Back In the Saddle Again

The day after I went out with Sebastian I was able to go fishing all by myself. It was another warm, beautiful day, and seemed like the right kind of day to reactivate the float tube. I dug it out of the shed where I had stored it after the move, tossed it into the pickup, gathered all my gear, and hit the road.

I ended up at Yellowwood Lake again. I did drive to another nearby lake, one I haven't fished yet, but it was chockablock with houses and had limited access. It's supposed to be a good bass lake, but I find it hard to feel relaxed in lakes with that many shoreline neighborhoods. Then there's the feeling I get when I begin to wonder where all that sewage goes.

I like to catch fish, but I prefer to catch fish in beautiful places. Yellowwood fills the bill.

It wasn't long before I was kicking out in the float tube. I was back in the saddle again for the first time since late August back in Washington State. I began by trolling the big white streamer that was already on my line, remembering those kayakers and their big white plugs the day before. The plan was to cross to the other side and work the shoreline back.

On the way over I heard Sandhills. I had heard them earlier when I stopped to check out that other lake. There were long winding skeins of them passing one after another high overhead. That wasn't the only sign of Spring I saw or heard. Peepers were trilling in the marshes; at dusk, I heard woodcocks buzzing in the underbrush, then bursting high into the air and trilling their amazing mating calls as they spiraled back to earth; and bats came out over the water just before dark.

On the other side, just below where Sebastian and I had hiked the day before, I started working the shoreline with the white streamer.

After awhile I tied on a muddler and worked it around and through the deadfalls. It felt like I was really fishing.

A boat launched and eventually came around the shoreline past me. Three guys were throwing big white spinnerbaits up against the bank and cranking them back. I remembered the kayakers and thought I could discern a pattern here.

I thought of going back to the white streamer, but decided instead to break out an old bass bug I had with me. I tied this one about twenty-five years ago when I was living in northern Indiana, and it accounted for some nice bass in its day. It was good to get it wet again. It felt like something had come full circle.

I worked it carefully, with no results this time. Meanwhile, a noisy gathering of folks up in the campground built a big fire and began cooking something that smelled very good.

I cut the corner and headed for the boat ramp, as the brilliance of Venus shone through the high overcast. I hadn't caught anything, but I had gotten ready for the catching. I feel certain that it will not be long in coming.