No Dice

The temp breaks 75 degrees. Good day to be on the water.

Still thinking about a big bass. My spring lunker was hanging out right down there among last year's reeds.

Everyone is enjoying the fine weather. Lots of hikers on the trails and a few other fishermen.

Oh, and the frisky breeze is there, too.

The only ones not around are the fish.

I can just manage to catch a log.

It calms. I wait at the head of the dam for dusk to come.

Then I work it thoroughly with a plastic worm.

No dice. I watch the bats tracing loops and right angles in the sky.

I finally accept the fact that I'm skunked again and kick in.

A Lovely Surprise

Last week we had yet another snowy night.

Then just when you're ready to give up, the weather warms and you wake up to this. We moved into this house in August so this is a lovely surprise.

We've been trying to savor the beauty while it lasts. There's a chance for more snow tonight.

Desert Bass Fly Fishing

I love trout, but let's give some time to smallies doing what they do best.

Rising Trout

Superb.

Tenkara Angler, Spring 2018

I've always been intrigued by tenkara. Maybe I'll take it up in my old age. Get the mag HERE.

Never Say Die

I said after catching that big fat bass that it was a "whole new ball game." I'm still not sure exactly what that means, only that it's clear as can be that everything is different now. Maybe not for the better.

The very next trip I go in swimming. And to add insult to injury I end up getting skunked.

Never say die. Off I go again. It's a little warmer so my spirits are up. I start out in shirtsleeves.

Then it starts to blow. The wind is from the south but it's cutting. I have to put my jacket on again.

I make the complete loop. I see hide nor hair of any type of swimming animal.

The long and the short of it: I'm skunked again.

A Cautionary Tale

Another chilly stormy day. I take the actual posted road into Yellowwood and skip the high water in the shortcut. I went home this way the other night, too.

There are great booming thunderclaps in the distance when I get to the parking area. By the time I'm geared up they're close, and as I launch the rain hits.

It's a lively spring storm but the brunt of it is off to the south. I stay in the little cove and keep my rod low until it has passed by.

Of course I'm thinking big bass. I kick south and make my way past the roaring spillway and along the dam. I'm throwing the leech pattern that was so very successful a few nights ago.

I keep going around the bend and north up the far shoreline. Halfway along my usual loop I turn and head back toward the dam. I have time to fish this stretch thoroughly.

Nothing is coming to the leech. At certain places I tie on a dry and pepper the likely spots for bluegill right up on the bank. At the dam I just keep going with the dry. I get to the end of the dam right by the spillway. My feet are cold now so I prop them up on a log to see if I can warm them a bit. It doesn't work.

Now here's the cautionary part. I decide to stand up there and take a pee break. It's not a good place to stand. I'll never stand there again. It's on a narrow ledge over a plunge of rip rap The rip rap shifts under my flippers and I quickly slide in over my head. Yikes.

It could have been worse. I manage to get back to the tube and pull myself in. I still have my rod, my coffee cup, my camera, keys and billfold. I still have my glasses and my hat. (And I still have my life.)

Then it's a fairly long kick back to the truck (but it could have been much longer.) The wind has picked up and it's cold. I actually try to fish while I'm kicking along but soon give that up. At the ramp I find that getting out of my waders, full of water, is the hardest part  Once I can empty them and get them off I make two quick trips to get everything stowed away in the truck. I climb in and get the heater going. It takes a few minutes to stop shivering before I can start the drive home.

This had never happened in the ten years and the many miles I've fished from a float tube. I've gone over the details of this mishap over and over in my mind to learn what I can to make sure it never happens again.

Be safe out there.

Last Thursday

Lunker: A Whole New Ball Game

It's high water time. Rain, snow, more rain has pushed streams and rivers over their banks. The drive in to Yellowwood is up to the doors in some places.

I kick out. The computer weather said this would be a "fair" day for fishing. I'm here to find out.

The weather is still having a hard time warming up. Hot coffee continues to be an essential accompaniment to the day.

I'm the only one on the water. The solitude and peace form a background for a feast for the ears. The spring peepers are in full voice. An osprey wheels in and heads for a tree top perch, its repeated high piercing calls echoing around the lake. The first swallows swirl over the water, their liquid twitterings a counterpoint to the peepers.

And, twice during the evening, the call of the loon ululates over the water and into my spirit. Shortly after launching I had seen what I took to be a single canada goose. It would be unusual, however, to see a solitary goose at this time of year. I dared to hope, kicked silently closer, and confirmed it as a loon. It is an honor to share the water with these birds of the wilderness. I wonder where the other one is: at this time of year when you see one loon you'll often see its mate.

I fish the south end by cutting my usual loop in half. When I make my full loop I often run out of time to cover this end dominated by the dam and spillway.

Not much happens until I get up to the dam. Some bluegills are tucked in close to the bank.

I finally see both loons, a pair on their way to northern nesting grounds.

I tie on a big leech pattern and start down the dam and past the spillway.

Where the spillway ends and the natural bank begins I get a tug and a miss. I cast back in and get another tug but no hookup. I can't get another tug.

Dusk has fallen and a mist is rising by the time I start down the last stretch of shoreline. So far it has been a typical trip. I'm thinking about the truck heater as I kick slowly along casting and retrieving, casting and retrieving. Then everything changes.

I get a take. A soft take. I raise up and feel a fish. It feels like a bass. I begin to strip it in and it comes along peacefully. Then it pauses--this is how I remember it--realizes it's hooked, and decides to put an end to this foolishness. It bores down, swims around the float tube and begins to surge back to the bank

I'm kicking away from the bank as fast as I can and keeping a good bend in the rod. I turn her and get her back out into deep water. She stays deep for a few turns around the tube then begins to yield to the pressure of the rod. I take in a couple feet of line, she drives down again and takes one back.

I finally get her up to where her back breaks the surface. It looks like a submarine surfacing. This is the biggest bass I've ever caught.. I get her head up, lead her to the net, and scoop her up. I have to adjust her a little to get her to fit securely.

So there she is, a miraculous bass, a feast for the eyes.

I don't have anything to weigh her with, but I stretch her out on the 18 inch measure on the stripping apron. She laps over at least two inches on each end, and one could make an argument for three. According to the various formulas out there that puts her in the 6 to 7 pound range.

I put her back in the water, take a few minutes to revive her, and watch her swim into the depths and out of sight.

I look up and realize it's a whole new ball game.

Eat Sleep Fish, No. 76

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