There is something intangibly beautiful about a 3 a.m. fishing run.  The stars get far more illuminating once I put the concrete strip mall carnage of Houston in the rearview mirror, making my way into the piney woods and hills of all things northbound.  I have learned that some of my favorite fishing moments, are actually that of being on the cusp of immersing myself in it.

The truck is loaded with a canoe on the racks.  I've got homegrown sandwiches of slow-smoked brisket with a brown sugar rub on sourdough bread, a few Shiners on ice, some black pepper chips, and more in the cooler.  There are a couple fly rods under the seat, a hand-made western cedar paddle, a couple boxes of hand-tied flies, and wading boots still wet from endless consecutive days of fishing.

A couple hours later, I pull in to a small town bakery that is already up and at 'em, and go for a bear claw, to add to the grub stash.  With just a few minutes before first light, I pull the truck down the gravel hill into Bennett and drop the tailgate, light a portable titanium propane burner, and simmer 4 cups of water, then pour it into a French press  with the coffee grinds already in it.  I throw in a bit of organic creamer and fill the beater thermos, all the while taking sips to wash down the bear claw.  Bear claws are my chosen pastry, with apple fritters a close second.  I am ready to fish.  So much of life is thinking, finally, here is the doing.

I can't quite see yet, but quietly unrack the canoe, throw the six weight fly rod together, and change a leader to 16lb, with the rest of the gear placed alongside the gunnels, and kick off the bank with my left foot.  There is a light fog sensually lilting off the water, and as everything comes into focus, things just have that vibe—I can feel it in my gut.  The lake looks greasy and willing, thanks to there not being any breeze at all.  In fact, I can smell it, things are about to happen.

We all have our tried and true go to patterns. I throw top water flies anywhere and everywhere, and today is no different.  I'm not into fishing deep pockets, and am well aware that often there are for more consistent fish waiting down there.  That's fine.  I'd rather have the stunning spank and vicious whollop of a surface eat, any time. For largemouth, I always fish the laydowns and structure, undercut banks, and seedy pockets, and then hit 'em again. 

 I throw a deer hair frog up under a few brush piles limbs right out front of the house and pick up a few two pounders quick, and then stop to reload the separate coffee cup before putting it at my feet.  I'm already into them, and haven't even gotten ten yards from where I put in.

I take my time paddling across the lake and make my way around a bend into the first cove, all while standup paddling.  There is a mellow point of land coming out and it's as fine an ambush spot as it gets, so I arc out a few false casts and air the frog out about 60 feet just past the wraparound.  The sound of it landing is equal parts plausible and juicy, and that's one of the reasons flies are special to fish.  Some days, while stripping in the fly, my mind wanders and I think about life, and don't always pay attention to things, but today, I zero in with an incomparable fascination, because I just know it's on.  

There is the frog sliding ever gently across the surface, and a few errant bubbles gurgling away sending out concentric rings and ripples, there is the stunning swirl and crush of the take, and there is a fly rod melting down in my hands as a serious bass pours the coals to it.  This is one of those fish, that stand the test of time, are there for us to draw on during the ebb and flow of life, and amuse us.  For a couple minutes it is all I can do to guide this bucketmouth out of the weed tendrils and keep it from breaking off under the front of the canoe.  There are three separate legitimate freight train runs, all lumbering, driving, headstrong and shoulder-filled instead of the reckless frantic abandon we get from trout or bluegill.  The fish comes up for a few seconds before taking a last drive, and I realize that the canoe has been pulled some thirty yards.  It is corpulent, porcine, and all there.  I lip it and hold it for a quick measure with the digital scale, and it's 9.94.  That's a ten in my book, especially if I leave the frog fly in it's mouth.  A ten pound bass on a fly rod, will leave you speechless for quite a while.  I watch the fish swim off, and reach down to pour some more coffee.

It's barely 7 a.m., and I've got nothing but time, the rest of the day ahead.

**Note….this is one from one of many days last spring.  I'm one of the guys who never, ever posts, and if you told me about a spot, I can be counted on to keep it a secret.  For life.   When renewing the family membership today, Steve got on me for the umpteenth time, asking me to let a story or two come out from some of these ranch adventures, so I bit.  There are a couple swank ten second videos of this fish, one which shows the lake and fog right before I kicked off.  I think Seth should figure out a way to post them, for while photos are fun, there's nothing like a live video to really bring the love, see the joy of those moments.**