The waters took on an ambience of tranquility as the oars sliced their way to the brackish backwaters of the long forgotten inlet hidden discretely by the overgrowth of unattended landscape. Each movement came with fluid ease, repeated time and again through stealth and persevered regimen that only trained professionals possessed. Common mistakes, like those of an errant oar slapping the waters surface, would surely send the
trophy bronzebacks into a defensive mode and hasten any attempts to boat a true lunker. The heat of the day brought a steady sweat to my brow that trickled in endless streams of salty confidence. Knowing that the canopy ahead would provide a natural relief from the days heat, I dared not wipe the burning discomfort from my eyes and risk missing a stroke with the oars. Numerous carp made their quick getaways in front of the boat leaving behind plumes of silt that hung in the still water like a great cloud of volcanic ash. The ever present urge to hook into one of these behemoths was justly over-ruled with the prospect of the waiting
smallmouth that lay just ahead in the cool calm waters.
As I drifted silently into the cool darkness the world seemed to change. Even the scent of the air hung closer to the waters surface. A permanent aroma of moss and decaying wood filled the air while the silence was nearly deafening. The bright sandy bottom of the earlier water had turned to a stained, leaf littered bed of promise, harboring a variety of emerging crustaceans and structural ambush points. The water was teaming with a variety of airborne insects and water walkers that scurried with every move they made. A small but poignant swatch of lily pads jetted out from a fairly invisible rocky point protruding from the furthest edge of the inlet. Numerous stumps seemed to stretch in search of sunlight as they peered upward breaking the waters glassy appearance in the distance. Each appeared to harbor a pair of dragonflies who's contrasts of ocean blue and green colors announced their presence against the weathered stumps. My excitement was suddenly heightened by a small boil that appeared 30 feet to my left near one of the stumps.
In a motion as slow as that of a hunter I reached for my fishing rod equipped with 6 pound test and a motor
oil colored mister twister that had yet to see any water. The line disappeared in flight as I sidearmed the lure with a quick flip and it quietly plopped down next to the stump and slowly began to sink. I pictured the lure working it's magic as it slid gracefully down to the bottom and made contact with the bed of decaying leaves as I began to pick up the excess slack. As quickly as I felt the telltale click, my line shot to the right away from the stump and the hook was set. It felt like he had wrapped me up in sunken log or brush pile until my reel make a short screaming sound and I knew the fish was free. My small
fiberglass boat turned like a point dog directing it's attention toward a gamebird. This was definitely a nice fish hanging tight to the bottom.
After finessing the fish for several minutes it became evident that he had the upper hand and I would need to work him closer to the boat to gain back any sort of advantage. The short pumps I executed were lost quickly as more line stripped from the reel and I distinctly recall my own silent suggestion that I must have hooked into one of the
big carp I had seen earlier. I gave several more quick pumps and gained some line back while nearly bringing him to the surface. A very short retaliation of line stripping and I came right back at him bringing him to the surface for the first time. In that fleeting glimpse I recognized beyond a doubt that indeed it was a
big smallmouth. He was dark in color from the lack of sunlight and cloudy waters in which he seemed to be natively accustomed with. As the boat turned once again with another short run, he made his first jump.
The sound filled the air like the slap of a
beavers tail on a smooth ponds surface in the dead of night. A quick dive only lead to another leap as he tried to shake my lure firmly embedded in the corner of his mouth. With the gap closed to half the distance, the bass began to hug the bottom. I felt my line strain as he pulled me around every stump and rock in a desperate fight to thwart the efforts I had put forward to this point. Under the boat it seemed like a waiting game that stretched all limits of resilience between man, fish, and equipment before the fish finally floated on it's side and I firmly grasped his lower jaw. At 25 inches and 5 1/2 pounds this smallie was a trophy by most standards for the area. He was photographed and released into the same waters he was caught which no longer exist because of low water levels.
Looking back some 20 years now I realize just how important it was that day to proceed with the utmost caution into a new area that sees little or no fishing pressure at all. More importantly was the conservation by releasing a fish this size who has probably passed on those same dominate attributes and provided numerous other fishermen and youngsters with their own story to tell.
copyright James L. Bruner - WaterandWoods.net
