Timing is everything in hunting and fishing.
I've been chasing walleyes and striped bass on Lake Ouachita for much of February, but my timing was wrong, including a recent trip with Chris Larson of Roland. Thankfully, largemouth bass saved that day.
A few days later, Bill Eldridge and I took the War Eagle to the upper reaches of Lake Ouachita. Warm and rainy, it was a great day to fish, but I dragged my heels early, when the fishing would have been best. By the time Eldridge and I hit the water, the rain had passed and the fish didn't bite.
Even fishless trips sometimes generate good intel, not to mention valuable experience navigating treacherous waters. The part of Lake Ouachita above the Hwy. 27 Bridge is definitely not a place for the timid or unitiated. The channel is narrow and winding, with all kinds of hard things under the surface to shear a propeller and ruin an outboard motor's lower unit. There is, for example, a hole known as the "Car Body" somewhere around there, so named because of the submerged automobile. I haven't found it yet, and I hope I don't.
Fortunately, my War Eagle is a sturdy, shallow-draught boat that floats in mere inches of water. It's not as risky as going upstream in Larson's deep-V Lund, but it's not foolproof, either.
Take the little pinch point near the fall line where the channel snakes between two big snags. It looks like the current flows to one side, but veering to that side introduce you to the sound of a prop grinding against gravel and rocks. When you recover, you're likely to spin against one of the snags and get into some real trouble.
The actual channel is barely a boat's width, and it requires a bit of a pirouette to make the turn.
I hooked and lost one striper with Eldridge, and we did not boat a fish.
A couple of days later, Larson texted and said he and his friend Shane McClary of Maumelle hit paydirt at the fall line. Larson caught two big female walleyes, and McClary caught a striper.
"The walleyes were full of eggs," Larson said. "I felt sort of guilty about killing them until I remembered how many trips I caught zero."
Then he texted me a photo of walleye fillets in a skillet.
I couldn't stand it. I had to try again.
On Tuesday I launched at the Hwy. 27 ramp. Channeling the spirit of our late friend and mentor Scott Hunter, I picked that moment -- with the boat already in the water -- to ask myself if I had enough gas to make the trip. I picked up my fuel tank, sloshed its contents from one side to the other and assessed the weight. If I managed it right, I might have enough fuel to reach my spot, make five pulls through the hole and get the boat back on the trailer.
To conserve fuel, I went slow on the ascent, which squandered valuable time in a aging afternoon. Because of rain, the current was very strong in the upper reaches. It had cut two surging channels across the vast gravel bar at the fall line, and the water was the color of chocolate milk.
You need a bright lure in such deeply stained water, so I reached for one of Hunter's favorites, a Long A Bomber in firetiger pattern.
My first pull through the hole produced nothing, and when I reached the sluice at the fall line, it took a considerable amount of throttle just to keep the boat stationary.
Feathering the boat around in the current, I went to the end of the pool and repositioned for another pull. This time, I trolled to one side of the channel, which put the lure directly in the channel.
I felt multiple tugs on the lure until it burrowed into something solid, either a fish or a log. I swept the rod slowly forward and then raised it when the tip pointed toward the bow.
Hallelujah, I hooked a striper! Judging by the way it tore downstream, it was a big one, too. My drag was set perfectly, and the spool fed out line with a winchy wheeze as the fish surged toward the rapids at the far end of the pool.
Engaging the motor, I outran the fish and caused it to turn back upstream. It made several valiant runs, but it was no match for my rig, a big game rig which I assembled for redfish and snook in the Gulf of Mexico.
Eventually the fish tired, but it was too big for my net. Taking care to keep my hands free of the Bomber's treble hooks, I clamped my fist into the striper's jaw as it finned beside the boat. It went berserk, and it took some doing to hoist a thrashing, 20-plus pound mass of muscle over the gunwale. I took a couple of photos and released the fish.
Two more pulls produced no bites. Again I weighed my fuel tank. It was much lighter now, and I seriously considered forgoing the fifth pull. I couldn't. I came to fish. I'd use the trolling motor to get back to the ramp if necessary.
The fifth pull was fruitless, as well. I feathered out of the sluice at the top of the pool and drifted past a rock. I cast the Bomber into the eddy behind the rock, and a fish slammed it near the surface. I thought it was a largemouth, so I jerked the lure under the surface hoping for another hit.
I got one, and it was another striper, about 12-13 pounds. It didn't fight as hard or as long. I released it after a photo, too.
After drifting through the treacherous pinch point, I jammed the throttle and headed downstream.
I had just enough fuel left to get the boat on the trailer.
Sports on 02/25/2018