Don’t wait until August, the frog bite is on in June!
There’s a latent feeling in all of us, at least there is inside me, June is somehow more special than any other month. It’s not the season or the fishing or something cosmic. It’s not some euphoric reaction to June pollen either. I really believe it’s tied directly to the last day of school and how that anticipation used to slowly build and your thoughts would modulate from grades to swimming pools, from backpacks to tackle boxes and from concentration to chill mode.
I remember one specific last day of school, I think I was 16 and one of my friends finally had a car, it was red Chrysler Lebaron convertible, we piled in after the bell and drove through town, top down, t-shirt on, leaning back, wind on my face…it’s hard to think of a time when I felt better.
You may think I’m crazy, but it makes psychological sense. Think about all of the other things that are imprinted on those write-protected segments of our brains. Little social cues that make you feel like a kid again, smells that conjure untapped memories from decades passed, scanning the radio and a song catapults you back to that day you took your future wife on your first vacation together—and how few sights you actually saw on those four days in paradise. That summer anticipation and its timing are imprinted upon me, maybe it’s because I’ve never lost my childlike enthusiasm for fishing or maybe it’s everyone.
Another memory that rushes to the forefront when I think about June and summer vacation comes from my backyard. I grew up on one of the most heralded bass ponds in central Massachusetts, most people know it as A-1, but it’s technically called the George H. Nichols Reservoir—for the record and added confusion we called it Suasco. My backyard lead right to a cove on the northern shore of the pond, we had a place we called ‘the rock’ that we used to fish from. It was June, not long after school let out and I had been watching Jimmy Houston using the Mann’s Rat on ESPN Outdoors. A few weeks prior I had turned 12 and, as was customary for all my childhood birthdays, my parents took me on a shopping spree where I was allowed to spend $200 on whatever I wanted, I’m sure it will surprise exactly no one that the only thing I wanted was more fishing tackle. Among the piles of Power Worms and Hula Poppers was a single Mann’s ‘The Rat’ in solid white—Jimmy’s influence struck the bullseye.
It had been a windy week, lots of straight south winds and it blew a ton of floating weed into the cove behind my house. I was crestfallen when I saw the mats of weed because I wasn’t going to be able to fish my usual favorites, but then I saw old cackling Jimmy in my head and I reached for The Rat. I was doing my best to imitate his actions moving the Rat in short ‘skippy’ bursts, and when the bait paused in a hole in the weeds a big, post-spawn female detonated beneath the rat and the battle was on! I was ill-equipped to land the fish on my ultralight spinning setup with 6-pound Magnathin line, but I landed her and she was over 5 pounds according to my little spring scale. I caught three more solid bass that day, but the memory of that big one has stayed with me forever. I hasten to add that The Rat is nothing more than a hollow frog with a single tuft of ‘living rubber’ skirt where the legs would usually protrude—it’s just a frog in a rat’s clothing.
Fast-Forward
Freshwater fishing had a long stint on the back burner for me when I fell in love with striped bass and even after I returned to fishing for freshwater bass, I hardly ever made a summertime cast into unsalted water. In 2017 I woke up on the first morning of my wife’s summer vacation (she’s a teacher), and I was still a stay-at-home dad at that time, so morning fishing was almost impossible. It was barely before first light, I had no time to make a saltwater move and I remembered the Rat story above. I crept quietly out of bed and headed to the garage where I found my frog box and my frogging rod. Within 30 minutes I was casting onto glass-calm water with a popping frog.
The phony frog belly-flopped onto the surface, imposing upon the perfection of this mid-June morning. To the fish, I would have to imagine, a frog swimming free of cover must seem too good not to be suspicious. I allowed the rings to dissipate before moving the bait. I snapped my wrist, the frog lurched forward and puked a loud bubble out in front of itself—then three shorter pops, I repeated this pattern until I was on the edge of the weed line near the shore. Then one more big pop and a pause, an overzealous largie head-butted the frog, kicking it a foot clear of the surface. When it landed, I imparted a frantic beeline for the shore—almost like working a Pencil Popper in the surf. The frog disappeared a flash of white and green.
And in that early morning light, even though it was just a 2-pounder, I shed more than half my years in an instant. The smell of swampy water rose into my nostrils, neon green specks of algae stuck all over my hands, my waders. That fish represented the circle of my life up to that point. And I haven’t looked back. I suggest you don’t either.