Dean Thomas chickened-out.

As we drove down the last beach in Texas, his nearly non-stop stream of one-liners and bon mots slowed to a trickle, then stopped.

I glanced in the rearview mirror to find him casting a pensive eye over the surf. It was rolling.

The forecasted 2-3 foot seas had turned into honest 3-5s, with an occasional higher wave breaking on the third bar.

“I’ve got to be honest with you,” Dean says. “I’m not comfortable with this, without wet suits. Those rollers out there beyond the break mean we will be in the water.”

hat was hard to hear. Because it reinforced my own growing trepidation, and because I had invested months of planning in the notion that – today – I would start paddling at the mouth of the Rio Grande. Not to mention I’d just shelled-out $40 for a driver to take the truck back to South Padre Island.

Dean, a kayak fishing guide in Aransas Pass, paddles about 300 days a year. He’s also not uncourageous. It pays to listen to him. I did. We decided to wait to see what the weather would do Saturday.

In the interim, well, we could always go fishing. After dropping our driver back at our home away from home -- the Brown Pelican Inn on South Padre Island – Ken Larson of Rockport, Dean and I headed back across the causeway and through Port Isabel to State Highway 48 and our top-secret kayak launch on the Brownsville Ship Channel.

By 2:30 we were on the water, and 30 minutes later a feisty 14-inch snook attacked my lure. Half an hour after that, I had a 35-inch fish on the end of my line.

The stiff east wind that had whipped the surf into unexpected vigor also funneled down the ship channel, but as long as it was at our backs and we were catching fish and waves weren’t breaking over our boats … well, who cared?

The Brownsville Ship Channel has always, for me, been a remarkable study in contrasts. Deep-water haven for tropical fish species; salvage yard and repair shop; trans-shipment point for oil, asphalt, grain and other commodities … its banks are lined with the rusting hulks of ships awaiting the breakers’ torches.

On a moonlit night, with a breeze that has faded to just a whisper, one can easily imagine the lives that have played-out on the decks and among the cabins and spaces of the once-proud ships that have arrived at their final destination.

During the day here, ospreys “kee” as they soar and plunge on unwary fish, and as the sun sets over the upper end of the channel coyotes can be heard singing off to the south, in the narrow strip of land between the river and this 20-some-odd-long mile incursion of the Gulf of Mexico.

It is a strange and special place that in many ways reflects the hard practicality with which Texans have almost always approached and used our land and water. It also demonstrates, as do so many of our scarred landscapes, the amazing resilience of the creatures that make their livings here too.

Sunday morning, as I write this, I am graced with a very different view of deep South Texas. Sitting on the verandah of the inn, I look out over the flat – and in this light, blue – expanse of the Laguna Madre and watch a pair of white pelicans straining breakfast from the water.

Black mangroves in the inn’s resident wetland hide the horizon to the north – the route we’ll take tomorrow.

Today, I think we’re going to take advantage of our weather window and make-up some of the leg we lost yesterday; I have to, at least, paddle through the mouth of Brazos Santiago pass.

We’ll make our way back up the inside of Padre Island and back to the inn this morning. If the predicted front is slow enough in coming, or quiet enough in its arrival, maybe we’ll even head back up the ship channel this afternoon for another shot at some Texas linesiders.

Dean hooked two yesterday – solid fish in the 24-28-inch slot – and got the thrill of seeing them jump and shake their heads, but not the joy of actually putting his hands on one.

We started writing Scavenger Hike Adventures Rocky Mountain National Park about two years ago.  We spent a couple of weeks at Rocky in 2005 and met with rangers and experts and looked around.  What a wonderful hiking park.  Kat and I fell in love with Rocky.  We read every book available and last year Kat rented a house in Estes Park overlooking Twin Sisters pinnacles and hiked everyday with rangers, historians and experts and locals.   I was really quite jealous.  I used every piece of my available time and joined her.

 It gave us stomach aches when we left Estes Park and returned to the Smokies.  Now two years later from our first research visit and over a thousand  hours of research and hiking and the book will be released in just a few weeks!!!  Whew.  Kat is out of town up north and I am thinking I'll take my dog down to some isolated campsite and sleep and read some books on Shenandoah National Park; our next book project.  We have been researching Shenandoah and will head out there in a couple of weeks to begin the wonderful job of exploring and creating Scavenger Hike Adventures.  We will give provide a journal update on that new adventure right here.

Dear Reader:

I discovered the joys of camping at the age of 12 in a rustic Scout camp set deep in the Michigan woods. It was 1952, just before the dawn of nylon tents and synthetic clothes. Aluminum canoes were hot off the Grumman forms, though I’d never seen one. Deep down, I believed they’d never replace the glorious wood-ribbed Old Towns and Thompsons.

Like most kids my age, I had little money for outdoor gear. What I earned by picking pop bottles off the roadway went for a secondhand bike or a Randolph Scott movie. My camping outfit was carefully assembled from a ragtag assortment of military surplus and Salvation Army store items. I knew only one kid who had equipment that was new.