What was this fish?
The vintage fiberglass rod throbbed, then dipped and bowed like a wispy willow in a heavy wind. Sometimes the fish felt like a freight train, powerful, unyielding, unstoppable. Then in a second, it would change directions, shift gears, and morph into a race car speeding off into the distance. It stripped off yard after yard of 20-pound-test line. As I held on, my mind raced. How long would the antique fiberglass rod hold up under this kind of pressure? And what about the reel? Would the powerful surges cause the spool to bend and the reel to seize up? I knew what happens with frozen reels and big fish — either the rod would be snatched from my grasp or the line would snap like a flimsy kite string in a hurricane.
Even more of a problem were my thumbs. I had one of the old-fashioned level-wind casting reels, the kind that doesn’t have a mechanical drag. The only thing keeping the fish in check were the balls of my thumbs. The skin felt like it had been scraped raw with coarse sandpaper. And I knew how Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid felt when pursued by the Pinkertons. If you’ve seen the movie you know what I mean. Over and over Paul Newman asked Robert Redford, “Who are these guys? Who ARE these guys?”
What WAS this fish?
It had started out as a lazy summer day on Lake Travis, a few miles northwest of Austin. I had walked down to a dock with a whodunit in one hand and the faithful old casting rod in the other. It’s a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon, reading a thriller while you have to stop every chapter or two to land the occasional crappie or catfish. The advantage of an old fashioned reel is the click you can set. No need to watch your rod — you get a strong bite and your reel will scream like a rusty buzz saw. But this was no crappie, and if it was a catfish it was nothing like any I’d ever caught. It had been over twenty minutes since I’d looked at my watch and I guessed the fish hit ten minutes before that — a full half hour total of the hardest fight I’d ever felt.
What WAS this fish?
That’s one of the charms of this 18,929-acre reservoir — you never know what you’ll catch. I lived on the north shore of this clear water gem for six years. Within a quarter of a mile radius of my dock, you could catch white bass, crappie, three species of catfish, bluegills, redbreast sunfish, black and white crappie, gaspergou, carp, buffalo, longnose gar, and of course the every angler’s favorite — the largemouth black bass.
Although the lake record largemouth tops the chart at over 14 pounds, most of us don’t think of Travis as a big bass lake. But what the fish might lack in size, they make up in numbers. With over 270 miles of shoreline, you have plenty of room to work the points, canyons, and coves with Rat-L-Traps, spinnerbaits, shaky heads, flukes, and topwaters like my old favorite Zara Spook. On a number of occasions I’ve caught and released more than a couple dozen 14 to 18 inchers.
Then there’s white bass. During the winter and early spring they gather in the upper ends of the various arms of the lake. My favorite chunk-and-wind lure is a ¼ oz, blue-backed chrome Rat-L-Trap. It’s a killer lure on any number of species. Other lures that fool sandies include small Roadrunners, Rooster Tails, various colored crappie jigs, and slab spoons.
Like most Texas waters, Travis is loaded with catfish. If you need enough fillets for a fish fry, I’m guessing you’ll set out some jugs or a trotline. My favorite set line baits are live bluegill, cut shad, chicken livers, or wieners cut up in hook-size pieces. For rod and reel angling, try chumming with fermented maize, canned corn, or dry dog food, then come back an hour later and fish the area with worms or stink bait.
Some say Travis is not a good crappie lake. I don’t agree. The thing is, you have to know where to find them. Look for submerged brush piles in water 10 to 20 feet deep. Better yet, sink brush or other structure to create your own personal honey holes. I vertically dabble my favorite 1/16 oz. chartreuse jigs down in and around the brush. And sometimes – when I’m feeling lazy – I put on a minnow.
And it was a minnow that lured the Leviathan that summer afternoon. As the fight continued it became increasingly apparent that I needed help. My monster fish had weakened so that I had been able to regain most of my line. But the fish not given up – it was still capable of yanking off a yard or two of line. If my poor thumbs could have talked, both would have screamed like drunken banshees. I willed myself to endure the pain, so that I could force the fish ever closer and closer to the dock.
But I had a big problem: no landing net! Fortunately – not more than 30 yards away -- I saw a bass fisherman working the shoreline. I yelled for help. , He came as fast he could with his trolling motor. As he moved closer I reeled in more and more line so that the fish was right in front of me at the edge of the dock. I could hardly contain my excitement. In a second or so, I knew I it would come into view. I would finally see what it was! But just as the boat arrived with a landing net, the fish made one final lunge.
And it was over.
My rod went vertical. The line fell limp. I no longer had any pressure on my thumbs. I probably had tears in my eyes as I wound in the line. At the end was what had once been a fishhook -- half an hour’s steady pressure had pulled it almost as straight as a toothpick. I felt weak, depressed, heartbroken. I never got so much as a glimpse of my quarry. And you can guess what the bass angler said.
“What WAS that fish?”
