Jerkbaits for Pike

Matt got to meet Oliver Round this morning. We had got up before the sun, and the three of us got on the river before sun got on it. Sun got on Matt's face when he caught his first pike on his first cast, but I don't recall any on the water.

Oliver was using a suspending jerkbait. True to the same principle on the last outing, I offered no advice, though he saw I used a floater and commented on that. With a floater, I can do more. Let it rise to the surface. Work it on top by twitching it. And the jerking action when working it with the rod tip below the surface wants to go somewhere--upward. It gives you a certain control when imparting that action.

The disadvantage when working a jerkbait with the rod tip is that pike tend to miss hitting the lure when they attack. Pike recoil almost like a snake and then release muscular tension to shoot like a rocket for prey. Once the target is locked in, that's where the pike goes. So the fish has a hard time grabbing a jerkbait retrieved erratically. But they're very attracted to that action, so it's a trade-off. You'll attract pike but some will miss hitting the plug.

Even so, I missed a lot of hits while dimpling the plug on the surface. I haven't got all this figured out. There's more to it I don't know. You'd think a pike would easily target a dimpling jerkbait up top. The single largemouth I caught did so with ease. I used a plug with Mark Sosin's stamped signature on it; I don't know the name. The biggest pike I fought had hit that plug on two different casts. A third go at that plug resulted in the fish hooked and storming off on a very deliberate run underneath a deadfall. That run was not finished when the line went limp. I reeled in the line to find that the damn snap on the wire leader had opened. Cheap leaders, I concluded. I need to buy better, and in the meantime, tie a few myself with wire left over from Florida.

I switched to a floating, silvery Smithwick Rattling Rogue and noticed no increase or decrease in numbers of hits.

One of the three pike I did catch hit when I stopped retrieving and let the plug rise. In full view. A few feet from the bank.

Other pike hit like fireworks, making great splashes and showing their flanks, two of them bigger than those I caught. Matt also caught three, small ones. He also caught a largemouth. Oliver caught two pike no bigger than mine.

The river is a great place to practice casting accuracy, and good form at doing that well makes a difference in numbers of hits.

Matt takes the day's honor for catching one of his pike on his very first cast.

First Cast

 The Mark Sosin plug.

Ice Fishing for Pickerel

Suddenly the River Exploded

Jorge Hildago and I arrived at the river before five a.m. I put my fly rod together beside the Honda, and tied on my favorite yellow popper. When we hit the short trail back to the spot, soft light made things visible in a way suggestive of the day ahead; it would be a long time before sunlight got on the water.

Jorge's casting rod reminds me of someone who commented on one of my posts. He says that's what the river demands: a casting rod and big plugs. He catches smallmouths as big a five-and-a-half pounds. I didn't argue against that. 

I began by popping the seam in front of me. Two years ago with Matt, I caught one that way. Then I tried my favorite current break. Nothing happened. Jorge kept plowing the surface with a Whopper Plopper, a plug that looks like it weighs about half an ounce with a propeller that makes it behave like a buzzbait. True to my usual style, I offered no advice. I'm well aware that people who know it all tend to get shown up. 

I was trying to get more distance from my casts. I have to admit my medium-power St. Croix 7-weight--though break-the-bank expensive--doesn't shoot the line very far. I bought it--I think--because I took the advice that it's a good all-round fly rod for a beginner, but I really don't clearly remember just why I chose it, except that it is 7-weight, so good for steelhead. I had won a $300.00 St. Croix gift certificate for an essay that placed as a finalist for the Brookwood Press Writing Award and wrote a check for the additional $60.00 cost. Or I do clearly remember the $60.00 I had to pay, but don't remember if the prize was $260.00 or $300.00. Any case, a nice win. 

Perhaps I should spend another hundred on a fly line that will cast better.

Maybe not.

Suddenly, the river exploded. I saw a big bass airborne. 

"Don't lose that fish, Jorge!" I hollered helplessly. That was the logical impulse, coming from my experience here. I had already set the fly rod aside and had eased a Senko off that current break down into the mouth of the hole where a bass took it. I waited two seconds, set the hook hard as I always do. Don't give a fish any mercy until you land it. That's fair. A smallmouth bass is a murderous predator that eats little fish, so you hit that bass hard, and only when it comes to your side, be kind and treat it well. I release each as best I can. I felt great resistance on the hook, and then yet another big smallmouth was gone. "Goddamn!" I whipped my rod back, the Senko flying out of the river and far behind me and off the hook. I searched in the water near the gravel bar where we kept our stuff, not finding it, before I let it go and got another from my bag. That's my fifth big bass in this stretch lost in recent years. I know, it could have been a two-pounder, and I have caught a few of those recent years, but I would like to imagine it was yet again the smallmouth over 20 inches I want to catch. 

Jorge's bass thrashing on the hooks, I nervously made for the bank, set down my rod, took my camera, and began shooting as he hauled the bass towards the gravel bar, the fish leaping twice beside him, me rushing out to help stabilize the situation. "Don't hold it up by the line." I reached to grab the bass, if I remember rightly, shivering at the thought of six-pound test, though apparently his mono is a heavier. I never asked.

Nineteen and quarter inches. Jorge's best smallmouth.

Beautiful bass released, I worked halfway down the stretch with the Senko, then turned back for my fly rod and worked all the down to near the tailout. In the search, I got hit by what might have been a sunfish, and then many minutes later, I saw the flank of a smallmouth of maybe 11 inches as it took the popper. After I missed the hit, I wondered if I have a whole new learning curve to climb, but then I remembered catching many on poppers while fly fishing Stony Brook as a boy, so I guess I just wasn't ready for that one.

I came back to the gravel bar, got my camera, and waded well downstream to get some shots of Jorge with the sunlight breaking on him, his presence set against a large river. Then I took my Senko to order again. Jorge was experimenting with a crawfish jig. Lots of deep water for that. My favorite current break was getting lit, so I fished back further, nothing happening, but I felt seduced by the call of a mourning dove. It took me back many years to Stony Brook. My deepest feelings of love for this planet. There I once contemplated the call of a mourning dove for what seems to have been an eternity. As if that could have redeeming value; if so, it was secondary to my own relation to the bird. But we must have a secret pact, because I'm no more important than it was. (It did occur to me that another mourning dove I saw fly across the river is probably younger than the years I've fished this stretch.) The mourning dove perfectly symbolic of all the devastation. But so much more than that. I heard many other bird species involved seemingly in dialogue. The mourning dove the mainstay.

Suddenly, I wanted to go into the water. Swim. There were eight-foot depths in front of me. I took off my wading boots. Took off my shirt. "I'm going in," I told Jorge. And then I dove in directly, the water cool but not at all chilly.

"Don't drink the water," Jorge said.

I didn't stay in long, but after I swam back into the shallows, I plunged back out once more.

George kept fishing in his chest waders. Like I say, I offer no advice. (Who would take it if I suggested swimming?)

I got my St. Croix spinning rod and began the trek back down the stretch. For maybe half an hour I listened to the dialogue of birds, casting--besides two casts--perfectly. I thought once of the immense power in nature available to anyone who dares to submerge himself fully and yet who can hold that power. I thought with some humor in the thought of how far I have gone astray since I worked the bays for clams while submerged in brine for 13 years. Forgiving humor. A man has to earn a living. And a man will find it impossible to live in a state of nature longer than 13 years. At least I couldn't do that any longer.

A big float of phosphate lodged against my leg. I heard the mourning dove. I put my hand in that phosphate and squished the stuff. Disgusting. I could have laughed.

2018

Nice Topwater Bite

I am no longer pushing carts from the supermarket lot. Back at specialty meats, the stress hit like one of the brick walls falling on me. That's temporary. I'll be back in shape at it soon. Though I had lots of time to sit in my car and read and write--I think I read every issue of Outdoor Photographer from a year's subscription cover to cover and I read more besides--the thought of doing that drudgery otherwise for five more years just wasn't happening. Active human relationships involved in the wheeling and dealing inside the store sustain me. As bad as they do get.

So waking up this morning was like suffering schizophrenia. But I got all the gear besides the marine battery in the car. The battery I had Matt take from my study and put in the trunk. Before we left, I opened Father's Day gifts. Matt gave me beer. Trish gave me two T-shirts--one for me, one for Matt--that advertise "Litton's Bait and Tackle." Her sense of humor. We wore the shirts today.

Tough drive up there, I feared this outing would not succeed, and it was a tough four or five hours under burning sun until the evening topwater bite erupted. Matt did catch a pickerel within minutes after we launched by trolling a crankbait that gets down 15 feet. We continued to troll hundreds of yards until we found some shadow, getting no more hits. The first shaded bank and overhang was near an island we found in March. We had intended to seek this out today, but we never got around to putting much effort into it.

The second shadowy bank yielded a 13-inch bass on a Senko for me.

We ended up trolling all the way to the front of the lake where about a dozen people swam. I found the dividing line between their loud voices and birdsong. I figured that on the birdsong side, we might find more bass in shadow, but besides spotting one of about 10 inches, nothing happened.

Actually got this shot on my APS-C camera when the sun got low.

We seemed to spend eternal hours under the sun just working worms in shallows and weedy depths. I crawled through my tackle bag, looking for slip sinkers. Finding none, I just crimped on a quarter-ounce split shot. I had more control lifting and dropping through 30-foot depths. We have hooked bass here that way, but none today. We watched a school of dimpling and leaping herring go by. I wondered. Maybe 20 minutes later, and despite 80-degree water temperature, salmon did crash the school at the surface.  Quickly, we rigged up with Phoebes and trolled thoroughly. Nothing.

We had stopped at Stanhope Bait and Boat for shiners, but we were told cash only, which neither of us had. Would have been interesting to try and mark salmon and then dangle bait, but then again, salmon concentrate in big schools during August.

Matt did lose a bass on a worm where we tried next, but nothing else would happen. That fish did break the enervation that definitely got to me and seemed to get to Matt, although after the day was done, he told me was looking forward to the evening bite, sure it would happen. I did work at and repeatedly shoot a subject in this area where Matt lost the fish. It interested me intensely, although certain other shots I got seem better.

The sun got on the mountaintop. We took position where we've often done well, shadow on the water. I caught a 14-inch largemouth on a worm, and then I switched to a Hedden Torpedo, passing another of the same to Matt. Small pickerel were all over our plugs, hitting them like torpedoes themselves. They were fun, but we caught none of them. Later, just before we headed down lake, Matt almost got a nice one in the boat. I caught another bass of about a pound, and Matt caught the big one. It was a pretty good bite as is typical after a sunny, hot day. The fish had moved into quite shallow water with weedy cover.

When after lunch we first rode to Brian's, I realized I had forgotten the second headlamp and asked Matt if we should turn back for it. He assured me he was OK without it, but I still made a point of going in before it was quite dark. Deep into dusk, yes, but not as dark as last year. Matt hauled a first load and checked on the car, which was OK. He came back and told me the headlamp's batteries had died. It seemed an unusually hard haul in the dark. (When we drove off, it was pitch black and my car's interior lights don't work.) We have to haul a canoe Matt thinks weighs 125 pounds, not 100, up a steep embankment of about 50 vertical feel, maybe more. And the marine battery and all else. But I don't complain besides grunts that come almost involuntarily, because in a way, it feels real good.

Matt did Philmont New Mexico when he was in Scouts. Before we drove off, he told me that in certain ways, the haul is harder than anything on that backpack trip.

 Matt's pickerel shook violently after he unhooked it, going immediately overboard into the water.

Last Year

Round Valley after All

I turned Matt on to my favorite spot at Round Valley this evening, but he got skunked. I told him afterwards I hope that some May after the reservoir fills again, we can fish it. I once caught a five-pound largemouth here & told his Uncle Rick. The next day I got a phone call and invitation to meet him and his friend. They were over there. He drove from Brick. 

More Big Bass at the Lake

We paddled up lake against heavy wind. Among grassy weeds, I anchored and reached for a Senko. "I think I left my bag at the dock," Brian said. It was understood we weren't going back and fighting that wind again. "I hope it doesn't get ripped off."

I passed Brian a Chompers.

The Senko's open hook seemed too vulnerable to getting hung. I switched to a Chompers within a minute or so and continued working pockets and edges under very intense sunlight. The whole lake seemed full of that light and I knew the bass probably took cover in the thickest of the weeds. Maybe a heavy tungsten jig would have got to them.

We paddled further against the wind and got into position to cast those bushy overhangs where Matt caught his big pickerel in April. After half a dozen or more casts, I placed the Chompers along an edge, let it drop, and then the line swiftly peeled off the spool before I closed the bail, tightened, and set the hook into the 18-inch largemouth photographed below.

No more action thereafter.

Around the back of the island and into the main body of the lake, the thought of worming seemed absurd in the wind and all that light, so I switched to s spinnerbait. I would have felt better casting it if the water was five degrees cooler. It was a summery 79 degrees, but wind chopped the surface and the sunlight reflected off the blade. Soon I hooked and boated a 23-inch pickerel that apparently rose off the bottom four or five feet down to take chase and slam that lure riding about two feet under the surface. To get the spinnerbait near bottom was pointless with all the weeds. As you can see in the next photo, that savage fish bent the spinnerbait's arm.

I thought maybe I was onto something and we would enjoy more action, but we cast and cast--nothing hit but one little fish for Brian. We drifted and anchored, drifted and anchored. And paddled. Brian preferred throwing plugs, and his fish didn't stay long on the line.

We would get off the lake before sundown. Our time out neared its finish. I happened to notice a lure bag behind my seat. "Brian, I was sitting by your lure bag this whole time!" I felt like an idiot. What do you do when your boat partner tells you he thinks he forgot his lure bag? You have a look at the stuff around you. Later on, I told him I'm negligent. Being old with memory loss is a better description. There was no willful negligence about it, but I really should have looked in the first place. It didn't occur to me to do that. That's what I mean.

Brian rigged up with a Senko. We had come upon thick weeds with lots of pockets. I had a Senko on, also. I said, "The bass are probably in the thickest of this stuff." And I mentioned heavy jigs, which I did not have. Regardless, I put my Senko in pockets and really did not have trouble with that open hook. It got hung momentarily here and there, but it was easy to pull free without collecting weeds. Soon I felt a tap and tightened the line. The fish moved in my direction. I set the hook and boated the 17-, maybe 17 1/2-inch bass of the final photo, hooked near the nose on the upper jaw, right where you would expect of a fish moving in your direction.

Minutes later Brain said, "It's six pounds!" I looked aside and saw great commotion at the surface, certain this one was no 18-incher. When I netted it, Brian said, "No, five." He was pretty close to right on the money about that. I passed him my tape measure, but he had difficulty measuring it, said it was 19 inches. I told myself no way was this bass going on the record as that small and insisted on measuring it myself.

Twenty and three-quarters of an inch long.

The difference between weedy pockets at the end of the day, and those at the beginning, was an entire world. As I said, we didn't stay to sunset. But with sun rays angling low, I imagine at least some bass came out of the thick and were vulnerable to Senkos. No clouds blocked sun, but the late light had an entirely different quality compared with what we faced going in. It even felt inviting...to venison tacos, perhaps, such as those Brian's wife Carolyn had fixed for us when we got to the house.

Brian told me what lures he has in his bag. I guess the best way to make sense of his spending a couple of hours with the uncertainty, affecting how he fished, is that the threat of loss might make him better appreciate having the bag. I know I need my reminders. And I'm forever grateful to Brian for housing my canoes and fishing with me.

White Lake Largemouth Bass

White Lake is supposedly well-known for the clarity of its water, and if you hear about this from friends or read about it, you might be led to believe it has the clearest water in the state, even better than Round Valley. For all I know, maybe it does through the winter, but today, though the water was plenty clear, it wasn't nearly as clear as was Tilcon Lake in March. Just the same, last June, Matt and I found Tilcon not as clear as we found it early this year.

Oliver had holdover trout on his mind, so the first order of business, once the squareback got launched, was to set up the sonar, switch it on, and begin looking. This took me less than a minute to do, and we had already motored over 26 feet of water. We went clear across the lake trying to mark trout, cutting the electric to drift little shiners, but the wind was so heavy that we would have needed heavy egg sinkers to get any depth. My having overlooked bringing any along mattered to me very little, because I didn't see much point in trying for trout apparently scattered and inaccessible, only one fish having shown on the graph.

We got in close to shore, found the drop-off, and began marking plenty of fish. Oliver sighted a bass. We rigged with crankbaits and began trolling the edge. When we neared a corner, I decided to cut the electric, anchor, and fish a Senko. It took awhile, but the result was the bass you see below in mid-air. I hooked it about 18 feet down, a two-pounder, and though Oliver caught it on his camera, you can see in the next photo the best I did. I touched the bass, having seen the hook was lose and knowing the likelihood of not boating it, and I never got a grip on its maw.

We tried another spot that we had noticed looked good while we trolled, and then decided to go to the back of the lake. I hoped to get us out of the wind. We found some submerged treetrunks. Depth was 12 feet or so. I pitched the Senko in among them and let it glide on down. It's a way of fishing that requires patience, and a lot of guys will not do it. They rely on weighted plastics, and though I have no argument against fishing that way, at least not when it really comes down to it, I give unweighted Senkos all the time they need to sink to bottom. I fished with Eric Evans a couple of times from his bassboat, and on one of the occasions, he did really well with a weighted swimbait he bounced on bottom only seven or eight feet down, but I also do the same patient fishing with traditional-style worms that sink twice as slowly as Senkos.

I noticed my line move to the left, tightened the connection and set the hook, nervous about line getting tangled in timber, feeling heavy weight for a couple of seconds--that delicious feeling of a good bass on--and then suddenly the line felt lose. It happened so fast it was like the bass was trying to get in my face. Right there in front of us it was airborne, the big mouth wide open, the Senko flying free. Seventeen or 18 inches.

After that it was a pretty trying day. Oliver sighted a bass. He had a couple of fish take minnows, which he lost. I felt perplexed, because we had definitely found a nice, rounded corner with pads near the bank, plenty of weeds filling out a drop that didn't descend too sharply, all the deep water nearby a bass could ever want. I fished my Senko deep, in the weeds, and I put it against grass. Sometimes a big bass will be in a foot of water. Oliver spotted a pickerel about two feet long among weeds. I plugged and plugged for that one or the likes of it with a Rebel Pop-R. I put a weedless frog on the pads. Nothing happened and I know it sometimes gets like this. Fish are there, but they will not take any interest in what you toss them.

I got nervous as sunset neared, because I had read a sign at the gate. It told me that gate closes at sunset. Oliver kept quelling my anxiety, pointing out other boats on the lake showing no intentions of going in. In any event, we would get the canoe on my Honda, but no way did I want us to have to carry it two hundred yards. I've been through that sort of thing before. We lingered, nothing happening, when finally Oliver's rod bent double and a bass went airborne. That's the bass of the cover shot, a pretty nice one caught on a Senko. I felt relieved. Oliver wasn't skunked.

Oliver found this toad at Brian's house where the canoe is kept.

Wawayanda

Not Today

Listening to Pink Floyd's "Dogs" as I write, mildly anticipating the gruesome job tomorrow. I over-did it on Monday, pushing carts hard at the supermarket. Left early, too much pain. Couldn't get past it. I decided to cancel on the lake with Brian today, because I couldn't tell what might happen. There's definitely an element I can't predict when my back is bad. We hope to go Tuesday. And I'm hoping to fish with Oliver Round on Sunday.

Funny how short-term memory fails as you age. I had something to say I forget now. Whatever it was, was the point of writing.

Anyhow.

"As the fear grows, the bad blood slows and grows to stone," but I was never "broken by trained personnel," though that fear lingers. Quite a cautionary tale, the words of this music. Close call, that stone, but anyway, as I write now, the back is much better. And besides, I don't believe no one has a real friend.

I heard a dog barking pleasantly outside as a thunderstorm approached. That's why I put "Dogs" on, Sadie sleeping on her back on the other couch.


Dogs