The Ole "One That Got Away"

The alarm buzzed at 3 a.m. in Wilmington, Delaware. I got up, dressed, and grabbed a few items that I didn't want to leave in my car overnight before hitting the road. I'm heading east north east to the promised land of smallmouth bass fishing: the Susquehanna. Along the way, I am passed through the "wedge" between Pennsylvania, Maryland, and Delaware and into Amish country. After about an hour of driving, I made a pit stop at the last Wawa on the route for some coffee and a breakfast sandwich. I was early enough that the night crew hadn't refilled all of the coffee containers. I was left settling for their "Regular" flavor that may have been sitting there from the prior day. It was tasty nonetheless. Leaving Wawa's territory, I drove on down the highway entering Sheetz territory. Rural Pennsylvania has a very different vibe, but also one I am familiar with. I was raised in Sheetz territory. At the end of the drive, I stopped at a riverside Sheetz to provision ice, lunch, and drinks for the day's float. I made it to the launch at sunrise and began the process of preparing the watermaster, rods, and the rig. I took extra caution to remember everything and to keep it concise. An Uber shuttle awaited and I needed to be dialed for immediate extraction. 

The float produced some epic topwater action in low water and high sun. It was the type of session where you tie on one fly and it stays on the entire day. The materials slowly become battered and worn from the eats and the sandpaper like grooves of a bass's lips until it resembles a shell of its original glory. About a half dozen smallies in the 17-19" range come to hand before it all shuts down in the afternoon. After the lull, I found myself at the end of the float and in a section of water I know well. It typically produces some of the largest smallmouth of the year. A week earlier, my friend Hunter lost a giant boat side. He had flown in from Idaho and was left with stunned silence after the encounter. Apparently, my brother had somewhat botched the net job and the bass popped off. After hearing the story, I razzed Matt pretty hard. In hindsight, I should have been a little more empathetic, but he is my brother after all, and that is what we do. 

I wasn't thinking of karma, the ribbing, or the potential consequences when I anchored my watermaster upriver and across from a juicy underwater log on a deep inside bend. I stood up on the seat and casted my topwater dragon pattern about 50 ft. and stopped my rod tip hard and high to cause my fly to accelerate downward to create a loud "plop". Almost immediately, a mouth and a large back of a smallmouth bass arched across the top of the water and ate the fly. I set the hook into chaos as the bass blitzed downriver and straight towards a large logjam. In my experiences, I'm able to put the breaks on smallmouth and immediately hold them and begin the process of stripping in line. I find it pretty rare for a smallmouth to push towards the backing on a screaming run, but this bass had the cards tilted in its favor and the size to kick my ass. I had to initiate more drag, also rare, and pull off some steelhead maneuvers to stop the bass from entering the log jam. I did and got a nice sense of the size of the fish when my St. Croix Tannic Bass got absolutely corked under the strain. Sensing the brakes, the bass turned and blitzed back upriver causing me to panic and reel in line as fast as I could. When I caught back up, the bass erupted from the water, shaking its head violently side to side like a Key West tarpon rattling it's gill plates in an effort to dislodge the hook. After another jump, the bass dug deep, gator rolling in the current, as I got it closer and closer to my view. Faced with a choice between lifting the anchor and staying put, I decided to draw a line in the sand. Standing solo on an anchored watermaster fighting the largest smallmouth I've ever hooked doesn't grant the luxury of someone maneuvering the boat or using a large net to reach for an extended landing. Advantage big smallmouth. When I got it in close, my tennis elbow forearm was absolutely cooked from the day of casting, landing, and lifting anchor.  Straining, I grabbed my net with my other hand and attempted a landing. From a squatted position I reached out as far as I could as I lifted my rod hand skyward. The bass skirted along the rim of my Rising net revealing the full extent of its size and weight before bolting on another run and another jump. It was at that moment that the fly shifted in its mouth and the negative thoughts of "I'm not landing this bass anymore" infiltrated my mind. Rather than take my time, I panicked and brought her in for another landing attempt with the fly hanging on by a thread. This time, the bass was seemingly halfway down the hoop when a last ditch headshake popped the fly and the bass somehow escaped. I collapsed in the silent aftermath. 

I've caught some big bass over the last few years. Two 22s and a 21.5" that were just absolute hogs. I've lost some other units that kept me up at night. This smallmouth bass was different. Dare I say, "once in a lifetime". When I finally mustered myself up to make another cast, a nice smallie emerged from a log jam and sipped my dragonfly. I scoffed at the moment and the brief fight as I stripped the bass immediately into the net from the same exact position as my prior encounter. Out of curiosity, I measured the fish that did absolutely nothing to erase what had just happened. It was 18.5". An amazing specimen that would make many fly angler's seasons. For me, I was left with the hope that the giant bass I'd just encountered would live another year and that its territoriality would bring it back to the same spot next spring. I'll be there, hoping for redemption. Until then, I will be haunted by the image...