So I got the mild afternoon I hoped for, slipping out the front door without thought of anyone or anything else, driving up the highway to Bedminster Pond. Once again, a bass hit the Savko Bucktail Spinner on the first cast, small like most of the eight I caught, not quite nine inches, but the big one felt like a snag at first, then rolling towards the surface, roiling outward a big boil, me a little nervous about my drag setting for a moment, but then reassured that the cold water made the fish lethargic enough not to break the six-pound test, feeling how good it is to begin the year with a largemouth over three pounds.
There's a lot of bass in that pond, which becomes thoroughly weeded-in by May. I missed hits from other small fish, all of them I pulled in would have measured nine inches or a little less, besides one about 10 1/2 inches, but the big one goes to show there's probably a real lunker or two under the surface of these five or six acres.
No one else fished, but when I pulled up, a conservation officer underwent the process of busting a party with fishing rods and no licenses.
I lowered my window and interrupted him, "Can I ask you a question?"
"Yeah."
"Would I be fishing too close to the river in that far corner?"
"It's no issue to me."
"Thanks."
Sunlight still fell on it when I began, a chop on the surface at the northeast end taking most of the afternoon's warming. On down the shoreline, fishing was good, too.
I tried the northwestern corner, too, on my way out, though it seemed too deep and cold to harbor any bass, but this is when I best felt my usual defenses coming down, and the wild world breaking back through to me, which it never fails to do when I give it a chance. All of our hopes and possibilities begin in nature.