What I wouldn’t give to be 12 again. It was August 9, 1992, it had been a hot and humid day which was giving way to a hazy late-afternoon. In the shade of the big pines that towered over the local reservoir, it almost felt cool. Wearing shorts and sneakers, left alone with a friend to fish all day, on foot. It’s safe to say that parenting was just different back then and I believe I’m a lot better for it.
A few days earlier, I had received a package from Bass Pro Shops in the mail, I excitedly tore the envelope open to find that the Slug-Go’s I ordered were the wrong color. I think I ordered Arkansas Shiner but they sent black/gold glitter. I was not happy about it, and I considered sending them back before I decided that I wanted to fish them more than I wanted the correct color. A recent episode of Jimmy Houston Outdoors had me chomping at the bit.
I have to be honest, I don’t remember how the fishing was for most of that day, 30-plus years removed has rubbed out most of that. But as we came around to the area we called “the backside”, shade spilled out over the dogleg cove and a calmness hung in the air, a feeling I have learned to associate with good fishing.
Back in those days, I fished very light tackle, a 5-foot Ugly Stik paired with a Shimano Sidestab reel in the 2500 size, I spooled my reels with 6-pound MagnaThin mono. As we neared the top of the cove, we stopped on the short point that formed its doglegged bend. I remember looking out over the cove and seeing a large tree branch that had fallen into the water. I immediately let a cast loose and it sailed across the cove and splashed down softly near the branch. Almost immediately, there was life in the water nearby. I swam the 4-inch Slug-Go in a jerky pattern, seeing it occasionally ripple or slap the slick, black surface.
Core memories are incredible and indelible and the next several minutes are etched into my memory as if my mind were a granite slab. The lure swam out and away from the limb, and I watched as a very large bass slid by and took the bait, almost half of her body was exposed as she took it, but there was no splash and no swirl, it was graceful and quiet.
As my line tightened and began to move to my left, I set the hook and felt immense weight! She ran into the braches but came out easily, she stayed deep and stayed heavy, when she came close to shore she jumped twice, showing off her massive size and sending my heart scurrying into my esophagus. With less than 15 feet to go, I started backing up the slope, even at 12, I knew a short line was more likely to break. My friend went into panic mode, looking from my face to the fish nearing shore and then back again with saucered eyes and the gaped jaw of astonishment. He was not an obsessed fisherman like I was and he saw that distance between me and the fish and thought he should grab the fish before it got away.
He scrambled down to the muddy edge of the shoreline and grabbed the line, trying to beach the fish. “NOOOO!” I yelled as he jerked the fish’s head onto the shore, snapping the line. The fish lay there for what felt like an hour of suspended animation, a freeze-frame where my feet felt glued to the ground. Finally, I sprung into action, leaping into the water, I straddled the fish and seized her bottom jaw before she could escape.
Dragging the fish high and dry, I involuntarily let out a primal scream of victory, the adrenalin and excitement were so powerful that if I hadn’t screamed I might have cried. A nearby angler came running over to see if someone was injured, when he saw the fish, he grappled for words. Back then it was common to keep your biggest fish and I kept this one, all 8 pounds, 14 ounces of her. Lugging her with my spindly 12-year-old arms was a chore and the angler, who had two young kids with him, offered to give us a ride. I distinctly remember saying ‘no’ and then rethinking it and saying, “Well, you have kids…” and we took the ride back to my grandfather’s house.
My parents took photos and camcorder video of the fish, a proud kid standing in the front yard. When the photos came back from being developed, they were all black. I was devastated. But I did get the fish mounted and I still have the rotted skin mount in my basement. It’s hard to imagine a 12-year-old kid fishing harder than I did. These days it’s different, they fish like the pros they watch on YouTube, they don’t ruin their sneakers, skin their knees and pull briars from their clothes. The YouTube kids are probably better technical anglers than I was, but I could’ve taken them all if the contest was about heart, I had that… in spades.
