`Best-for-last’ river pool may still hold prize smallmouth

Feathers ‘n Fins

Dusk was all that was left of daylight when Hank Lyons eased the canoe into a narrow cove rimmed with pickerel weed. During the two hours or so he had fished that evening, the avid outdoorsman caught and released seven bass. Typical river smallmouths they were, averaging about 1 1/2 pounds apiece. Before him, however, was water he knew usually held a decent bass, which meant he couldn’t pass it up. It was, in fact, what he called his “best-for-last pool.”

Quietly, Hank laid the paddle across the gunnels. Picking up his fly rod, he studied the calm foam-flecked surface, hoping to see the wake of a feeding bass. A few feet from where the cove made its deepest dent in the shoreline, he could make out, amid the swaying reflections of shoreline spruces, the umber smudge that was the top of a large submerged rock.

“Well,” thought Hank as he unhooked a small yellow popping bug from the reel’s line guard, “let’s see who’s living here this spring.” Had he been fishing with someone, Hank would have offered a bet that the cove held a good-size smallmouth. His “ace in the hole” was the “pocket” just beyond the submerged rock.

As he began casting, Hank compared the pocket to the barely discernible surface wrinkle that betrayed a salmon lie in a long glassy slick; or, in a sprawling cover, the tiny knoll that almost always was occupied by a woodcock. “I don’t know if those places are low-rent housing or what,” he a-mused, “but I know that as soon as one tenant leaves, another one moves in. This spot here doesn’t stay on the market more than overnight, either.”

It seemed the popper wasn’t casting just right and when Hank tried to work the lure on the water, he realized the hook had snagged the leader. “Great,” he mumbled as he began stripping in line to take care of the problem. The popper was trailing a thin wake when the water bulged beneath it – no explosive splash, no erupted geyser of water, no blossoming swirl – and a broad back showed on the surface. The bass didn’t so much as bump the lure.

Expelling the breath he was holding, Hank left the popper sitting motionless. A bat, obviously delighted with the arrival of dusk, swooped close to his face. Lifting the rod tip, he gently twitched the popper. Nothing. Again. Not a sign. Steadily then, but slowly, he retrieved the lure, freed the leader, and waited – wishing he had a beer to sip while he gave that bass time to settle down.

When the popper dimpled the water, it launched widening rings that reflected the gold of evening’s afterglow. Each time Hank worked the lure, its frothing, gurgling action scattered diamond-like droplets across the surface. It was lying motionless, however, when it disappeared in a shimmering blossoming swirl. Simultaneously, Hank felt a solid jolt and when he lifted the rod tip it stayed down as though he had hooked the rock.

“Aha!” The exclamation was spontaneous. “Right now, chummy, you and I don’t owe each other a nickel.” As the bass swam slowly, the line entering the water towed a thread of reflected light that was Hank’s only indication of the fish’s whereabouts. The reel’s stammering became an eloquent buzz as the bass made its first run. Near the opposite shore, it leaped and Hank could hear the bird-like flutter of its broad tail. When the fish struck the water, the spray exploded like a shower of sparks from a fire.

Feeling the strength of the bass as it bored toward bottom, Hank thought, “I don’t know how big you are, but I’d say you’re big enough to brag about.” He then forced the fight by applying all the pressure the rod could produce. In the dusky darkness, the heavyweight fought like a middleweight, putting on an aerial display that Hank wished he could have seen clearly. But in its leaping, tail-walking, cartwheeling, go-for-broke brawling, the bass defeated itself.

When it was sculling quietly alongside the canoe, Hank saw that the smallmouth was, without question, wearing a size large suit. Taking a firm grip on the fish’s lower jaw, he lifted it just enough to apply a paralyzing pressure and removed the popper. While again holding the bass submerged, he fetched the measuring tape from his fishing vest with his free hand.

Taking the end of the tape in his teeth, he pulled it out and laid it along the bass’s length – a strong 20 1/2 inches. A later check with the embarrassingly accurate length-to-weight conversion chart put out by state bass-fisheries biologists showed the fish weighed 4 1/2 1/4 pounds, give or take.

Actually, there was no need to revive the bass because it hadn’t been played to exhaustion. But to make sure, Hank slowly worked it forward and backward, forcing water through its gills. Immediately, the fish struggled and he released it, watching it vanish in a surface boil left by the powerful thrust of its tail. “Like I said, chummy,” Hank repeated, “you and I don’t owe each other a nickel.”

To the best of Hank Lyons’ knowledge, his best-for-last pool is still occupied by that bass.