July Topwater Bass

 When I turned out of my driveway Tuesday morning, I was surprised at the thick fog ahead. I should have expected it; hot days and rainy evenings often result in morning fog. So the twenty-minute drive to the lake took a little longer than usual, headlights on low beam and hoping a deer or moose, or vehicle, didn’t suddenly materialize in front of me. But at that early hour I didn’t encounter a single other vehicle in front or behind me, nor did I hit any wildlife. At the empty boat ramp, the eastern sky was just showing gray when I pushed the boat into the lake.

I’d been itching to go fishing for several days, waiting for some weather I could handle. I can’t recall ever having such a long stretch of hot, stormy weather. 90-plus degrees was almost unheard of not long ago, and the storms have never been more violent. I’ve had to cut several trees that had fallen in our yard and there are a few more over my woods trails that will wait for cooler, autumn temperatures. Add to that a couple of smoke-filled days from the wildfires north of here where we were advised to stay indoors or mask up, well, it’s been an unusual summer.

The forecast called for a warm, calm day, so I figured to be on the water early and explore some new bass water. I’d been tying some deer-hair bass bugs and was eager to get them on the water. And though late July has never been the premier time for topwater fishing, I hoped I could catch a bass or two in the early morning shallows.

The lake was glassy smooth and the fog was cool and damp. It felt wonderful! I dropped the electric trolling motor and found out it wouldn’t turn left with the foot control. A frustrating situation, for sure, but not entirely unexpected. The old MinnKota has been a little temperamental lately. Still, it was a beauty of a morning, and I could just reach down and turn it by hand when needed.

The first bass came quickly. A subtle strike next to a rock -- the green deer-hair just disappeared. Not a large fish, but a start. I moved along the rock shoreline, adjusting the motor by foot and hand. I realized just how much I rely on that foot pedal. Casting on that windless morning was a pleasure; hitting targets near rocks and wood made me look better than I really am. Of course, no one was there looking.

A small pike attacked next. Those pike are notorious for cutting the line, and I often enough use a wire bite tippet, but that morn I had on a fluorocarbon tippet and was happy it held. Then came another bass, then another. And they were getting bigger. Despite the tiresome task of hand steering the motor, I couldn’t think of a better place to be.

Watching the sun rise over fog. A red ball of brightness climbing through the smoky eastern sky. A few days ago the water-scooping firefighting planes were using this lake to refill their tanks and a public announcement asked boaters to stay clear of Big Bay so the aircraft could do their jobs. I was fishing nowhere close to that area but would have heard and seen them if they were there. For a while the fires were burning a little over 30 miles north of my home but have burned their way east, and I assume the planes are using closer lakes to the drop zones.

I had two rods rigged with deerhair bass bugs. One, a Dahlberg type diver and the other an old foam-faced popper that caught many fish and is getting worn out. I was casting the bigger popper when the wake came from ten feet and a pike smashed it. Again, the tippet held and I wished I’d set my knockoff go-pro camera for a photo.

Time for a break, I motored out to a walleye hole and dropped anchor. A paddle-tail jig was dropped overboard off the spinning rod, but I was more interested in the cooler holding lunch than anything. So with coffee cup in hand, and feet up, I relaxed and enjoyed the view. And pondered what to do about the trolling motor. There was nobody around. On a 40,000-acre lake filled with islands, bays, and plenty of development, I was alone. It felt like a sci-fi movie where the character finds himself the only survivor after an apocalyptic event. It was great!

After lunch, I half-throttled the outboard to the north. There were some good-looking spots that I needed to try. It was getting warm out, and I finally heard another boat somewhere out on the lake. A couple hundred feet of shoreline produced nothing, and I was getting tired of that trolling motor. About to call it a day, I eased into the mouth of a tiny bar that looked too good to pass up. I’d give it another half-hour. The sun was high now and I wished I’d gotten to this spot when it was cooler and shadier. I cast along the north shore with a missed strike that came from nowhere, then turned and cast to a pocket of bulrushes tucked in along the rocky shoreline.

The retrieve was slow, short strips and long pauses. A fish appeared under the fly. Then it turned away, and there was that moment of hesitation—should I twitch the fly? Strip it? Pause? In that split second of indecision, the bass spun around, and in a swirl the fly vanished.

The first pull stung line through my fingers. This was a good fish. Smallmouth bass fight, and this one was giving its all. It ran off, came back, under the boat, around the boat, and finally pulled to the net where I was able to fulcrum the handle off the gunwale and lift a beauty of a fish aboard. This time I had the camera ready and hoisted the fish for a quick pic and measurement. Then back in the net and water. I had to admire that bass as in finned in the net, probably feeling indignant and embarrassed at its predicament. The net was submerged and off it went. May it survive and live a long and healthy life. If I find it again, maybe it will have grown to 21, or perhaps even 22 inches. I hope so.

 

-- So, that trolling motor. Yesterday I was about all set to head for the fleet store 30 miles away that had a comparable Minn Kota trolling motor in stock. I don’t need a lot the features some of the most expensive models have, but I do want one with foot control. When I’m standing and fly casting in the bow, my hands are busy, so I don’t care to reach for a remote dangling around my neck and the ones I've seen are sort of like my TV remote -- too many buttons. Many times, fighting a fish I’ve steered the boat away from obstacles using the foot control. But, not wanting to give up on the old motor without a fight, I decided to take things apart. Thanks to a screwdriver, a dental pick, scissors, a heavy-duty zip-lock bag, and a bit of gel type super glue, the motor is now working as it should. It may be a temporary fix. I’m keeping my fly-line stung fingers crossed.