Bank on it
Evening bass trip finishes birthday celebration
Joe Volpe and I would have caught more fish from a boat, but we had more fun fishing from the bank.
It happened Monday, to celebrate the beginning of my latest trip around the sun. That is how Alan Thomas of Little Rock, formerly of Russellville, describes a birthday. My trip-around-the-sun celebration weekend had been delightful despite a rather curious beginning on Friday when my daughter said she was bringing me a Hibachi dinner.
“What do you want in it?” she asked.
“Steak, shrimp and scallops,” I replied.
“You can’t have that,” she said. “You can have steak or chicken, but not both.”
She deposited a big bag of hibachi and a California sushi roll on my dining room table. “Where’s yours?” I asked. “It’s in the car,” she said. “I have to go back to Conway, so I have to run. Happy birthday!”
It was like a zookeeper flinging food into a cage. It was a “Cats-In-The Cradle” moment, but the hibachi was delicious and large. It fed me through Wednesday.
Like all of my fishing trips with Volpe, this one began with inflated, unrealistic expectations. But honestly, why go fishing if you can’t have inflated, unrealistic expectations?
It really ticks me off when a fishing guide begins a trip by tamping down expectations. They say things like, “We’ve had a front move through, and the bite has been off. I haven’t really been on them like I want to be, but hopefully we’ll be able to get a few in the boat.”
They do it to keep you from getting mad if the fishing is bad, but there is none of that with a Volpe/Hendricks trip. It’s always going to be epic, and it always is in some fashion, even when it isn’t.
Monday’s trip threatened to implode before it began. We were supposed to meet at 3:30 p.m., and as usual, I was there on time.
“Running late,” Volpe said in a text. “Traffic is crazy.”
“I live five minutes from you,” I replied. “I had the same traffic as you, but I guess Dodge trucks are better in traffic than Chevy.”
Volpe did not reply. He didn’t have to. I knew my arrow had found its mark. He arrived shortly after and fretted over the pond’s low water level. He had brought his very nice aluminum bass boat, but the water was too low to launch. He backed the trailer into the water as far as he dared. The trailer wheels sunk to the axles in slick mud. Volpe waded into the water and tried to push the boat off the trailer.
“Water is barely even touching the hull,” I said. “And if by some feat of superhuman strength you’re able to push it off the trailer, it’ll take a lot more than that to get it back on.”
“I can back it farther out,” Volpe said. “If I get stuck, I have a tow strap. You can pull me out.”
“Well, that is why they make Dodge trucks,” I said. “To pull Chevys out of trouble.”
That ended the discussion, and also any further talk of launching the boat. Chevy Guy will let his truck become a fish attractor before deigning to be rescued by Dodge Guy or Ford Guy.
“We can paddle one of these aluminum boats,” I said.
“I didn’t bring any paddles,” Volpe said. “I guess we can fish from the bank.”
“The grass on this levee is pretty high,” I said doubtfully. Chiggers will eat us alive.”
This prompted Volpe, a retired Army colonel, to challenge my manhood with the conviction of a drill sergeant. We, of course, recognized it as sour grapes over the aborted boat launching incident.
The water was inviting, and the evening, with its soft breeze and soft, saturated light was positively delightful. Arkansas wears an October evening the way a society belle wears an evening gown. You come to the ball just to watch her dance. What the heck. Chigger-bitten skin will grow back. A few hours of fishing was worth two weeks of scratching my legs raw.
Volpe used a yellow Whopper Plopper. I used cotton candy colored Zoom worms. Volpe caught fish almost immediately, starting with a 2-pound largemouth that hit about 30 feet from the shore.
I went farther down the levee to the first brushpile. A couple of small bass bit, but as small bass often do, they bit the worm’s tail. I saw them come to the surface as I set the hook. I pulled the worm out of their mouths and then dodged my own lure as it rocketed back at my head.
The next brushpile was better. I caught a 2-pound largemouth and then a small one. The next brushpile was better. I caught a pair of bass that weighed a bit more than 2 pounds each, followed by a small one.
A collection of wood and steel cover in the corner yielded another 21/2-pounder and a couple more little ones. I missed a couple of better fish, including one that broke my line. I believe they were better fish, but I can’t be certain. The 2-pounders fought as hard as bigger fish, but anglers reserve the right to inflate the sizes of the ones they don’t catch.
Volpe, meanwhile, steadily caught them on his trusty Whopper Plopper. I had caught nine bass and he had caught eight when we turned around and started fishing back to the truck. I caught one more 2-pounder to even my total at 10 bass, and Volpe caught two more to match me.
“We’d have caught a lot more if we’d had the boat,” Volpe said.
“Probably, but twenty bass in two hours fishing from the bank ain’t too shabby,” I said. “You won’t hear me complain.”
You won’t hear me complain about chigger bites, either. I had the foresight to bring a jug of fresh water to scrub my legs before the awful creatures had time to burrow. I came away relatively unscathed.
As birthdays go, it was mighty fine.