Reeling In Time with Fish Tales. Brian E. Smith
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of oaks grew to the water. Subtleties in elevation, sometimes less than a foot, made big changes in the vegetation. By taking notice of the vegetation at the water’s edge, you could tell where the lake gently sloped verses where the bank dropped off to deeper water.
We were there in the midst of spring. The morning air still had crispness to it, yet the mid-day sun was strong enough to make shorts and a T-shirt most comfortable. I was dressed, waiting for such to occur. The air was infused with the fragrance of new growth. The kind of smell you get when your nose is close to a fresh garden salad—a salad with just a hint of pine—breathing tasted good.
Dad and I had developed a routine; he would start fishing his way around the pond to the right, and I would start fishing my way around the pond to the left. We would meet somewhere in the middle on the other side with a, “how’d you do?” Then we’d fish our way back around the pond together in the direction of whoever caught the most fish. We had our own quiet time, and we had shared time. It worked for us.
I always started fishing where rainwater had washed out a part between the willow trees in the near corner of the pond. I stepped in the gully away from the pond. Dad taught me to sneak up on water. It is heartbreaking to anxiously rush in to wet a line, and realize with a boil of water that your haste cost you an opportunity to tangle with a fine, eager fish that was waiting right there at the water’s edge.
At the back of the gully, I crouched down, jabbed the butt of my spare rod into the sand with a Snagless Sally® tied on. The rod in hand had a small Pop-R. Top water fishing at the break of day has, and always will cause a restless sleep the night before. Here I was, living the moment that kept me awake longer than I wished. Fresh eight-pound line ran through the eyes of my rod. I greased the reel two days before the trip. I ran the hooks across a stone yesterday evening during final preparation.
While scoping the situation, I was hoping the puff of wind from right to left wouldn’t make an impact on my cast. New growth had narrowed the free air space between the willow swaths. On the other hand, was I just jittery on the first cast? Hope, anticipation, and apprehension swarmed in my head as I tried to quell my nerves enough to make the cast, without having the fishing line so much as touch anything but clean, fresh air.
From a squat, I flipped my wrist forward. The Pop-R sailed backwards between the willows, trailing loose coils of line. I watched intently. My free hand cupped by the reel spool; line slapping my palm like a feather. A split second before the lure splashed down, I pushed my palm against the spool, stopping any more line from coming off and at the same time, straightening the line that was in the air without recoiling the lure. The line floated gently down, splitting the gap. It was the perfect cast. I was proud of myself. There is far more satisfaction in fishing than merely reeling in a fish.
Concentric circles rippled from the lure fifty feet from the rod tip. I let it rest on the surface until the ripples dissipated. The lure was in open water, next to nothing, floating over a sandy bottom. Four times, I softly frog swam the Pop-R five feet forward by holding the rod with the tip down and rhythmically flicking the tip while taking up the slack with the reel. Work it five feet and let the lure rest, the water still. One more frog swim and the lure came to rest fifteen feet from the bank.
Pinching the line between the thumb and forefinger and Jell-O jiggling the rod tip, I kept the lure stationery but caused it to vibrate like a nervous animal approaching a known ambush point. I stopped; the lure silenced. Long seconds passed. Glug… glug, the popper sounded. Two short, sharp wrist snaps forced the lure ten inches closer in two motions that had water spritzing forward from the concave face of the plug. A prolonged pause, then a subdued four-foot frog-swim brought the lure within ten feet of the sand. I vibrated the Pop-R five seconds or so and stopped. Spiritless, it sat atop the water. Slowly I pulled the lure another foot toward me, ending in a slight flick that sprinkled a few tiny drops of water from the face. I was ready to vibrate the lure again when a brick splash fell from underneath the plug.
I must have hypnotized myself with the lure’s motion, because I didn’t respond to the strike until the line yanked the rod in my hand. The fish set the hook itself. Hooked together, we both jumped in spasm upon realizing it. The bass vaulted in a cinematic brief tail-walk and shuttering headshake with its mouth agape, showing the Pop-R latched in the corner of his mouth. The flared gill plates flashed the brilliant red of the gills behind it with each head twist. Oddly, the belly-flop re-entry was naturally graceful. Before my eyes was a live replay of the slow motion film footage from every bass fishing TV program I’d ever seen on rainy Saturday mornings.
I played for the fish. The fish danced. The fish surged. I dipped. During two moments of stage fright, the fish ran for dark weed cover. I applied as much pressure as I could stomach to bring her back to the limelight. The torrid dance brought us closer to near exhaustion, the music slowed. The explosive moves were now alluring wiggles and flirtatious flips. The final note ended in a captivating, sliding embrace. In a lip lock, I held her up to the sun. Iridescent body scales scattered the low morning light. I cupped her motherly belly in my hand. Translucent fins, trimmed in black, were her lace. She dripped cool water. I looked into her eye. She looked back. She was beautiful. She gave me everything I’d dreamed of last night. Carefully, I laid her down in the pond. Her tail sashayed through my open fingers, taking her back where she belonged.
As I watched her swim away, I noticed something I hadn’t seen from the back of the gully. There, just off the bank, in a foot and a half of water, was a sand saucer, sixteen inches in diameter. She was expecting and had helped make a nursery. I had invaded her nest with my Pop-R. She instinctively tried to kill the intruder like good mamas do.
I stood there, silently feeling good about my decision to give her back. She carried the future. She carried my future fun. I looked back at the nest and she was there, standing guard, in her foxhole.
I took off running through the deep sand to Dad. He wasn’t far away. Panting, I said, “Let’s not keep the pregnant ones! I just let a five-pound girl go. It felt great.”
“I let a big one go already, too, Champ,” Dad said.
“OK,” I smiled, and ran back to my gear.
I picked up my two poles and creel and walked to the next clearing. As I did, I thought about what a great start to the day it was. A perfect cast, good work with the lure, a heart stopping strike, and picturesque moments with a big bass right off the cover of Outdoor Life. I had the best feelings going on inside of me, especially knowing I had given my girl freedom. She freed my spirit. Things come around full circle in life; sometimes you have to wait for it, but that day gratification was instant, thankfully, because I was too young to understand time.
My next stop was a pocket-sized slight up bump of sand between the willows on the near shore width of the pond. My feet felt the lumps of large roots from years ago, before my time where, perhaps, a big pine had been. It may have been destroyed with a lightning strike, and the roots had maintained the elevation stalling the invasion of willows. Regardless of whatever happened in the past, now it was a place to push through and get in a cast.
The casting spot was tight and I found myself draped in a spider’s web of willow branches. Willow branches hung over the first three to four feet of bank. You couldn’t get the angle to cast the lure so it ran parallel to the bank cover. It was a messy place to fish, but sometimes you could pick up a bass just by doing the best you could. In the past, I had tried an array of lures only frustrating myself with line tangles and lure hang-ups. A Snagless Sally® or Texas-rigged worms were the snag free options.
I decided to try a white Snagless Sally® with a gold spinner. It is exciting to watch this lure flashing just under the surface and then disappearing in the black hole of a bass’s mouth. Fan casting from the left to the right, it took until the last cast to the far right, when a small buck bass turned the lights off on the golden spinner blade. A quick animated air dance and I was able to sweep the spring suitor through the veil of limbs. The hook popped out easily. He was back in the pond before actually knowing what happened.
I wanted another top water tussle before the sun got too high, making the top water action fade away like the shadows. There was another cloaked sand lump with limited casting space before the corner of the pond,