Unplugged on Lake El Salto days before the COVID-19 outbreak
I pan the confines of my local grocery store in Austin, Texas, with racing eyes desperate for context. Masked neighbors give way to tears as they race through barren aisles, desperately scrounging through unfavorable crumbs left behind. Less than 24 hours prior, I was hysterically trying to boat an 8-pound bass alongside professional anglers Brandon Palaniuk and Brandon Cobb with a Disney-themed youth fishing rod, as we somehow craved a challenge greater than catching more trophy-class fish. Now I cling to a carton of off-brand Goldfish with harrowing irony, detached from a veiled nightmare that had unraveled while I was lost on remote waters in Sinaloa, Mexico.
“This, too, shall pass,” say the Persian adage and wiser men who abide when fortunes are particularly plentiful or sparse. But a 26-year-old angler could only relish with a finite capacity, devoid of perspective until the moment had escaped.
Amid a high in my career, in which I played an instrumental role in successfully launching an industry-leading business while simultaneously working a dream job, this trip was oddly routine. My three days on Lake El Salto would punctuate a trajectory that felt unshakable, seemingly outlasting the parameters of any proverb. But unbeknownst to any of us who made the trek, they also prefaced havoc.
BAJO EL SOL
Amber dawns gently bled into El Salto’s foggy canvas; expansive sheets of glass awoke to the echoes of rattling baits and lively waters clashing against aluminum. The launch always ignites excitement, but I swear the air has a way of foreshadowing the extraordinary with an altered taste.
Local guides praised Texas-rigged power worms above all else, so we obliged, dragging across a jagged floor with rabid optimism. The pulse of a taut line detected unrelenting signs of life swimming throughout the Mexican oasis—the fabled phenomenon was real indeed.
For two full days, largemouth bass between 6 and 8 pounds struck with mania—enough to forever taint any angler’s regard for rational expectations. Luxuries abound from the moment you step onto a boat, starting with the omission of electronics deemed unnecessary. As we glided from one paradise to the next, the most subtle features would somehow serve as landmarks that always flagged exceptional honey holes. We didn’t alternate tactics for a lack of success, but rather for self-imposed defiance.
Swimbaits and crankbaits struck gold in deeper waters when there was an appetite for mystery. Topwaters delivered blockbuster scenes. Jerkbaits and spoons lent themselves to the unconventional because why the hell not?
Evenings were headlined by five-star Mexican cuisine, local entertainment engulfed in flames, and timeless drinking stories that only surface when the professional curtain submits to an encore. But the days could never last long enough for us to tire, as, by my estimation, fishing of this caliber simply doesn’t exist anywhere else.
ONE THAT GOT AWAY
Having already landed countless fish that tipped the scales far past any personal-best thresholds, I reserved the second half of my trip for the pursuit of a double-digit bass. I could continue the numbers game in any one of our productive pockets, but for me, fishing’s strongest appeal will forever lie in the unknown, where promising waters beg the officious to exercise their demons. So my guide, Victor, and I decided to traverse a secluded channel removed from the standard circuit.
The extra miles paid dividends, leading us to a fisherman’s utopia, one lush with cover and sodden with intrigue. If I were to catch a bass over 10 pounds, it would almost certainly happen right here. Some dozen casts left much to be desired, but a tender current grasped for perseverance while a subtle breeze pressed. Then came a vicious double-tap, followed by a humming drag that suggested an offshore tuna was on the other end. I set with purpose before pure pandemonium, our boat drifting to my quarry’s liking.
My hand couldn’t turn the knobs fast enough to keep up with a fish swimming directly for me, making sudden runs as if to toy with its inferior adversary. I yanked the rod tip low enough to breach the surface, doing everything in my power to prevent a jump and subsequent hang time. But to no avail.
Erupting from the surface with violent brilliance was a bass weighing no less than 10 pounds—probably pushing 12. Green scales and white waters thrashed as one, my trusty worm soaring across the inlet and into oblivion. You’ll often hear anglers say milestone bass pulled from El Salto carry an asterisk for the sake of integrity, as many consider it an anomaly among bucket-list destinations. But I surely would have forgone any stipulations had I held this one with shaky hands.
A series of desperate follow-up casts returned nothing—an aberration in these parts—so Victor ripped the throttle onward. Brooding over what could have been in the face of breathtaking views and unprecedented fishing exploits was regrettable, but perhaps inevitable as naive as I once was.
BLISSFUL IGNORANCE
We wouldn’t waste a moment more on depths that weren’t producing fish, as the final hours were now counting down. It wouldn’t take long to settle on a new spot, however, as we quickly spotted the rest of our party congregating around a broad point, all with rods in hand.
“There’s gotta be something worth seeing up there,” Victor said. “Hold on.”
A quick jaunt afforded me just enough time to rig up a familiar swimbait I had some luck with in the same area during the first evening. Our fashionably late arrival found no less than three of my counterparts reeling at any given time. Without hesitation, Victor grabbed a rod for himself and started casting, leaving me to my own devices.
Nearly every cast fell victim to the clutches of El Salto’s abyss. The feeding frenzy some 20 feet below provided an assembly of anglers—ranging from novice to professional—with a feast of their own, complemented by cold Pacifico beer and tangible euphoria.
You tell yourself you would gracefully step away from the Blackjack table if your stack of chips ever reached a certain height. If only you had that reliable truck or that new home, you could live happily and dismiss the incidental hurdles of everyday life. Only there’s never enough; contentment remains fleeting with each windfall. I don’t regret wanting a bigger bass (that’s why we do this, is it not?), but how could I take for granted the surreal spoils El Salto had already surrendered?
During the pandemic’s prologue, “coronavirus” was nothing more than a buzzword for those who closely followed global news. Never could I have anticipated the fallout that was to come, nor the utter devastation that would threaten my job and the industry which served me. And yet, El Salto’s waters were calm, isolated from the turbulence falling upon civilization.
From the bow of that unmistakably red Angler’s Inn boat, I watched the Sierra Madre Mountains swallow a sun that beamed with promise for the coming days. And still I yielded to angst, pondering trivial matters pertaining to work, expenses, and social obligations waiting for me back home. Mother Nature prompted a pause—but one not nearly long enough—once again offering a compass with which to navigate in peace. Beyond the horizon, however, was anything but, and our disconnection from the modern world had blessed us oblivious.
Gratitude had vanished in silence the same as I.
I can hear the echoes of clanging aluminum calling me to the launch for yet another expedition. I can see my fellow travelers racing to their respective vessels with jubilation, each eager to stake claim to the day’s most opportunistic locale. There’s that taste again.
My phone suddenly rings from a cupholder in my truck, breaking my absent gaze from a landlocked parking lot drowning in panic. There are no boats or painted skies. No laughter or friendly faces. Only snap hooks clashing with a flagpole above, the Texas banner as much a prisoner as its ill-fated constituents. The unknown no longer tempts; it terrifies.
