Man. What a weekend. All I wanted to do was go fishing and, as usual, delay after delay occurred.
I did a guest spot on the Outdoor Journal Radio Show with Angelo on Saturday morning and rushed home because we had to drive to Alliston to help move the wife’s sister into her new place. Three hours later, we’re finally on the way. That’s no problem, though. I figured that Saturday was toast anyway, as we’d be moving stuff all day and night.
Sunday comes around and, of course, we don’t leave until “whenever,” and the drive takes us about double the norm—just one of those things. We finally arrived at about four o’clock p.m., drop the boat in the water, get the fishing gear ready, and then the rain starts. Cold rain. And, of course, I don’t have any rain gear with me. The good thing is it’s on-and-off. The bad is that the delay between is about every fifteen minutes. Finally, at about eight p.m., I sneak out to a small bay with my boys so I can catch them a fish. Skunked. In one hour on a lake that I feel pretty confident in surely anybody could catch even a small Bass! Nope. Not Me.
Monday morning arrives. I wake up at quarter-after-six in the morning. I look over at the boys—sleeping. Look over at the wife—sleeping. Perfect. Here’s my chance to sneak a quick breakfast and slip out. Not! Ten minutes later, down come boy units one and two, along with mommy. “Cole’s not feeling well.” You dads know what I’m talking about.
Somehow—through luck and a good cartoon with some Cap’n Crunch out of the box—the boys perk up, and I’m outta there.
I nail a nice two-and-a-half pound smallie at my first spot, and I’m thinking, All right. I hit a dock with a jig and bang off a three-and-a-half pound Largemouth. Getting better. I go to my next area, and there’s a local on it with a trolling motor on the bow. But I don’t get discouraged; I simply fish behind him with the jig and pop four more fish. Things just keep getting better.
Next, I go to another old standby spot and nail a four-and-a-half pounder plus a small one on back-to-back pitches. After a few more small fish, I decide to go back (it’s about eleven o’clock now) with the two biggest fish in the livewell to show the boys (they freak out when they see nice-sized fish) and get the wife to take a picture. The wife sees the fish and gives one of those “Oh my god”s. They’re decent fish, not real giants—but her reaction makes me feel good.
Pictures are done, now I need to release the fish. Cole (my youngest lad) and I drop them back into the lake along with my weigh scale (I got it back by grabbing the strap with a 5/0 fluke hook).
We’re heading back (the wife’s probably ready to head home now), and I look to little Cole and say, “You wanna try and catch one more fish buddy?” Of course, he gives me the affirmative. So we go to one more spot which has never paid off for me but looks great. Four or five pitches later, I set into what feels like a log. But soon I’m freaked out by a wallowing pig! This baby does the ol’ tug of war and some great beside-the-boat heart-stopping jumps. After one tail walk, Cole starts laughing, screaming, and freaking out. He’s only two-years-old, and already he loves it. When I finally lip the fish, Cole looks over and excitedly says, “Big Bass, Daddy!”
When I brought this baby back for pictures, the wife just stared at it and said absolutely nothing for about ten seconds. Then she said, “Oh my god. How big is that?”
My scales said 6 lb 7.5 oz! My summer is already made, my friends.
