More Big Bass at the Lake

We paddled up lake against heavy wind. Among grassy weeds, I anchored and reached for a Senko. "I think I left my bag at the dock," Brian said. It was understood we weren't going back and fighting that wind again. "I hope it doesn't get ripped off."

I passed Brian a Chompers.

The Senko's open hook seemed too vulnerable to getting hung. I switched to a Chompers within a minute or so and continued working pockets and edges under very intense sunlight. The whole lake seemed full of that light and I knew the bass probably took cover in the thickest of the weeds. Maybe a heavy tungsten jig would have got to them.

We paddled further against the wind and got into position to cast those bushy overhangs where Matt caught his big pickerel in April. After half a dozen or more casts, I placed the Chompers along an edge, let it drop, and then the line swiftly peeled off the spool before I closed the bail, tightened, and set the hook into the 18-inch largemouth photographed below.

No more action thereafter.

Around the back of the island and into the main body of the lake, the thought of worming seemed absurd in the wind and all that light, so I switched to s spinnerbait. I would have felt better casting it if the water was five degrees cooler. It was a summery 79 degrees, but wind chopped the surface and the sunlight reflected off the blade. Soon I hooked and boated a 23-inch pickerel that apparently rose off the bottom four or five feet down to take chase and slam that lure riding about two feet under the surface. To get the spinnerbait near bottom was pointless with all the weeds. As you can see in the next photo, that savage fish bent the spinnerbait's arm.

I thought maybe I was onto something and we would enjoy more action, but we cast and cast--nothing hit but one little fish for Brian. We drifted and anchored, drifted and anchored. And paddled. Brian preferred throwing plugs, and his fish didn't stay long on the line.

We would get off the lake before sundown. Our time out neared its finish. I happened to notice a lure bag behind my seat. "Brian, I was sitting by your lure bag this whole time!" I felt like an idiot. What do you do when your boat partner tells you he thinks he forgot his lure bag? You have a look at the stuff around you. Later on, I told him I'm negligent. Being old with memory loss is a better description. There was no willful negligence about it, but I really should have looked in the first place. It didn't occur to me to do that. That's what I mean.

Brian rigged up with a Senko. We had come upon thick weeds with lots of pockets. I had a Senko on, also. I said, "The bass are probably in the thickest of this stuff." And I mentioned heavy jigs, which I did not have. Regardless, I put my Senko in pockets and really did not have trouble with that open hook. It got hung momentarily here and there, but it was easy to pull free without collecting weeds. Soon I felt a tap and tightened the line. The fish moved in my direction. I set the hook and boated the 17-, maybe 17 1/2-inch bass of the final photo, hooked near the nose on the upper jaw, right where you would expect of a fish moving in your direction.

Minutes later Brain said, "It's six pounds!" I looked aside and saw great commotion at the surface, certain this one was no 18-incher. When I netted it, Brian said, "No, five." He was pretty close to right on the money about that. I passed him my tape measure, but he had difficulty measuring it, said it was 19 inches. I told myself no way was this bass going on the record as that small and insisted on measuring it myself.

Twenty and three-quarters of an inch long.

The difference between weedy pockets at the end of the day, and those at the beginning, was an entire world. As I said, we didn't stay to sunset. But with sun rays angling low, I imagine at least some bass came out of the thick and were vulnerable to Senkos. No clouds blocked sun, but the late light had an entirely different quality compared with what we faced going in. It even felt inviting...to venison tacos, perhaps, such as those Brian's wife Carolyn had fixed for us when we got to the house.

Brian told me what lures he has in his bag. I guess the best way to make sense of his spending a couple of hours with the uncertainty, affecting how he fished, is that the threat of loss might make him better appreciate having the bag. I know I need my reminders. And I'm forever grateful to Brian for housing my canoes and fishing with me.