Fishing the tail end of the summer bite and the weather was perfect. The sun was out, the wind was calm, and the air temperatures were blissfully perched in the low 70’s. You think the fishing would be great? Instead we found ourselves grinding out the day and switching up baits.
Then I see Don’s fly rod bend over as he sets the hook on a brute fish. The fish hit the streamer and went straight for the weeds. Before Don could absorb all of the slack in one hand while lifting the rod with the other the fish was burrowed in deep. The line stopped moving and we both feared that the fish had spit the hook while spinning around in the thick matte.
At first Don tried to horse the fish out of the weed-muck. Then he relaxed the rod and gave the fish all the room it needed to work itself out. Lastly he pulled on the line hoping to at least salvage his rig. The heavy clump of weeds starts to slowly rise up to the boat finally giving way.
“All I see is weeds.” Don murmurs while reaching down to start picking through the weed clump for his fly pattern.
As the clump of weeds reach the surface of the water an enormous thrashing of water takes place. Don reaches his hand in the water and pulls up a fatty bass. I get him to mug it up on one photo before he quickly removes the fly and let the fish go. We chased a small “brunch-bite” for half and hour and then went back to the doldrums.
My name is Matt and I’m a fishaholic.
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