six solid hours of fishing. If I couldn’t land my Texas bass in that amount of time, I didn’t deserve to catch one.

As Henry pulled away, I dropped my gear and cooler over the low fence. Then I lifted myself up and over. It was as easy as falling off a boat, I thought.

Henry had said the pond was a few hundred yards ahead from the spot where he dropped me, just over a small rise. As I approached I noticed a dozen or so cows to my left. A few grazed on the brown grass, others just stood swatting flies with their tails. None paid much attention to me.

Ahead the sun was rising, casting an orange-yellow light on the field, I came to the top of the rise expecting to see the pond, which I did. What I didn’t expect to see was the white and brown speckled longhorn bull standing about 20 yards away, between me and the fishing hole.

The sun seemed to rise between his horns, which must have been five feet from tip to tip. And unlike the cows I’d passed, the bull had a keen sense that I was in his field and was anxious to see my next move.

After I got over the shock of coming face to face with the bull I started to formulate a plan that would get me to the pond without getting gored.

I started to slowly sidestep in a wide circle, keeping the bull in sight. At first, he was still. Only his eyes moved, following my slow orbit toward the bank of the pond.

I was finally in position. My back to the pond, still facing the bull, I took short backwards steps, feeling pretty good about my plan. I was certain the bull would eventually lose interest and accept this lone angler into his pasture kingdom. This course of action turned out to be as foolhardy as fishing on a choppy lake without a life preserver.

On about my third step toward the pond, the bull let out one snort and began trotting toward me before breaking out into a full charge.

I’m sure my screams could be heard as far as away as Fort Worth. I turned and ran toward a small cluster of crabapple trees near the pond, tossing my rods, tackle, and cooler in my wake. I scaled the first tree and pulled myself into the lower branches, just as the bull reached the trunk of the tree.

And that’s how I spent the next three hours, sitting in a tree, painfully close to what I’d now convinced myself was the best hidden bass pond in north Texas, while a homicidal bull rested just beneath me in the shade.

Finally, the bull did lose interest. I watched as he ambled over to the far side of the pond for a drink, before disappearing over another rise on the opposite side of the field.

Slowly I lowered myself from the tree. I stepped lightly, as if I believed the bull would feel my vibrations on the ground and come charging back at me. But he didn’t.

Retracing my steps, I found my cooler and one slightly bent fishing rod, the rest I left in tribute to the bull.

Once I pulled myself onto the safe side of the fence, I collapsed in a heap by the side of the road, where I remained until Henry arrived to collect me.

It must have been the look on my face. Henry didn’t even bother to ask how the fish had been biting. I was quiet most of the way back to his apartment. But I finally did share the story about my narrow escape. I also asked him if his uncle ever mentioned the bull in the pasture. Henry didn’t think so, but he wasn’t sure.

On the flight back to frosty Minneapolis, I decided I couldn’t call my trip a total bust. I mean how many times do you survive falling off a boat and being chased by a bull in less than one week. I may not have caught my first Texas bass, but I came away with a couple of pretty good Texas-sized stories.