February's fishing headline act was a showstopper.
Over the last three weeks, Rusty Pruitt and I visited fished the Ouachita River for walleye and striped bass. We caught rainbow trout and chain pickerel, instead.
Meanwhile, Chris Larson of Little Rock has been in the thick of the action in a stretch of the upper Ouachita River that is accessible only to jet-powered boats and canoes. For proof, he sent a photo of Shane McClary of Maumelle, who caught and released a 20-inch smallmouth bass during one of their outings. They were chasing walleyes, too, but their consolation prizes were considerably more impressive than mine and Pruitt's.
A couple of days later, Larson, territory manager for Johnson Equipment Company, sent a text message saying that his partner for last Friday's fishing trip had cancelled, and that there was an open seat in his boat. Did I wish to join him?
"Meet me at 7:30 a.m. At the Hwy. 27 ramp," Larson said.
That was our first meeting, and we hit it off immediately. Larson and I are about the same age, with similar interests.
We are also walleye fishing proteges of the great Scott Hunter, which means we fish the same way, with the same stuff. We even use the same boat, the redoubtable War Eagle 1542.
After a long ride to the fall line where the Ouachita River meets Lake Ouachita, we made a couple of trolling passes through the hole at the fall line before continuing through a series of pools and shoals to our favorite walleye hole.
It is a long, straight pool with a sheer bluff beside a deep channel. A spring seeps down the bluff. Upstream, an electrical transmission line spans the river.
Almost every walleye I've ever caught in that hole bit at the spring seep. If you make it to the powerline without a bite, turn around and troll downstream.
We threw out Long A Bomber stickbaits. Mine was rainbow trout color. Larson used a shad pattern. My rod was a 7-foot Shakespeare ultralight and an ultralight Shakespeare spinning rod spooled with 6-pound test line.
I missed a couple of walleye bites because I was too eager.
"Don't set the hook," I muttered. "Don't even snap a wrist. Just let the fish hook himself." I was talking to myself, but Larson nodded.
"I haven't caught one this year, but my partners have," Larson said. "I ought to charge a guide fee."
On the next pass I felt a trio of thumps in my rod, and then the rod bowed under steady pressure. I swept the rod forward and up and completed the circuit.
"Fish on!" I yelled.
The fish peeled out across the river like a dragster. It took me down to the fifth wrap in about six seconds.
"He's about to spool me!" I said urgently.
Larson gunned the motor and caught up to the fish while I frantically recovered my line. After a protracted fight, I got the fish to the surface, and Larson netted it, a magnificent striped bass that weighed nearly 18 pounds on Larson's digital scale. It also bent one of the treble hooks.
We missed a few bites over the next few hours, so we powered up to the next pool. I hooked a big smallmouth that threw the bait on a jump. I am certain the same fish banged its snout on the boat trying to snatch another stickbait that hung over the bow on another rod. I hooked but lost another big striper that spit out the lure when it came to the surface.
When that hole shut down, we returned to the powerline hole.
By then the sky had cleared, and a stiff wind blew ahead of an approaching cold front. The conditions felt wrong for fishing, but Larson and I had a hunch that our fortunes were about to take a sharp uptick.
The throbbing, thumping bite of a 3-pound walleye confirmed that hunch, but it got even better. A lot better.
I hooked another striper, but this one was considerably more substantial than the first.
It nearly spooled me as well, but I could gain no leverage on this leviathan. The drag squealed nonstop as the fish took line as fast as I could recover it.
The striper took us across the pool several times, but I could not make it rise. Instead, it burrowed to the bottom and sulked until it regained its strength, and then it romped anew.
Several people on the bank watched intently, and the fish upped the ante when it decided to take us through the rapids to the pool below. The sulking/streaking routine continued as the fish gradually worked its way downstream.
One by one, I felt hooks pop free. The 15A Bomber has three treble hooks, and I was sure I was down to just one.
"It's going to take us through these rapids, too," Larson said, concerned. "This one's not a problem, but we can't go through that next set. It's too dangerous."
Finally, I got the fish to the surface. We both whooped as Larson grabbed his net, but that's when I knew I was toast.
"My net isn't big enough for that fish," Larson said. "What do you think, 25 pounds?"
"My biggest was in the mid-40s," I said. "This one's pushing 30."
With 6-pound line, an ultralight rod and an undersized net, I was completely outgunned and outclassed. I'd ride this bull as long as I could and hope for a miracle.
Miracles were not in stock that day. The fish aimed for the next set of rapids, so I braked the spool with my thumb and lifted my rod. The tip snapped upward as the line broke.
"Nicely played," Larson said. "It's nothing short of remarkable that you fought him as long as you did."
The battle lasted nearly an hour. The fish dragged us about a mile through three pools and two sets of rapids. My line started out as 6-pound test, but the fish stretched it so thin that it was probably reduced to about 1-pound.
It's not often you enjoy getting whipped, but Larson and I were exultant. We hooted, howled and high-fived, and we relived the thrill well into the evening.
"It's definitely in my top 10 best trips of all time," I said.
"I'm honored," Larson said. "And you caught a walleye. I'm telling you, I ought to charge guide fees."
Larson finally got a walleye the next day on a brown and gold Rogue, and it was a beauty. I wish I had been there to congratulate him in person.
Sports on 03/05/2017