Lake Wallenpaupack From Shore: Schuman Point and Other Spots

Lake Wallenpaupack is like any other lake where you can find shoreline access: Chances are good some of what you can get to will hold bass and other gamefish. I didn't know it for a fact before I got up there and tried a few spots, but it didn't surprise me that I caught a couple of fish. We stayed at the lake region for a few days beginning on my wife's birthday, and instead of blowing 500 bucks on a charter, I got a three-day license and fished a little for two days while Trish sat comfortably and read. If I want to get serious about smallmouths, I can rent a Stumpknocker from Dow's on Lake Hopatcong. I just felt curious about what I might catch where probably just about everyone else gets skunked.

When I began fishing late Sunday afternoon in a little cove commandeered by a marina, a couple of other guys had been fishing, and as they left, they told me they'd caught nothing. I like to piece things apart as if I'm looking in every corner for an old coin. That dock in the lower left of the photo, below, was the object of my deconstruction, and if I fished with the lackluster gusto of most fishermen, I wouldn't have engaged in a process of covering every inch in the attempt to get whatever bass that might hide underneath docks and boats interested. Most fishermen fish as if they don't believe any fish exist. 

I caught the bass photographed above on a Yum Dinger rigged Wacky. Little bass. But a bass. I also tried to set the hook into another one that took the same worm, but missed that hit. Hooking a three-pound largemouth didn't seem out of the realm of possibility to me.

On Monday, we planned on hiking the Schuman Point Hiking Trail, but decided to wait until Tuesday morning to hike it entirely. Instead, we hiked directly to the lake from the parking lot, where I did more thorough fishing and Trish read her book. As you can see in the photo, the reservoir's water level is down three or four feet, and many of the rocks are good material for holding smallmouth bass, easy to assume more of the same exists under the water. Judging by my losing two Yum Dingers to snags, I would say so. 

I used crayfish-colored worms. I saw more than a few dead crayfish. Apparently, there were thousands of them among the rocks.

Having switched to a Husky Jerk, I covered range a lot quicker than I had been doing with the Wacky rig. I worked my way down to the deadfall you can barely see in the middle of the photo, where I caught a small northern pike I didn't photograph. Taking it all the way back to the camera I left behind might have killed it. Only about a foot long, the fish seemed really delicate. 

Before I fished the next spot Monday afternoon, Mangan Cove, I had already imagined most of the bass are deep. In close to shore where my casts might have reached 10-foot depths at most, the fishing will probably be a lot better in October. It's probably good in May, too. At Mangan Cove, the situation was similar, with rocks and rather shallow water. I got three pulls on my Yum Dinger from sunfish, rock bass, or tiny little smallmouths. 

The water might be clearer in October, too. Its green hue seems to be caused by algae, which gives it a rather cloudy appearance. Also, unlike in the finger lakes we visited three years ago, we found no weedbeds. I would have felt very confident in finding some largemouths had we found weeds. From what I've read, though, smallmouths outnumber largemouths here seven to one. Given the amount of rock we observed, it's no mystery as to why. 

If, for whatever, reason, you're interested in fishing a lake from shore, you can catch some fish if you persist at it. During the spring and fall, you'll probably do better. Just before my wife and I headed home, we hiked the entire Schuman Point Trail. About a half mile down lake from where I had caught the northern, we took a break by the water. A guy in a bass rig was casting a jerkbait about as far out as I could cast one from the shore edge, which gave me the impression that the water might be shallower than 10 feet. Otherwise, he might have been casting a diving plug. I watched him as he made his way with a bow-mount electric, and I watched him as he hooked up, caught, and released a smallmouth of about 13 inches. I hadn't brought my rod, even though my license was still good. I just wanted to hike the three miles and get on the road. But, yeah, I kinda wished I had.  

Bottom was less rocky in the little cove.

Schuman Point Trail straight down from the parking lot.

Mangan Cove

My New Website

 

Big Pickerel Go Deep in Summer

Brian's 22-inch Pickerel

Clinton Reservoir doesn't always produce much for us. I did better in April when the water was in the 40's, trolling a Mepps Aglia, but Brian caught the 22-inch pickerel photographed above, while trolling a chrome Storm Hot 'n Tot. I had a smaller one rush my Wacky rig as I retrieved it for another cast, a fish hanging out in shallower water. We find the larger pickerel are in depths of about 12 feet and deeper from early June onward through the summer. I recall fishing with Brenden Kuprel a couple of years ago when I was catching 18- and 19-inchers on the deep edges of weedlines in 20 feet of water on little 1/16th ounce jig and paddletail combinations. I've caught pickerel 20 inches and better while trolling 15-foot depths of Tilcon Lake in the summer, too. To the best of Brian's recollection, his pickerel yesterday came from 15 feet of water. He had more line out than I did, so it's possible his plug was just about right on bottom. The plugs always gathered weeds when we got as shallow as 10 feet. 

I did catch a bluegill on a jig and twister, a 10-inch smallmouth bass, "if that," Brian said, on a 1/4-ounce Rebel Pop-R, and another sunfish of a different species on that same plug. Unfortunately, I lost a better bass that felt the hooks, and missed other hits. Brian's Whopper Plopper got hit twice under the same pine tree where he caught one almost 18 inches long on a Zara Spook two years ago. He ended up using a Zara Puppy yesterday, as I was drawing more hits on my smaller plug, and he got more hits on that Puppy, too, including one from a sizeable bass I witnessed. He had another bass boatside when it threw the hooks of the same plug. 

And the big bluegill photographed below. 

Most of the action came from an area I'd rather not disclose, and though we've had action there before and set getting there as a goal, when we came into view of it, there were a couple of guys in a Bass Tracker working it over. Given that added pressure on the fish, I think we did pretty well in terms of the interest we got from them, even though we pulled only a few over the gunwale. 

It's not the first time we've trolled big pickerel deep from Clinton Reservoir. On other occasions, a chrome Hot 'n Tot has produced pickerel of about 21 inches for me here. About the same depth. Twelve, maybe 15 feet. Once I hooked something enormous. Brian tells me there are 30-inchers here. That might have been what I had on. I had just caught a 21-inch largemouth, and whatever it was I hooked felt bigger, taking off on a lightning-quick run, just like a northern pike would for short duration, only I think I might have hooked a pike-sized pickerel. Trolled. The Hot 'n Tot, but it threw the hooks. 

Big Bluegill on Topwater Plug

The way the light illumined the rocks mesmerized me.

Clinton

 

Trolling the Mepp's Aglia

Brian told me Clinton Reservoir's water temp reached 48 on Tuesday. The weather can be considerably cooler up near West Milford than in the Dover area, let alone Bedminster. I wonder how cold it was last night. 

Getting the boat off the trailer, I waded above my knees barefoot. Numbed quickly, it was only painful at first. I still had some feeling on the underside of my feet. I felt the point of a piece of glass--it must have been lodged in-between stone--on the bottom of that right foot. The glass wasn't lengthy enough to penetrate the skin.

We trolled here a couple of years ago, catching smallmouths. It's a mystery to me why we haven't caught more trout. I used a Mepp's Aglia Long size 6 almost all day today, almost the full four hours, and I doubt a trout would feel it's too big, but maybe that's why. I don't know.

We had trolled up along a shoreline where we've caught a few in the past. After we turned the corner of a point, my antennae twiggled. I don't always anticipate a catch, especially when cold water makes them difficult. But often, I do. I envisaged myself getting my Aglia right down near bottom among rocks, having asked Brian about depth. We had seven or eight feet, and that felt just right. I was on setting two or three of the 55-pound thrust Minn-Kota. (Brian always has me run it, which is OK. I have a boater's certificate.)

I thought I had hooked a trout, the way the fish zigzagged quickly. I soon had a smallmouth about 15 inches long in the boat. 

"I knew what I was doing," I said. I didn't tell Brian I had felt I was about to hookup.

Near an island, we stopped trolling. We cast a rocky flat with water as shallow as a foot or two, most of it five or six feet. Clear water. I made out rocks as deep as eight feet. I figured that with the abundant sunshine, those rocks would warm a little. 

Apparently nothing was there.

We've done better during the early season along the opposite shoreline. Brian trolled crankbaits, and although the shoreline does not drop off nearly as steeply, and he got snagged more than a few times, he was able to fish them. My Aglia produced once more, another 15-incher. I didn't anticipate the fish directly as I had the other, but I saw a stickup above the surface ahead, which did pique my interest. I took note of the bass having hit just yards ahead of it.

Today was a much-needed release from so much nonsense my brain keeps me struggling with. Working at the Supermarket wasn't bad. It's much better to hold a job than to live in a dystopian world after civilization collapses. If anyone can live in such a world. When the electrical grid permanently fails, won't the numerous nuclear power plants in America melt down, killing all life on the continent? And yet the supermarket did cause me stress. Extreme stress for the first four years or so. Such stress can enlarge the amygdala, which means all sorts of overkill continues to stress the brain. 

On the reservoir today, I got relief from all that.

Near the end of our outing, I heard my phone ping repeatedly, thinking that must be my son. He often pings rapidly. About three minutes later, one last ping.

We beached and I checked my phone. No. The fast series of pings had been from Brian sending me photos he took with his phone. But the ping that came three minutes later--from my son! I stood there wrapped in a moment of awe. Did my thinking of Matt prompt him to send me the message? He almost never messages me, though it is true that when he does, he often sends a few in quick succession. 

He's working on nuclear fusion at UCLA. If we can power the grid by (clean) fusion power, we'll have solved the energy problem.

We had noticed a couple of guys in a bass boat. With Brian's boat on the trailer, they passed by the ramp, asking had we caught any. They had caught one smallmouth. I asked if they had a water temp.

"It's 51 up here and 49 in the back!" 

 

Spinners

 

Cold April Weather for a Catch

Temperatures in the 50's would have felt better; 44 degrees was cold. Our hands couldn't take it for too long. I recall many outings on the rivers fishing for winter trout when my hands didn't get cold, but in that breeze out there beside Oak Ridge Reservoir, they suffered today.

The water's way down. We tried a spot below what would have been a steep, gravelly drop off, and Brian got hit hard. He used what looked like a quarter-ounce jighead, giving it body by use of a three- or four-inch Keitech. 

I was casting a Binsky when Brian hiked up as the water flows. Something like 600 yards. He took position on the end of a smallish point and cast. I switched to a 16th ounce jig and Z-Man Slimswimz paddletail. I fished it as assiduously as I could, shooting a glance over at Brian on occasion. I knew a real possibility of hooking a smallmouth here where Brian had missed one existed. My being sure the water was plenty cold, because a couple of recent nights have dipped into the 20's, didn't exclude that possibility.

I started to think that if Brian were to catch one, I should be there with the camera. Besides, perhaps he and I would catch up a little by way of conversation. I didn't like the feel of the weather. It put a dank feel on my every move, but if we would head in early...not just yet.

The walk felt pleasant with my black Lab, Loki, accompanying me. I kept my eyes on the ground, looking for whatever might turn up. Old beer cans. Coke. Beer bottles. Loki found a fish vertebra about a foot long. Shortly after I arrived, Brian told me he was about ready to leave. I felt relieved. 

"I missed a few hits," he said, adding, "I had to switch out my Keitech because the fish tore it up."

I fished my jig slowly on bottom.

"This might be really nice when it's calm on a summer evening," I said.

"Yeah, topwater." 

I understood it wasn't going to be an afternoon of much said between us. The weather felt too uncomfortable. 

I don't use Keitech, but I've heard it from Brenden Kuprel, also, that they don't last, but I began feeling perhaps I should have used a larger jig and plastic combination. Brian began making his way back in the direction of our vehicles.

"Fish on," he said. A sudden change in the feeling of things. 

I saw his rod bending. A good-sized smallmouth leapt. The struggle seemed a little testy as a good fish often does. Soon, he dragged one that probably would have measured at least 17 inches up onto the mud, making it less than a good subject for photography. I gripped it by the lower jaw and washed it off at the water's edge.

Back home, I found I had driven 94 miles. You never know; it's possible I'll ride all that way, fish topwater through a perfect summer evening and never get hit. 

Clinton Reservoir 

Reservoir Level Low Exploring Spruce Run Creek Channel

I was curious about the channel of Spruce Run Creek. What that looks like for future reference, if I ever get a boat up there near Van Syckel's Road. I wasn't just starry eyed about finding pike and bass, though I thought that possible. If the reservoir ever refills, it might be a lot easier. 

It will, but when is anyone's guess. 

Surprised at how much rock, gravel, sand, and edgy drop-offs exist as the creek flows, I felt privileged to explore it and got photos to help me remember where interesting spots lie. Surrounding all that is muddy flat. 

Carp water pretty much.

I think I walked almost a mile to access the mouth of the creek as it becomes reservoir. Loki the black Lab had a field day running around that flat and exploring the creek bed. Where the creek widens and slows, as you can see in the photos below, it gains depths of at least three feet, maybe four, so I cast a jerkbait and worked it slow on the surface as much as I retrieved it. 

Something could have moved into that space, it seems, but if anything at all was there, it wasn't hitting. I'm sure the water temp remained in the 40's, though I don't know that for a fact. I didn't bring along a thermometer. One thing to remember about Spruce Run Creek is that it purportedly hosts wild brown trout. Even if it doesn't hold as many as Mulhockaway Creek on the other side of Spruce Run Reservoir, Spruce Run Creek is spring fed and stays cool, compared to streams that don't have the same kind of groundwater influence. 

The reservoir beyond that deeper creek mouth was super shallow. It's just a slow-sinking mud flat. To have attempted--which I didn't do--gaining the edge of water, would have meant sinking in wet mud. 

 

Another Year at Bottom Fishing Hope for More to Come

There are outings we remember because they signify change in our lives, and yet enjoying action in their midst--or at the end of the day--might trump all else. 

We didn't catch the fish, but caught sight of them just before they sank and swam away. I had hooked something in pretty close. Had got a cast out that fell short, and I left the bait alone for an hour or two, before I decided to reel in the shiner and cast again--farther out. Instead, I was hooked up, but I had to move the fish through a lot of bottom obstruction not fully decayed yet. I did that, and the fish fought freely until it got into more stuff in close, just before I would have hoisted it onto shore. I thought I saw green. Pretty sure it was a largemouth a little over a pound, maybe a pound-and-a-half. 

I baited up and did cast further out there, but I was plenty happy with whatever the fish was.

Our first stop had been The Sporting Life in Whitehouse Station here in New Jersey. A "dozen-and-a-half" shiners were really at least two dozen. I forget the guy's name again, Scott, I think, but I made sure to tip him. You never know if action is going to be fast, so releasing at least a dozen of them at the end of the day just upped the shiner population in Round Valley Reservoir. Matt bought a nonresident, one-day license this year, having come from California. Scott told him he can use the trout stamp any other day, too, but he's flying back on Monday. The nonresident trout stamp cost $20.00. I also renewed my license, and bought a pack of Kalin's jigs.

Temperatures never got above the mid to upper 30's, but wind was very light at most. I wore my new Beyond Allta Polar L8 Parka. Matt asked me what it's rated for, so I checked on my phone, finding it's good down to minus 70 F. Outdoor Life magazine says it's the warmest coat on the market. I felt like it was 90 degrees out, so I kept the coat unzipped for the most part. I wouldn't have paid the regular price of $595.00, not because the parka isn't worth that, but because the $219.00 sale price was a great deal in the range I was looking for. You would think you could pay a few thousand for parkas good for Antarctica and the arctic, but I haven't seen them online. Maybe I would just need to look harder. Mine is filled with Primaloft Gold, not down. Primaloft manages better if the coat gets wet. The Beyond website recommends sizing down once or twice, because the coat is made to accommodate four layers of clothes underneath it. I was willing to get a large instead of the usual extra-large, but my wife insisted I stay with the status quo. It is a little bulky, and I wore a base layer, a fleece sweatshirt, and a wool shirt underneath today, but it never felt as if cold air was getting underneath or bulky in an uncomfortable way. I like the feel of its presence, and I guess my wife was right. 

Especially because of what follows. I never got Cronk's hunting bib back to him after using it ice fishing three years ago, and it seems as if he doesn't care and has no use for it himself. (Still have to bring it to his attention.) I can put that bib on over layers underneath, and the Allta L8 over all that, no problem. Doubt I could do that with a merely large coat. 

Eager to put it to more tests yet.

After going on four hours, it was time to begin packing out. 

"There's a fish on this rod," I said, observing the tightened line from one of the 11-foot noodle rods I like to use here, getting a little better casting range. 

Earlier I had put a shiner pretty far out there. 

Matt came over and fought the fish, which almost got stuck in a clump of vegetation that includes some stems sticking above water surface yards from the edge. He got it through and almost to the bank when the hook came loose. The fish wallowed on the surface a long moment, and that, I thought, was behavior like a pickerel's, not a trout's. But I caught sight of how the back of the fish curved, and the orangish fins, concluding that it probably was a small laker of about 16 to 18 inches. 

The guys over from us caught a pickerel, a yellow perch or a bass, and a nice rainbow. 

Next year Matt's girlfriend, Kaitlin, visits, so we'll do something as a family, not fishing, although Matt is fully confident he and I will get back to the reservoir as yet.

Last Year

2025 Indeed

 

Annual Trout Outing at the Reservoir

By mistake, I set my alarm for P.M., so when I woke at 7:48, I knew I was 34 minutes late, and the possibility of us setting up on the point was threatened.

First, Matt and I went to The Sporting Life in Whitehouse more than half an hour after they had opened. Two dozen shiners, fishing licenses, and maribou jigs. Nice ones for less than I'd have spent online. Those are for the rivers.

We soon got to Round Valley, and Matt hauled stuff towards the point and returned, as I packed more stuff, to tell me there were fishermen on it. 

I figured they wouldn't be there all day.

In the meantime, we did our best to get all the distance we could out of each cast. It doesn't drop steeply there in front. I knew we could pack out and fish further along the shoreline towards the main ramp, where the water does drop off faster, but I wanted us to take the point when it would become available.

In the meantime, Fred had arrived, and conversation flowed. 

A fish jumped right out in front of us almost exactly where either myself or Matt had put a shiner down. About 10 minutes later, line peeled off the spool of my son's Cadence reel. Laker? Brown? No, rainbow. And five or 10 minutes later, Fred caught a smaller one--about 15 inches--on Power Bait. 

A pod of rainbows had come and was gone as fast. Nothing else happened all day but the yellow perch I caught. I didn't expect lakers. The weather was too mild--in the 40's. Yes, I bought shiners, as if to be sure lakers wouldn't hit any, but although the rainbows surprised me, I did come confident in us making catches.

We weren't the only who did. A guy in a kayak came along, telling me about two smallmouths of about two pounds apiece on jerkbaits. I was impressed. He said, "I lost something too big to be a bass. Maybe a laker." Who knows. Maybe it was a monster pickerel. My friend Brenden told me about one over nine pounds hooked back in Ranger Cove. 

Apparently, the guys on the point got skunked. They did leave and give us more than three hours of fishing right there, where water drops off better, but only the yellow perch happened. 

 

Last Year

 

More of a Complicated Practice

Pickerel are a fine gamefish that don't deserve slander. That's all we caught today, three for me, besides the six-inch smallmouth that struck my Mepp's Aglia. The pickerel fought hard. I thought the two larger ones somewhere around 19 or 20 inches were bigger than that. All struck a trolled Storm Hot 'n Tot. Another that hit the same lure I trolled was lost at the net, and I missed a hard strike, all of this action right about 11 feet deep on or near the drop-off from an extensive shallow flat. 

We were the second to get on Clinton Reservoir at about 6:00 a.m., and we left before 10:00 a.m. having heard several times either thunder or blasting, though it seemed to be thunder. The sun never really came out. I had spilled Parmesan cheese when I opened the refrigerator at home, which I couldn't get out of my mind. Couldn't find the dust pan, and I felt bad leaving the mess for my wife. I figured I'd get over it.

I did forget it once at Brian's house, but my mood felt troubled. Getting the boat ready to go after we arrived at the reservoir didn't shake that mood, either, though I kept mum about it. I embrace the fishing whatever the mood. It makes me think of what Joe Santiago once said on one of the NJ Multispecies podcasts, that you have to suffer for the fishing. (I think he said so, not Chris Pierra.) Whoever said it hit the issue on the nose, as I see it. Maybe dedication isn't entirely about the number of days and hours you fish; maybe it has more to do with your willingness in spite of such resistance as a mood that tells you you're wasting your time.

Really? 

A good friend of mine served as my writing mentor. He's the author of the novel Kite, published by Penguin Classics. I first got published at 16 without a mentor, but I felt very fortunate to have one during the three years I wrote poetry more and less every night after work. (For all that effort, only William and Mary Review accepted one submitted for publication, but that was Thomas Jefferson's alma mater, so not bad.) Ed finally told me, at the end of our acquaintance, "Write poems." Maybe he meant I should give up on the fishing. Whether or not that's true, he believed in me as a poet, but I had submitted to so many literary journals, I knew something was amiss with the mechanics of my writing. He wasn't telling me how to improve on that, so I figured that by persistent revision at writing fishing articles and essays, I'd get better control of the language. 

I have. Recently, I spent 10 minutes writing a poem. Another 10 minutes of revision later seemed to cinch it. Two weeks after that, I got an email from Swing the Fly magazine telling me that if it's OK with me, the poem will be published in the online version. Will $75.00 be sufficient?

I keep telling myself some day I should go back and work on the poems from those three years, but I believe only writing about fishing could give me the better grip on the workings of language. Nothing else returns me to the earth as fishing does, either. I could be exclusive about birding or hiking. I do both, but I could do nothing but--and be less involved in nature. Fishing is more of a complicated practice by which we engage the outdoors, and it is as ancient as any species of hominid that ate fish.

We both enjoyed the outing, and in addition to investing our attention on pursuing catches, took in the distance for wonder's sake. We heard fish break surface all the way across the reservoir, and we cast to some breaking surface near us. There's the sense that life will inhabit any space nature allows, but we caught all of our fish--besides that little smallmouth--along that flat we re-approached beyond the little island in the photo. 

The conflict between life as a fisherman and life as an artist is understandable, when I feel I've come short on the latter. I think it's worth mention that I'm not the only writer who has deeply enjoyed the life of fishing, although Zane Grey and Ernest Hemingway were monumental anglers, setting records and getting out to fish a staggering amount of days and hours, given their creative output. Grey was the first millionaire writer, and though his work is dubbed pulp fiction, I've read his writing on fishing and it's riveting. Hemingway won the Nobel Prize for literature. The fishing these two figures did will make almost anyone feel they've come short as an angler, if they dwell on it long. 

All I can say is I've loved fishing. I look at the photo above and know I still do. Always include the larger setting, including the inner landscape of your life, and let fishing absorb you so the aquatic earth reveals the creation in a religious sense, the sense of something that beckons to you despite everything else that trivializes life.

Cranberry Lake Pickerel

 

Fish Presaged a Tough Outing

We trolled the edge of the flat and some of the sweep, then turned left towards Face Rock. I cut the electric motor when we got close. On the second retrieve of my jig and Z-Man paddletail, a dark form came from behind. I saw it was a pickerel of about 20 inches, which directly engulfed the jig a half second later. I set the hook, the fish thrashed powerfully, cutting the line. 

So I connected 15-pound Power Pro to my four-pound test, by way of barrel swivel.

Brian cast a lipless crankbait and soon another pickerel hit that. I measured it for him. Twenty-two inches. A chunky fish that must have weighed nearly three pounds. 

We trolled and cast. When I saw that first pickerel, I felt chances were I'd never see another. One of those easy starts--except that I lost the fish!--that somehow presage a tough day.

And it was. I'm tired tonight and felt tired on the lake. I could hardly focus at the end of the outing. But Brian did little better, catching a couple of little smallmouths besides. I got a 15-incher on a Baby Torpedo. Great surface smash. Besides that bass, a little one no bigger than Brian's bigger of those two little ones I photographed. That second bass of mine came on the jig.

Not a single largemouth from the reservoir yet this year.

 

Bed Bucks and Some

I made a point of going back over the sloping flat where we did well in September last year. Trolling. I did get a bump on my Hot 'n Tot, but judging by the perch that Brian later caught on a big Zara Spook topwater, that's all the fish might have been. We decided to head down lake to a spot we discovered last time on the reservoir, trolling the long way, catching nothing.

We came upon a stretch of shoreline indented a little, shadowy too, and I stopped the boat, reaching for my ultralight with an eighth-ounce jig and white twister. Second or third cast, I hooked up, not very surprised. That's the bass in the photo above, caught on four-pound test Stren. I caught a sunfish and then another smallmouth further along the way just a little, feeling in high spirits, expecting a lot of action. But not only did the shoreline no longer offer some rather shallow boulders and rock--no bass were there on steep drops. 

We cut across Clinton Reservoir at top speed. My new Endura Max 55 seems to push a boat faster than my Endura 55 5-Speed did. In any case, Brian's 12 foot V-hull really moved, putting out a nice wake. 

Jigging a shoreline, getting some taps and apparent takes, resulted in hooking nothing. We came to the shallow flat I was thinking about. The jigs didn't work but the surface was calm. The sun was on the water behind us; the flat extended some 25 yards under shade. My Baby Torpedo topwater produced the bass photographed in hand. I caught another very small bass and missed too many hits, becoming convinced the bass were knocking the plug, rather than engulfing it. Expected behavior from bed bucks. 

Brian was spooking every fish within three square miles by slashing the surface while walking a nevertheless very well behaved dog with his big Zara Spook. He was able to cast three miles. He threw a beautiful curve that landed the spook under a distant tree. He moved the plug once. It got pounded. The next bass in the photo series, about 17 inches long. 

Meanwhile, a bass kept swooshing water along the bank further back where we had tried earlier. Brian described it as vacuum sucks. I made sure to backtrack and get my Torpedo near that bass. It blew up on the plug. There was a lot of water in the air, but I set the hook into absolutely no resistance, so I guess the bass was just playing, as if it knocked another bluegill away from its brood. 

I believe Brian's 17-incher is a big male. 

We rarely target any bass on the beds, but who can resist the opportunity when it seems the only one in town? Later on, Brian did catch another bass--nearly 16 inches long--on a surface wake plug out over six feet of water a hundred yards or so from shore. I caught a little perch on that big Hot 'n Tot, certainly evidence that the knock I felt earlier was no more than another one.

We ended the evening throwing topwaters for pickerel. I missed one hit entirely, felt the pull of the second hit I missed, and set the hooks into the third pickerel, but it got off almost as quickly as it got hooked. All three of these fish were in visible cover, shallow. They just required my getting the plug right next to that cover. Brian hooked a pretty nice one on the Spook, and he had the fish on and fighting before it leapt and threw the heavy plug.    

Yellow perch are aggressive gamefish directly related to walleye. They will hit plugs nearly as big as they are.

 

Chilly but We Caught Fish

Ever since Brian told me a couple of days ago about trout recently stocked in Clinton Reservoir, I had planned on beginning with a quarter-ounce Phoebe spoon. To launch and also get into the boat, we had to wade barelegged, so we learned right away that the water was significantly colder than last week. Maybe colder than two weeks ago on that 92-degree day. My guess--52 degrees. Brian's Eagle graph unit is a great piece of equipment but doesn't have a thermometer. 

We motored off and traveled not 10 yards after I cast my Phoebe--we'd made our way out over 22 feet of water--when I had a small fish on, almost certainly one of those trout. It got off, and I got hit again, missed that. I really wanted the one I had on badly. To have brought home a trout for my wife. Brian did end up catching one from very shallow water, and he offered it to me, but that's just not the same. I laughed about it and the trout went back.

Brian had said we'd troll down along the shoreline opposite to the one we trolled last week and the week previous. That's where we headed, but before we got there, I had caught an 18-inch pickerel from seven feet of flat water, and a 12- or 13-inch smallmouth from over 22 feet of water. How deep the Phoebe traveled, I don't know, but not very. We weren't moving at top speed. The Minn Kota electric has speeds one through five, one the slowest, and I might have selected two or three. 

We trolled that shoreline a long way before Brian caught a 12-inch smallmouth on a plug. Once again, we were determined to explore the lake, rather than concentrate on spots by casting. Nor did we concentrate on them by repeated trolling passes.

We went around a bend and headed back towards where a very long, narrow cove ends, though we didn't go as far, electing to circle an island. On the way back, Brian had another on, but his ultralight was in a rod holder. That ultralight had too much give to set the hooks of the jointed Rapala. I missed a terrific hit on my Mepp's Aglia Long. Missed another hit, less pronounced. 

At the island, Brian caught another smallmouth and missed another hit on the ultralight in the rod holder. We headed back towards the shoreline we had followed down, Brian catching a yellow perch out over 22 feet of water on a Big O-type crankbait. Slowly making our way back, Brian missed another hit on that ultralight in that rod holder, caught another smallmouth about 10 inches long, and then, over that shallow flat but in closer to shore where it's only three or four feet deep, caught the trout on that jointed Rapala. Right when I was about to switch to the Phoebe. 

Forty-nine degrees when we got off the reservoir. Wading up to my knees in bare feet, the water felt warm. Got the shivers but not the shakes like last week, because today I wore merino wool long John's and an upper body base layer. I also put on layers of wool shirts and put shoes on after I had got in the boat. Brian was dressed warm, too. 

Conesus, Hemlock, Canadice

 

Explorer Mode

We headed for the dam. Yes, the rocks look like fish magnets, and we marked some fish, too. That's when I cut the electric and put on a Hot 'n Tot to get down to those fish. Just as I was about to engage the motor, though, something good size struck Brian's jointed Rapala on the surface. 

We never slowed way down to cast topwaters along the edge. We're in explorer mode. After trolling back along the dam, we still couldn't get any to hit, but we noticed fish dimpling the surface that appeared to be trout out over deeper water. I saw fish backs move along the surface, so I was sure they weren't herring. I put on a Phoebe and we trolled through the area. Nothing happened. Nor did we mark fish on the graph.

A large cove had looked really interesting as we approached the dam, but I had cut across its face, rather than having gone back where I thought shallows might draw in some fish. Now I put on a Rebel Pop-R. I knew I wouldn't have much time with it. Maybe enough. 

A small stream enters all the way in the back. I put the Pop-R maybe 20 feet in front of where it must be cool water that flows. Put the plug in shallows of two or three feet. Something smashed it. I missed the hit.

We headed towards the ramp a mile or two away, and soon Brian was fast to a nice-sized smallmouth that hit the jointed Rapala. Over about nine feet of water. He played the fish on an ultralight. His goal for today was to catch one on the ultralight. And on that jointed Rapala, which he had found when cleaning out the center console of his truck. 

Moving on, we turned at a right angle around a small point and pretty soon a smallmouth, it must have been, slammed my Mepp's Aglia Long. I felt a fierce pull and then the fish was off. As you can see in the photograph, I had made the mistake of not checking if my snap was closed. Three or four times the bass leapt trying to throw that spinner as we got back underway.

Fortunately, I had a couple more of the same in my tackle box.

I got hit again almost as soon as I had got it out there, but the bass came off. By the way it hit hard, I'm sure it was a smallmouth. 

We traveled a half mile or more, before the pickerel I'm photographed with took the Mepp's deeply. It fought with such a dogged resistance, I thought it was a better fish than the two pounds at most it weighed.

After we got out of the boat, and I had waded barefoot up to my knees getting the boat on Brian's trailer, the shakes assailed me so badly I could no longer speak normally. I had waded the same getting the boat in and never put shoes back on, so my feet remained in contact with the cold boat bottom. It was 69 degrees when we got up there but had cooled off very quickly when the sun went down, and as I drove out of the West Milford region, I had 55 degrees on the thermometer.

More than an hour later, after a shower, I still felt cold.  

Nice Bass & Pickerel

 

Warmwater Getting Underway

 

I was afraid both of us would get skunked.  

The water cold--somewhere in the 50's--I still thought the dark, rocky bottom of shallows would absorb plenty of the intense sunlight and temperatures in the 80's. That would draw something like a mass exodus of bass and pickerel. 

Brian always has me man the stern mounted electric, so I steered us across several hundred yards of 15- and 20-foot depths to a five-foot flat that always results in a fish on during the summer. Brian trolled a CP Swing; I trolled a Rapala X-Rap. Nothing happened, which alerted me to the fact that I had misjudged. 

We ended up trolling deeper. I let my Storm Hot 'n Tot do most of the work, Brian used the CP and also a Chatterbait. Whenever I got the chance, I cast shallow water with the X-Rap, feeling very determined to make real something of my expectation that fish would be there. Brian wanted to fish along the dam. No doubt the rip-rap is smallmouth bass habitat. We headed in that direction, trolling as we went, but when we got pretty close, I pointed out that we had only so much time to get back to the ramp. 

We turned back at that point, but now we know it is possible to make it all the way there. Brian uses two batteries. Although nearly all the charge would drain from the first once we got in the vicinity of the ramp, the second still had plenty. The sun positioned low over the ridge; Brian’s Chatterbait got hit when we still headed towards the dam but we'd forgotten all about that when he finally had a fish on, which proved to be the smallmouth of the first photograph, caught on the Chatterbait. He soon caught another on the CP Swing, the largest of his total of three, the last one also on the CP Swing. So instead of intense feeding during the warmth of the afternoon, an evening bite took place like what happens during the summer. 

I kept us trolling through about 10 feet of water for the most part. The Hot 'n Tot didn't dig against rocks on the bottom until nine-and-a-half feet deep. I'm pretty sure I can get that plug 15 feet deep by letting out more line. Tonight the CP Swing might have run three feet under the surface, but it sure did better than my crankbait. 

Before we turned to go in, I switched to the X-Rap and had us troll across five feet of water. That resulted in the pickerel I'm photographed with, so something of my expectation was made real. Nothing like steady action I had hoped for, but this evening inaugurated a warmwater season to look forward to.

I fished trout the other day, and I've been comparing apples to oranges, a fun mental exercise. I remember the September 1st outing from last year as a very desirable impression, something to build upon, a foundational experience for more yet to come. But don't I want to have my fun with my microlight and the stockers? I do, but not to the exclusion of getting out in the attempt to catch bass like the 21-incher from September. Not to mention that I'm still trying to beat my best smallmouth at 19 3/8th inches. And pickerel at only 24 1/2. This reservoir Brian and I are fishing has great resonance, as if memory enters into its being.   

  

September First