The Great Bass Tale

For the longest time I had quite a bass fishing career. Covering a little over a decade, I had become the master of hooking some of the most common bass species – the weed bass, the stick bass, the mud bass, and the always elusive old, rotten shoe bass. These species were amazingly easy to trick into hooking on my lures, but as time passed I learned that there were other species out there that, amazingly enough, actually resembled a fish!

So with my reputation being what it was, I went out to my private fishing haven, courtesy of my aunt’s magnificent farm, complete with two lakes. I earned my stripes on the smallest of the two lakes, where suicidal bream were always willing to fall on the hook, as it were, to make me feel like I’d had a successful day of fishing. I suppose after a while they grew tired of that habit and changed their strategy to simply stealing catfish bait off my hook. On the rare occasion that a chicken liver made it past the Bream Brigade, I actually managed to hook a catfish or two that, if kept whole, could make a tasty if not rather small dinner. There was the one catfish I caught who actually warranted the wonderfully simple art (if you are a four star chef) of filleting. Needless to say he arrived home with me in the form of two small fillets and a handful of small nuggets. Ah, but I digress… this is the Great Bass Tale…

So my real education began when one of my aunt’s friends actually showed me what type of lures to use, where to cast, and how to reel in my line. I pride myself on being a relatively fast learner and, in no time flat, I was getting nibbles on my line. After several times of showing off my amazing ability to snatch defeat – and my hook – from the jaws of a bass victory, my aunt’s friend offered even more helpful advice. “Wait until you feel that tap-tap-tap, reel in your line while lowering your rod toward the water and then pull to set the hook.” That is wonderfully helpful advice for even the most novice of fisherwomen, unless you are hamstrung by a mind as analytical and precise as mine. As I cast out and reeled in time and again, I would feel my line moving. But wait… was that a tap-tap-tap or a bump-tap-nip? Tap-tug-tap? Tap-tap-thump? Bless his heart, but my aunt’s friend stayed with me for a quite a while in weather that was undoubtedly too warm for serious bass fishing while continuing to give me new tips and reminders. Eventually he had to call it a day and I was left alone with my prey.

I moved to a new spot he’d suggested I try – weed bed with a low hanging tree limb casting shadow over the water. I proudly cast my lizard lure in that direction time and again and time and again I reeled in… a pristine, untouched lizard lure! I should mention here that are two important bass fishing tools that are noticeably absent from my tackle box. First is the ability to voluntarily get up earlier than six-thirty in the morning. Second is the wonderful virtue of patience. So after all this time of getting not a single nibble, my astute and somewhat sleepy brain defaulted back to those basic human beliefs – more power and distance are always better. With these beliefs firmly engraved in my mind, I cast that lizard out further than I had been previously. And it worked! I snagged a very impressive specimen of the tree limb bass species! My old reputation had returned to haunt me so I decided to cut my losses – and my line – and head home for the day.

Now a lesser person might be turned off of bass fishing by such an experience, but I always was a glutton for punishment. So I returned to my aunt’s lake a few days later and managed to arrive a good hour and a half earlier than I had for the last trip. I didn’t waste any time fishing from the bank and moved directly to the dock, planning to do a little sunbathing if the fish were being standoffish. Much to my surprise, and delight, not only were the fish welcoming but my bass fishing skills seemed to have solidified overnight! Okay, a few nights and days, but a fisherwoman has to indulge in the art of exaggeration, right? Of course any of the parts you are about to read involving size in no way involve exaggeration…

The first bass I caught using a lure borrowed from my aunt’s friend. It was so wonderfully easy – cast, reel, and that thoughtful fish even set the hook himself. I reeled him in and, I am sort of ashamed to admit, squealed with delight at how big he was. I wanted a picture of him and, in case you’ve never tried it, taking a picture of yourself holding a fish is no easy task. Knowing I needed something in the photo as a size reference I high-tailed it to the SUV I’d driven and snapped a beautiful picture of that fish next to the tire. I rushed back to the lake and set him free, wishing him nothing but the best as one often does with their first true love.

I won’t bore you with details of the much smaller second bass I caught except to say that he was also willing to help me out by jumping right on my hook. On the other hand, the third bass had obviously never heard the saying “third time’s the charm”.

The day had worn on and I was getting tired and ready to call it quits, when this beautiful large bass swam right next to the dock. I quickly tossed my lure into the water and began slowly reeling it across the surface right above this bass. He was interested and began pacing my lure, both its speed and direction. Lure goes right, bass goes right. Lure speeds up, bass speeds up. But he refused to bite. Perhaps he had an analytical mind as well and was content to simply study this new arrival in his domain. I wouldn’t let that deter me though, and I kept teasing my line back and forth across the water, even changing the lure several times to offer him a virtual dinner buffet. Still, he wouldn’t bite and I began to sense he was watching me in the way I might watch a dog try to fit a long stick horizontally through a small opening…

Eventually, and I’m not proud to admit it, but I resorted to begging. “Just let me catch you! I’ll take the hook right out, put you back in the water and call it a day! I won’t go after any more of your friends!” He just continued swimming so I began arguing how a truly selfless bass would gladly surrender himself for the good of his fellow fish. Eventually, whether his conscience won out or he just wanted me to shut up, he finally bit on my lure. I reeled him in with great excitement and was kneeling down to grab my line as close to the water as I could get when I heard a high pitched creaking noise that often proceeds line breaking due to too much tension. I realized I’d have to get closer to the water and decided to get onto the lower side dock, a good two to three feet (or so I thought) lower than the main dock. I walked backward, pulling the bass with me and then, concentrating to keep the Big One on my line, blindly stepped onto the lower dock.

After thirty years of life on this Earth you’d think I would have come to realize I can’t judge distances very well. Imagine my surprise when instead of setting foot on the dock, I kept going down and down until I would consider it no longer “stepping” but full out “falling”. I hit the lower dock hard and continued to pitch forward in path that would plant me head first into the very weed beds in which I had been fishing only moments earlier. Somehow instinct kicked in and I managed to hook an arm around a conveniently placed metal ladder (should have been a clue, huh?) and stop my descent with my nose hovering about an inch above the lake. As I remained frozen in place and trying to catch my breath I was also lamenting the losing the Big One who was no doubt swimming away with my fishing pole in tow. Feeling defeated, I heaved a sigh and lowered my head… and saw my fishing pole tightly trapped between my knee and the lower dock! Even better, it was still straining and trying to pull away which meant I hadn’t lost the Big One. I quickly, and oh so very cautiously, regained my feet and pulled that beautiful fish out of the lake. We bonded over the moment and even took our picture together, though he refused to smile. True to my word, I returned him to the lake and called it quits for the day. It was only after I left the lake that I realized I had several bruises, scrapes and a decent-sized gash on my finger.

So if anyone ever tries to tell you that fishing is a safe, relaxing sport… think otherwise. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run. I’ve got to plan out my next bass fishing trip!