Part of the mystique of fishing
I think it is cool that we cannot see what lurks under the water.
Sure, we have sonar to help us read what’s in the depths under our boats. And yes, we have polarized sunglasses to help us discern objects obscured by the glare off the water.
But for the most part, we still can’t see well enough to know for certain that a fish is finning under the spot where we just tossed our lures.
To me, that’s one of the great things about fishing. The mystery of the underwater environment and the creatures that live there is part of the mystique of fishing. If I knew for certain a bass was hunkered next to that stump in 4 feet of water, little would be left to imagine.
And so it was last weekend when I visited Pymatuning Reservoir. The big lake straddles the state line like the saddle on the back of a horse. It sprawls into the marshes in Ashtabula and Crawford counties and much of its shoreline is littered with trees that have toppled into the water.
The fallen timber provides perfect shallow-water cover for largemouth bass. And since one of my favorite ways to fish is to poke and prod in gnarly cover, I am attracted to certain Pymatuning shorelines like a bear is attracted to honeycombs.
Conditions were perfect for Pymatuning flipping. The sun was bright and the wind was brisk but not overpowering. As I worked the boat through the cover, I pitching baits neatly into the shadows created by crisscross logs, stumps and upturned root systems.
Line-busting tangles of twigs, trunks and roots provide escape channels for hard-charging largemouths. Give a bass half a chance and it’ll snap your line.
Flipping is big-tackle fishing. I use 7.5-foot heavy-action sticks with fast tips and high-speed baitcasting reels spooled with 20-pound-test fluorocarbon line.
One might think this is overkill for a fish that usually weighs less than 2 pounds and is rarely over 5 in this part of the country. But bass anglers share countless tales of snapped lines and broken hearts when flipping the heavy cover.
This was the environment I was fishing at Pymatuning. The water was snaggy and a bit murky, to the point where I couldn’t see much more than 6 inches under the surface. And it was producing quite nicely.
By midmorning I’d boated a dozen feisty bass. Most were around 16 inches, nice solid 2-pounders that provided great sport. Several topped 3 pounds and bulldogged stubbornly in the thick cover. One was a rock-solid 5-pounder that fortunately fought clear of the nasty cover so I could eventually work it to the side of the boat.
As the clock ticked toward my noon quit time, I pitched my soft plastic creature bait along the shady flank of a long laydown. As I swam the lure back toward the boat, the line darted to the left. I jerked, but the hook failed to find the fish’s jaw.
I threaded a fresh lure and repeated the pitch and retrieve. Again the line jumped and I struck fish flesh.
This time, however, I gained nothing as I tried to pull the fish toward open water. It was like I’d hooked a rhino. Before I could calculate a better angle, the fish wrapped the line around something under the water.
This fish had won. I would gain a foot, but then the fish would take it all back. Whatever was down there had created a stalemate. Eventually the line had to be broken.
My first thought was that I wish I knew what manner of monster I’d hooked. But in hindsight, it’s kind of cool to still be uncertain.
So now it can be whatever I want it to be. And that’s part of the mystique of fishing.