It's that time of year: Just one more trip, one more cast

Anglers are the eternal optimists, always holding hope that the next cast, drift or pass will be the one that makes the day worthwhile.
This time of year, as the leaves are falling along with the temperature, our optimism is intensified by thoughts that the fish are getting busy. Anglers look forward to the dwindling opportunities to launch their boats for the last fishing trips before the snow flies and the lakes freeze.
Certainly November will deliver a few more warm and sunny days, but the cold, hard facts are the odds are against good weather coming exactly when we can spare time away from our other responsibilities.
So we'll bundle up and set out when our schedules permit. That's exactly what I'm doing this morning, my next "last chance" to cast for bass since my trip two weeks ago to the Shenango Reservoir.
Expectations met
That recent trip fulfilled my expectations, fueled by the aforementioned optimism we anglers seem to possess in large volumes. I ran a game plan through my head as a few sprinkles of rain streaked the windshield of the truck, but by the time I reached the lake and unstrapped the boat, the sky was dry.
My first stop produced five smallmouth bass, all on a little crawfish-colored Bomber crankbait. I moved to a nearby rip-rap bank where a 3-pound largemouth hit the bait on the first crank of the reel.
The action slowed, so I buzzed a mile up the lake to a brush-filled cove. Another largemouth, around 2 pounds, smacked the spinnerbait I fan-casted around the piles. But apparently it was a loner, which prompted my decision to head further up the lake.
I selected a spot where the channel swung close to a bank littered with fallen hardwood trees and ran a shad-colored shallow-diving crankbait along the trucks and branches. I lost count of the bass that fell for the lure, as well as the green-pumpkin jig that I flipped into tangles too gnarly for the treble-hooked plug.
At one particularly good-looking pair of intersecting logs, a giant largemouth surged up and ate the crankbait after it bounced off the wood. After a few seconds, the fish won the tug-of-war and pulled free. I didn't get a really good look at the bass, but it almost certainly would have topped 5 pounds.
The action continued for the next two hours, and it got to the point where I could predict a strike when I eased up to an obvious bass hangout. It almost was like Mother Nature had placed a neon sign that blinked "Fish Here" on the good spots.
All good things come to an end and soon enough I had worked all the cover along that stretch of Shenango's shore. I stayed another 15 minutes, delaying my return to the ramp with the angler's familiar refrain, "One more cast."
Five more minutes
The optimist in me finally surrendered. I jerked up the electric motor, fired up the Mercury and dashed back to the dock near Route 18. But before I could tie up the boat and fetch the trailer, a little voice whispered in my ear, "Just give it another five minutes."
It must be the same voice that speaks to me at dinner ("one more bite") and while rooting for the Cleveland Indians ("wait until next year").
The words were too tempting, so I picked up the crankbait rod and made another cast. Then another ... and another. I set a deadline and when the clock struck the appointed time, I vowed, "Just one more ..."
A 13-inch bass belted the plug and jumped like a hurdler two times before I reeled it to the boat. Certainly not a trophy, the fish nevertheless was the perfect reward for the last-cast promise.
And today, you can bet, my time on the water will be extended by the eternal angling optimist whose voice is so convincing.
jwwollitz@aol.com