Summer’s Evening

Bass Fishing

Finally achieved upper hand on the old 8hp Johnson. Carburetor off for an ultra cleaning session would have done a brain surgeon proud. Trolling speed dropped to a “putt” every 2 seconds or so with “Recreation” gas. Transported back to the fifties when motors actually functioned for fishing instead of fast rides up the lake and back.

Fierce this summer. Perhaps could feel clock ticking or too long without rod in hand, maybe just missed the viscral excitement of fish striking lure. With dumbness of my F.W.O.A.L put to bed, timing worked out an hour before dusk one evening in August. Popped two rods from the rack, water bottle from the cooler, included a net for the “maybe” big guy, and headed hundred yards uplake to one of the honey holes. Previous summer I’d managed to rig most of a motley collection of our spinning rigs with new lines. Endowed each with experienced lure. Mooselook Wobbler, deadhead jigs in various colors, Grey Ghost fly, beat up spoons, and Rapalas. Done with changing lures underway while laughing fish swam around the skiff ignoring our kind offerings.

Small-mouth Bass are voracious buggers. Some forays they’ll take just about anything offered. Next, work is essential, patience a virtue. That first night I took two of my favorites, grey grub deadhead jig for low water, Alewive Rapala for surface. Second year for soft grub. Beginning to show some wear. Both are hot performers. Lures of choice fishing with antsy Grandchildren.

No more than scaled out the grub line, reached for the Rapala than had a strike with fish on. Tonight, however, was two rod fishing. Let it fight. Kept moving. Scaled out Rapala, set rod against starboard gunnel, right leg over with butt on floor, and lifted grey grub similarly waiting on port. Reeling grey grub rod, Rapala starts a-bobbin. Okay. “Get to you one at a time boys”. Gotta keep the motor straight. Stay out of the weeds. Don’t run into the neighbor’s float.

De-hook the first fish and send grey grub back to work. Uh-oh, Rapala’s attracted a serious fish. Start to crank. I’ve come to realize over last few years with scarce time on water how much more fun fishing can be on light tackle . Life change (isn’t that an abused jingo) was a long snorkeling swim one sunday afternoon when I noticed an open tackle box on bottom. Bit further, rod, reel, line out, lure stuck to a stump, all left by, as I soon came to realize from decals on the tackle box, a New York City fireman. Been there for awhile. Lures and assorted gear remaining in tackle box were rusting. Few more scattered on bottom. Managed to assemble all I could find, swim collection back to camp. No other identification. Figured must have been a fireman with short temper. Caught bottom one time too often, chucked everything over the side.

Resurrected, re-lined rod and reel happened to be lightest tackle this child had ever tried. Medium size fish felt like trophies. Had to “reelly” work bringing those beauties in. No longer horse and flip over the gunnels. Ephifany. Fun increase 100%. Both rods that night were light.

Blood in the boat. Kept Rapala on starboard side. Fished grey grub, rod in hand to port. Rapala, floating edition, could “fish” by itself. Treble hook. Bass would nail it. Hang on. Grey grub needed more attention. Often have to set hook for grey grub if hungry one didn’t simply inhale it. Added to the pleasure. Feel that nibble. Pull grey grub forward just a smidgen. Next strike bit more active. Let it slip back. Wham! Set the hook solid. Television would never hold a candle.

One point, 30 yards offshore, wiggling, both rods jumping, I’m reeling Rapala, gust of wind sends bow shoreward. Stubborn. Completes circle. Rapala fish finally boated. Shut off 8 horse. Grey grub reel refuses to budge. Figured a propellor windup. Held rod tip over stern. Drops frantically. “Big One” struck. Wants to play. Could have been five-pounder. Reality check, two-minus.

Night was serious about nudging twilight off the scene as finally swung northward for the run to camp. Couldn’t bring myself to pull the lines in. Still getting the odd strike. Perhaps see how late interest level would linger. Not long. Finally, reluctantly, had to bring this memorable (learning) night to an end. Throttled 8 horse up for charcoal burnout back to camp.

AJ and I truly enjoy eating what we catch or kill. May come naturally to two who also enjoy rattling pots and pans in a kitchen. Her eyes were wide that evening as I slid 5 beautiful keepers into the kitchen sink and prepared to clean. Fried, baked, broiled, Bass Chowder, fileted, whole (though AJ’s not fond of bones), all have a spot on camp memorable menues. Perhaps my favorite, from childhood. Southern Mother’s: clean, slice off the head, roll in flour and corn meal, dash of salt and pepper, fry in bacon fat. Pick off the flesh with fingers. Whoa!!

Giving up last bottle of formula, cole slaw took it’s place on my list as a “high cotton,” favorite vitamin intake. Only in the last year or so have I really begun to titravate with a recipe other than the addition of some crushed pineapple. Why mess with success? Minor aging, search for healthier foods in the mine fields of safe grocery offerings? Red cabbage comes up on the radar. AJ suggested we add some to a slaw. Creativity began to flow. From such comes my recipe this month with appreciation to pan rattlers for any feedback or comments. scribbler.71b@gmail.com

• R E C I P E •

“Traffic light” Coleslaw
Equal parts chopped green and red cabbage
Chopped apple, Gala type
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
Qtr. cup mayo (Dukes if available)
Qtr. cup Miracle Whip
Splash of dark rum
Teaspoon natural sugar Chopped almonds
Salt and pepper

Mix well !!

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur