hookedonbass
05-04-2009, 09:32 AM
Hardin: A rare chance to educate a new angler
Sunday, May 3, 2009
By Ed Hardin
Staff Writer
The first cast of the season wasn't all that smooth. The line jerked and grabbed as it spooled from the reel for the first time in four months. And the worm didn't plop quietly under the targeted limb. Instead, it splashed down five yards short and five yards wide.
I cursed under my breath and pulled some more line out before clicking the reel shut.
"(Expletive) amateur," I muttered, looking over at the boy on the side of the pond a few feet away. He had a mess on his hands. I put down my rod and walked toward him.
The first fishing trip of this season wasn't that big a deal. A friend called and asked if I wanted to join him and his son for an evening of bass fishing at a hidden pond a few miles out of town. I had nothing better to do.
"Sure," I said.
"Good," he replied. "Can you go pick up my son?"
Spring fishing in North Carolina is about the same as it is anywhere in the South. Farm ponds vary in size and depth, but generally the rules of nature dictate common strategies. When the dogwoods are in bloom, the bass are biting. When the pond has been undisturbed for a long time, the bass will bite anything. When in doubt, throw a plastic worm.
So it was an easy decision to go, an easy decision to start with a worm and a good day to teach a young boy how to cast a spinning rod.
I knew as soon as his father arrived he would begin to confuse the kid, telling his son the opposite of everything I'd just told him, eventually tangling his brain like a bird nest of fishing line. So I kept to the basics, clipped the line off where he'd already managed to wrap it around the reel a few hundred times and re-strung the instrument.
"Hold the rod like this," I said, grabbing the handle with one hand wrapped around the base of the under-hanging reel. "Flip the reel open like this and hold the line with your finger."
The boy did everything perfectly.
"Now let about a foot and a half of line out, pull the rod tip back sidearm to about four o'clock and bring it back through on the same line, releasing your finger and pointing the rod tip at your target," I said.
He seemed to take it all in, even looped the bait once like he'd seen me do without mentioning it. I cast like Guy Eaker because he's the best caster I've ever seen. I smiled as I walked back toward my rod, still on the ground but not quite where I left it. I stopped in my tracks and watched it. Sure enough, the entire rod edged toward the water as I leaned down to pick it up.
Instinctively, I opened the reel again and pulled a little line out, holding it in my fingers to feel what was on the other end. Immediately, the line started stripping, a little at first and then a lot.
Worm fishing is an art form of the South. As boys, we're taught to fish with live worms and then we graduate to the world of spinning rigs and artificial bait. No two men ever tell you the same thing. A bass will pick up a worm and suck it into his mouth, letting it wallow in there for a second. They actually like the feel of it. Then slowly, they swim off with the worm all bunched up in their mouth.
I was taught to pull when the fish pulls and relax when the fish relaxes. Others are taught to let the fish inhale the thing before setting the hook. This kills most fish, which is something else I was taught early. Catch it, admire it and then release it alive.
The fish tugged slightly, then tugged again and again. And then&ellipses;
Yank!
I set the hook, holding the rod tip up until I felt the fish on the other end, then I began to reel him out of the brush. The fish surfaced immediately, splashing out of the stained water and back in like a depth charge. He was less than two pounds, but he'd been pulled from his spring slumber and was in a bad mood.
The fish fought for every turn of the reel, every inch between him and the bank. The line sliced through the water as he darted from one side of the lagoon to the other, trying in vain to shake the hook from his jaw. I tired him out and brought him to the edge, where I leaned down and lipped him, removing the hook with a pair of needle-nose pliers, then holding him up so the boy could see.
He was standing there with another bird nest, the reel barely visible inside the ball of fishing line. He had a sheepish look on his face. I put the bass back into the water just as a car door slammed behind us. It was the boy's dad.
I thought about walking over to the boy again, but I decided to let his father handle this one.
"What in the world have you done?" he said walking down the hill. "Is this what he's teaching you?"
I rolled my eyes and tossed the second cast of the season perfectly under the targeted branch. My work was done. It was fishing season.
http://www.news-record.com/content/2009/05/03/article/ed_hardinaposs_column_a_rare_chance_to_educate_a_n ew_angler
Sunday, May 3, 2009
By Ed Hardin
Staff Writer
The first cast of the season wasn't all that smooth. The line jerked and grabbed as it spooled from the reel for the first time in four months. And the worm didn't plop quietly under the targeted limb. Instead, it splashed down five yards short and five yards wide.
I cursed under my breath and pulled some more line out before clicking the reel shut.
"(Expletive) amateur," I muttered, looking over at the boy on the side of the pond a few feet away. He had a mess on his hands. I put down my rod and walked toward him.
The first fishing trip of this season wasn't that big a deal. A friend called and asked if I wanted to join him and his son for an evening of bass fishing at a hidden pond a few miles out of town. I had nothing better to do.
"Sure," I said.
"Good," he replied. "Can you go pick up my son?"
Spring fishing in North Carolina is about the same as it is anywhere in the South. Farm ponds vary in size and depth, but generally the rules of nature dictate common strategies. When the dogwoods are in bloom, the bass are biting. When the pond has been undisturbed for a long time, the bass will bite anything. When in doubt, throw a plastic worm.
So it was an easy decision to go, an easy decision to start with a worm and a good day to teach a young boy how to cast a spinning rod.
I knew as soon as his father arrived he would begin to confuse the kid, telling his son the opposite of everything I'd just told him, eventually tangling his brain like a bird nest of fishing line. So I kept to the basics, clipped the line off where he'd already managed to wrap it around the reel a few hundred times and re-strung the instrument.
"Hold the rod like this," I said, grabbing the handle with one hand wrapped around the base of the under-hanging reel. "Flip the reel open like this and hold the line with your finger."
The boy did everything perfectly.
"Now let about a foot and a half of line out, pull the rod tip back sidearm to about four o'clock and bring it back through on the same line, releasing your finger and pointing the rod tip at your target," I said.
He seemed to take it all in, even looped the bait once like he'd seen me do without mentioning it. I cast like Guy Eaker because he's the best caster I've ever seen. I smiled as I walked back toward my rod, still on the ground but not quite where I left it. I stopped in my tracks and watched it. Sure enough, the entire rod edged toward the water as I leaned down to pick it up.
Instinctively, I opened the reel again and pulled a little line out, holding it in my fingers to feel what was on the other end. Immediately, the line started stripping, a little at first and then a lot.
Worm fishing is an art form of the South. As boys, we're taught to fish with live worms and then we graduate to the world of spinning rigs and artificial bait. No two men ever tell you the same thing. A bass will pick up a worm and suck it into his mouth, letting it wallow in there for a second. They actually like the feel of it. Then slowly, they swim off with the worm all bunched up in their mouth.
I was taught to pull when the fish pulls and relax when the fish relaxes. Others are taught to let the fish inhale the thing before setting the hook. This kills most fish, which is something else I was taught early. Catch it, admire it and then release it alive.
The fish tugged slightly, then tugged again and again. And then&ellipses;
Yank!
I set the hook, holding the rod tip up until I felt the fish on the other end, then I began to reel him out of the brush. The fish surfaced immediately, splashing out of the stained water and back in like a depth charge. He was less than two pounds, but he'd been pulled from his spring slumber and was in a bad mood.
The fish fought for every turn of the reel, every inch between him and the bank. The line sliced through the water as he darted from one side of the lagoon to the other, trying in vain to shake the hook from his jaw. I tired him out and brought him to the edge, where I leaned down and lipped him, removing the hook with a pair of needle-nose pliers, then holding him up so the boy could see.
He was standing there with another bird nest, the reel barely visible inside the ball of fishing line. He had a sheepish look on his face. I put the bass back into the water just as a car door slammed behind us. It was the boy's dad.
I thought about walking over to the boy again, but I decided to let his father handle this one.
"What in the world have you done?" he said walking down the hill. "Is this what he's teaching you?"
I rolled my eyes and tossed the second cast of the season perfectly under the targeted branch. My work was done. It was fishing season.
http://www.news-record.com/content/2009/05/03/article/ed_hardinaposs_column_a_rare_chance_to_educate_a_n ew_angler