Casting away

By Cletus Bianchi

Decisions, decisions. It’s that time of year. Last week was actually relatively easy for me. I have spent too many years studying, evaluating, and participating to ignore my core beliefs. For me, November always boils down to some very simple choices.

When the temperature dips below forty-five I go quail hunting. If it’s in the seventies, I go fishing.

I have waxed philosophic in the past about Fall and the friskiness the cooler weather brings. There was a time in my life when there were too many outdoor options and I had little focus. Texas is so bountiful and offers so many options for hunting and fishing that after that first cool front, I was like a puppy coming into the house for the first time, running around and jumping up on everyone and everything, so excited I might just piddle.

Thankfully, with age and experience, I have gained some modicum of control over these willy-nilly excursions. Age, experience, a wife and a family, actually.

Don’t misunderstand that as a complaint…I married well ("Up…" is what most folks say) and my kids like being outdoors. Truth is, as a younger man I would have been surprised that I could be so willing to ignore the call of the wild to be with the family.

With these new and important responsibilities, I have finally been able to narrow my field to two pursuits, upland hunting and bay fishing, and I can throw myself at them completely, specialize if you will.

Now don’t accuse me of snobbery. I have made my choices for reasons I’ll outline shortly, but I don’t begrudge others their equally intense immersion in other pursuits. Nor do I look down my nose at them for their means and tactics, like some fly-fishers with bamboo rods or upland hunters with European side-by-sides and starched khakis.

In fact, I welcome and encourage others to pursue the varied fish and game options available…mostly because that means more quail for me and less traffic at the boat launch, but also because I understand their need to be out there.

I enjoy a few days in a deer blind, a few afternoons on a tailgate with friends waiting for the evening flight of doves, and the occasional trip to blue water for the unseen drag-strippers. But, rather than risking offending the good folks for whom these are passions, I’ll instead outline my reasons for choosing upland wing shooting and bay fishing.

I’ll try not to make it sound too appealing…wouldn’t want those others to lose their focus.

Actually, it’s the similarities between upland hunting and bay fishing that attract me. It all begins with finding fields or water that look to hold birds or fish. Whether huddled in a suburban looking out foggy windows or flying across skinny water, past experience helps to hone in on likely spots.

Bright green rooster heads popping up from the grass and redfish tails waving lazily on the surface are obvious giveaways, but more often it’s the lay of the land or tidal current or bait fish that make you stop.

I’m as guilty as anyone of stopping to hunt or fish a place where I had fabulous success many years in the past, like that house covey or school of reds has been waiting all these years for me to come back…

Because you’re reasonably confident in your location selection, anticipation runs high as you wade into knee-deep grass or water.

Walking is another aspect of my chosen pursuits I enjoy immensely. I like being in the element of the birds or fish. I like having buddies on either side, with blaze orange jackets and trusty shotguns or tropical, vented shirts with bait-casters at the ready.

I could argue that all of the walking is a very healthy aspect of my pursuits, but truthfully, between the trans-fat laden snacks and meals and the liquid calories usually consumed, the exercise is a wash at best. Plus, a covey rise from beneath your boots or a sow trout exploding on a top water lure are not the prescription for a regular heart beat.

In the ensuing melee, the odds really favor the birds and fish. I’m glad I can smile after sending one load of shot into the ground and the second into a mesquite. I savor the rush, even when I jerk that lure right out of that trout’s mouth. There was a time when limits were important to me. Now, the time itself is the priority.

That’s not to say I don’t love the table fare. Few meals have the succulent flavor of quail or pheasant tenderized by gundog teeth. And if you’ve ever had anything better than fresh fish with a sunburn, you’re fortunate.

Maybe it’s the weather…ragweed pollen is significantly diminished by cool fronts. Sunscreen is less likely to get in your eyes when you don’t sweat profusely. The sky seems grayer or bluer, depending on your tastes, and the air a bit crisper.

Maybe it’s the gear…side-by-side shotguns, blaze orange jackets with shells and feathers in the pocket from last season, boots that have mud from several states in their treads, and dogs that are a part of the family. Or the trusty rod and reel, the new lure color that is so sexy it ought to be illegal, and the tackle box as full of memories as it is hooks.

I bet our annual expenditure on hunting and fishing items meets or exceeds the GNP of a number of nations. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be so many doggone catalogs.

Maybe it’s the casting…either the dog that works side-to-side, gulping scent from the wind and checking likely hiding places before locking on a clump of grass with every muscle quivering, or the well-placed lure that hits in front of the redfish and entices a strike similar to a grenade explosion.

Maybe it’s the anticipation…fewer outings only builds the desire and preparation. Gearing up is one of the highlights of a fishing trip for me…let’s see, which lure? And always, without fail, regardless of the success of a trip, the ride home is filled with discussion and planning for the next trip, eternal optimists that we are.

Maybe it’s the action…no shivering in a deer blind or soaking dead bait on the bottom for me. I’d much rather be in motion, following the dog, trying to read the terrain or water, and ever mindful of the wind.

Maybe it’s the camaraderie…whether hunkered out of the wind behind a truck or spread out on a flat at sunrise; whether it’s a thermos of hot coffee in a minus wind chill or a cold beer listening to the fish get bigger; whether it’s snoring in a farm house with paper-thin walls or snoring in a motel room that smells of fish and cigarettes…can a memory exist to its fullest if there’s not someone to share?

I suppose it is all of those things and many more. I know I am fortunate. I have experienced many types of hunting and fishing and I like most of them. But I’m extremely fortunate I can pursue my two passions with vigor.

Every time I see the sun rise on a frosty field or set on a Texas bay, I am reminded of that good fortune.

What – you thought I was going to talk politics? Maybe in a week or so…depends on the weather.

(click here to read archived columns by Cletus Bianchi)