Forever hooked

Ones that got away, those that didn’t cast spell

Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/BRYAN HENDRICKS
Fighting and landing this 31-inch snook at St. Petersburg, Fla., with Tyson Wallerstein was one of the writer's most memorable fishing experiences. It ranks with the 19-pound striper he caught with Mark Roberts, pictured, with
an ultralight baitcasting rig on the upper Ouachita River in March 2009 at a spot called "Striper Corner."
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette/BRYAN HENDRICKS Fighting and landing this 31-inch snook at St. Petersburg, Fla., with Tyson Wallerstein was one of the writer's most memorable fishing experiences. It ranks with the 19-pound striper he caught with Mark Roberts, pictured, with an ultralight baitcasting rig on the upper Ouachita River in March 2009 at a spot called "Striper Corner."

All it took was one kiss of spring to fire my fishing boiler, and that got me thinking of my most memorable fish.

I could write a series on this topic, but I’ll keep it simple and limit it to five.

KING MACKEREL

In 1974, my dad chartered a trip in the Gulf of Mexico at Panama City, Fla.

He spurned all the flashy, shiny boats at that particular marina in favor of a weathered, less prosperous looking boat. He reasoned that a captain of such a boat would be interested in actually catching fish, while the others were just in it to make a buck. I don’t know how he reached that conclusion. That was just Dad.

Other than fishing creeks and ponds near my home, and the occasional luckless outings with Dad to Lake Maumelle, my exposure to fishing was scant. Fishing in the Gulf was an adventure, but Dad was not as amused with the earthy, coarse-talking skipper as I was.

I don’t remember the rig. It was some kind of dead bait with spinners and a bright skirt, but I remember well the sting that pulsed through the rod when the first kingfish struck.

The skipper coached me through the fight. Pump and reel, pump and reel.

The fish took out more line than I took in. My strength faded until I quit working and just held on. My arms and shoulders burned, and I cried from frustration. Dad reached for the reel, but the skipper pounced on deck like a cat. He opened his pocketknife and said, “Touch that rod, and I’ll cut the line. That boy will land that fish by himself.”

The air crackled with tension. Nobody talked to my dad that way, but to my astonishment he stepped aside. I was honor bound to land the fish.

It was only a 14-pounder, but it was nearly a quarter of my own weight. Cheers erupted all around when the first mate finally gaffed the fish and hoisted it aboard. I caught an 11-pounder shortly after, but I remember that first one like it was yesterday.

So began my lifelong love affair with fishing.

STEELHEAD

I didn’t actually land this fish, but I still daydream about it 39 years later.

It occurred in the Snake River, near Jackson Hole, Wyo., just a week after the Panama City/King Mackerel adventure.

Anticipating some trout fishing, Dad bought me a Berkley spinning rig and a handful of lures, including a Mepps Comet inline spinnerbait. It’s similar to the famous Mepps Aglia, but with a soft-plastic minnow in the body.

It was a cold, blustery day in the Grand Tetons when we pulled into a parking area beside a bridge spanning the Snake. Dad and I fished together until the cold, wet wind forced him back to the car where his coffee and cigarettes waited.

The Snake was high and swift from the spring thaw. I threw my lure as far as I could, let the current take out 100yards or so of line and reeled slowly upstream. I did that for about an hour without result until a violent strike wrenched me from my doldrums.

Way downriver a giant fish rocketed out of the water once, twice, three times. There was too much out to drive the hooks home. After the third leap, the line went slack and my Comet came home alone.

I never mentioned it to my dad.

LITTLE RED TROUT

This is another fish I didn’t actually land, but it haunts my dreams.

It was in late October 1992 on the Little Red River at John F. Kennedy Park, below Greers Ferry Dam.

I was fishing alone at night under a bright moon with a spinning rig and a Size 0 black Mepps Aglia. Fish weren’t biting, and I was lost in my thoughts as I cast the lure and reeled it slowly across the pool. Occasionally the lure snagged on moss, and I jerked it free before resuming the retrieve.

It hit an obstruction for the umpteenth time, but this time when I yanked, the lure yanked back. So hard, in fact, that it almost yanked the rod out of my hand.

No more than 10 feet away, a giant trout launched skyward, danced on its tail and crashed back to the water. My drag squealed as the fish sped downriver. It went 20 yards and tailwalked again, then went another 20 or 30 yards and tailwalked a third time.

Line evaporated off the spool until I saw bare metal. Then, I saw the knot. I was about five wraps from getting spooled, and then it would be over.

I hauled back on the rod. The tip quivered like a seismograph needle and finally sprang back. A sharp crack echoed off the hillside when the line snapped. The fish jumped in the distance. With a final shake, it launched the lure. I saw its blade glitter in the moonlight as it arced over the water. The fish crashed back to the water, and all went deathly quiet.

I sank to my knees as my stomach tied itself in knots.

ST. PETE SNOOK

In 2008, I fished with guide Tyson Wallerstein in the canals of St. Petersburg, Fla., near the Don CeSar Hotel. Also in the boat was Bill AuCoin of St. Petersburg and Ron Henry Strait, the former outdoors columnist for the San Antonio Express-News. We had to catch flights back home in just a few hours, so Strait napped while I fished.

We caught speckled trout and puppy drum off various docks until we came to one dock that had an empty but brightly lit boat slip. Tyson put a live threadfin on the hook and told me to pitch it right into the center of the light.

I made a perfect pitch and, as Strait wrote in his column, “All hell broke loose.”

The strike felt like I’d hooked a police car chasing a speeder. The rod doubled over as the straining drag screeched.

“Don’t let him get to that piling or he’ll wrap around it and break off!” Wallerstein said.

There was no margin of error in such tight quarters. Eventually, I managed to horse the fish into open water until Wallerstein netted it. It was a 31-inch snook, a “career snook,” as AuCoin called it.

During the fight, the homeowner and some friends came to the dock to watch. WhenI boated the snook, they clapped and congratulated me. Then, they turned out the lights.

Congratulations, now beat it!

ULTRALIGHT STRIPER

My second-biggest striper weighed 19 pounds, but it’s one of my favorites for many reasons.

I caught it on the Ouachita River above Lake Ouachita in March 2009 while fishing with Mark Roberts.

I had just started treatment for rectal cancer. I was weak from radiation therapy, and I was hooked up to a bottle of chemotherapy that was stuffed in my shirt pocket. I was battling a bad case of pneumonia, and I felt like I was dying, but at least I’d go out doing something fun.

We were fishing for walleyes, but Roberts had beached his jetboat on a shoal at a place known locally as Striper Corner to rectify a tackle malfunction.

While Roberts worked, I cast a Long A Bomber stickbait into the river where the current formed an eddy. I used an ultralight baitcasting rig with 6-pound test line.

I quit jerking the bait when I turned to say something to Roberts. The lure bobbed to the surface, and it disappeared in a crashing boil. There was no doubt it was a striper, and it was equipped with nitrous oxide and a turbocharger.

Roberts started the motor and got the boat into the river so that we could keep up with the fish. It had nowhere to go, so I took my time and let my little ultralight work its magic.

The striper straightened out three prongs of two treble hooks. With a little more time, it would have pulled free.

That’s the kind of stuff I live for.

Sports, Pages 30 on 02/16/2014

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