Jeep® Sporting Destinations

Bassmeister

by Jim Fergus

"David worked the shoreline and the half-submerged structures that dotted the lake with surgical precision, dropping his popper into the pockets and beneath the overhangs, right where you would expect the fish to lay up."

The explosion of a largemouth bass rips the silence of a small lake at dusk.

It was early spring and I was fishing on a small lake in the heart of central Florida's lake country. This region, sometimes called "Land of Lakes," consists of thousands of bodies of water, large and small, forming the longest series of genetically related lakes in the United States.

Although one tends to think of the state of Florida in terms of its crowded Gold Coast, or as the home of Mickey Mouse, Universal Studios, and the acrobatic dolphins of Seaworld, this is the rolling hill country of the Florida highlands, with many clear, pristine natural lakes tucked away still in relatively unspoiled settings.

Similarly, while one might associate largemouth bass fishing in the South with high-tech tournament boats, computerized fish finders, and roaring high-decibel launch starts at the boat ramp, there are, of course, plenty of lower impact ways to pursue the sport.

So it is that my friend David and I were fishing this particular lake from a small flat-bottom aluminum boat with an electric trolling motor. I should say, David was fishing and I was in the bow running the trolling motor. This was a loaner boat, it was my first time at the task and, unaccustomed to steering from the front of the boat, I spent the first half hour or so spinning us around in circles as if we were being sucked down a bathtub drain.

"Ah, Jim," said David at one point, "I'm getting dizzy."

"Don't worry, David," I said. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

And, indeed, I soon had forward and reverse figured out; it was really quite simple, turn the handle to the right and you went forward, to the left, backwards, point the housing of the motor to the right and you turned right, to the left, you turned left, what could be easier? In no time at all I was maneuvering my angler at just the right distance from the shoreline and in and out of the little fingers of the lake where there were plenty of places for bass to hang out around -- submerged trees and logs, overhangs of branches and brush.

Although he was a New Englander and had not done a great deal of bass fishing, David was well-read on the subject, and an excellent flycaster, able to lay his popping bug right into the pockets and beneath the overhangs. There he would let it lie for a moment.

"Charlie Waterman always said that you let the popper sit until the rings on the water where it landed are gone," he explained.

Then he would begin his retrieve; "balup...balup" went the popping bug.

"Sexy, isn't it?" David said.

"If I was a bass," I said, "I'd sure fall for it."

Now David varied the speed of his retrieve, first trying a very slow, "balup.........balup.........balup," then picking up the pace, "balup...balup...balup," then trying a very fast "balup, balup, balup."

But the lake was still this afternoon, with very little activity on the surface, and in spite of David's best efforts, the bass were not buying. "I suppose I should fish something deeper with a sinking line," he said. "But I just hate to do it."

And I knew just what he meant, because even though there was no fish activity on the surface, just watching David lay that popping bug so beautifully into the pockets and up against the cover, and that wonderful "balup...balup...balup" as he worked the bug, was, in itself, entertainment enough, nearly hypnotizing.

Not to mention that it was a beautiful early spring afternoon on this lovely, secluded lake. The wildflowers were in bloom and the birds were beginning their spring migrations, a cacophony of song and color. From the woods came the deep warbling gobble of a tom turkey feeling his spring hormones rising.

On one end of the lake a stand of huge old-growth cypress trees gave the place a certain timeless feel; it was possible to imagine that the Calusa Indians canoed and fished here 5,000 years ago. Stately live oak trees, pines and cabbage palms lined the shores. Turtles basked in the sun on partially submerged logs, slipping into the water at our approach with a gentle plunking noise.

An anhinga perched on a branch jutting into the water, a strange, prehistoric looking bird, wings spread to the sun as if in sacrifice. Sometimes called "snakebirds" because their bodies are submerged when swimming, the anhinga lacks oil glands with which to preen and so must perch with its wings spread in order to dry off in the sun.

A kingfisher sat in a dead oak tree on the edge of the lake, his large cartoon-like head cocked vigilantly toward the water. All this we watched as we passed, only the occasional gentle hum of the electric trolling motor breaking the natural stillness. Well sure, we probably would have preferred it if the bass had been biting, but it was hard to complain.

As the sun fell toward the horizon, flocks of ducks, geese and cranes winged overhead, and in the late afternoon light the clear water of the lake took on the deep burnished color of gun blacking. David worked the shoreline and the half-submerged structures that dotted the lake with surgical precision, dropping his popper into the pockets and beneath the overhangs, right where you would expect the fish to lay up. "Balup...balup...balup" casting again, "balup.....balup.....balup." The Bassmeister at work.

And now in the hour before sunset -- the prime dining time for fish -- we began to see and hear an occasional fish feeding on the surface, a deeper-toned, bullumph, a swirl. It was to one such swirl that David cast, landing his popper right on the money and then letting it lie still for an agonizingly suspenseful moment.

"I'm going to make him really mad," David whispered, waiting with Job-like patience as the ripples dispersed.

Then one, short "balup--" cut off almost immediately in mid-syllable by a savage water slashing strike that had no vowels in its sound but that seemed to leave a gaping hole on the surface of the lake where his popper had once been--a sinkhole that filled back in with water as David raised his rod tip and set the hook.

Who can say that we don't wait for these moments all our sporting lives? It is for just such moments that we go into the fields and streams, onto the lakes and oceans. And if you think of the hundreds, thousands of hours that we put into it, you must allow that they come rather infrequently, these moments, as only occasional punctuation to the long slow stretches which in themselves have much to offer if we let them.

Now a beautiful largemouth bass, maybe a six-pounder or better, its sides and back glistening greenish black in the late afternoon light, reopened the hole, erupting from the water like a sea monster.

"Hah!" David said. "Got him!"

Copyright © 1999 Jim Fergus. All rights reserved.

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