⚡ NEW: Profiles/ - Collection

It was a blistering hot Texas morning, the kind where the sun burns your skin even before it hits noon. I’d gotten a call the night before from none other than Dimebag Darrell—yes, the Dimebag Darrell from Pantera—asking if I wanted to go fishing. We’d met a few times at some local dive bars, and we both shared a love for fishing, which led to some loose plans here and there. But I never thought he’d actually hit me up. So, when the call came, I didn’t hesitate.

“Yo man, you ready to catch some monsters or what?” Darrell’s voice crackled over the phone with that unmistakable energy he always carried.

I chuckled. “Hell yeah, let’s do it.”

The next morning, I pulled up to his place in Arlington. His backyard looked like the garage of a mad scientist—guitars, amps, and some equipment strewn all over. But amidst the chaos, there was Darrell, shirtless in camo shorts, grinning ear to ear as he packed some beers into a cooler.

“Gotta stay hydrated out there!” he laughed, tossing me a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

He had this old, beat-up truck, the kind you’d expect from a Texas metalhead, with scratches and dents like scars from stories we’d probably end up hearing later. The bed of the truck was full of fishing rods, tackle boxes, and, of course, more beer.

We drove out to Joe Pool Lake, a decent spot not too far from Arlington. It was the kind of place where you could escape the noise but still be close enough to civilization. Darrell had his stereo blasting Pantera—of course—but then quickly switched it to some ZZ Top.

“Gotta mix it up, man. Can’t listen to my own ♥♥♥♥ all the time!” He turned to me with that wild, almost childlike smile.

We hit the water in his boat—an old aluminum thing he named “Dean,” after his favorite guitar brand. It wasn’t fancy, but it did the job. The lake stretched out in front of us like a mirror, barely any ripples on the surface. The calm was a stark contrast to the chaotic energy Darrell usually embodied on stage, but it fit perfectly with this moment.

We found a good spot near some submerged timber, cut the engine, and cast our lines. The smell of the lake, mixed with beer and sunscreen, filled the air as we cracked open a couple of cold ones. Darrell took a swig, let out a content sigh, and leaned back, his rod resting on his lap.

“So, man, how’d you get into fishing?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Dude, you’d be surprised how much downtime we get on tour. There’s only so much partying you can do before you need to chill out, you know? Rex got me into it first, then Vinnie and I would hit up lakes in between shows. Something about it just resets your brain, clears out all the noise.”

We sat in silence for a while, just letting the soft sounds of nature take over. The occasional splash from a fish breaking the surface or a bird calling out in the distance were the only interruptions. Darrell was totally at peace, a far cry from the wild persona he put on for Pantera shows.

After a bit, my line went taut. I felt that familiar tug and instinctively pulled back, setting the hook. Darrell’s eyes lit up as he watched me reel it in.

“Hell yeah, dude! Get that sucker!” he yelled, standing up to watch the action.

It wasn’t anything huge, maybe a two-pound largemouth bass, but Darrell treated it like I’d just pulled up a world record.

“Man, you’re a natural!” he grinned, slapping me on the back. “But you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I’m about to show you how a real metalhead fishes.”

Darrell cast his line with the exaggerated flair you’d expect from him—always dramatic, even when it was just fishing. A few minutes passed, and then his rod bent violently.

“Here we go, baby!” he yelled, standing up and bracing himself as the fish fought back hard.

He wrestled with it, laughing like a madman the entire time. The fight was intense, but Darrell lived for it. Finally, he pulled in a fat catfish, probably around 10 pounds. He held it up like it was a trophy, that wide grin plastered on his face.

“See that? That’s how you do it!” he laughed, tossing it back into the water after we snapped a picture.

As the day wore on, we didn’t talk much—just enjoyed the simple pleasures of fishing. Every now and then, Darrell would tell a wild story from his touring days, like the time he and Vinnie nearly got arrested in Germany for some insane prank, or when they had an impromptu jam session with fans in the middle of nowhere.

“You know, man, this is what it’s all about,” Darrell said later, as the sun began to set. “Not the fame or the money, not even the music sometimes. It’s moments like this, when you can just be yourself, hang with a buddy, and forget about all the craziness. That’s the real stuff.”

He cracked open another beer and handed it to me. We clinked cans and sat there, watching the sky turn shades of pink and orange over the water. It was one of those perfect moments, the kind you don’t realize is so special until you’re looking back on it.

By the time we headed back to shore, the sky was a deep purple, the first stars twinkling above us. We loaded up the truck, packed away the rods, and turned up the music again—this time some Sabbath for the ride home.

As we pulled back into his driveway, Darrell turned to me with a grin. “Man, we gotta do this again sometime. But next time, we’re going bigger—maybe head down to the coast and reel in some monsters.”

I laughed. “I’m down. Just give me a call.”

We fist-bumped, and I drove off, the sounds of Pantera faintly echoing in my head as the night swallowed up the Texas roads. It was a day I’d never forget—fishing with Dimebag Darrell, a legend who, for all his fame, was just a regular guy who loved the peace and quiet of a day on the water.