A fine morning for catching a bass ~ September 23, 1999

David Heiller

A light drizzle drifted down on Sunday morning like dandruff from the thunderstorm that shook the house the night before.

The wind had quit blowing, leaving a calm voice that said, “Go fishing, Dave.”

Kind of late. 7:15. Not my usual early time. Bob Dutcher would not approve. He’s a 6 a.m. man, sharp.

A fine fish.

But I grabbed my bucket of frogs and hopped in the truck, which already held the canoe and gear. A good fisherman is always ready to go. Fifteen minutes later, I was on Mud Lake.

I hooked a frog through its lips, threw toward the lily pads, and started paddling slowly down the lake. (I apologize to those people who are squeamish or offended about using frogs for bait.)

In a way it didn’t matter if I caught a fish or not. Being on the quiet lake, in the misty morning, that’s what I was looking for. The lake would serve as my church service. My spirit was as smooth as the silky water.

It’s a thing of joy, fishing in the morning in the fall on a quiet lake. You know that fall is here. You can feel it in your knuckles. They crack with the cold, but not too badly, not like in late October. You know you won’t have a lot more mornings this fine. So you savor it like a good cup of coffee.

That’s how I felt as I slowly moved along, paddling ever minute or so. I stayed about 20 feet from the lily pads, and casted my bait so that it landed as close to the pads as possible. A good cast is about two inches from the edge. It’s a great feeling to see the spot where you want to cast and have your bait hit that exact spot.

Noah loves to fish, just like his dad.

For the first half hour I only caught a few weeds. One time a big swirl of water boiled around the frog, and I set the hook and caught nothing but water. How can a bass miss a frog like that? I thought. Dumb fish.

Well, maybe not so dumb. He’s not on the hook.

The fish weren’t biting. A couple weeks earlier I had had a strike about every five minutes. The fish were starving. I had caught three bass, then I ran out of frogs. The fish weighed 4-1/2 pounds, 3-1/2 pounds, and 2-1/2 pounds.

Then I came to the hot spot. It’s just a little point of land with bull rushes sticking up like stubble. It doesn’t look a bass hangout in any way. But I always seem to catch a fish there.

From my viewpoint, it’s a good spot, because there aren’t any lily pads for the bass to swim around in and tangle the line. It’s more of a fair fight, for me that is.

I probably won’t catch one today, I told myself. Don’t want to jinx myself. But my racing pulse said that I wished just the opposite.

The joy (or sorrow) of the bending rod!

Almost as soon as the frog hit the water, a fish hit the frog. Ca-woosh. Is there a prettier sight than the swirl of a big fish when it takes your bait? I could tell it was a big one as it raced back and forth, bending my rod, straining my line. It jumped clear out of the water about four inches and shook its head, just like on the late-night fishing shows. Wow, a beauty.

I let it pull hard and tire itself. I hoped it was hooked well. I knew the eight-pound line wouldn’t break, but the hook coming out was another matter. Bass never seem to be hooked very solid. That’s why I only land about one of every three I hook. Of course, Bob Dutcher seems to catch nine out of every 10 he hooks.

I reeled the fish to the canoe and scooped it up with the net. Then I breathed again.

It was a gorgeous large mouth bass, big and fat, the kind a kid dreams about, even a 46-year-old kid.

I took out my old tape and measured it: 17-1/2 inches long. It weighed a little over 3-1/2 pounds.

I put it on the stringer, and kept fishing. Another fish missed my frog in the hot spot. I came to an opening in the lily pads by shore, casted into the middle, and caught a small bass. I let it go. Another cast in the same spot, and another fish hit at the frog and missed. I could see water roiling here and there in the opening.

On the third cast something big grabbed the frog and held on for about 10 seconds. It fought its way into the lily pads and was gone. How big was that fish? A five-pounder? It was big enough to go back and try to catch it again.

That was enough for me. Three strikes on three straight casts will satisfy anyone. I paddled back to the truck. As I neared shore, I took the fish off the stringer watched it swim away. Maybe I’ll catch it again. It will be bigger next time.