Sep

I agree with Jake. I like the good old Original Floating Rapala, size 9 in silver. If I could only fish with one lure the rest of my life, that would be my choice.

GREAT STUFF, George!!! May I add one I wrote for my local Trout Unlimited group: Twas the week before Christmas and down on the Haw Not a fishey was rising, the weather was raw.. The water was frigid, and brisk was the air, Too windy for fishing, but I didn't care. The largemouth were nestled down deep in their pools While bluegill and sunfish were nobody's fools. And I in my waders and old fishing cap, As usual just couldn't cast worth a crap. When further upstream there arose such a crash I started, and slipped, and sat down with a splash. My glasses went one way, my rod went another. Cold water went everywhere. I wanted my mother. The gleam of the sun on the river around, Was lovely, but heck, I was going to drown!! When what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a funky old kayak. (The end must be near). With a little old paddler, too fat for the boat Who was trying his best just to keep it afloat. Through the rapids he teetered, bounced off every big rock. Old Nick's in big trouble, I thought with a shock. But as he approached my favorite hole He snapped it in place with a neat barrel roll And glided in softly, as smooth as can be. No fish would be spooked, except maybe me. And then in a twinkling he popped out of his craft Like a cork from a bottle, I shouldn't have laughed. He reached back inside and he slowly withdrew A lovely old 4wt of shiny bamboo. He was dressed all in Gore-Tex and looked straight from the pages Of catalogs like Orvis', Chota's and Sage's. A vest full of goodies encircled his frame With gadgets and zingers, too many to name. He spoke not a word but went straight to his fun, Throwing laser-like casts, seeming straight from a gun. His roll casts were graceful, his loops were so tight. Presentation was flawless, his drift was just right. He threw Clausers and Zonkers, and woollies and strymphs, Caddis and Adams and Cahills and nymphs. He had all the mysteries of fishing debunked. But darned if old Santa Claus didn't get skunked. I felt sort of bad for the jolly old elf But why fish the Haw, I was asking myself. He could have fished Battenkill, Madison, Snake Seems that the Haw was a great big mistake. I needn't have worried, I had nothing to dread For he gave me a wink and here's what he said. We all should remember and here's what he's wishing, It's not about fish, but it's all about fishing. He sprang to his boat, to the rocks gave a push. And shot down the stream with a splash and a woosh. But I heard him exclaim as he drifted from sight. Happy Christmas to all, and to all keep lines tight Happy Holidays to All!!!!! Sep

I know a few who would say I'm not much of either....

My son just graduated from ASU. Hate to see him finish (well, not really) 'cause it gave me an excuse to go visit and get a little fishing in on the way. And a good buddy says the pink works because when the fish have a lot of food to choose from, once you get the type and size figured out, it may take a crazy color to grab their attention to your particular morsel. Makes sense to me.

Great stuff, guys. Good tips. Thanks for keeping this thread going!!!

Ahhhh... Thanks Capt!!!! I know those as Dahlberg Divers. Can't say I've used them a lot, but I'll give them another shot when things warm back up. I see you have some worm sliders, a few olive woolies, fuzzy poppers, and, well, a lot of flash. A fun box of goodies, and some nice results to show for it. Well done. And I stay away from those big haired women. Trouble, trouble, trouble.

I mostly use a 6wt rod, loaded appropriately, and a 1X or bass specific leader and tippet. Bass tend not to be particularly leader shy, so shorter, 7.5 ft, and heavier are okay. I also tend to use a slower rod that protects the tippet more, but, unfortuntely, it can be a bit more challenging to get a good hard hookset. The only breakoffs I've had in the past year or so were poor knot management on my part.

A pink woolly bugger. I can't believe I'm throwing a pink woolly bugger. And it's not just pink. It's HOT pinkwith red sparkle ribbingand crystal flashing in the tail. Someone shrank a child's fairy princess costume down to fit a size 8 hook and I'm trying to fool a fish with it. Pink. Perhaps I should go add some nice accent lace to my waders and trade in my floppy fishing hat for a glittery tiara. Heaven help me, I'm throwing a pink woolly bugger. It all started innocently enough. Mike P. and I headed out to Ashe County for a couple days of mid-week floating and wading the south fork of the New River in pursuit of smallmouth bass. Our departure from the Triangle coincided with the arrival of a cool front from the west so we drove for the first couple hours in a constant downpour, prompting concerns about what water conditions we would find when we arrived in the mountains. Fortunately, the rain drizzled out about Winston-Salem and had apparently passed around the Deep Gap area for the water we found was clear, almost too clear, and at a very manageable level. We dropped our bags and gear at Mike's cabin overlooking the New, a homey little cottage, perfect for anchoring our fishing excursion, and headed out for the closest fly shop, River Girl Fishing Company. River Girl is actually Kelly McCoy, a fish biologist-turned outfitter/fly fishing guru, who once almost fished with Lefty Kreh (she had to work and couldn't accept his invitation) and who now owns and operates her outdoor adventures facility out of the old railroad station building in the middle of Todd, NC. If you're anywhere in Todd, you're pretty much in the middle of it. We found River Girl, seven months pregnant, surrounded by tubes, kayaks, canoes, bikes, a couple of goats, a wide variety of small, happy dogs, and a very content pot-bellied pig. We chitchatted about the weather and our recent travels, arranged a float drop-off for the next day, and then asked the eternal question, What were they biting on? Without cracking a smile, River Girl replied, pink woolly buggers. Yes, pink wooly buggers. She pointed to her fly selection and there they were, a small sparkly pile amid the Elk Hair Cadis and Adams Parachutes. Now all I could think was that this was how she had her fun; selling us greenhorn flatlanders these fruity, fluffy concoctions while belly laughing inside. But she was insistent (and belly laughing at seven months probably wasn't very comfortable), so I grabbed a few of the frilly things, making sure to also take a few olive ones to assure her, or myself, that I was indeed a serious fisherman. After a quick see you tomorrow, we headed back to the cabin to get a little afternoon time on the river. On the way out of town, we made a quick stop for a bite to eat at the Todd General Store where we found the proprietor lying motionless on a bench with a lighted candle sticking through a paper plate and into his ear. Something about fending off colds and extracting earwax, though it seemed to me that the process was going in the other direction. But Mike and I figured that in the land of pink woollies this must not be odd behavior so we wandered about the store until the treatment was complete. Once fixed, our storeowner made us up a couple of Rueben sandwiches, discussed the merits of catfish angling by hand, Florida scuba diving, and the Philadelphia mafia, and sent us on our way. We definitely weren't in Kansas any more, Toto. We finally dropped our float tubes into the River about ¾ of a mile above Mike's cabin, next to the old single lane, side rail-less bridge, currently being upgraded to modern 19th century standards. The road workers no doubt chuckled as the two of us waddled down to the river and dropped into our floats, looking like two wobbly ugly humpty-ducklings. (Thank goodness they were too far away to see the pink woolly I had tied on.) They didn't chuckle long, though, as with my second cast I nabbed a fish. It was only a seven or eight-inch junk chub, but our fishing prowess was established and the workers turned back to their bridge. Thankfully, I was around the bend quickly and out of sight before I caught my first tree of the day. We continued down the river, Mike casting a number of patterns and while I stuck with the pink princess, an approach that made more sense as I hooked a 12ish inch smallmouth, fought him home, only to lose him in his final shake coming alongside the float tube. In the next couple of hours that we traversed the stretch, I brought in a handful of chubs and few pumpkinseeds and a couple of fingerling smallies. It wasn't a great start but the near miss of the heftier bass suggested potential over the next couple of days. Maybe there was something to this pink thing. We finished the day with a quick trip to Boone for dinner, a grocery trip for important staples (beer and some pastries for breakfasts), and a lazy hour stretched out at the cabin reading. I got lost in John Gierach's Sex, Death and Fly Fishing and fervently wish that I could write, and fish, like him. Ultimately, my sleeping bag, tossed on an unmade bed, felt like heaven and I drifted off to sleep listening to the drops falling on the cabin roof from the trees overhead and thinking about the smallies waiting down below in the New. Sep Note: I'm new to the forum and look forward to participating. By way of introduction, I post the above that I wrote on my local fly fishing club's discussion. It might be a little light on the actual fishing, but I think the whole process is what makes fishing the joy that it is. Hope you find it amusing.

Waldorf Hair Bugs? Do describe.

BC, you're spot on about not being limited to topwater. My favorite gully fish actually swims a few inches below the surface. When it's not happening on top, with gullys, deer hair frogs, or bumblebee hoppers, I go to the multi-purpose woolly bugger, in assorted colors, but most effectively in white. I like the ones tied with weighted wrap and fish it at several levels in the water column, with or without a sink tip. (My last couple of trips west, the woollies also worked well for smallmouths, believe it or not, in hot pink.) I also like something called a JJ Special, basically a beadhead woolly with long yellow legs. I also throw some tarpon sliders with some success. I'm a shoals guy too, wading the heavily braided Haw, just west of Raleigh, NC. Fun stuff. And somebody, the 19lb bass on a fly rod story MUST be told!!!!

Both the steels and the smallies pack a serious punch per pound. I'd take one of either at that size. What's the record for a smallie? And Francho, that's a serious fishin' float you've got going on there. I'm not too sure about the 2-3 mile excursion, though. You got guts, my friend.

Roadwarrior, thanks for the response. You bring up a couple good points. I understand the perspective of fly fishing being small fishing, but it really depends on how you go at it. For example, for largemouth I like to throw an Orvis Gully Fish which is sort of the fly version of an original Rapala to try to keep the small stuff (bluegill, pumpkinseed, etc) from hitting. One buddy of mine calls it a cheater fly. Guess it doesn't have enough freakin' feathers. I've caught 162 largemouths this year (yeah, I keep a pretty tight fishing journal) and the vast majority fell in the 10-18 inch range. Might be small by your standards, but they fight bigger on a fly rod. In truth, my biggest bass this year was a 24 incher, perhaps 8+ pounds, caught on baitcasting tackle, that fought like a log. The 18 inchers on the whippy rod were a heck of a lot more fun. I guess it's like muzzle-loader or bow hunting for deer. More challenging gear make the hunt more interesting. As for fishing versus catching, I'm guilty. I like the whole enchilada. But, for sure, it tastes better when the catching is good. And nice fish, Francho!!! I don't actually assume I'm alienated. Any way that catches fish, short of nets and dynamite, is the right way. It's just fun to stir the stereotypical pot now and again. Good conversation, guys. Thanks!!! Sep

I guess I'm neither fish nor fowl. I like to chase bass with a fly rod. The serious bass fishermen discount me for my wispy, fussy, elitist tackle. The serious fly fishermen discount me because I pursue the lowly bass rather than their sacred, revered trout. They both miss the point. It's darn fun. To start, bass guys, you know that nothing cranks the adrenaline like a heavy top water hit and trying to bring home a serious largemouth on a noodle and light tippet is a rollicking, drag testing challenge. Yeah, I can't often get to the deep ones, but where and when I fish, that's not a problem. After a season spent pitching a fly line, dragging a Senko across the bottom, a twitch at a time, is sort of, well, dull. Sorry. And you fly guys, a twelve inch smallmouth will kick the snot out of a twelve inch rainbow, with one fin tied behind its back. And you still get to fish those beautiful mountains. Trout are fun, but someone once said that if smallies grew to be the size of, say, sharks, no one would go in the water. Sorry. For me, a day well spent is one wet wading around the slower braids of my neighborhood Haw River, pitching a 6wt for largemouth under the overhanging edges and around the tons of cover scattered about the place, or perhaps a day float tubing for smallmouth down the New River just west of here, probing those submerged rock overhangs where the smallies can be stacked like cordwood. Don't get me wrong, I love bass fishing with any kind of stick and I spend my share of time drifting #24 nymphs at those wily wild trout, but mixing the two is a serious blast. So, since I'm new here and don't see much discussion on fly-fishing for bass, let me introduce the topic. There have to be others out there that are neither fish, nor foul. Let's hear from you. Sep

I can hear, and feel, the fish take to the air less than twenty yards in front of me, but I can't see him. It's too dark. I want to reach up and flip on my headlamp but the rascal just won't stop jumping and I need a hand on both rod and spinning reel to try to keep him on the line. And it's a legitimate concern too, as with each aerial and shake I can distinctly hear the jointed jitterbug rattle in his mouth, a warning signal that my hookset is tenuous. Sure enough, on the fourth or fifth furious launch, my line goes slack, the bug recoils and lands somewhere near my feet, and the bass is gone, sight unseen despite all his flamboyant acrobatics. All goes still and, when my heart stops hammering, I realize that the frogs have started their moonlight songs once again. ******** Yes, I know this is a fly fishing forum and you are a fly fisherman. So what's up with this spinning tackle talk? In truth, I'd also rather be standing in moving water with a fly rod in my hand, but there's so much more to life, and sport, than a singular fixation. If you're a fisherman, an outdoorsman, a sportsman, you love it all and try everything you can to broaden the experience. So fishing spinning tackle on a tree lined bass pond, alone, in the dead of night, isn't another version of fishing the dark side; it's a new and invigorating rush. Trust me. And if that doesn't convince you, try this. Did you go fishing last night? Would you have liked to? I rest my case. ******* It had been a very long day. The details are not important here, but it had and when I finally got home around 9:00pm, I needed a break. But not the sit on the couch and stare at the idiot box kind of break; I needed a diversion and fishing seemed to be just the ticket, despite the hour. Mary, I'm going down to the pond for a while. I even invited her. She sanely declined, with a chuckle, and good-naturedly sent me on my way with only the slightest hint of an eye roll. (Have I mentioned what a lucky guy I am?). ******* Now I have enough trouble controlling a fly line on a wide-open river in broad daylight so taking it to a socked-in pond on a dark and potentially stormy night would have been courting disaster. Instead, I reached for my favorite spinning rod, a butt-ugly, 5'6 Shimano Bullwhip Fightin' Rod with medium bass walleye special action, quite possibly 20+ years old and who's origins are sort of murky, involving my wife's ex-father-in-law, my stepsons, 10 years hidden behind the water heater with old hockey sticks and broom handles (the rod, not my stepsons), and rediscovery when we moved here to paradise. It's graphite, but I bet it's an early one, with cracks starting in the thick base from use, though they don't affect the rod, yet. Leaning there with my fly rods, it's a short, plump Bertha among the graceful and willowy Tiffanies and Giselles, but this Bertha has caught more and bigger fish than my whole runway of sexier sticks, combined, so it's my fishing date a lot. On the end of a 12 lb, braided line, I tied a jet-black, 3/8 ounce, jointed, Arbogast jitterbug. On the surface (pardon the pun), putting a black lure on to fish in the dark seems crazy, but, from the fish's perspective, the dark bait stands out against the light field above, be it moonlight or even the sparse light provided by the stars, better than a light colored lure does. The venerable jitterbug has been around as long as I can remember, the perfect topwater lure for night bassing; slow retrieving, noisy, and riding high enough that unless you drag it over something (or cast it onto the unseen shore) it's not likely to get hung up anywhere. It looks cool too, especially in all black; sort of a Lamborghini sleek bullet, with treble hooks. I also grabbed my headlamp, stuck a pair of forceps in my back pocket, pulled on a long-sleeved shirt and my tick gators to keep the chiggers at bay, and spritzed on a little Eau de Deet for good measure. Now where were those night vision glasses? ******* The sky is clear, for the moment, but the moon will not be up for a while so it's still d**n dark. I know this eight acre pond like the back of my hand and it's a good thing because, even with the headlamp, I only semi-successfully avoid the shin-busting blowdowns and ankle and knee wrenching stump holes and feeder ditches, more by memory than by sight. And the deep late summer grasses along the east side don't help. It's a trek, too, as I want to fish the backside, several hundred yards of stumbles from my parked truck. The backside is a half-acre of mudflats and stumps when the pond is low, but prime bass cruising territory when it's high; perfect for night topwater action. On the way I occasionally stop along the deeper east side and cast to spots where I know there's some submerged cover, but that's just foreplay. The real fun awaits in the shallow north end. ******* I haven't been to the pond in a few weeks. Its bass have been summer lazy, hiding in the central depths, and not much interested in anything I throw their way. The pull of the fly rod has taken me elsewhere and kept me otherwise entertained but I'll always find my way back to the pond; there are lots of largemouths there, and some big ones. This past spring I caught a 8-9 pounder (which is another good story but, since it involves a 7 Texas-rigged purple plastic worm, you fly guys probably aren't interested) and the previous fall I saw a kid pull one out that made my hawg look like an hors-devours. His is probably on a wall somewhere now, but my fish went back into the pond. Hopefully I'll see it again in a pound or two. The pond is community owned, resident use only, and has a couple of sand beaches that we have created for the kids, but if you avoid the mid-summer days, which for a fisherman is easy to do, it's pretty deserted. I seldom, if ever, see anyone around when I fish and at night I own the place. There are a couple of houses within shouting distance, but the summer-full woods effectively screen them, despite the local deers' best clearing efforts. It's a nice place to spend a quiet evening fishing. Quiet, that is, unless the resident beaver is slapping the water with his broad tail to lay his own claim to the area. Noisy rascal. ******* My night bass fishing process is to use the headlamp to approach a fishing spot, turn it off as I reach the pond's edge, pause to let these old eyes adjust as much as possible and to visualize, mostly from memory, where the exposed limbs and shoreline are. There's usually a little moonlight, but knowing where the hazards are sure helps in picking them out in the dark. I cast and listen for the splashdown, hopefully in the general direction of my intent, and begin a slow and steady retrieve. Thankfully, the jitterbug gurgles noisily so I know generally where it is and when it's about to hit my rod's tip guide. The fish like that gurgle too. At night, bass strikes are more sound than anything else, a dull splash or swirl that needs a quick response. You can't always wait until you feel it. And, when hooked, every fish seems to go airborne at night, making the whole process an extreme audio experience; a sensual process, in the very basic sense of the word. ******* I ended up catching three chunky 12 inchers and lost twice that many to poor hand-ear coordination or to dark, watery high wire acts. It's invigorating out there at night, chasing fish that care not for the time, and really experiencing a beautiful part of the day we tend to ignore. I'd told my wife I'd be home in an hour-and-a-half and I would have been my usual hour late but there was lightning showing beyond the treeline, distant rumbling was starting to be heard, and the stars were steadily being covered by a soft, moist blanket. I kept thinking I felt drops, but it was usually just light spray from my casting. Rain was clearly on the way, though, so I reluctantly picked my way back along the dark east bank, climbed into the truck, and slowly returned the dirt road half-mile to the house as a gentle sprinkle began. The deer alongside the road looked up from their foraging, noted my passing, and wondered what I'd been up to this time. Sep Note: I'm new to the forum and look forward to participating here. As an introduction, I offer the above. I posted it originally in early October on my local fly fishing club's website, thus the defense of the "non-fly" approach. Fly fishermen, like girlfriends, tend to expect exclusivity. Go figure. But a healthy bass on a 4-6wt fly rod is great fun.