Boquillas Canyon, Big Bend National Park by Kayak

              

Into the Wild (Light) 

 

   I've always romanticized the idea, as I suspect many people do, of spending an extending period of time in "the wilderness", or away from civilization. While I didn't expect to solve any deep personal crisis, I did go into this trip down the Rio Grande hoping to clear my mind by shocking my senses with new surroundings. At the very least, I figured such an adventure would prepare me for any serious existential emergencies later in life, giving me some useful experiences to draw back on if I ever embark on much longer, lonelier, and more dangerous quests. 

     Situated in the Chihuahan Desert, I imagined Big Bend National Park to be a stark yellow sea, interrupted only with tall, rebellious cacti. Fortunately, since my vision of desert environments was based solely on Super Mario levels, the reality proved to be much more interesting. While plenty of cacti and agave plants decorate the park, several varieties of trees and shrubs, including squat honey mesquites, provide lush greens against the handsome and rugged brown landscape. The Chisos Mountains, the only range to be fully contained in a U.S. national park, also provide surprising majesty for a park located in Texas.

Brought my two favorite vehicles

    Perhaps most notable of the park's features, several magnificent canyons tower above the Rio Grande as it winds and carves its way between Texas and Mexico. After seeking the advice of local outfitters, my friends and I settled on Boquillas Canyon for our first Big Bend river trip. The proposed 33-mile trail offered an opportunity to camp three nights in the isolated interior of the canyon, and our outfitter, Desert Sports, would pick us up on the fourth day to take us back to the launch point. We reserved one of their two-person canoes, and as the third person, I would set off in my trusty solo kayak. 

Arrival - An Alien Landscape

      After a long night of driving, we arrived at the park at mid-morning, and were stunned by the colorful scene all around us. Whether due to the arid climate or the lack of any smog-producing cities within hundreds of miles, the surroundings appeared unnaturally crisp, as if our eyes had  transitioned from shoddy analog screens to digital high definition. The mountainous terrain, studded with resilient shrubs, stretched horizontally all around and vertically into the brilliantly clear blue sky, seemingly transporting us to another planet. Typical of winter months at Big Bend, the temperature was a pristine 70 degrees. Taking advantage of this, we set up camp in the central Chisos Basin, and hurried to the nearby Lost Mine trail, a 2.4 mile ascent (4.8 mile roundtrip) to a grand view of the park after an elevation gain of 1,300 feet. Rigorous, but not particularly difficult, the hike gave us an opportunity to cleanse our lungs with refreshing mountain air and enjoy glorious views from the Chisos peaks.

View from the Lost Mine Trail, Sweet Chisos!

Plenty of signs warn against leaving food out, since black bears live in the park. This one was in the restroom.

    The sun had set by the time we returned to camp, and lucky for us, a new moon promised the best possible view of the night sky. Big Bend is internationally recognized as one of the least polluted and best locations on Earth for stargazing, and growing up in a congested metropolis, I was awestruck at the picturesque scene above. Seeing the world the way humans did in pre-modern times can remind you why certain cliches exist. I had no idea that stars actually twinkle and shine, but here, each point of light glimmers, shifting between white and green as it paints a picture of a crab, a bull, or a bear.

   Day 1 - Wind, Rain, and Donkeys

Orange cliffs pierced by blue sky
Shrubs stretch to water
Curious burro peeks out
-Rio Haiku

    On Tuesday morning, we drove out of the park proper to the Desert Sports shop in the small town of Terlingua, where we loaded our gear into the truck that would shuttle us and our vessels to the launch site. On the way there, our driver explained the border dynamics to us. Although a shallow, relatively narrow river separates the United States from Mexico for hundreds of unprotected miles, there are, surprisingly, almost no incidents of violence or border crossing fiascoes at the park. In fact, before 9/11, the border was completely open here, and Americans could cross over to several small Mexican villages that survived on tourism. Since the border was closed, only one or two remain, including Boquillas, the namesake of the canyon we would be traversing. Since the border re-opened two years ago, the small town has been progressing positively, according to our guide. We also asked him whether we should be concerned about the local fauna, after reading all the signs about bears and lions. "Oh no, the only wildlife you'll see down at the river is probably racoons and burrows, lots of burrows".

   At 11am, we launched near Rio Grande Village, and pushed hard against the wind to traverse the first 3 miles of open river before the canyon. At a particularly difficult point, Jadd and Z kept getting their canoe stuck in the mud while attempting to overcome the blasting wind. A group of Mexican men on the southern side of the river looked on as they filled buckets of water, offering signs of encouragement and even gesturing for them to come over to their side for help. Soon though, a professionally guided canoe trip passed us, displaying the key to canoeing - coordinated paddling. Shortly afterwards, we were through the tough part and approaching the sheer walls of Boquillas Canyon. 

Hello, Beautiful

     Once inside, the canyon treated us to spectacular views of towering rock cliffs, riddled at times with great caves, and spotted with verdant shrubbery. At the entrance to the canyon, another small group of canoeists was resting by the riverbed. The leader of the group waved to me as he spoke with an accent. "How far you going?"

   "Um, about 30 miles?" I called back. 

   "Oh, La Linda", he nodded. "We are just exploring this area, it's part of a new program from right here", he pointed back towards the town of Boquillas, which we had just passed. Clearly, this was not a guided trip from the American side, and it was exciting to witness firsthand the progress the Mexican village was apparently enjoying. So far, we were two-for-two as far as friendly encounters with Mexicans!

    Our wonder at the sights of Boquillas Canyon continued on into the afternoon, but our shoulders ached from fighting relentless wind, and the temperature had dropped uncomfortably as rain began to fall. We stopped at what appeared to be a decent camping site on the American side of the river, but quickly became concerned when we found piles of animal dung along with large tracks. This, along with the lack of protection from the wind, convinced us to continue our search for a spot to spend the night. Just as we turned around, however, we heard the sound of a hoofed animal running down the mountainside. A gray donkey appeared suddenly, whirled to face us, and stopped. "Burro!" I said, as we laughed at our guide's earlier lack of any attempt to pronounce the Spanish word for these animals that so abundantly populated the canyon. 

What is this, a kayak for ants??

     As we continued downstream, the donkey ran alongside our boats, running excitedly all the way to the edge of the bank to watch us pass, and I felt a tug of sadness at leaving. Although the donkeys of Boquillas Canyon have gone wild, the animal seemed curious and playful, like a domestic puppy looking for attention. 

    As a slight drizzle increased to a steady pour, we shivered and winced at the thought of being stuck without proper shelter after dark, when the desert night promised freezing temperatures. With an hour of light left, we spotted an indention in a cliff wall and dragged our boats up the rocky bank. With teeth chattering, we huddled our gear into the protected cove, and rushed to prop up a tent in order to change into dry clothes. By this time, Jadd, Z, and I, were blue, pink, and purple, respectively. Miraculously, we found enough dry wood to start a fire, and managed to set up a dry campsite to take refuge in. The rain stopped and we breathed easy, having feared just minutes ago that we would die of hypothermia. I had brought an additional one-person tent for myself, but that night, all three of us rushed into the two-person structure for shelter and passed out from exhaustion. 

Day 2 - Crossing the Border

   The night was rough, and our bodies ached from waking up uncomfortably in contorted positions as the temperature had plummeted, but we had made it to the second morning alive. As the sun finally thawed out the canyon, we heated some water to make tea and bring some freeze-dried lasagna to life before packing our gear back into the boats. By 10 we were back on the Rio Grande, marveling at more cliffs and caves as the river twisted. We paddled hard, aiming to make lots of ground (water) so that we wouldn't risk falling short of the finish line if the weather turned bad the next day. As an alternate plan, Jadd suggested we eat all our food, sleep for a day, and then paddle non-stop until the end. He was banned from making further suggestions.

     Around noon, we approached a towering nest of felled trees around which the river forked. Although I can't recall ever seeing a beaver dam, we instantly recognized it as such and noticed that the water rushed quickly past it and around some large boulders. While this stretch of the river wasn't known for rapids, this would be the trickiest section so far. As my kayak zig-zagged through, narrowly avoiding ominous rocks, I worried about my friends in the bulky canoe behind me. Let me rephrase that. I worried about my dry sleeping bag, tent, clothes, and water supply in their canoe. 




   

A wild beaver dam appears

    But as I watched from below, Jadd and Z emerged cheering and high-fiving from between the boulders and we were back on the trail. Shortly afterwards, to reward ourselves for the day's progress and just for the story, we decided to stop on the Mexican side for lunch and coffee. Not that we were doing anything highly illegal; the interior of the canyon is pretty much a free-for-all (as I understand), although a park attendant had suggested we only camp on the U.S. side. After a surprisingly delicious snack of Mountain House freeze-dried yogurt and blueberries, we returned to our country to knock out a few more miles before dark. Little did we know we would spend so much more time in Mexico....

Team J/Z almost flip from the force of the high-five

       Immediately downstream of our picnic site, the river forked again. I swung left, and the canoe entered faster water on the right. Seconds later, I heard shouting and my heart sank, along with some of our dehydrated bags of beef stroganoff. I turned to see that the canoe had flipped after catching on a branch, and Jadd and Z were struggling to hold it sideways in the rushing current as they climbed the bank. Luckily, most of our gear was tied to the bottom, and only dangled in the water. I guarded the river downstream for a minute, intercepting a floating paddle, life jacket, and some trash. But then I had to let the rest of the debris float by to help pull the canoe to dry land. 





Kayaking tip #7: No matter how cool you think you look with your sleeping bag strapped into the holder of a hiking backpack, it should go INSIDE the dry bag on a river trip.



     A few minutes of cursing and exasperation later, we slumped on the rocky bank to evaluate our losses. Nothing particularly important had floated away, but our sleeping bags had soaked up the river like sponges, and my backpack had been completely submerged. It would be a rough night....

    Luckily, the mid-afternoon sun dried our clothes as we paddled on, planning to stop early in order to dry our gear as much as possible before dark. An hour later, we emerged from the canyons into open water, where the river was lined only by tall grass and shrubbery. Since mountains rose on the horizon, I assumed we would duck back into the canyon in another hour or so, where we could take shelter for the night. Yet, miles and miles later, my shoulders ached from keeping up with the speedy canoe and it became clear we were out of the canyon for good. Unfortunately, this meant a lack of sheltered campsites, and as sunset threatened, we settled for the most suitable site, a sandy beach on the Mexican side in front of a small forest of young trees.

     We worked frenziedly to set up the two mostly-dry tents,and erected a structure to dry our sleeping bags over a fire. Our smartest move had been to store dry clothes in waterproof bags, and without them, we would have been in serious trouble. After changing and bundling up, we rejoiced around the fire as it seemed our chances of surviving the night had increased. But uneasiness crept upon us as the night sky darkened and the cold set in. There had been all kinds of animal tracks in the mud, including javelina, raccoon, and some other beast we did not recognize. Also, the sleeping bags hadn't dried at all and the icy sand would be our only bedding. Just as I ducked into my solo tent, a chilling howl thundered across the night sky, followed by three shorter, disturbing calls. Disregarding his ban, Jadd brandished a hatchet and flew into a flurry of proposals to arm and defend our camp against lesions of raccoon-bears, assigning battle stations and planning for a massive all-night bonfire...

Had to blur out the incorrect time stamp. It was actually Christmas Eve

   But I was too exhausted to worry about what I assumed was a coyote or bobcat, and fell asleep surprisingly fast on the bare tent floor. My sleep was marred by the dread of having to get up and seek warmth, as I awoke in misery to freezing temperatures over and over. After a few hours, the cold ground stung as if I was laying on an ice skating rink, and, shivering violently, I had to sit up. 

"You awake?", Z said between chattering teeth from the other tent. "This is crazy, what the hell!?" 
"We have to get the emergency blanket from the first aid kit".

    We attempted to share the paper-thin sheet of tin foil that was supposed to save our lives, but it didn't do much. Jadd had piled clothing and a somehow-dry blanket on top of himself and didn't seem to be suffering as badly. Somehow, we managed to get a few more hours of shattered sleep as the night dragged its way out. A friend asked me later if I reached any epiphanies on the trip. Yes, trying to pass a freezing night outside is worse than being hungry, and it's painful to imagine how much suffering people without shelter endure around the world. 

Day 3 - Christmas in Mexico

Feliz Navidad!

♫ Wet novels roasting on an open fireee ♫

    Having covered at least an estimated 15 miles the previous day, we were in no hurry to depart in the morning. Our sleeping bags took turns toasting over the fire, and by the time we set off at noon, all of our gear and clothing were dry. Sure enough, we never re-entered the canyon, and by mid-afternoon, we spotted the one and only bridge on the trail, which marked the anti-climactic end of our journey at the Mexican village of La Linda. 

   We had underestimated the flow of the Rio Grande, and covered the 33 miles much faster than anticipated. It was disappointing that we passed through the majestic canyon so quickly rather than spending a second night there, but next time, I'll know to plan a much longer trip through multiple canyons, as our guide suggested when he picked us up 24 hours later. 

    We made camp, and with nothing to worry about, drank the last of our tea, and ate the last of our food while watching the sun depart behind the canyon in the distance, eventually giving way to another brilliant starry night. For the first time, I got to enjoy my tent and sleep warm and dry after reading about 50 pages of the novel I had roasted over the fire that morning. Midway through the night, the same beast as the previous evening awakened me with its call, this time, seemingly, just a few yards away from our campsite. But upon hearing the subsequent grunts up close, I recognized the familiar "hee-haw" and laughed, realizing the raccoonbearcougar we had feared had been another friendly burro all along.

No filter

Day 4 - Green Chile Cheese Moth Fries

    After breakfast, the sun quickly beamed the desert back to a warm haze, but the still-cool sand provided an exceptionally pleasant napping ground. Our pickup arrived an hour early, which was great, since the ride back took three hours, and we were ready to grab some real food and drive back home. We had burgers in Terlingua, which wasn't anything to write home about, except for the crushed moth under my fries...Regardless, it felt great to eat fresh meat, and downing an espresso energy drink, I powered through the overnight drive to Houston. 



Kayaking tip #8: Strapped down with regular straps on the stock rack of my Outback, the kayak didn't budge for all 8.5 hours of driving 80mph on the highway, and you can too.   

Day 5 - Glazed

    At dawn, we ate Shipley's Donuts in Houston since Z hails from Dallas and had never tried them. We also drank milk. 

Galveston Island State Park by Kayak

     500 years before my first kayaking experience at Galveston Island, a people called the Karankawas, who paddled these waters in their own dugout canoes, encountered a shipwrecked Spaniard by the name of Cabeza de Vaca. De Vaca provided the first written description of native Texas inhabitants, including these nomadic fisherman, who hunted and fought with long cedar bows and were also known as "the wrestlers" for their grappling competitions. Although De Vaca would go on to interact with many tribes and eventually lobby against their exploitation, later Europeans would not be so civil. The French-American pirate Jean Lafitte finally devastated the Karankawas in 1819 when his small army kidnapped one of their women and then crushed those who retaliated with cannon fire at an area less than 5 miles from the State Park.

   Although humans have fished and paddled the shore and bays around the island for centuries, I still felt like an explorer as I searched the sprawling bay for unsuspecting redfish and speckled trout among the seagrass. The Galveston Island State Park paddling trail is divided into 3 smaller trails that wind through adjacent sections of the bay, and are only divided by muddy masses of marshland. The trails aren't distinct paths (or maybe they are and I was bad at finding them) but rather seem like suggestions on how to navigate the mostly open water.

Seagrass (pictured terribly above) is the natural habitat of baby shrimp and other small creatures that are scientifically classified as "bait"

   My kayaking buddy, Jadd, and I arrived at the park around 8:30 am, and picked out one of the 3 kayak launches to start from. Since we ended up wasting so much time fighting heavy wind and current trying to find the best spots, I've included the park map and our eventual path. We launched at Como Lake, intending to follow the first part of the Dana Cove trail and then jump over to the Oak Bayou Trail. But as soon as we were on the water and I tossed my first live shrimp into the channel east of the trail, my line tightened as my shrimp shot under the kayak. "Fish On!" I taunted, but Jadd was already hooked up as well. I landed a beautiful speckled trout to start the morning, but I could tell it was an inch or two short of the limit and tossed it back. Jadd had similar luck with two undersize reds, but the wind kept sweeping us back to the bank so we decided to get back to the trail. Again, I was reminded that I really need to start bringing an anchor for the times when I find a good fishing spot...

The actual trails are marked with lines and numbers, I marked our path in green. The fishing spot is marked with the appropriate internationally recognized symbol.

   Unfortunately for us, we spent the rest of the day attempting to follow the coastline, but getting disoriented between masses of grass. The water was shallow, maybe 1-2 feet deep in most places, and the abundance of seagrass on the bottom was promising, but we had a hard enough time just fighting the current and the wind, let alone finding any fish. Eventually, Jadd had had enough, and I spotted him dragging his kayak into the mud (I wonder why this gave me deja vu). Pointing out "tire tracks", he suggested we leave our kayaks, walk back to the car and pick them up, since we had obviously gotten lost on our way to the second kayak launch. It quickly became clear though, that this was not a road at all, and that we'd have to drag our yaks quite a ways to get back to the parking lot. Maybe it's a good thing these trips never go too smoothly, or else they'd get boring.

Jadd pouting

Discovered a new species, which I shall call "rattlesnake grass"

  We finally saw the parking lot and kayak launch where we should have ended up, and got back in our yaks to cross a small section of water to get there. From there, we left the kayaks in the bushes, hiked back about 1/3 of a mile to the car, and came back to pick them up. We still had some shrimp, so we tried our original spot one more time. Sure enough, the fish were still biting, but after struggling to catch one fish, we realized the wind was way too strong by now and without anchors, we'd have to call it a day.

Can you spot the snake?

How about now?

How about now? No? Please see a doctor.

   All in all, Galveston Island State Park seems like a cool place, even though the paddling trail proper didn't have much in the way of diverse scenery to offer. There are certainly fish to be caught nearby, and the rest of the park appears to offer decent birdwatching and hiking serenity. There are camping sites too, but I'd only recommend them if your idea of camping is pitching a tent in a grassy glorified parking lot next to an RV.

Jadd beaming with pride with his non-even-close-to-the-legal-limit redfish

    As per the last time I drove by Clear Lake, I stopped back in at El Lagos Coffee Shop on the way back, and also discovered a new hole-in-the-wall worth a recommendation. Stompy's burger shop in Seabrook definitely hit the spot after an arduous day of paddling against the wind with their unique burgers, quality beef, good fries, and a choice of wheat buns. (That's 4/5 on my burger joint list, the 5th being huge burgers. These were merely decent sized).

Just about 56 trails to go!

Sharkathon by Kayak

     On a windy October day in 2013, a husky man with a reddish-blond beard paddled his kayak hard to overcome crashing waves, determined to deliver his cargo. He was 150 yards away from the beach; just another couple hundred yards and he could throw the chunk of fish, skewered on a giant hook and hanging haphazardly off the back of his vessel, into the water. But the next wave hit him unexpectedly hard, knocking him into the surf, and as his kayak flew backwards, the plastic-coated metal line flailed, wrapping around his neck. The sudden jerk of another wave compounded his situation, jabbing the tip of the great hook into his neck before burying it past the barb. Only sheer luck and the help of nearby fishermen saved his life, but rather than being airlifted to safety, he doggedly drove himself to Corpus Christi, had the hook removed at a hospital, and drove back to continue fishing in the biggest tournament of the year. For some people, Sharkathon is life. 

Sharkathon 2014

 

       Each fall, hundreds of anglers head to Padre Island National Seashore (also known as PINS) to compete in the largest shark fishing tournament in Texas. The following was supposed to be an epic account of my weekend at PINS, where I observe the beautiful wildlife, kayak-surf through killer waves, and battle massive sharks by rod and reel to win the $20,000 grand prize. Super fun tips along the way would explain the ins and outs of shark fishing from the beach, and how anyone can do it, providing an intriguing and educational read... Maybe next year.

Welcome to PINS

     While waiting in line to check in for Sharkathon on Friday morning, I overheard two sun-baked contestants with several missing teeth discussing last year's tournament. They spoke of the angler in the story above, who found himself wearing a rusty necklace after flipping his kayak in the surf. I looked out uneasily at the crashing white-capped waves and felt my stomach doing gymnastics. 

Passing some typical Sharkathon constituents....

     My job at Sharkathon has always been to kayak the baits out, often fighting heavy currents and pounding waves. The further out you can drop off a bait, the greater your chances of landing a prize shark. The key is to get past the sandbars, thin areas where the water is suddenly shallow, that divide the water into deeper and deeper guts. Sandbars can be identified by the breaking waves, or "breakers" that crash over them, with the first sandbar being pretty subtle and close to the shore, depending on the tide, and the second and third being further out and marked by larger waves. Beyond the breakers lies the promised land, where the sea is generally calmer and deeper, and large sharks roam.

    It took over 3 hours of driving, over rolling mounds of sand and wild grasses, to reach the 55-mile marker, beyond which the "road" appeared impassable. We had hoped to make it 60 miles to the rocky jetty that marks the endpoint of PINS and also protects the last mile or so from some of the seaweed, a shark fisherman's worst nightmare. But at least the spot we picked to camp and fish at was mostly weed-free, as opposed to the rest of the water we had passed on our way, although the waves appeared rougher here than they had been near the entrance...

"Do a Barrel Roll!"

 

    Over the next day and a half, I only made one successful run at dropping a bait. The following video summarizes every other attempt:

           Oh yeah, I finally got a GoPro to record video while paddling! It really doesn't capture the brutality of the waves, as on this particular trip, the problem had more to do with the power and number of waves as opposed to sheer height. (Frequency and Wavelength vs Amplitude if I remember physics class correctly)

Shark Bait #1

    At one point, the waves knocked my kayak into my friend's forehead while he steadied the vessel for me to jump in, opening a slit above his left eyebrow. It bled for quite a while, and I regretted not bringing sutures and Lidocaine with me from work like I had been considering. It could have been fun to do some wilderness first aid. Oh well, bandages and Neosporin would have to do. I had also been tossed into the water about ten times by now, and seaweed had crept in to tangle our line, so we knew our fishing spot had become obsolete.

Notice the two bird species. To the left, a flock of pelicans, aka a "pod". To the right, A Flock of Seagulls flies (so far away)

   Fed up with the conditions, we moved to the 60 mile marker on Saturday morning, day two of the tournament. The drive was rough, but we finally made it onto a large sandy platform right by the jetty. Unfortunately, the waves looked almost as violent here, but there was no seaweed, so we gave it a shot. The only other group that had made it this far still had their kayak tied atop their SUV, choosing instead to cast baits out as far as they could and catch whatever the first gut would offer between crashing waves. They looked on in disbelief and shook their heads as I began to paddle out, surviving the first set of breakers thanks to my friend giving me a good push.

Shark Bait #2, Skipjack (or Ladyfish, I can't tell the difference)

     Bait Drop Soup

 

     I paddled forward and aimed for a weak spot, where a large wave appeared split into two parts. The kayak bounced over with a thump before another wave smashed my face, but the vessel held steady. I was past the second sandbar, but the third loomed ahead. And beyond that, I could see that the waves were capped with white all the way to the horizon. There would be no calmness after the breakers.

    As the next set of waves pounded me, blinding my eyes with a salty spray, I wondered what my last thoughts would be if a hook skewered my neck. The kayak rocked sideways, but I got lucky with the timing and missed the worst of the wave. I was out about 300 yards from the beach now- far enough to catch a good shark. I continued forward, but panicked when 3 consecutive waves towered like mountains ahead. There was no going through, and I was seconds from getting thrown into the water. My brother could see this, and garbled something through the walkie-talke, but I already knew what to do. I yanked at the line, hurriedly dumping it all, followed by the weight, and finally, the fresh skipjack into the churning water just before a huge wave punched my kayak sideways and sent me somersaulting through the surf.

The sea rages

   When I got back, we celebrated our only successful bait drop and began to wait and hope a shark would join our party soon. I knew that in these conditions, it was a drop like this that could win the tournament, and wished that we had used a more durable bait, like a stingray. Sure enough, the skipjack got chewed up, probably by a pup shark that missed the hook, and only lasted an hour. By that time, it had started raining, the wind had picked up, and kayaking was no longer possible at all. The tide had also risen, and we began to worry that the sandy cliff we were parked on would collapse overnight if the weather became stormier.

     Survival Mode

     The wind nearly picked up our tent that night, so we crammed into the truck for shelter from the rain. Not only could we no longer fish, we couldn't even drive home early. We had driven too far and now we were stuck, and there was no way of knowing when the beach would become passable again. I couldn't believe we were stranded; what if we were stuck here for days? What if the tide roared up to the sand dunes in a storm surge, swallowing the truck, with us inside? 

Kayaking Tip #6: eat lots of fiber so you can stay regular while camping in the wilderness with no amenities....actually, no, cancel that tip

    I prepared to reprimand my friends, since I had voted to head home much earlier, but they were already ahead of me. "What kind of idiots do something like this?" my brother asked rhetorically. We all came to the realization that the kinds of people whose lives revolve around Sharkathon each year are probably not the kinds of people we wanted to emulate. There was a vast, wild world out there to explore, and I'd be happy to huddle in a tent, pounded by rain, if I was traversing a new country, backpacking through a mountain range, or floating hundreds of miles down a river. That was the whole point of starting a kayaking blog, to try new things, not get stranded in the same place with the same people, catching the same fish...

Proof that my team and I have actually caught sharks on previous trips. *Colors removed to indicate throwback nature of picture

      With no phone signal, and only enough gas to drive back, we wondered how to pass the time in the dark cabin of the truck. I snatched a bag of chips from my friend, "This is now a SURVIVAL situation, stop eating!" Sleep didn't come easy, and I remembered my waterproof journal, picking it up in hopes of writing something creative or doodling a fun comic.

Dear Diary Journal,

    Morning finally came. The rain had stopped and the tide was low enough to expose drivable sand, but waves smashed through the water harder than ever, and the surf was now brown with sand after the evening storm. Zooming past the 55 mile marker, we were relieved of our morbid ideas about dying at Sharkathon, and swore blood oaths never to come back. Well, until next year anyways, as long as the weather forecasts weren't awful again and we could build a safety latch to hold the hook inside the kayak. Twenty grand is twenty grand after all.


     For now though, I think I'd like to head inland to explore the next paddling trail. There are actually 58 left to go, since the TPWD added another one just the other day. Freshwater ho!
   

Armand Bayou (Mud Lake) by Kayak

  In 1970, an armed robbery tragically ended the life of Armand Yrmategui, a tireless defender of Houston-area wetlands. It's a good thing everyone called him Armand, because the body of water then-known as Middle Bayou was named in his honor, and Yrmetegui Bayou Nature Center would have caused all sorts of spelling anxiety for the elementary school children who go there on field trips.

   The TPWD Paddling Trails are split into two groups, inland and coastal. After the last two kayaking trips, I really missed the saltwater and actually catching fish, so I decided to explore a coastal trail. Armand Bayou starts as brackish where it connects to Clear Lake before transforming to freshwater upstream by the Nature Center. Interestingly enough, this means that in certain areas you can target largemouth bass and redfish at the same time! Even more intriguing is the possibility of being mauled by a bull shark while an alligator is still in mid-death-roll after flipping your kayak.

  While most trails have distinct starting and ending points, Armand Bayou Paddling Trail is more of a branching system that encompasses a lake, so for today, I only explored the saltier portion named Mud Lake, just above Clear Lake. My objective was to catch some redfish, the golden creatures that have decorated the cover of so many Texas fishing and outdoor magazines. Unfortunately, I didn't begin my mission until around 8:30, since no bait shops in Clear Lake open before 8am. This is the grievous equivalent of a stock broker on Wall Street waking up at noon!

A goofy bird under the bridge. Snowy Egret, actually. Easily identified by its clown shoes.

    Armed with a bucket full of live shrimp, I launched out of Clear Lake Park, right by the bridge that separates the lake from Armand Bayou. I have distinct memories of this park from many childhood family picnics. Although we were quite successful at crabbing, I never once saw anyone catch a fish in this seemingly desolate lake. For the uninitiated, crabbing is the ingenious redneck activity of throwing a perfectly good chicken drumstick off a dock, and slowly retrieving it, along with a clinging, palm-sized crab, inside of which you may find about a quarter ounce of meat if you break the claws just right and save all the stringy white shreds.

   After maneuvering my kayak under the bridge, I realized that the difference between this area and Clear Lake, at least the part by the park, is the existence of cover and structure to fish around. Tall grass lined the bank, and some kind of floating plant littered the water beyond that. I believe these clumps of floating life are water hyacinth, an invasive and destructive species, but I could be wrong. A log jutted out of the plants, and a dark blue, hipster-looking bird wearing a mohawk loitered confidently atop it. It glided off before I could snap a blurry picture, but based on my research, I believe it was a Belted Kingfisher. Pretty cool, although I'll have to come back to view the rest of Armand Bayou's famous wildlife, including some very unique-looking birds called roseate spoonbills and even nesting alligators in a branch named Horsepen Bayou.

Mud Lake, Armand Bayou. How many egrets can you spot?

   As I drifted parallel to the grass, I used my fancy bass rod to attempt to entice fish with a brownish soft plastic lure attached to a small spinning spoon. I had a good feeling about this setup when I bought it at the store, but my fisherman's intuition has never gotten me very far when it comes to using artificials. With my cheaper rod, I threw in a live shrimp and let it soak. Skilled fisherman call this technique "cheating".

   Within a few minutes, my live shrimp was hit, and line was zipping off  the Walmart rod as the culprit made an attempt to escape. It didn't put up too much of a fight, and I scowled at the sight of my first catch. It was a hardhead catfish, basically the worst fish ever. They are slimy, have sharp spines armed with a painful toxin, make disgusting croaking sounds, eat more garbage than mullet, and steal any live bait you may put on your hook. In fact, among my regular fishing buddies, hardheads count as negative points when competing for daily fish counts. 

Why

     Soon after, my rod went off again, except this time, the fish weaved and fought like it valued it's own life, so it couldn't possibly be a hardhead. Almost losing it in a clump of plants, I swung the fish into my kayak and smiled as I recognized my target species. Rarely do I analyze a new spot and catch the fish I am seeking, so even though it was a dinky 12-inch red, I was pleased that my score was back to zero. I released the fish, since it was well beneath the legal limit, and gave up on artificials, switching out my plastic lure for a shrimp under a floating cork, so I could keep an eye on it while holding the other rod which was rigged with a second, free-lined shrimp. 

That golden sheen

   While unhooking another hardhead, I saw my orange and green cork shoot under the water while the line let out a satisfying zzzzzzzzz. Cursing the catfish's mother in 3 languages, I threw it overboard and grabbed my second rod, reeling fast to catch up with the fish. I let it tire out a bit while fighting it steadily to the yak, keeping the pressure up in order to avoid losing the fish. "Yes!", I said to no one as I saw the golden sheen of it's tail swiping the surface. I knew it was a redfish just from a flash, since it's color contrasts starkly with that of a hardhead's gray with copper highlights, the exact tint of a rusty bucket used to contain human waste and vomit in a medieval torture chamber.

The safe way to hold a catfish is under the arms (fins) like a baby. A disgusting, croaking, slimy, baby that you must immediately hurl to the bottom of a bayou.

   As I netted the fish and scooped it into my boat, I stopped holding my breath to celebrate. I opened my tackle box to take out my stringer, preparing to keep the fish fresh for later consumption. As an afterthought, I decided to measure it to make sure it was legal. I didn't have my tape, so I used the tackle box as a guide, only to realize the impressive looking fish was still undersize....by about 3 inches. In Texas, redfish must be between 20-28 inches to keep, which seems pretty oppressive, but I guess there is a science of conservation and such behind it. I reluctantly slipped the fish back into the water and fished for a bit longer before deciding to try another spot.

Looked big enough to me. Damn

   I reached mile marker number 2 soon, and stopped near some more grass. I had trouble fishing without any structure to tie my kayak to, and made a note to bring an anchor next time. I didn't make much more of an attempt to explore Mud Lake, as it seemed pretty bland to me, so next time I will start at the Nature Center and try to catch bass, as well as a glimpse of a gator or spoonbill.

There's always a spider, somehow

  On my way back to the launch point, I stopped at my first fishing spot. Deciding to finish strong by fishing a shrimp on both rods simultaneously, I realized my cheap rod had disappeared, probably while I tried to anchor myself in a mess of floating plants and grass. Oh well.

"You're gonna get hop ons"

   I let a stranded lizard perch on my shoulder while I caught one more seemingly nice redfish, but again, it came up a bit short. At this point, I decided to do one good deed for the day and take the lizard back with me, since he may have gotten stuck on the clump of hyacinth and I'm not sure if normal lizards can walk on water. It was nice having a paddling buddy, even though he had no haiku-writing skills whatsoever.

Fishing buddies. He looks like a Thomas.

    Most of my remaining shrimp were dead by now, so I decided to call it a day. If I come back to this spot again, at least I'll know where to look for reds (west side of Mud Bay along the grass, just a few hundred yards after the bridge) , although I would try to get shrimp the night before and fish at dawn for a chance at larger fish. On the way back, I saw a large pink canoe, rowed by a pink-clad army of girls, and led by a woman wearing a pink tracksuit and barking orders while they counted loudly in military fashion. I'm not sure what was going on here, but my guess is that this was the most hardcore group of girl scouts in Texas earning their rowing badge the hard way.

   While loading everything back into my car, I realized that Thomas was gone. You just look away from your lizard for a few minutes and.....I hope he reached safety, but after losing my rod and my fishing buddy, I needed a pick-me-up, so I met some friends at a nearby coffee shop. If you are ever in Clear Lake, definitely check out El Lago Coffee and Antiques. 

Some actually useful antiques

   It is basically an older couple's house that they have transformed into a tiny cafe/antique shop. I don't really believe in antiques, especially in this case, since it was basically a permanent garage sale with useless and obscure junk. But the man roasts the beans in his backyard, where you can enjoy the aroma while dining on homemade cranberry scones. The coffee is also excellent, especially the Red Cloud variety, which they import from Guatemala. After a mostly sleepless night, I was worried about driving home, so I ordered a cappuccino to keep me awake. The espresso was so strong, though, that I have been fired up all day, and wrote this whole post in one sitting, without any breaks or even punctuation between sentences! That's what editing is for, anyway. So although this paragraph has nothing to do with paddling trails, I want to promote this cafe in case anyone wants to take after the Belted Kingfisher and be anti-establishment instead of going to Starbucks.

An "antique" book I kind of wanted for my coffee table. But no price was listed and I figured it would be very outdated anyway. Also, I don't have a coffee table.

The next post should be action-packed, although it also has nothing to do with paddling trails, but everything to do with the most intense shark fishing tournament in Texas. Just 57 1/2 trails to go!

Zedler Mill by Kayak

    On a sweltering central Texas afternoon in 1989, Lee Wheelis moistened his mouth nervously with a piece of watermelon as the crowd held it's breath. In one smooth motion, he took a giant step to the line, threw back his arms, tilted his head to the sky, and launched a smooth black projectile off his rolled tongue and into the air. It landed and skipped forward down the Spitway with unbelievable tenacity, as if possessed by unseen forces. 68 feet, 9 and 1/8 inches away from where Wheelis stood, the judges made an announcement that caused the audience to fall, weeping, to their knees. The world record was broken.

Texas by Kayak Continues

     For this second entry in my chronicle of Texas's paddling trails, I took to Austin where I met up with my friend Angie, who has been a fan of the blog since way back when it began two weeks ago. Our original plan was to kayak the trail at Lady Bird Lake, but we decided against it out of anticipation of the weekend crowds. The next closest trail was 40 miles south, in a place I had never heard of. Once serving as a railroad and oil town, this small city named Luling is now known for it's watermelon festival and associated seed-spitting contest. And on a sleepy stretch of the San Marcos River, the Zedler Mill acts as a reminder of the community's history as well as a quaint picnic area and the namesake for Texas' very first inland paddling trail.

    At 8am, we arrived in front of the mill, where we met Donald, our guide for the day. The jovial, mustachioed, grayish-blond haired man heartily welcomed us and waited patiently while we grabbed our gear and snacks and loaded them into his truck. "I like your car! Does it do everything they say it does?", he asked about my black Subaru Outback. "Thanks, oh yeah, definitely!", I replied, muttering to Angie that the all-wheel drive has sure proved itself useful in the rugged mountain village of Houston.

My legendary Subaru at the picnic area behind Zedler Mill. Also, one of the many oil rigs that garnish the city of Luling

    I didn't bring my own kayak this time, as it was far more convenient to rent a couple from Donald, who works for the city park department. On the way to our drop-off point, Donald waved at an oncoming car, "Hey, Shirley!"Apparently, Luling is one of those eerie, Animal Crossing-esque places where all the townsfolk know each other by name. Six miles later, we were at the put-in and as I rigged up our fishing rods and Angie secured her ukelele to make sure it would stay dry, Donald went over the river conditions. Although it was generally a mild trail, he warned us that some ladies had recently reported a fallen tree causing a serious obstacle to new paddlers somewhere along the way. I promised we'd give him our own report when he picked us up back at the mill, and then we were off.

At the put-in for the 6-mile Zedler Mill Paddling Trail

   Around one of the first bends, we encountered an almost completely submerged tree in our path. Our kayaks bumped over it with ease, and we joked that maybe it was the nightmarish obstacle Donald had spoken of. I imagined British women in Victorian dresses sipping tea on a kayak and squealing about spilled drops as their boats knocked against the wood. We laughed and made impressions of them sobbing, "How DREADFUL!".

Heading under the arches (not the golden ones, God forbid)

   The first mile or so passed uneventfully, and the current was too strong to easily fish in, so we pretty much drifted through. But we soon reached the foreshadowed fallen tree, and this time our path was truly blocked. It only took a short portage to navigate around it, but we did have to wade calf-deep in mud that reeked of decomposition. The Victorian ladies would have surely died by now. 

"How high do you think I can climb up that tree?" A little higher, honestly, but I was still pretty impressed.

   The Legend of Zedler: Ukelele of Time

 

A piece of moss dances in the flow
Of golden chords plucked
Under the shade of lazy branches
-My haiku of the day

 Although we ran into several more light rapids, we didn't have to get out of our kayaks again for the rest of the trip, but a couple miles in, we did stop for some natural inspiration. After my last expedition, I felt pressured to produce more paddling haiku, so with our vessels tied to a log and a shady tree to rehydrate under, I got out my notebook. Angie offered to enhance the atmosphere with some ukelele melodies, including a surprise cover of one of my favorite songs, Eddie Vedder's Rise. We also took the chance to fish, although this proved completely fruitless, as is usual for me. In fact, the only fish I saw the whole day was a lonely gar sulking by the bank.

♪♫ " Such is the way of the world, you can never know " ♪♬

  

 Even though I had brought waterproof notebooks this time (Jadd's sacrificed haiku book from last time had imparted a valuable lesson), we didn't come up with many cool nature poems, or any awesome wildlife sketches. I guess you can't force these things. But interestingly enough, two of the only haiku we did write described the same moment, like photographs of the same scene from different angles.

Deep in Thought

Melodies floating downstream
Echoes follow paddles rowing
Moments in memories
-Angie H.

Bearish or Bullish?

   As we continued down the trail, I realized I couldn't name any of the trees or birds we came across, and that I would need to learn to identify the native Texan flora and fauna in order to continue writing about the state's natural beauty effectively. I did recognize the hollow knock of a woodpecker at one point, which I was almost proud of. Suddenly, Angie gasped as a large, dark mammal emerged from behind the willow or oak or cypress or something tree in front of us. What she had identified as a bear for a split-second was actually a black cow, and I would have surely made the same mistake if I hadn't seen cows along the San Marcos on a previous paddling trip.

Fun fact: A group of bears is called a "sloth" or a "sleuth"

   Cows are a mundane sight along Texas roads, but encountering them on the river, minding their day-to-day business, almost feels like a wildlife viewing experience. In our case, it was even more interesting since some of the cattle had waded into the water to escape the mid-day heat, and showed no sign of shying away from us. We passed close enough to touch them with our paddles and continued on our way.

Next time I'll bring a bigger fishing rod.

Trail Mix and Spiders

Eight legs dance on water
Majestic beauty, graceful, floating
Smash
-Angie H.

   Although we didn't encounter the same variety of fish and other wildlife as I had at Buffalo Bayou, one thing remained the same: spiders were everywhere. At one point, a spider nearly the size of my hand crept off a log and onto my yak. Intrigued, I took this opportunity to calmly reach for my camera (phone). I raised it to just the right angle, artfully framed the wondrous creature in my mind....and proceeded to jab at the side of my kayak repeatedly, wildly dunking my phone in the water until the thing was gone. Are there are just tons of spiders on all trees on all rivers in all the world? Only by paddling further and further from home will I be able to establish or debunk this so-far apparently universal truth.
    

 

A grotesquely fuzzy creature. Also, a caterpillar that fell from a tree.

   When we thought we had covered enough distance, we stopped for lunch under another something tree. My new Camelbak was still full, so I made a formal note to make fun of Jadd for his now-infamous mishandling of our water supply on the last paddling trip. Earlier that morning, Angie had suggested we each prepare some custom-made trail mix, so we now munched on two bags of haphazardly assorted nuts and fruits, one of which tasted much better than the other (the one Angie made), which brings me to....


KAYAKING TIP #5: Homemade Trail Mix Recipe: 

• 2 parts cashews
• 1  part Craisins
• 1 part hazelnuts
• 1 part semi-sweet chocolate chips (slightly melted by the sun)

A beautiful place to not catch any fish

  It's a good thing we stopped for lunch on the river when we did, because around the next bend, we recognized the familiar Zedler Mill, and realized the six miles were already over. Donald had seen us and was waiting in his truck. He seemed extremely thankful and surprised as we helped him carry the kayaks up the bank and gave him a report on the river conditions. I guess most people don't have the common courtesy to drag their equipment a few yards or to carry waterproof notebooks around to take notes.

 

Kayak renter-outer, possible mayor, and all-around nice guy, Donald Something. I guess I could have just asked him for a picture.

 
Although this trail didn't present nearly as much of a challenge as traversing 26 miles across an entire metroplex, I definitely recommend it for a peaceful but fun weekend paddle. The trail can be done in 4-5 hours at a very leisurely pace, leaving you with enough time to dine at Luling's "world-famous" BBQ pit (just not on Sundays) or cool off with some locally grown watermelon. As we drove back to Austin, passing an oil rig painted like an orca whale, I wondered out loud if kindly old Donald was the mayor of Luling. If he wasn't, Angie and I both agree that he should be.