Hamilton Reef
07-05-2005, 10:14 AM
Going fishing is about more than catching fish
http://www.mlive.com/outdoors/statewide/index.ssf?/base/sports-0/1119996609323810.xml
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Venture Outdoors: Bob Gwizdz column,
Contact Bob Gwizdz at (517) 487-8888 ext. 237 or e-mail him at bgwizdz@boothnewspapers.com.
WINDSOR, Ontario -- The fish, a dandy, came out of the water and tail-walked across the surface, as smallmouth bass are wont to do. I kept the pressure on it, but when it surged, my line popped like so much sewing thread.
It was my own fault; I know better than to challenge Lake St. Clair smallmouths with 6-pound test line. But I'd tossed the rod -- last used for walleye fishing -- into the boat with the others and it still had a green grub tied on it. So, I used it anyway.
There's an old saw about how many men spend their entire lives fishing without ever realizing it's not really the fish they're after. And my current nonchalance toward my tackle may indicate I finally get it.
It wouldn't have happened even just a few years ago. I'd have stayed up half the night re-spooling my reels for the bass opener. I'm not so driven these days.
I was out with my dad (Frank) on the last Saturday of June, the opening day of bass season on the Canadian side of Lake St. Clair. It's a tradition Frank started some 30-odd years ago, when he took his younger sons (I'd moved on by then) over to Mitchell's Bay for the opener.
For the last 15 years or so, it's been Frank and me observing the ritual, though in the wake of falling Great Lakes water levels, we've switched locations. We've gone to the south shore of the lake for the last couple of years, which has an entirely different character than the shallow weed beds at Mitchell's Bay, but still holds plenty of fish.
Frank picked up on my mistake almost immediately.
``You wouldn't have lost that fish if you were fishing a tournament,'' he said, ``because you wouldn't have been using that light line.''
He was half right; had there been money on the line, I'd have had a different perspective. But we were fishing a tournament -- the annual Gwizdz Canadian Open -- and at the point I lost the fish, Frank had me down three to one.
We were out in seven feet of water, where there are scattered rock piles, searching for smallmouths. Frank had been chunking a Rat-L-Trap, which is pretty tough to beat when you're just covering water. But as the sun rose in the sky, the rocks, just dark spots on the bottom in the vodka-clear water, became more apparent. That's when my more targeted technique (on the bottom with slow-motion baits) began to shine.
What was most notable about our excursion was the quality of the fish. Lake St. Clair, which was full of 4-pound-plus smallies a decade ago, has been yielding smaller average-size fish in recent years. Armchair biologists have come up with a handful of explanations -- the tournament fishermen have hurt the lake or the guys who are out catching and releasing fish preseason have been killing fish -- but I suspect it's simpler than that.
I believe there were just a couple of big year-classes of bass out there and they eventually all died of old age. It has to take a few years for those 14-inch fish to grow to 20, doesn't it?
I could certainly be convinced that that has happened. Our fish were all fat and healthy, probably averaged better than three pounds, and we had a couple that would go better than four. I had one that inhaled an X-Rap -- Normark's latest offering that's being marketed as a ``slash bait'' -- that would have scared the heck out of five.
By 9 a.m. we'd boated a dozen nice smallies when our bite died. We went an hour before I caught another, then Frank jumped off a pair of bruisers (one on a Trap, one on a Rap). When we went another half hour or so without any more action and the temperature cruised up into the 90s, we called it.
It was a great day. Not only did we catch a bunch of nice fish, but I also accomplished what I was really after -- spending a little quality time with the old man.
And, just for the record, I won the tournament, too.
http://www.mlive.com/outdoors/statewide/index.ssf?/base/sports-0/1119996609323810.xml
Sunday, July 3, 2005
Venture Outdoors: Bob Gwizdz column,
Contact Bob Gwizdz at (517) 487-8888 ext. 237 or e-mail him at bgwizdz@boothnewspapers.com.
WINDSOR, Ontario -- The fish, a dandy, came out of the water and tail-walked across the surface, as smallmouth bass are wont to do. I kept the pressure on it, but when it surged, my line popped like so much sewing thread.
It was my own fault; I know better than to challenge Lake St. Clair smallmouths with 6-pound test line. But I'd tossed the rod -- last used for walleye fishing -- into the boat with the others and it still had a green grub tied on it. So, I used it anyway.
There's an old saw about how many men spend their entire lives fishing without ever realizing it's not really the fish they're after. And my current nonchalance toward my tackle may indicate I finally get it.
It wouldn't have happened even just a few years ago. I'd have stayed up half the night re-spooling my reels for the bass opener. I'm not so driven these days.
I was out with my dad (Frank) on the last Saturday of June, the opening day of bass season on the Canadian side of Lake St. Clair. It's a tradition Frank started some 30-odd years ago, when he took his younger sons (I'd moved on by then) over to Mitchell's Bay for the opener.
For the last 15 years or so, it's been Frank and me observing the ritual, though in the wake of falling Great Lakes water levels, we've switched locations. We've gone to the south shore of the lake for the last couple of years, which has an entirely different character than the shallow weed beds at Mitchell's Bay, but still holds plenty of fish.
Frank picked up on my mistake almost immediately.
``You wouldn't have lost that fish if you were fishing a tournament,'' he said, ``because you wouldn't have been using that light line.''
He was half right; had there been money on the line, I'd have had a different perspective. But we were fishing a tournament -- the annual Gwizdz Canadian Open -- and at the point I lost the fish, Frank had me down three to one.
We were out in seven feet of water, where there are scattered rock piles, searching for smallmouths. Frank had been chunking a Rat-L-Trap, which is pretty tough to beat when you're just covering water. But as the sun rose in the sky, the rocks, just dark spots on the bottom in the vodka-clear water, became more apparent. That's when my more targeted technique (on the bottom with slow-motion baits) began to shine.
What was most notable about our excursion was the quality of the fish. Lake St. Clair, which was full of 4-pound-plus smallies a decade ago, has been yielding smaller average-size fish in recent years. Armchair biologists have come up with a handful of explanations -- the tournament fishermen have hurt the lake or the guys who are out catching and releasing fish preseason have been killing fish -- but I suspect it's simpler than that.
I believe there were just a couple of big year-classes of bass out there and they eventually all died of old age. It has to take a few years for those 14-inch fish to grow to 20, doesn't it?
I could certainly be convinced that that has happened. Our fish were all fat and healthy, probably averaged better than three pounds, and we had a couple that would go better than four. I had one that inhaled an X-Rap -- Normark's latest offering that's being marketed as a ``slash bait'' -- that would have scared the heck out of five.
By 9 a.m. we'd boated a dozen nice smallies when our bite died. We went an hour before I caught another, then Frank jumped off a pair of bruisers (one on a Trap, one on a Rap). When we went another half hour or so without any more action and the temperature cruised up into the 90s, we called it.
It was a great day. Not only did we catch a bunch of nice fish, but I also accomplished what I was really after -- spending a little quality time with the old man.
And, just for the record, I won the tournament, too.