Lee Shaw is a County boy, born and raised fishing, hunting, and helping out on the three-generation-old family farm in Mars Hill. Roger Shaw, Lee’s dad, brought his son up to be an outdoorsman and a sportsman, and over the years they shared many wonderful adventures throughout the Crown of Maine. Lee moved on to college, pharmacy school, a job, a wife, and fatherhood, all on the far side of the U.S., a long way from home.

Roger, on the other hand, has spent 38 years in his hometown school system, helping nurture young minds rather than the fields of potatoes of his younger years. First as a teacher, then as a principal, and for the last 10 years as superintendent of schools in Mars Hill, Shaw cultivates minds for higher education. Father and son talk often and visit when possible, but the regular outdoor rod and gun ventures of the growing years are few and far between.

Two years ago Lee managed to arrange a week’s vacation from his pharmacy job in Tennessee and flew home for a few days of family, friends, and fishing. Just a couple of weeks earlier, I had carried through on a promise to introduce Roger to smallmouth bass fishing, and we had spent an enjoyable and productive afternoon on the Penobscot River. During a previsit phone conversation, Roger regaled Lee with the details of the fun-filled outing and expressed his amazement at how feisty and full of fight the river bronzebacks were.

Trout fishing was at low ebb due to a run of hot, dry August weather, so Lee requested an opportunity for a premier smallmouth outing of his own. I was happy to oblige since any frail excuse to go fishing is far more important than yard and garden maintenance. Unfortunately, an afternoon thunderstorm with heavy rain eliminated our afternoon start, but we were cruising and casting by early evening.

We caught a few fish on plastic grubs and spinners while casting among the shoreline rocks, and just like all novice bass casters, Lee was amazed at how strong and acrobatic the smallies were. Later, we tied on topwater baits and turned our efforts to small coves, backwaters, and inlets lined with reeds and surface vegetation. When the first bass exploded on Lee’s Tiny Torpedo, immediately went airborne, somersaulted and spit the plug, the fisherman was the one that ended up hooked.

Tackling bass

That evening outing was eventful but far too short as far as Lee Shaw was concerned, and it became a frequent subject for reminiscences between father and son when work and distance kept them separated. Roger and I became regular bass buddies over the following two summers, and Lee moved even farther from family and bass fishing forays by taking a job in Colorado. Roger related all of our latest bronzeback exploits via letter and phone, even rubbing a little salt into the wound by sending along a newspaper clipping and photo of himself with a bragging-size bass.

Finally, early this summer, Lee and his wife were able to juggle their work schedules and arrange travel plans to make a long-awaited trip to Mars Hill. Among visiting with relatives, exploring on four-wheelers, and a trip to the coast for scenery and lots of lobster, Lee relayed a request for at least one trip bass fishing. I was more than willing to oblige, and it would be good to catch up with Lee face to face after two years with no phone or computer involved.

My 20-foot Lund Alaskan and 75 hp Honda four-stroke has plenty of room for three casters and lots of power to hop from spot to spot along the river. With boat in tow, I picked up Roger and Lee in Mars Hill at noontime and headed south. We stopped for lunch, and Lee was able to appease his craving for whole clams, a New England staple that’s hard to find out west. We also stopped at Two River Canoe and Tackle and were all able to find a couple of lures we just couldn’t live without. Roger and I each had a tackle box that should have been fitted with wheels, but new plugs are like honey to a bee and we sure didn’t want to run short.

We were afloat and fishing by 2:30 on a sweltering early August afternoon; or at least Lee was fishing. Being a good father and benevolent sportsman, Roger offered Lee the only fully rigged rod while he and I got a couple of others ready. Showing no respect whatsoever for his elders, within three casts Lee had a bass on, and even had the nerve to lip it for display and make a somewhat snide comment as he grinned and released the fish. My mention of how long a walk it was back to Mars Hill only drew muffled snickering.

A rather bothersome breeze developed as we moved downriver, making it difficult maneuvering to likely structures and holding casting positions. I spent so much time hopping around on the foot control pedal for the trolling motor, it must have looked like I was doing a jig in the bow of the boat. Nonetheless we all managed to land a few bass, most in the 1- to 2-pound class. It became apparent early on, however, that the long brown and yellow rubber worm on Lee’s spinner rig was the real taste treat for the local bass population.

As much fun as it was catching the smallies, our trio got just as great enjoyment ribbing each other, and Roger and I really pushed the beginner’s luck angle. As the afternoon wore on, the worm turned, so to speak, and my pumpkinseed grub and Roger’s ever-changing plugs got more strikes, and Lee’s rubber worm action slowed. We all stopped fishing for a few minutes to marvel as a mature bald eagle made several passes, swooping and soaring along the shoreline right over our boat.

The wind heightened further and I hopscotched us from one protected point to the next tree-lined bay. Near a rock outcropping my bait had barely sunk below the surface when a hearty tug straightened my line. The fish was strong and aggressive, fighting deep, taking line regularly, and making the tip of my 6-foot lightweight spinning rod bounce and the line hum. As I wondered aloud if it was a big pickerel, a thick bronzeside and wide tail flashed just under the water beside the boat, sending Roger scrambling for the net.

I kept steady pressure on the big bass, while trying to baby it a bit, too. There was no question it was a 4-pounder at least, a true prize for the Penobscot. Roger waited, net in the water, for me to swing the fish within reach, but sensing the boat, the smallie dove deep and bulldogged its head from side to side. I lifted the rod higher to turn the fish, and then in the blink of an eye, the tip sprang skyward and the jig head and plastic bait zinged past my head.

I slowly turned my head to look at Roger and Lee. Roger was shaking his head and Lee stood wide-eyed and openmouthed in disbelief. “That was one big bass,” Roger intoned as he stowed the net. “It was a corker,” I murmured, “Let’s find a quiet cove and see if we can coax some strikes on topwater plugs.”

Torpedoes away

Most smallmouth bass casters will agree that no other baits give the explosive strikes and acrobatics of popping and chugging surface plugs. I stopped just short of the cove mouth and we each selected favorite lures and tied them on as we drifted. Roger and Lee each used Tiny Torpedoes in different colors, and I selected a Pop-N-Image. I lowered the trolling motor and sent us gliding toward the closest rock- and stump-strewn shoreline.

Before I was within casting distance of the closest stump, Roger launched a random cast toward the center of the cove and hooked a hefty 2-pound-plus smallie. Less than five minutes passed and Lee had a 2-pound bronzeback leaping and flailing. My plug received minimal attention over the next 20 minutes while my boat brothers landed five more fish and lost one. My two strikes didn’t even produce a hookup. “How does a fish with a mouth that large engulf a lure with two treble hooks and not get stuck?” I wondered aloud.

Three bass and two pickerel later for the Shaw team and I gave in and tied on a Torpedo of my own. Sure enough, within five casts, I got a smallie. When the sun slipped below the tree line, a few bass even began rising for insects on the surface and our action picked up accordingly, but now everyone was having trouble keeping fish hooked.

During a notable lull in my action, Lee and Roger each hooked a fish within seconds of each other. As they were playing their fish, each found time to give me a little verbal jab, and lo and behold I, too, hooked up. A triple hookup is a rare event – and made all the sweeter when they each ended up with a pickerel and mine was a good-sized smallmouth.

When you have difficulty seeing your plug coming across the surface and it’s a 20-minute run back to the boat launch, you’ve probably stayed too long at the dance. That “just one more cast” attitude prevails time and again, especially when bass are biting. Our day ended with a total of 39 bass, six pickerel, and a memory of one that got away. Roger and Lee outfished me, but I’m sure it was because I had to run the boat, or maybe I was being a gracious guide – that’s going to be my story anyway.

Lee called his Dad last week after mountain biking six miles over hill and dale to a secluded Colorado trout pond. He cast over a dozen fly patterns for two hours and never raised or caught one fish. Disgruntled and discouraged, he phoned to express just how much more he now appreciated his vacation bass outing. It just goes to show: there really is no place like home.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com