SUMMERTIME MOONDANCE

Dusk.

    The world that bustles on, even along the rural county road, winds down. Though the rolling meadow and white pine veil surrounding my favorite farm pond shield the view of the paved artery from the confines of my canoe, my ears subconsciously monitor its heartbeat. The frequency of passing cars shrinks, replaced by the coming-alive of night sounds.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Whippoorwills, peepers, and crickets announce their presence as my fly rod flexes. The canoe rocks slightly. Fly line exits the craft from my feet, towed by a popping bug that lands with an intentional splat on a lily-padded edge.

    As light fades from the summer sky and the temperature begins to drop, bass “go on the feed.” Their sensitive eyes, devoid of eyelids, find solace at dusk, inspiring them to venture from their tight holdings in the grass and erupt upon frog-esque offerings on the water’s surface. 

    The tell-tale sploosh fulfills that prophecy. I set the hook in reaction, bending the long rod in my hand. After a short battle, I place a thumb in the mouth of a chunky largemouth and hoist him from the water to reclaim my fly and admire my prize. 

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    "Golden light," as it’s called, is a magical time. Wildlife of all species experience an awakening, and go in search of food and fun in the open. The fishing is good and so is the thinking. Experiencing the disappearance of the sunlit day helps to focus the thoughts on the big questions—purpose and place. At dusk, we celebrate something bigger than ourselves. 

    Darkness.

    There is something special about a summer night, something that you don’t find in the autumn nights leaving or following a deer trail. In it there is comfort. No impending threat of chill hangs. No undertone of the end speaks. But there is reassurance in the cool of the night air of a middle-aged year, and it stimulates the senses. Time slows down in summer in the South, and the day runs into night.

    I’m still on the water, casting away at fish I know to be hungry and hunting. Despite some canoe difficulty, I am deeply pleased to notice a growing night breeze twiddling the shoots of long grass around the water.

    I am lucky. On this night the moon is rising early. I have a new lease on light, but with no sacrifice of the stars. 

    Taking advantage of the cool breeze filtering through the pond’s beaver pond origin to the west, I paddle to the westernmost bank, distance myself 40 feet from the lily pads, and store my paddle at my feet. Good balance and practice has blessed me with the ability to cast upright from a canoe, and I assume that position as I’m pushed slowly eastward along the edge.

The Tycoon Tackle Flats King under pressure.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Though I am utterly alone in the darkness I don’t feel it. The moon is a welcome fishing partner, as the canoe and my path are illuminated by its light, and the stars reference the county road passersby, now mostly safe in their homes. We’re all alone on this star together. Our troubles are insignificant, and nothing matters, if not the chugging of my popper through the stillness of the night.

    Sploosh! The moon is bright, but fails to eliminate the end of my cast to the foot of a bush. Still, I can hear the progress of my popper when it is interrupted by the ball of unseen energy that I know to be a hefty largemouth.

A hefty largemouth, caught after dark.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    The stern of the canoe where I am standing swivels tightly and points towards my opponent as my rod bends deeply into the cork. I make gains on the reel only to have the fish sound at the boat and explore the water on the opposite side of the craft, forcing me to turn and guide the rod tip around the stern. 

    Again we’re in direct competition. I can feel my leader approaching as I crank the reel. The fish is not exhausted, but losing hope. A swishing sound just feet away tells me that the fish is approaching the surface. Feeling the leader with my net, I find the water and scoop.

    A largemouth of six pounds lays cradled in the net, silhouetted in the moonlight. After freeing my hook, I lip the fish and lower him to the water by the side of the canoe. There’s just canoe, water, fish, moonlight, and me. Nothing else matters. When these ingredients come together I emerge with a clean pair of eyes, and it is then that I realize that even that fish and I are in this game of life together.

    I release him from my grip, and a flick of his tail and a spray that soaks my forearm concludes our summertime moondance.□

FARM PONDS

The sun beats down in heavy rays; the world hums with the sounds of dragonflies, cicadas, grasshoppers, and frogs, like the radiating drone of a heating oven that grows all the more intense until those brave enough to be out and about are fully cooked and the day begins to cool into night.

Photo by Matthew Reilly.

    The local river offers a refreshing sojourn, and a soothing place to cast a line.  Its fish are predictable, hiding beneath the shade line, waiting for falling insects, waiting for me to slide in and lose myself in the passage of time, throwing flies rhythmically as the trance of the river flows around my bare legs—calling me its own, if only for a little while.  I may very well indulge myself in its cool water on many an afternoon covered in damselflies and sunshine—but even this iconic scene does not complete or define the summer season.

    No, in the summer time I go to play with my farm ponds—the ponds of my youth and my upbringing, where I learned, and where I still do learn.  These beloved, nostalgic settings are puddles, are an acre, are five acres.  They hold the “southern mix;” the “summertime grab-bag—largemouth bass, bluegill, crappie, pickerel, and catfish.  When temperatures soar, they grow lily pads and grass, as I cut my hair short; and grass grows up around them—a jungle of broom sedge, blackberries, and nettles—and ticks.

    The rivers of my memory have fish tales and runs and riffles of wonder and tradition.  But the stillwaters of my past are storied with nostalgic stories of fish lost, caught, and mysteries still unsolved.  With every outing, more of the mystery is shaved away.  Yet, when a storm boils the glassy surface; when a fiery sunset stains it orange and yellow and purple; and when I gaze into the translucent, teasing depths, the imperceptibly-booming voice of a mystery still unsolved screams back.

    Summer in the south is slow.  Even the rivers that run turbid and aqua-colored from runoff in the spring slow to a crawl when the sun claims a portion of its body to dump over the landscape come afternoon.  And so the lazy evenings spent afloat on a canoe, hoping to bring back to life one of those long-retired mammoths of personal fishing lore, become unofficially-official periods of thought; for it is a rare time when one is so lucky as to be capable of pure, unrestrained, prolix philosophy.

    Farm pond fishing is not difficult.  The fish that fin below you, along the grassy edges, and that pop the surface to take insects are relatively unpressured by anglers; many techniques and approaches will catch fish, and that’s all that matters.  For me, it’s a popping bug and a long rod.  Plugging along, I think little of the technical aspects of the fishing, and more about the essence of the act.  As long as fish are being caught steadily so that there is a real chance of encountering one of the characters of our fishing heritage and lore, and there is enough leisure to warrant meditation, your have succeeded.

Photo by Matthew Reilly.

    Farm ponds of summer hold a special place in my heart.  They require little concentrated effort to successfully catch fish; and, to me, are the perfect settings for premeditated unwinding.  Spend the evening with one of these beauties, catch fish without a worry, and ride home through a cool sky, fireflies, and the heavy chirping of peepers, and your summer is completed and defined, and your soul truly enriched.   

Originally published in the Rural Virginian  

FALL BASS: THE LATE AND GREAT

    At the close of every summer, water levels drop, rain becomes scarce, and leaves begin to wilt on the trees.  October comes, and brings with it rain; and the flaming foliage that signals the beginning of fall beckons hunters to the woods for the remaining months of the year.  With winter imminent, it’s easy to walk the expiring woods assuming that bass fishing, for the year, has pretty much come to an end.  Nothing could be further from the truth. 

    Take a trip back (time traveling is hard, but do your best to keep up) to the month of February—cold, windswept, and dreary—and try to remember your state of mind.  The out-of-doors can be described as “miserable” often.  It seems as if someday will never come, and the ice that seals the local ponds may just decide to stick around for eternity—or longer—preventing any sort of fishing, ever.  If you’re like me, you don’t have a bass boat or a depth finder, but you try anyway, rarely catching, always freezing, and suppressing your heart deeper into your body where it’s at least kept warm by the blood that’s neglecting your ears and fingers.

    Nevertheless, spring emerges from the drizzly sky and frozen ground one day in March, and hope for sanity returns.  The magic 60-degree mark is fast approaching; and bass have made the landmark decision to feed more than once in a day.

Why So Great?

    The same temperature that kicks off traditional bass fishing in the spring also occurs in the fall, albeit from the opposite direction.

    As cooling air temperatures and cold, drizzly rains become commonplace, water surface temperatures too begin to cool.  Because bass and their foodstuffs are cold-blooded organisms, consistent daytime temperatures in the mid-sixties and seventies will draw bass to the shallows, following forage following their preferred environmental temperature.

Where to Fish?

    Shallow water draws bass in the fall because of cool temperatures.  But all lakes and ponds have shallow spots, so where are the best locations?  Just as in the spring, it helps to tote a water thermometer.  Look for the coolest temperatures, or those closest 60-65 degrees.

    Coves, especially those readily accessible from the main lake, are logical locations, as they provide an easy transition from the bass’s deep summertime haunts.

    Other spots include the upper ends of ponds or lakes, or the arms fed by creeks.  Creeks provide an input of cool, oxygenated water that fosters small aquatic invertebrates, which draw baitfish, and in turn, bass.

   

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Still, fall bass fishing may require a run-and-gun technique.  As surface temperatures decline in late fall, it becomes rich in oxygen, more dense, and falls in the water column, displacing the warmer, less-oxygenated water on the bottom, which rises to the top for its turn.  This process, called a turnover, effectively oxygenates the entire water column.  This makes eliminating water difficult in some regards, but there are some rules of thumb.

    Until grassbeds and lily pads begin to recede and wither, they represent good cover.  But as cooling water stops the growth of aquatic plants and they begin to decompose, oxygen is consumed, leaving the peripheral water oxygen-depleted and uncomfortable to exist in.

    Baitfish and fingerling predator species have grown to the size of a modest meal, and are more confident in rolling about in shallow water, and even straying into open water.  The busy wakes of such prey can been observed, usually, and always represents a likely location for feeding bass.

What’s on the Menu?

    Bass, like all other animals, have to prepare nutritionally for winter.  So come late fall, “bigger meals and lots of them” becomes the dining philosophy.  As aforementioned, baitfish in this season are big meals, and there are lots of them. 

   

    Baitfish patterns—swimbaits, spinnerbaits, large streamers—are thus the best options for netting a quality sack in the fall.  Remember to pause your retrieve frequently to entice a bite, and to keep it in play as long as possible.

               

    Mid to late fall represents to many anglers a great chance to land a quality fish, but the month or more prior to the advent of winter offers strength in numbers too.  Keep an open and logical mind, and take advantage of fall’s late and great bass bite.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

FARM PONDIN'

Photo by Matt Reilly

Anybody else farm pondin'?  

Panfish have been in spawning habits for a few weeks now, and fishing for them will only heat up for the rest of May and June.  This stocky redear, a bottom feeder, took a small wet fly on a private pond, cruising grassbeds and getting ready for the spawn.