I grew up on a farm with a deep pond tucked into a valley between two hills. One side was a cow pasture. The other was a steep lawn that lead up to our house. That pond held an entire world: sunfish, crappie, and the occasional black water snake. But the true royalty – the creature that ruled my imagination – was the largemouth bass.
Growing up, largemouths were the epitome of fishing. They were huge, they fought hard, and I loved everything about them: their dark green scales, the way their tails whooshed upon release, and the thrill of watching the rod bend when they struck. Spring through fall, you could bet where I’d be found: standing at the edge of the pond casting a red Senko, waging my personal war on the bass population.
The biggest bass liked to cruise the shallows, sunning themselves, and if I crept along quietly enough, I could scout out my future catches. With time, I learned exactly where each big bass lived in the pond. I’d caught the three “patrollers” on the east side: large bass that cruised 10 yards offshore. I’d also caught another monster I called “The Rock,” a bass that lived in a deep pocket near a point. He had broken my line several times before I finally upgraded to 10-pound test and claimed victory.
But I had not caught this bass, a shadowy monster appeared, and by August I was obsessed. I saw her break the surface countless times. Her dorsal cutting the water in the same way I imagined the Loch Ness Monster must have looked. Naturally, I named her Nessy.
Nessy was an experienced bass. She was picky, fed mostly at dusk, and her tastes changed constantly. I threw everything I had at her: Al’s Goldfish, soft-plastic swimbaits, a rainbow of Senkos, topwater frogs, plastic mice, live worms… Nessy was unimpressed. Some nights she cruised along the weed line, taunting me. Other nights she’d manage to steal the bait clean off my hook, leaving me dumbfounded and with bruised pride.
Then one August afternoon, I got my chance… and it happened completely by accident. I was down at the pond with my little sister and a few neighborhood friends. Our mission wasn’t fishing – it was crayfish hunting. But our expedition was interrupted by the only thing capable of ending our fun: a massive black water snake. We scattered, screaming, scrambling over rocks, scraping shins and knuckles as we fled. Sprinting until we were sure we’d left the snake ‘in the dust’.
I drifted back toward the pond, scanning the water, and that’s when I saw her. I froze, like a dog watching a treat dangled in front of its nose; knowing if I lunged too soon it would disappear. Sitting motionless was Nessy. As I watched, a purplish-pink dragonfly drifted down and landed delicately on the water’s surface. Nessy remained still, the tip of her tail twitching slightly. Then, she lunged. The dragonfly escaped, but I learned something.
Creeping back from the water, I turned, whispering, “Stay here. Nobody goes near the water. Keep your eyes on that fish. Don’t let her out of your sight. And nobody talks!”
I ran, up the steep hill – it felt like a mile – and burst into the garage. One hand clutched my cramping side, the other grabbed my rod and tackle box. Panting, I back sprinted down the hill. Back at the pond, I stopped dead; no one was watching the water! They were picking Queen Anne’s lace along the woods.
“Where did she go?!” I demanded.
“She swam off,” they replied casually.
My heart sank.
But I knew what I’d seen, and I knew one thing about bass: if you waited long enough, they often came back. I had nothing that resembled a dragonfly. My only topwater bait was a gray mouse, and that thing had never fooled anything except my optimism. The dragonfly had been pinkish-purple, though. Digging through my tackle box, I pulled out a watermelon Senko. It wasn’t a great match – it was green, but it had pinky-purple flecks, and maybe – just maybe – it would be enough.
I cast where I had last seen her and began reeling slowly, mixing in little twitches and jerks… nothing. I cast again. One crank.
THUMP.
My rod tip slammed down. I yanked back to set the hook. The rod arched almost to the water’s surface and my arms strained to hold it. I tucked the rod against my stomach and cranked. She ran.
The reel screamed. Again and again I pulled her toward shore, only to have her surge deeper. Finally, exhausted, she came sliding toward the weed line, and then disaster struck. The moment she hit the weeds she wrapped herself in them—thick green slime around the hook, the line, everything. I cranked once more. No movement. Just weight. I lifted the rod tip, arms locked, back bent. The line snapped! My body lurched backward and the reel exploded into a bird’s nest. I stared in horror at the line lying across the water and weeds.
What had I done?
Then, the line began moving, slowly sliding out into the pond. She was still on! I didn’t think; I charged straight into the water. Ignoring every childhood fear of water snakes, snapping turtles, and whatever else lurked in that swampy mess, I waded toward the floating line until the water reached my chest, grabbing onto the line like it was a life buoy.
Hand-over-hand, I pulled… weeds and fish dragging heavily against my arms, the line cutting red grooves into my hands. And, despite everything, like a sunken treasure being lifted from the sea, her gleaming body broke the surface – wrapped in weeds but very much attached.
Soaked jeans, waterlogged boots, hands burning, but victory had never tasted sweeter. And to this day, that old largemouth – my personal Loch Ness Monster – remains my favorite catch of all time.
