Editorial

Texas Freeze

DOUG PIKE/GLENN LAW

in Texas this past February, a massive wave of frigid air crept our way for a week. Watching the nightly news was like standing on railroad tracks and seeing a dim light in the distance get bigger, brighter and closer— but we couldn’t get out of its way.

Then it hit, creeping sluggishly and with vicious indiscretion down every inch of Texas’ 801-mile length. As it crossed the coast, from the Sabine River to the Rio Grande, it carried deep-freeze temperatures into the water. Shallow bays froze, along with whatever fish didn’t manage to make it to deeper sanctuary.

Texas’ worst winter storm in

32 years left darkness in its path, literally and figuratively. When the lights came on and the sun came out, coastal fishermen rushed to assess the damage.

Initial reports ranged from cautiously optimistic to apocalyptically gloomy. As days warmed—to 78 degrees less than a week later—dead fish floated. And then more dead fish, and more.

We can’t know exactly how many fish died or how many did not. But if similar events in 1983 and 1989 (which I experienced firsthand) are indicative, the tally of dead fish behind this arctic bomb will be counted in the millions.

Some bays’ trout were hit brutally hard. And even where there weren’t as many, there were enough to warrant pampering until recovery gets two or three spawns down the road.

Almost immediately, conservationminded fishermen raised a flag for self-imposed catch-and-release on spotted seatrout, the state’s premier gamefish. I joined that camp.

As fast as some fishermen typed agreement with a retention moratorium on social media, however, others voiced opposition. Why, they asked, should a licensed angler not be able to keep some fair-caught fish?

Valid question. And in fairness, unless and until fisheries managers say otherwise, licensed anglers can keep speckled trout, redfish and other lawfully caught species.

And they have, beginning the moment the weather broke. Social media came alive then with post-freeze stringers and boxes of fish, even as more dead ones floated.

I’ll fish too, but I won’t keep any anything for a while. Months. Maybe a year.

Here’s why: Recreational fishing is an appealing two-word phrase. Without fish, though, we’re just boating or wading or walking a shoreline, all of which I find boring compared to fishing.

We need those fish, however many remain, to replace those that were killed. And they need us.

People outside of fishing are watching how we respond too, giddy with hope that we might offer a reason to paint us as uncaring and greedy.

If we’re perceived as taking advantage of a resource in distress, we’ll be called out. And given an opportunity, people who oppose our consumptive recreation will seek to shut us down— for the fish.

We have opportunity here in Texas to embrace self-restraint—or not—on behalf of a gut-punched, reeling fishery. There is middle ground to accommodate fishermen who just can’t resist boxing a fish or two, but I hope more of us will mash our barbs, fish just enough to scratch that insatiable itch, and then release all or most of what we catch.

Until we know all there is to know about that dreadful week, it’s the right thing to do.

DOUG PIKE

Guest Columnist