Frog Darter

Celebrating Senko de April

This weekend my wife and kid went to Dallas to meet up with some of her new online friends. My wife's mother thinks this is an ill-advised trip, meeting up with people you hardly know. After all, that's how serial killers get started. But I'm sure they'll be fine. She's more worried about how Muleshoe (our kid) will do going through airport security, which is liable to create murder threats of its own.

With them out of my hair (well, so to speak, since I'm rapidly losing it), I headed to my local fishing hole for some uninterruptable fishing time. I went up Friday night, took the dog and the two of us had a great dinner and a relaxing time on the dock, just watching the sun slip behind the trees and into the fields beyond.

The next morning, I was up at 6a and ready to hit the water. I always build up every fishing trip I go on as being the most exciting and the most successful one ever. So I was pumped about getting out on the water. Mind you, this is the same water where I strike out regularly so there really wasn't a reason to be so optimistic. But I can't help it. It's the only time I let myself think grand thoughts, even though I'm usually overly optimistic.

But not this time.

I finally hit the water around 6:45a and by 7a had the first decent sized bass in the boat. From then on I proceeded to catch a two-to-three pound bass about every 15 minutes until I came in around lunch time. I fished a flaked june bug colored Senko along the grass line along the shore of this one point most of the morning.

Sometimes, like Woo Davies taught me once, I turned completely around and threw away from the shore, where it was only about 15 feet deep vs. the 5 feet or so near the grass line. I was rewarded on that side of the boat, as well. So much so that I went through nearly every worm in that pack catching fish that morning. I could get a bait to last about 3 catches then I had to tie on a new one. I've never had that happen to me and felt like quite an angler.

This was the first time, in as long as I can remember, that I didn't fish any topwater plugs. I started out with that worm and stuck with it for the duration of the trip. Even when I moved locations, where I ended up not being as successful, I stayed with that Senko and forced myself to fish slower or deeper or shallower or differently rigged so that I was presenting it in as many different ways as I could without changing lures. That, too, was first for me. I usually switch things up reguarly, probably too quickly, and found it tempting at times. But I was able to resist and kept it and was rewarded for that patience.

And yet another first for my local fishing spot: all that fishing, all those fish, and not one jack.

All in all, a very successful morning. A great way to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, even if it was a week too soon.

Son!

When I was in college, one of my roommates and I were big watchers TV fishing shows. We liked nothing better than to see Roland Martin set the hook in another one of those tremendous Florida bass. "Son!" he'd say, as he rared back and reeled her in.

Well, son! We reeled them in on our trip to The Big O. My friend Stuart and I had a fantastic time. After I drove for what seemed like all day I finally arrived in South Florida at roughly the same time Stuart did, only he had to drive about two hours. Of course, the second we arrived we immediately went to Wal-Mart. Well, not immediately. First we had a cold beer and toasted our ingenious idea of fishing Lake Okeechobee that weekend. Then we went to Wal-Mart. As if we needed any more fishing equipment. Of course we did. With that and some food in hand, we headed back to the hotel.

At the hotel, we spent the next few hours carefully studying all the tackle we brought. What would work? What has worked before? What has never worked but looked great when we bought it? After much deliberation, we rigged up a handful of rods. We were ready for topwater, soft plastics, crankbaits, spinnerbaits and live shiners. Then I commenced to making sandwiches and getting the food ready for the next day with the guide. As all fishermen know, the food is as important as the tackle on a big fishing trip. That way, if the fishing stinks, there's at least a good sandwich to talk about.

The first day we went out with our guide, Fred. We spent the morning casting topwater plugs against the rip rap along this one stretch near the marina. We then ran up the Rim Canal a bit and threw plastics just off the rip rap before heading over to a dynamite hole, where we fished crankbaits a while. We both had good luck on a green pumpkin Senko.

In fact, I set the hook on one fish who immediately headed for deep water and bent the rod completely under the boat. By the time I got my wits about me, the rod was practically doubled over, with the drag a-zinging. And then that sound came you never want to hear. Plink. Actually, it's more of a pleeeeenk. The sound of the line snapping. Ten pound line isn't all that flimsy but it snapped like it was nothing. I don't want to talk about it. I've already convinced myself it was a loggerhead turtle.

The second day turned out to be a better day than the first. Day One was a bluebird day. Day Two was more overcast, which made for great fishing. We hit the topwater bite first thing and had more fish in the boat within an hour than we did all of Day One. And it went like that the rest of the day, especially on plastic worms. I even hooked an alligator, though I certainly wasn't planning to. I threw it in a pocket, something tugged at it, I set the hook and watched the end of my line pop up from under the water in the mouth of a gator. Not good. So rather than wait on him to decide what he was going to do, I bent down and bit the line in half and chalked it up to good luck. Stuart got the big fish of the day, though none of them came in less than two pounds.

All in all, a good trip. We were both back to the normal grind the next day. But that zzzzzziiiiinnnngggg sound of the drag running out on the big fish that never was keeps buzzing in my head. It's enough to make me yell "Son!" all right.

Quickly followed up by a few other words.

Fishing Big O This Weekend

It's hard to describe how excited I am about fishing Lake Okeechobee this weekend.

My friend Stuart and I are headed down there Sunday. We'll fish with a guide Monday and out of Stuart's boat Tuesday. We're staying at Roland Martin's Marina and Resort in Clewiston. And we're close to the world famous Tiki Bar. All of which adds up to a helluva trip!

Fishing reports indicate that the fish are on a post-spawn feeding frenzy at certain parts of the day and that most of the good fishing is taking place in the rim canal. Fishermen are taking big bass on top water plugs, shaky head worms and jerkbaits/crankbaits. Shiners (or "mean fishing", as my friend calls it) seem to be doing well, too.

This is one of those sho-nuff fishing trips that aims to be a great adventure regardless of the catch. However, bringing in a tremendous Florida bass would make it an even bigger trip.

So hopefully The Big O describes the lake and not the number of fish we caught. Stay tuned.

Running Low

I was able to slip out of work Monday and head out to my local fishing spot. I was out early because I had a doctor's appointment that ended up having to be rescheduled due to an emergency at the doctor's office itself. They were behind two hours and wouldn't have seen me until 5p for a 3p appointment. So I rescheduled, headed home, grabbed my fishing stuff and my family, and headed out to the spot.

When we arrived, though, both batteries that I have for the trolling motor were practically dead. I must be doing something wrong or either I have the wrong kind of or bad batteries. No amount of charging will charge them fully and when they are somewhat charged they don't seem to last for very long. I think they are starting batteries and, from what I understand, what I need is deep cycle batteries. So I'm going to fix that problem soon enough. I get tired of getting all psyched up about going fishing then getting out there and not being able to. So it was dusk before I was able to think about going out.

But this time about 30 minutes of charging gave me enough juice to power the boat to the other side of lake to where I've been catching them lately. Unfortunately, not much was biting this time. Of course, I caught two jacks right off the bat. And I had a couple of soft hits on a crankbait from what seemed like bass. But things were slow.

We've had weird weather this week (snow on Saturday, high of 70 something on Sunday). We can't seem to get several days in a row of very warm weather to get the water warmed up and help with the coming spawn.

So while I wait for the weather to keep warming up, I have a few maintenance things to do. I need new batteries, obviously. And I need to reline a couple of reels. But that's just busy work to keep my mind off heading to the water.

The light was running low, the batteries were running low and now my patience is running low. Sounds like everything needs a good recharge.

Get Back, Jack

Sometimes playing to a tie score in sports is called "kissing your sister." You get to kiss, but, um, it's just your sister. So it doesn't really count.

That's how I feel about catching a jack. What we call a jack, some people call a pickerel or grass pike or mud pike or chainsides. No matter what you call it, though, it's ugly. I mean U-G-L-Y. Prehistoric looking, if you ask me. He's got a long nose, an upturned mouth, hundreds of tiny teeth, the dorsal fin is set way back, and he's long and skinny. And VERY aggressive.

The place where I fish regularly is plum full of jacks. They'll hit almost any lure I throw out there: spinnerbaits, crankbaits, worms, topwater. I've even caught a couple on frogs.

Standard procedure for me when I catch a bass is to size him up, take a photo if he's worthy and release him back to fight another day. Not jacks. There are so many in this little lake where I fish that they've become a nuisance. So when we catch them, we either slit their throats right then and there (if they're injured badly enough, which they invariably are after we have to retrieve our hooks from deep inside their throats) or we keep them in the cooler until we get back to the house. As big a nuisance as they are, though, they do fight pretty good. And on a slow day when the bass don't seem very interested, they feel good on the other end of the rod. You get to catch a fighting fish, but it's just a jack.

Which is why it's like kissing your sister. But with a few more teeth.

Is There Such a Thing as Too Much Fishing Tackle?

I went today with my buddy, Cool Breeze. It was sorta cold, very windy and not the best day for fishing. We caught a couple and had a couple of strikes. But, for the most part, it was a slow day, fishing-wise.

I definitely get this fishing hankering from my Daddy, though my Mother is a pretty good fisherman in her own right. I was one of the fortunate kids in this world whose Daddy took the time to take him fishing. But he didn't just take me. He taught me. We spent many, many days fishing, waking at the crack of dawn to get on the water in time for the early morning bite. I can't count the number of times I've seen the sun come up sitting in a jonboat out on some pond he'd discovered. We both preferred bass fishing, not just because of the fighting nature of the fish but because of the multitude of gear we needed (or thought we needed) to be able to do it "right."

Take a look at his tackle box. The Umco 3000. Opened, this tackle box is easily as big as your average coffee table. Look at it! It's as big as a tricycle! How he fit that thing in the boats we usually fished in was a miracle. I'd sit in the back of the boat, with my small tackle box between my feet, and wonder if I would ever have that much gear, that many lures, that much stuff. Just look at his compared to what I would have been toting at the time.

I envied that tackle box. Every lure you could imagine using was there. Crankbaits, both plastic and wooden. Spinnerbaits, before they were popular. Jerkbaits, including the broke-back ones. Plastic worms (or "rubber" worms as we always called them), especially black ones. And all kinds of tackle.

But where he really put his money was in topwater lures. The man was crazy about catching fish on a topwater plug. And who could blame him. There's not much that can compare in all of sport fishing to a pissed-off largemouth bass that explodes from underneath the surface and seizes a topwater plug chugging along and working its magic. Cast it toward a stump, let it sit until the ripples go away, slowly twitch it, let it sit still, pull it a few inches toward you, let it gurgle, let it sit, pull, gurgle, sit, pull gurgle, sit. I've seen a bass knock that plug two feet in the air trying to tear into it. That gurgle gets them every time.

His favorite topwater plug (mine, too, naturally) was this one with a prop at the front and a prop on the tail, sort of a fat cigar shape. I have one rod and reel combo set up that is dedicated to this lure and this lure only. I don't throw anything else with that rod but this lure. This plug is hard to find these days. And whenever I see it, I buy as many as are hanging on the rack. In every color. In every weight. Don't try to find one within 25 miles of me. There ain't no more.

My wife kids me that I'm trying to corner the nearby Bass Pro Shop with all the gear and tackle in our garage. She looks at it and sees volume. I look at it and see holes. It's not the fishing stuff I have that I want the most. It's what I don't have that I crave.

Sorta the way a bass craves that topwater plug. He can't help it. It's in his genes.

At least I get it honest. Thanks, Daddy.

Scratching A 10-Hour Bass Itch

After watching that great catch during the Super Bowl, I figured I could go out and do the same thing. Well, not exactly the same thing, but as close as I could get. I could go catch some bass. Which, thank goodness, doesn't require much athletic prowess at all.

We were at my friends' Stuart and Sue's house in West Palm Beach, which took about 10 hours to get to since we drove instead of flying. I know Stuart through work and he and I have become fishing partners. Since he lives in South Florida and I live in Middle Georgia, we only get together a couple of times a year. So we were both looking forward to the Super Bowl Party/Fishing Trip adventure. But Stu ended up with the flu and missed not only his big Super Bowl party but our two days of fishing, as well. He was a little perturbed, to say the least.

I, on the other hand, was as pleased as punch, as Stu had set up for me to go fishing with his local fishing buddy, Connie. What's a guy to do? I could have said no and sat around and moped, probably like Stuart. Or I could go fishing and catch a few for both of us. Easy decision, in my mind.

Connie and I spent the next couple of days fishing the canals and waterways that make up Lake Ida in West Palm Beach. On Monday, our guide was a Brooklyn native named Don, who named his fishing guide service Lone Star. I asked him why and he said, "Would you want to go fishing with guide service called 'I Love New York?'" Good point. We spent Monday with Don, who put us on good fish. And Tuesday, Connie and I took Stuart's truck and boat (adding insult to injury?) and fished on our own in similar waters.

We mostly fished with plastic worms, Senkos to be exact. We rigged them Texas style and wacky, which in case you aren't familiar, is just about as the name suggests. Here's a couple of shots of what a wacky-rigged worm looks like.

We had a fair day on the water both days, putting 25 fish in the boat (though, technically, not in the boat, as we released all of them once we caught them).

When we got back, Stuart was feeling better. Seemed to have his color back. Was laughing and joking and acting like his old self. Until Connie and I shared what a great time we had. On his boat. On his lake. Catching his fish. On his fishing trip.

He suddenly felt sick all over again.

Destined for the Farm Pond

Every year, thousands of Christmas trees get chunked out the front door and onto the curb for the garbage men to collect. With environmentalism coming on strong in the past few years, though, that practice is slowly coming to an end.

Most people now recycle their Christmas trees in one form or another. Around here, most folks haul them to a common point in the community where they are then processed by the city or county. Processing usually involves chipping the trees into mulch for use in the garden or in landscaping around the house.

Our recycling tradition is different, though. We take our tree -- and any others we can scrounge up -- to a local fishing pond. We drop them in the pond at strategic points, giving the fish (mostly bream and crappie, some bass) much needed cover for shelter, food and reproduction. So what was once standing tall in our living room is destined to be standing tall about 15 feet under water. Come spring time, we wet a line and fish around this new structure.

It's advisable to remove the lights and ornaments before doing this, of course. I know, I know. What moron would sink a fully decorated Christmas tree in his local pond?

You just never know.

Welcome

I decided to start a blog about fishing. I'm not a professional fisherman, meaning, I've never gotten paid to do it and probably never will. I'm more of an intermediate when it comes to fishing skills, though I've been doing it all my life. I have the gear and know how to use it; I'm moderately successful almost every trip.

Like most folks who enjoy fishing, I fish for lots of reasons. Relaxation, sport, thinking time, commune with nature, get away from the stresses of work and home. It's me time, which sometimes includes my wife or kid or a fishing buddy or two.

And while I like to catch fish, fishing for me isn't always about the fish. It's about time spent doing something other than the daily, ordinary stuff. Sort of like a time out from time, in a sense. A way to step back, disengage, unplug and unwind. If I catch some fish, all the better.

I'll try to keep it short and interesting, in case anyone other than me is reading this. I hope you'll feel free to comment whenever you want to be part of the conversation. You can even ask a question or two about fishing if you feel the urge. I may not know everything, but I probably know someone who has the answer you're looking for.

So, enjoy.