Fun and games in Mexico's Yucatan, where Trapper Rudd finds the scorpions bite almost as hard as the snook.

Story by Trapper Rudd

I sat wedged in the middle seat of a Cessna Caravan, feeling like a small, corny romance novel between two encyclopedias on a library shelf.

The other anglers aboard the aircraft on my flanks were massive, their heads like giant dashboard compasses, slowly rotating to the panorama of all the delicate and worm-like features of the tropical mangrove keys and flats far below.

My mind was adrift in pre-trip planning. I laid out the arrangement of fishing gear, distress beacons, machete, video cameras, cooler and GPS unit in my kayak. I was streamlining the arrangement to capitalize on any eventuality. I thought of all the potential hazards and mishaps that may arise during my backcountry exploration.

At least I thought I had. Scorpions weren’t on the list.

The Cessna descended on an all-too-short and crab-holed runway on the narrow island of Punta Pajaros in the southern Yucatan. I extricated myself between my two fleshy behemoth bookend passengers and exited the plane.

A brief transfer in a panga across the crystalline water and yet another transfer by truck deposited me at my base camp Casa Redonda just above Espiritu Santo Bay. Casa Redonda is a tranquil and spartan guest bungalow perched on ancient Mayan sand dunes.

The narrow barrier island is covered with archaeological signs of the long-ago evaporated Mayan civilization. The many ruins nearby were salt-weathered, their columns tumbled like chess pieces on a coffee table kicked accidentally.

I had arrived. The intricate and overwhelming lagoon system of Santa Rosa was just a short cast through the dense Yucatan jungle to the northwest. I could smell the tannic, tea-colored water. I hurriedly grabbed all the necessary gear in mounting anticipation.

Several fly rods including a stout 8, 9 and 10-weight would be well suited for bonefish, snook, tarpon and barracuda.

Their leaders were meticulously tied. Slender for bonefish and the others obscenely thick, with shock tippets of 60 and 80 pounds for heavy-shouldered snook and tarpon.

Once hooked, these predatory fish in full throttle intuitively seem to find the mangrove roots and oyster shells without hesitation.

I would have a spinning rod onboard the kayak for searching the lagoons, channels and mangrove walls with greater efficiency. All the electronic gear was stowed aboard, the cooler packed with water and the ubiquitous ham and cheese sandwiches. I was ready.

I launched the Freedom Hawk from a small dock in a tiny shadowy lagoon. Baby saltwater crocodiles looked on in indifference, possibly wondering if this was something that could be eaten. As I paddled deeper into the intestines of the lagoons, twisting and button-hooking the mangroves, the kayak seemed to hover over the clear and shallow water. My paddle strokes kicked up miniature tornadoes of mud and sand as I patrolled the flats.

The scorpion must have been in my Freedom Hawk kayak for this entire time, entirely inconspicuous among the fishing accoutrements, an evolutionary genius of camouflage and stealth. I never noticed it.

Soon, I spotted a dark, blade-like figure cruising languidly toward a deeply undercut mangrove wall. I opened the outriggers of the Freedom Hawk in preparation for standing and poling. I retrieved the in-board push pole and stalked the unaware watery shape.

The hazy blur of fish disappeared into the myriad roots and arthritic looking limbs of the outstretched mangroves. It reminded me of a spy thriller movie where the hero pushes against an art object on the fireplace, it pirouettes 180 degrees and the hero has vanished into some secretive antechamber. The fish had vanished.

Puzzled and seeing moving water from the tangled roots of the mangroves I checked my handheld GPS suspiciously. This area was far too remote and susceptible to the vagaries of Mother Nature to prove accurate. A densely overgrown creek channel angled away from me and looked to be a potential source of some snooky Shangri-La. I poled toward it.

The machete dispatched branches, palm fronds, and other obstacles into the water as I inched my way into the tunnel of decomposing and green vegetation. My upper body, with one arm leveraging the push pole and the other firmly attached to the machete, was enveloped in silken spider webs, giving me the appearance of some giant, anemic cone of cotton candy.

I decreased the angle of the outriggers by closing them slightly. The twisting channel was deep but tapered, not much wider than the beam of the kayak. The machete preformed better than a kitchen "miracle chopper" from the infomercials. I could see some shimmering still water of a diminutive lagoon ahead through the maze of woven mangroves. A mere hundred feet remained.

I didn't see it. I felt it. The scorpion, apparently agitated with all the commotion of falling debris, found its way skillfully and ninja-like to the top of my wading boot. The sting was a shockwave of intense pain that instantly vectored to the base of my brain. It seemed as if I was strapped to the launch pad of the space shuttle as it blasted off into orbit.

Thankfully, I dropped the push pole to swat the venomous creature from my calf and didn't try to remove it with my machete hand. The pain buckled my leg as my left hand was bearing down on it. The sudden movements, coupled with such a violent adrenaline release, increased gravity and momentum. I floundered out of the kayak like a rum-soaked pirate, headfirst into the waist-deep, fetid mud and acrid water. As if it knew, the kayak without the stability of the completely open outriggers capsized.

I thought I could almost hear the screams of digital processors and complex miniature electronic components as the specter of salt water death loomed immediately for all the video cameras. The machete barrel-rolled through the heavy air into the canopy.

After the burning, nauseating pain subsided to a dull thump in my leg, I righted the kayak and gathered the floating contents of my gear bag and salvaged the remaining rods.

Cameras, GPS, marine radio and survival knife had all been absorbed into the bowels of the ancient layers of decaying matter underwater. I was bruised but not beaten. My personal tactical mission was salvageable. The lagoon beckoned like a temptress.

Miraculously, while cartwheeling out of the kayak, my machete on it's arcing solo flight had managed to strike a mangrove branch, clinging there like some metallic gecko. I found the lagoon and the fish. The scorpion perished.

Trapper Rudd’s claims to fame include being the only angler ever to have fished the Imperial Koi ponds of the Emperor of Japan. He’s the owner of Cutthroat Anglers in Colorado and on the pro staff of Freedom Hawk Kayaks.