Sunday morning. 4 AM. 

French Press of coffee on the tailgate of the truck and a couple hours of white lines north. 

An ever brief stop at a small town German bakery for a bear claw, plus an apple fritter for the drive home stash.  Still dark out.

Pull in to Post Oak a hair before first light. Park by the ramp. 

Sans wind, just glass.

Stick two bass with the already lined up fly rod one minute out of the truck. 

Aw, yea. Dancing girls.

Makes me smile.  Has been a while since bass.  Just back from Canada, Sweden, Arctic Circle, Lapland, Montana, British Columbia, and on on on.  

Yes, the rest of this earth is amazing, but I'm a Cherokee Viking Texas boy, and oh, damn I live for bass.

Unrack the canoe.

I didn't come here to fish the whole lake.  I came to be absolutely, unequivocally, rude, nasty, and rowdy. 

This means throwing a deer hair topwater frog fly the size of a chicken.

And only fishing the 12 inches of delineation between the  mud of the shoreline, and the water.  Sure, there are fish all through the lake, but I don't care.

Five hours of inching my way down the bank.  A couple Shiners from the cooler behind the canoe paddle as I roll.

Frog looks so good every time it spits, pops, growls, gurgles on the retrieve, this shouldn't even remotely be legal.

Some twenty raucous blow ups and plenty of them in hand.  No sowbelly's just an average of 1-3 pounds with a 4 pounder late in the morning. Nothing special.  But special. Comprende?

A lake without much features, sans a cove, and a back section on the other side of the bridge, but just plain soulful as can be.  Like many lakes.

Close to Houston, and steady as she goes day in and day out, which is ever so hard to find in the club for us down here in the south neck. 

I dig this place.  Has given me heaps of days to make sense of life, and my place in it.  I owe you Post Oak.  

Riverhorse~