Blueprint day

SILVER HILL — If I could make a blueprint for a perfect day, Oct. 18 would be my model.

That was a Thursday, when my son Matthew and I visited the Buffalo River for an annual fall fishing excursion.

We started late because we were concerned about a storm hitting the area. When the front finally moved out, we hastened north. Our first stop was a canoe livery on U.S. 65. The owner was doing some maintenance on the property, but he was not inclined to rent us a canoe so late in the day. Then a couple of guys from Louisiana made a most fortuitous appearance. They wanted to rent a couple of boats for a three-day float, and suddenly the outfitter warmed to the prospect of making a little unexpected money.

He dropped us off at Tyler Bend Recreation Area. Our plan was to go as far upstream as we could in the limited time available and fish back downstream. The prospects were not promising. A high-pressure front following the storm brought a fierce northwest wind. That meant battling a very strong headwind. That wasn’t a navigational issue, because we had such little distance to cover, but I worried about what it and the high barometric pressure would do to the fishing.

If it didn’t pan out, we still had the afternoon to enjoy the spectacular scenery. The autumn foliage was about a week away from peaking, but the ridgetops were ablaze with the smoldering reds of the oaks, the celebratory yellow of the hickories and the blended oranges and reds of the sweet gums. Sycamores also shone bright gold, but many along the stream bank had already turned brown. The light was harsh and glaring, but we knew it would soften in the evening, and color would melt over the countryside like oils on canvas.

I suspected smallmouth bass would stay close to deep cover, which meant we’d have to put something right in front of them if we hoped for bites. Softplastic Zoom Tiny Lizards in watermelon/red flake are always our first choice in that department, but the wind made fishing a traditional Texas rig very difficult. It’s hard to cast it very far into the wind, and the wind also pounds against your line and rod, sapping its sensitivity and making it almost impossible to stay in contact with the bait.

My solution was a drop shot rig. I attached a heavy Sipsey sinker to the terminal end and spliced an 18-inch dropper line about a foot above the sinker. That decision was money. You can cast a drop shot like a bullet into the wind or against the wind, and its weight prevents the wind from bowing the line. Best of all, a fish doesn’t feel the resistance of the sinker when it bites because the bait floats freely on the dropper line.

Our first stop was at a hole where we always catch fish. It’s a deep run below a feeder creek with a wide eddy. I cast the drop shot upstream, felt it hit the bottom and reeled in slack as the sinker bounced in the current along the bottom. If it stopped, I lifted my rod tip to pull it off the bottom and let it bounce over the obstacle. If it was a fish, it wouldn’t yield. It just felt like mush weight. I quickly got a strike, a very hard thump from a disproportionately small smallmouth. The next one was bigger, about 10 inches, and the next one was about 12 inches. Matthew came up and fished with me, and we ended our time at that spot with six smallies.

We continued to another pool and caught six or seven more from another deep, rocky seam near the bank. I caught one 12-inch smallmouth fishing from the bank, and two larger smallies followed it to shore trying to snatch the lizard from my victim’s mouth.

Although it’s October, the water was an ideal temperature for wade fishing. I knew I would probably regret that later in the evening when the sun went down, but I couldn’t resist.

Our last stop was at a pool about halfway to Baker Ford. It is very deep and very rocky, with a signature boulder in the middle of the stream near the tail. The drop shot is perfect for getting a lizard into deep cover, and I caught three before we continued downstream.

As I hoped, the wind died in the evening. Fish weren’t hitting the drop shot as well as before, so I tied on a crankbait. That didn’t feel right, and the fish ignored it. I tied on a Heddon Torpedo, but that didn’t feel right, either. I went to my go-to bait, a small Rebel Pop “R” in shad color. The finish on this particular lure is worn from so many bass strikes, but this was its grandest performance yet. I cast it near a tree, popped it three times real quick and waited. It looked like a depth charge detonating as a 16-inch smallmouth engulfed it. I caught another, and then another.

“It’s fun to catch a fish on anything,” I said, “but there’s nothing that beats catching them on topwaters.”

Matthew missed a strike and asked about the technique.

“You have to resist setting the hook on the boil,” I said. “It’s hard, but as often as not you’ll pull it right away from the fish. If you miss, it’s over. He won’t strike again. Wait until he takes it down, and then haul back on your rod and bust him.”

I missed the next fish, but it continued to chase the bait as I retrieved it. After the fourth strike, I stopped the bait, and the bass pounced on it.

“Of course,” I said, setting the hook, “there’s always an exception to every rule.”

“Does that look like something they actually eat, or do they just want to kill it?” Matthew asked.

“It splashes and makes noise. It must die!”

The last fish was my 20th. Matthew caught three, and we missed about seven more. They quit biting as soon as the last ray of sunlight departed from the water’s surface. And then it got very cold, and I regretted my wade fishing indulgence.

Who am I kidding? I didn’t regret it one bit.