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Top-Water Jammy Jam, A Redemption Story

646 views 12 replies 9 participants last post by  polebender 
#1 · (Edited)
PART I - As a general rule, I fish better when I'm out on my own. (Everyone I fish with knows this about me, as I'm routinely out-fished and a sore loser at that.) To that end, despite an intense lobbying effort on the part of my dear friend Fritz - real name withheld so as to not piss him off if he sees this post - who very much desired to accompany me on an early May trip to LSC, I stood my ground and said, "No thanks." When asked why, I was up front with him and stated that for five-hundred dollars - guide fee plus hotel - I want all the fish to myself. However, in the interest in preserving good relations, I booked a second trip to the Motor City.

Fritz and I are both extremely competitive, talk a lot of smack, but the sad fact for me is that Fritz is the better angler. He's one of those guys who's good at whatever he does, whereas I'm one of those guys who has to work at it. For me, there's nothing more frustrating than not catching fish while the other guy is catching them all, especially when we are both fishing the exact same pattern, under the tutelage of an expert guide and former elite pro. (WTF am I doing wrong here?!?) Knowing all of this, I agreed to the second trip anyway and swore to myself that this time I wouldn't let him get in my head and beat me. This trip, I would reign supreme.

We arrived at the Hampton this past Sunday, had a nice dinner and (too many) drinks with my college roommate who lives near LSC, and returned to the hotel around ten o'clock. Reluctantly, I had agreed to share a room with Fritz at the Hampton - a point of pride of his is saving money wherever he can, despite what sacrifices it may entail - and, although I did not realize it at the time, that decision would seal my fate for our day on the water...

"Oh sh*t."

"What?"

"I forgot the chinstrap to my CPAP."

As it turned out, since our last road trip to Erie this past fall, totally unbeknownst to me, Fritz was diagnosed with sleep apnea--information that undoubtedly would have proven helpful to me three weeks earlier when I gave in and agreed to share a room. Luckily, I brought a couple pairs of earplugs "just in case" and handed Fritz a pair so he wouldn't have to hear ME snore.

"Thanks, dude."

"Yep."

Fritz inserted the foam plugs into his ears, popped an Ambien, stripped down to his skivvies, and hit the sack. I did the same.

"Try not to molest me while I'm sleeping," I cracked as I reached over and switched off the lamp.

And everything went quiet for about ten minutes. Then, it started: The LOUDEST snoring I have ever heard.

I laid there for about an hour, enduring this veritable symphony of chainsaws and other gas-powered landscaping implements, before realizing that this cacophony could go on all night and that if I didn't do SOMETHING, I wouldn't get a wink of sleep, which would make for a miserable eight hours on the boat.

So I dragged my bedding into the bathroom, made up a little make-shift sleeping area on the floor between the toilet and bathtub, and did my best to try to fall asleep. Despite my best efforts, however, this incredible sound, like gamma rays from the nuclear reactor otherwise known as Fritz's nose and throat, easily penetrated the bathroom wall and I grew increasingly desperate over the probability that I would be getting no sleep at all. If I could have clicked my heals three times like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz - "there's no place like Grove City, there's no place like Grove City, there's no place like Grove City" - I would have done it in an instant. Screw this trip; I just wanted to be home in my own bed.

Done with this, I lifted myself off the bathroom floor, grabbed up the bedding, walked back into the bedroom, and just stood there, looking at Fritz who continued snoring away without a care in the world, dreaming about big bronze no doubt. The digital clock read two-thirty and we had to be "up" at six. F me.

I dropped the pile of sheets, blanket, and comforter on the bed and then, for no particular reason whatsoever, put on my shorts and t-shirt, grabbed my phone and wallet, and exited the room. I stepped off the elevator and walked into the lobby and right up to the night manager. Without a thought, I briefed her on my dire predicament and asked if it would be okay to sleep in the lobby. She said, "I don't front, so you good" to which I responded in a zombie-like monotone, "Thank you."

I walked into the lounge area looking for a place to collapse and found a padded bench that I could curl up on, which is where I laid, mostly awake, until five o'clock, which is when the night-manager asked me to vacate the lobby since she needed to prepare the complimentary breakfast. So I returned to the room and waited out that last remaining hour, wide-awake, listening to Fritz snore. And, to put a weird twist on the story thus far, once the sun came up and the room brightened, I noticed spots of blood on one of my pillows and was shocked to see three distinct slash marks on my stomach, each about three inches long. "Great," I thought. "Even Freddy Krueger's trying to ruin my trip."

On the way to the marina, following several apologies for forgetting the chin strap - I told him it was okay and not to worry about it - Fritz told me that after his sleep-study, the doctor told him that his snoring, at thirty-two decibels, was the loudest he'd ever recorded. Figures, I thought to myself...while yawning like a hippopotamus. Totally figures.

PART II - Fritz out-fished me, again, and out-fished our guide. I held my own in the morning, mainlining caffeine, but faded rapidly in the afternoon. Overwhelmed by fatigue and exhaustion, apathy set in and I stopped catching fish. Maybe the bass sensed my bad attitude, but I just didn't have it in me to keep up, let alone compete. By the time noon rolled around, I no longer gave a damn, but still had four hours to go.

But I fished on, kept my mouth shut, and counted down the minutes until I could step off that Ranger, which had turned into my prison for the day. When the time finally came to wrap it up, Fritz, after landing his fourteenth and last bass of the day - yes, he got a bass on his announced last cast of the day - leaned over and asked me if it would be cool to ask our guide if, for a hundred bucks, he'd be willing to stay out a couple more hours. I looked him right in the eye and said, "No. I want off this damn boat."

On the drive back to Ohio, I couldn't escape the feeling that I might have reached a breaking point with my fishing. Not only had Fritz beat me hands down, but I derived no pleasure from the seven fish I did catch, including what may have been my biggest smallmouth to date (pictured). There was no thrill, and no enjoyment to the experience.

What's more is that the mere thought of dipping a line in the water made me queasy. And I couldn't even fathom another guided trip on LSC, or any other lake for that matter. Once again, my confidence was blown, but immediately following this particularly disastrous trip, I wasn't even sure I wanted to continue fishing. Something inside felt broken; but, fully aware of my exhausted state, I didn't want to prematurely jump to any conclusions, and so I kept these thoughts to myself.

When I finally made it back home, I relayed this latest fishing/horror story to my wife, and, once my head hit the pillow, I slept for fifteen hours straight, curled up with the original Deazl, my eleven-year-old great dane.

PART III - And so it was with great trepidation that I got organized Tuesday night for a Wednesday wade. Would my bruised ego be able to handle the ups and downs of another day on the water? What if I lose a huge fish? Or get skunked? I could just see myself breaking a rod over my knee or chucking it into the drink. I didn't think I could take another hit, but getting back to basics and spending a day alone on the river seemed like a sensible way to go about getting back on the proverbial horse.

Still feeling somewhat spent, emotionally, I hit my most reliable spot and noticed immediately bass feeding in the runs, which I hadn't seen happen yet this year. Perfect, I thought. The water was lower and warmer than it has been, so I tied on a Heddon Torpedo, hoping for a top-water explosion.

Quietly I got myself into position, just above a narrow run between two islands, and dropped the torpedo in the small section of slack water just above the run. The bass hit immediately and took off behind the island closest to me and was headed fast down stream. I bounded into the water and high-stepped it across the riffle. "No way am I losing you," I said out loud to myself as I knelt down, reached across the narrow island, and grabbed the big female by the mouth, just as she was digging into the muck to dislodge the hook.

There is perhaps nothing so thrilling as crushing smallmouth topwater, but this catch couldn't have come at a better time and I realized in that moment, as I held up and gazed upon that single fish, that I love doing this and that despite the occasional horrible trip, I am hooked for life. More fish followed on Wednesday and Friday, as the top-water smallmouth jammy jam of 2016 kicked into high gear and restored my faith in my ability to target and catch big fish.

With all that being said, and despite two great wades later in the week, I can't help but wonder if I would have been better off if I had been more generous and invited Fritz on the trip I took by myself. I like to say I'm not superstitious and that I don't believe in karma, but it's experiences like this that do make me wonder.
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#2 ·
Dang, sorry to hear about what should've been an excellent trip. Sometimes I can't sleep and I'll lay there worrying about work the next morning. I'll get so anxious it'll wake me right up and I'll toss and turn for what seems like hours. Still, you caught a heck of a smallie and looks like your solo wade might've been enough to forget about trip atleast for a brief period while you were on the water.
 
#3 ·
Haha,i can totally relate man. Same city,same lake,lol but two sleap acne patients in same room with no masks. Bathrooms suck to sleep in,lol except when i tried sleeping in the lobby a cat fight between two drunk girls broke out at 4 am=-O ........ lol makes for a long trip. Glad u caught a few!!!!!
 
#7 ·
Deadl, I mean this honestly and sincerely you should look into becoming and outdoor writer.
but I'm still looking forward to reading about one of your adventures on the river I have never forgot about the leeches or about the Bigfoot,and more than anything I can't wait to read about what will top them
 
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#9 ·
Sorry to hear about the obstacles encountered on your trip, but looks like the fishing was good once you were back home. I have to admit my best fishing is done solo. I like heading out with fishing acquaintances/friends, but when I am solo it is easier to move around and explore as needed. Great story and catches.
 
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#10 ·
Well, if fritz can't figure out who your speaking about from that post......

One day when your book, "the little deazl that could," comes out I am going to start reading it to my kids at bed time. It will likely give then nightmares, laughs, and a healthy appreciation for good old dad.

Until then I will skillfully try to avoid being a part or chapter in said book. We need to get out soon.
 
#13 ·
It's really sad to think that when you're getting ready to go a fishing trip, that you're thinking you're not going to have a good time. Try to enjoy fishing trips with your friends and not be competitive! Enjoy the day, enjoy the fishing, and enjoy the friendship! Does it really matter who catches more fish! It will be so much more gratifying to you!
The time to be competitive is when you fish alone! It's just you against the fish! The challenge! Can you figure them out?!
 
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