The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Conesus Lake is the western-most Finger Lake in New York State. It's 8 miles long (at its widest, 1 mile), covers 3,420 acres, and the maximum depth is about 66 feet. It's known as a big-fish lake, as well as a finicky one. You can fish a tournament one day that will require 20-plus pounds to win it, then fish another contest a few days later, with the same weather conditions, and only need 11 pounds to win. There's at least one tournament held weekends on Conesus, as well as a working man's tournament every Tuesday, along with a ton of fun fishing. To say it's a popular lake would be an understatement.

It was this setting that drew an angler to the lake one August morning at 0-dark-30. Temperature at the time was in the mid-50s, with a clear sky, and just the hint of a breeze. He started with a buzzbait in shallow water, which proved to be a no-go. Upon noticing some fish jumping..."big fish, tournament-winning fish," to borrow his words...he switched to a Spook.

"I had the wrong rod for it (prefers a 7-footer)," he said, "but made what I had (a 6-foot, 6-inch cranking stick) work."

He ended up having a total of eight hits but got only three in the boat: all 4-pounders, before the bite died after about an hour. He then went through a series of jigs, swimbaits, creature baits, Rage Craws, and finally a trick worm before getting another hookup, which he described as being "about a 3-pounder," which he lost while reaching for his ruler before he got the fish in the boat.

"The good," as he saw it, was figuring out what would work. "The bad" was missing five good hits on the Spook. "The ugly" was losing a good fish because, as he saw it, "I got ahead of myself."

Overall, he was happy with his day, which I think most other fishermen would have been, too, given the fact the three he boated weighed a total of 12 pounds.

An Unforgettable Tournament Partner

Anyone who ever spends time in the boat with another person, whether it's for fun fishing or a tournament, undoubtedly has a few unforgettable days etched permanently in his/her memory banks. I know I do.

Following is an account I read about online recently that sparked my recollection about a couple of personal incidents over the years. The boater in this account began by explaining that he was just coming into his own on the local tournament scene when he signed up for a one-day event on Okeechobee.

"I was particularly pumped for this event," he said, "because I had had a pretty solid practice under pretty tough early-spring cold-front conditions. I had found an area that held some big fish under some beautiful junk mats that seemed pretty much untouched. After the tournament meeting, I met my partner for the day.

"Let me say that my partner seemed like a really nice guy, but he also seemed to be pretty wired. He was kinda short, obviously was from 'up north', and every time I looked at him or heard him speak, I was reminded of Joe Pesci's character, Leo Getz, from Lethal Weapon...you know...'ok, ok, ok, they $%+@ you at the drive-thru.' His mannerisms and everything were spot on...to the point of being uncanny.

"Anyway, we met up in the morning just fine, though he still seemed a bit 'energized.' The first red flag for the day was the number of spinning rods he put in my boat. Don't get me wrong...I like spinning rods, but Okeechobee just is not the place to bring ALL spinning rods...especially after my telling him what kind of fishing we were going to be doing. But heh, whatever, it's his own deal.

"The time prior to blastoff was pretty normal, you know, good conversation about random stuff to try to get to know each other. After blastoff, we made our way to my area, just to find ourselves relatively alone. Things happened pretty quickly for me in the beginning...I caught a couple fish right off the bat. After that, it became a bit of a grind...you know, just your regular mid-morning lull. I essentially was working these grass mats one by one, slowly picking them apart. The fish seemed to be very spooky and lethargic, so I was trying to stay stealthy around every mat.

"After a couple hours of tough fishing, I could tell that the patience on the back of the deck was getting a little...well...thin. At first, there was an occasional exchange from one spinning rod to another, then it began to turn into an obsessive process of elimination of sorts. You know the scene...about nine or ten messy spinning rods all tangled together in one big wad of 'fairy wands.' This by itself was frustrating enough, especially since I, too, was getting frustrated with the lull in action.

"Things continued to get progressively anxious, and the next tick that Leo picked up was a seemingly insatiable need to fish from both sides of the back of the boat. He literally would make one cast to one side, then shuffle over to the other side to make a cast, and then go back over to the other side...to the point where he turned my boat into a wave machine that would make Typhoon Lagoon jealous. It was like there was a Golden Retriever on the back of my boat, with a sea of tennis balls surrounding us on all sides, not knowing what to do with himself. He just couldn't pick a side, and before I knew it, I was punching through mats that had little waves rippling through them...obviously in conflict with my plan to stay stealthy. Needless to say, I had to say something, which I did. No big deal...I just communicated, and the waves stopped.

"Soon thereafter, the punching bite picked up. I boated a 5-pounder, 3-pounder, and another keeper. I was beginning to look pretty solid, but Capt. Spinning Rod was having a tough time. He easily could have cast a fluke to the open water and caught a load of keepers, but he was throwing some oddball finesse stuff on light line in heavy grass...and it just wasn't doing the trick.

"The wave machine started back up, and I could tell things were getting a little frustrating for him. He finally expressed frustration that he didn't have any heavy tungsten to punch with...and I, of course, mentioned that he really didn't have any gear to punch with anyway. However, he persisted, so I obliged and gave him a wrecking ball-sized hunk of metal, and he tied it on to what looked like 8-pound test...with NO PEG (though I had suggested it).

"It was a pretty interesting sight, seeing old Leo Getz with a medium-action spinning rod, trying to control a 1.5-oz. tungsten weight. The funny, yet incredibly distracting part of the whole scene was the fact that every time he punched into a mat, the weight would disappear into the abyss, while his little green brush hog would remain on top of the mat, with the appendages waving at me. Unless a topwater bite turned on, he obviously wasn't going to catch anything.

"Inevitably, he got frustrated again, put down the heavy tungsten rig, grabbed another spinning rod and started the Golden Retriever routine again, turning my mats into a wavy mess. If his fishing strategy wasn't already bizarre enough, things really became confusing...and amusing...when a fish started busting on a bluegill in open water, probably 40 feet from the boat. This was it...his opportunity. There was no way he was going to mess this up...this fish was HOT...ready to eat...and his little finesse rig was sure to get its attention.

"In a most unanticipated move, however, instead of throwing that finesse bait, he raced to his mess of rods, noisily shook free a spinning rod from the pile, and before I could see what his selection was, he had the rod behind him, with the length of the rod loading in an entirely unnatural way...and then KERPLUNK!!! For some unknown reason, his choice for a schooling fish in open water was...yes...the 1.5-oz. free-floating weight with the little green brush hog. It was like he had thrown a cherry bomb into the water, which might have been his strategy...you know, a dynamite kind of principle. I was fully expecting to see an unsuspecting bass float up to the surface, following his death by a case of severe bilateral subdural hematoma.

"For the rest of the day, I decided to focus on my own efforts, and though my bass had to contend with unnatural waves and air-to-surface-missile attacks, I was able to finish the day with a solid weigh-in and a check.

"Despite my partner having a tough day, I hope I get to fish with him again...super good dude. He just has a different energy level than me, but that's the beauty of fishing with so many different partners."

The partner in this account throwing a 1.5-oz. tungsten weight reminded me about a Navy fella I once fished with on the Shenandoah River. We were using live bait for catfish. Like the partner in this story, he, too, tied on a heavy weight (despite my urging to the contrary) that constantly kept getting hung in the rocks. After spending the entire day pulling up the anchor to go free his mile-long casts, I was hard-pressed to subdue my exhilaration when he soon thereafter received a set of orders to a new command out of the area.

I also once spent a tournament day with a fella who couldn't decide which side of my not-so-stable boat he wanted to fish from. His pacing (and my rocking) back and forth continued until about an hour before weigh-in. Because it was the first time all day long he had stopped pacing, I just had to turn around and make sure he hadn't fallen overboard.

Baby, It's Been Cold Out!...As Was Evident With Ice Around All the Edges

With the nice weather predicted for today, I wasn't about to miss an opportunity to get on the water for a few hours. And one look at the West Neck parking lot when I got there this morning told me that several other people had had the same thought.

There were about six trailers already in the parking lot when I got there and launched around 9 o'clock. Between then and 2 o'clock, I only managed one dink bass.

Dave Anderson also was out today and said he had a couple of small ones. We both quit within minutes of each other, and Dave helped me get my rig on the trailer...many thanks, my friend. Asked him if he knew whether Gary has been on the water lately, and he said Gary is quarantining at the moment after testing positive for the COVID virus. Understand he doesn't have a severe case but, nevertheless, wish him a speedy recovery.

With the long break since I was fishing last, the day proved to be somewhat awkward for me, starting with the fact I forgot to apply any line dressing to my rods before making the first cast. As a result, I had a couple of dastardly backlashes, one of which I will have to take a knife to tomorrow. Had another one just before I called it a day but was fortunate enough to get it out before I wrapped up everything and headed to the ramp.

The water temp when I launched this morning was running about 40 degrees, and it had moved up to about 46 when I quit.

A Li'L Bit of This, That and Everything

I was pleasantly surprised today by a phone call from my friend, Skip, who was driving back into town from a trip to his hunting lodge. He was headed to a carwash 'cause, as he explained, he had been driving through some mud up in the countryside.

Best part of the whole conversation was once again hearing the jovialness in Skip's voice, which I've come to expect over the years. This is the first time since he came out of the hospital from surgery a few months back for some health issues that I've heard that sound, and it really was nice.

While he no longer can crawl up into a tree stand (per the doctor's orders), Skip still enjoys his deer hunting. When I asked him if he had gotten any recently, he gave me the kind of reply I should have anticipated. He said, "No, but I missed one the other day."

Skip went on to say that he is getting stronger by the day now, and besides enjoying his deer hunting, he's also looking forward to the 2023 fishing season. Said he even may try to fish a tournament or two with us. He admitted that, for a short while right after surgery, he was thinking he might have to give up his fishing, but that's no longer on his radar scope. He's now itching to get on the water again.

I feel pretty sure this is good news for all of us, 'cause we've gotten used to hearing Skip clown around, and there hasn't been any of that for a fair spell now.

On a different note, I was looking around the Internet this past Sunday (Christmas Day) and saw a note from James, saying that he had received several requests for a tournament on Monday, Dec. 26. So I went to Bob's website today, looking for results, only to find that only three fellas had bothered to show up, and they all decided just not to fish.

Reckon that goes to prove weather conditions and the fish aren't the only things that get fickle when it comes to bass fishing. Even the anglers themselves change their minds at a lightning pace every once in a while, too.

James, however, was quick to let everyone know to be expecting two tournaments this next weekend...one on Saturday, Dec. 31st, and another on Monday, Jan. 2nd...ample opportunity to test all those new Christmas gifts.

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

This dude hit the water at 7:30 a.m.. The water temperature was 60, and the wind was blowing. Went to a spot where he had caught fish the day before, but someone else already was on the spot, so he decided to fish another nearby area.

The Good. At 8:15, he hooked up with a really nice fish on his Carolina rig (C-rig), with an Upton Custom baby brush hog in smoked pepper attached. His scales registered the fish at 6 and a half pounds. After checking the weight, he grabbed his camera and snapped a couple of pictures.

The Bad. When the angler looked up from taking the photos, he realized the wind quickly was blowing him off his spot. About the same time, he saw a guy in a grayish blue Ranger headed his way from about 100-plus yards off. This Ranger guy proceeded to pull in front of him and drop his trolling motor over the spot where he had caught the nice fish.

The Ugly. This upset the fella, but his problem was compounded when he looked around for his C-rig to make a cast in the direction of the spot where he had caught the fish. The rod was nowhere to be found.

"Holy crud!!!" the fella thought. "My Loomis GLX Carolina rod with a Calais 200DC reel is gone."

He spent the next hour and a half dragging different baits around, trying to locate and hook it. The fella subsequently sent out an APB to all his fishin' buddies, asking them to check out the area where he lost the rod if they happened to be in the vicinity in the next day or two.

"I lost the rod and reel just west of the east buoy, in water somewhere between 12 and 45 feet deep...Argh!" he explained.

One buddy who saw his APB came back, asking if he had lost the rod because of the wind. He said he really wasn't sure.

"All I remember is that I was trying to take a picture of my fish, and the next thing I knew, the rod was just gone," he said, adding, "Guess I'll have to hold a garage sale to raise funds for a new rod and reel."

Let Lean Times Teach Us Gratitude for What Really Matters

I wasn't very old when I figured out the difference between the well-to-do's and the not-so-well-to-do's. I had plenty of classmates in school demonstrating the difference on a daily basis.

Those in the first group carried themselves as though they were the salt of the earth. As an old boss of mine used to say about such people, though, "I'd like to buy them for what they're really worth and sell them for what they think they're worth."

Those in the second group, on the other hand, always treated one another as friends and would be there in a heartbeat to lend a helping hand if you needed it.

I've known for a very long time that I was...and, for that matter, still am...perfectly happy being a card-carrying member of the latter group. At least, I don't have to worry about drowning from walking around in a rainstorm with my nose stuck in the air. And further, the fact I went through some lean Christmases while growing up only served--as far as I'm concerned--to make me a better person.

This intro brings me to an article I found online yesterday concerning a family who found themselves going through some lean times of their own one Christmas.

By Joy McClain

Author/Songwriter

Close your eyes. Can you  remember your favorite Christmas Eve or Christmas morning? Were there icicles dangling off the eaves? Was the landscape smoothed out in snow like a wool blanket draped over a bed? Was there one gift or 10? Maybe there were no gifts at all, and that is exactly the reason why this one particular year sticks out in your mind. Lean times have a way of drudging up gratitude that we didn't even know we could muster.

I recall such a chilly Christmas Eve night long ago. We just had tucked three little ones into bed. We were tired from already spending a day with family and then a service at church way past time when toddlers should have been asleep.

Our humble little tree was cut down and hauled in from the farm. There were not going to be towers of gifts holding up the spindly branches. It was one of those "lean" years. Medical bills had piled up. Possessions didn't matter; two cribs and a toddler bed held our precious treasures.

I had sewed, and my husband had sawed. There were simple, homemade gifts, and three skinny stockings hung without the delight of many bulges or toys peeking out the top. But we were in our little house. We were warm, safe and together. And I wept like a baby, as I was overcome with just how much we had been undeservingly blessed. There were no gifts for one another. There was barely money to scrape together for groceries. But to us, it was a precious time.

After a full day of celebrating with our little brood and extended family on Christmas Day, we finally trudged home with tired little ones yet again. Our hearts were full. Unpaid bills could not put a damper on our contentment. Our arms were full of babies, bundles and grandparent gifts. We almost missed the envelope on the table. To this day, we have no idea who left the $100 bill.

Years later, when this family's oldest daughter was set to have a "lean" Christmas, too, Mom and Pop crept in like elves while the daughter and son-in-law were celebrating with his family and washed the dishes in the sink and swept the floor. They also stocked the fridge and then stacked presents under the tree until ornamented branches were propped up by boxes of all sizes.

There was a phone call later that sounded like sobbing gratitude.

Said Mom and Pop, "We understood. We had been there. We give, and we receive. We bless, and we are blessed. We remember, and we look ahead, full of gratitude for the greatest gift to mankind ever. That gift taught us what love is, how to give it, and how to receive it."

Met an Interesting Homeless Man Today

As a kid, growing up in the little, one-horse town of Oswego, KS...circa 1950s, with a population of 2,500, on a good day...I got to see a lot of drifters (known as hobos back then) coming and going down the highway that ran through my hometown. The fact this highway passed by a small open field located only yards away from the front of my home afforded me a bird's-eye view of the hobos making their way into or out of the city limits. Occasionally, my brother and I, as well as other neighborhood kids, would be playing ball in that open field next to the highway, where we could get a closer look at some of those folks. I remember often wondering how they had come to find themselves in that sort of life. That memory came flooding back to me again here recently when I happened across the following anonymous first-person account on the Internet.

Author Unknown
(Posted online by Otay Michael)

I sat with two friends in the picture window of a quaint restaurant just off the corner of the town square. The food and the company were both especially good that day. Christmas was just around the corner.

As we talked, my attention was drawn outside, across the street. There, walking into town, was a man who appeared to be carrying all his worldly goods on his back. He was carrying a well-worn sign that read, "I will work for food." My heart sank. I brought him to the attention of my friends and noticed that others around us had stopped eating to focus on him. Heads moved in a mixture of sadness and disbelief.

We continued with our meal, but his image lingered in my mind. We finished our meal and went our separate ways. I had errands to do and quickly set out to accomplish them. I glanced toward the town square, looking somewhat halfheartedly for the strange visitor. I was fearful, knowing that seeing him again would call for some response. I drove through town but saw nothing of him. I made some purchases at a store and got back in my car.

Deep within me, the Spirit of God kept speaking to me: "Don't go back to the office until you've at least driven once more around the square." Then, with some hesitancy, I headed back into town. As I turned the square's third corner, I saw him. He was standing on the steps of the storefront church, going through his sack. I stopped and looked; feeling both compelled to speak to him, yet wanting to drive on. An empty parking space on the corner seemed to be a sign from God: an invitation to park. I pulled in, got out, and approached the town's newest visitor.

"Looking for the pastor?" I asked.

"Not really," he replied. "Just resting."

"Have you eaten today?"

"Oh, I ate something early this morning."

"Would you like to have lunch with me?"

"Do you have some work I could do for you?"

"No work," I replied. "I commute here to work from the city, but I would like to take you to lunch."

"Sure," he replied with a smile.

As he began to gather his things, I asked some surface questions. "Where you headed?"

"St. Louis."

"Where you from?"

"Oh, all over; mostly Florida."

"How long you been walking?"

"Fourteen years," came the reply.

I knew I had met someone unusual. We sat across from each other in the same restaurant I had left earlier. His face was weathered slightly beyond his 38 years. His eyes were dark yet clear, and he spoke with an eloquence and articulation that was startling. He removed his jacket to reveal a bright red T-shirt that said, "Jesus Is the Never-Ending Story."

Then Daniel's story began to unfold. He had seen rough times early in life. He'd made some wrong choices and reaped the consequences.

Fourteen years earlier, while backpacking across the country, he had stopped on the beach in Daytona. He tried to hire on with some men who were putting up a large tent and some equipment. A concert, he thought. He was hired, but the tent would not house a concert--revival services, instead. And in those services, he saw life more clearly. He gave his life over to God.

"Nothing's been the same since," he said. "I felt the Lord telling me to keep walking, and so I did, some 14 years now."

"Ever think of stopping?" I asked.

"Oh, once in a while, when it seems to get the best of me. But God has given me this calling. I give out Bibles. That's what's in my sack. I work to buy food and Bibles, and I give them out when His Spirit leads."

I sat amazed. My homeless friend was not homeless. He was on a mission and lived this way by choice. The question burned inside for a moment and then I asked: "What's it like?"

"What?"

"To walk into a town carrying all your things on your back and to show your sign."

"Oh, it was humiliating at first. People would stare and make comments. Once someone tossed a piece of half-eaten bread and made a gesture that certainly didn't make me feel welcome. But then it became humbling to realize that God was using me to touch lives and change people's concepts of other folks like me."

My concept was changing, too. We finished our dessert and gathered his things. Just outside the door, he paused, turned to me, and said, "Come Ye blessed of my Father and inherit the kingdom I've prepared for you. For when I was hungry, you gave me food; when I was thirsty, you gave me drink; a stranger, and you took me in."

I felt as if we were standing on holy ground. "Could you use another Bible?" I asked.

He said he preferred a certain translation. It traveled well and was not too heavy. It also was his personal favorite. "I've read through it 14 times," he said.

"I'm not sure we've got one of those, but let's stop by our church and see." I was able to find my new friend a Bible that would do well, and he seemed very grateful.

"Where are you headed from here?"

"Well, I found this little map on the back of this amusement-park coupon."

"Are you hoping to hire on there for awhile?"

"No, I just figure I should go there. I figure someone under that star right there needs a Bible, so that's where I'm going next." He smiled, and the warmth of his spirit radiated the sincerity of his mission. I drove him back to the town square, where we'd met two hours earlier. As we drove, it started raining. We parked and unloaded his things.

"Would you sign my autograph book?" he asked. "I like to keep messages from folks I meet."

I wrote in his little book that his commitment to his calling had touched my life. I encouraged him to stay strong. And I left him with a verse of scripture from Jeremiah, "I know the plans I have for you, declared the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a future and a hope."

"Thanks, man," he said. "I know we just met, and we're really just strangers, but I love you."

"I know," I said. "I love you, too."

"The Lord is good!"

"Yes, He is. How long has it been since someone hugged you?" I asked.

"A long time," he replied.

And so, on this busy street corner in the drizzling rain, my new friend and I embraced, and I felt deep inside that I had been changed. He put his things on his back, smiled his winning smile, and said, "See you in the New Jerusalem."

"I'll be there!" was my reply.

He began his journey again. He headed away with his sign dangling from the bedroll and pack of Bibles. He stopped, turned and said, "When you see something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?"

"You bet!" I shouted back. "God bless!" And that was the last I saw of him.

Late that evening, as I left my office, the wind was blowing strong. The cold front had settled hard upon the town. I bundled up and hurried to my car. As I sat back and reached for the emergency brake, I saw them...a pair of well-worn brown work gloves neatly laid over the length of the handle. I picked them up and thought of my friend and wondered if his hands would stay warm that night without them. Then I remembered his earlier words: "If you see something that makes you think of me, will you pray for me?"

Today, his gloves lie on my desk in my office. They help me to see the world and its people in a new way, and they help me remember those two hours with my newfound friend and to pray for his ministry. "See you in the New Jerusalem," he had said.

Yes, Daniel, I know I will.

"I shall pass this way but once. Therefore, any good that I can do or any kindness that I can show, let me do it now, for I shall not pass this way again."

"Father, I ask You to bless my friends, relatives and e-mail buddies reading this right now. Show them a new revelation of Your love and power. Holy Spirit, I ask You to minister to their spirit at this very moment. Where there is pain, give them Your peace and mercy. Where there is self-doubt, release a renewed confidence through Your grace; where there is a search for Your truth, open their eyes, in Jesus' precious name. Amen."

As I read this touching story, I couldn't help reflecting on the sad state our world is in today, with all the constant hate, bickering and growing discontent. We should be grateful that God doesn't just remove His hand and let all of us self-destruct. From where I sit, it sure looks like that's what a lot of folks are hell-bent on trying to do. Remember Iron Eyes Cody, the actor who played an Indian shedding a tear at the sight of a littered American landscape in a TV commercial? I can't help but wonder if the good Lord isn't also shedding a tear as He sees just how far we inhabitants of His creation have fallen from grace. God help all of us, 'cause we certainly don't appear to be able...or willing, at least...to help ourselves...a sad commentary, indeed.

Frozen Rod Guides: A Bane of Wintertime Anglers

Was outdoors a bit earlier, making my last pickup today of sticks and branches scattered throughout the yard and checking one final time on the protective barrier I rigged up a couple days ago for some of my wife's plants.

While I was out there in all that cold air, a shudder went up my spine as I thought about what it would feel like to be out on the water in these conditions. About the same time, an idea came to me for a blog post about iced-up fishing guides.

Once I was back indoors, I jumped online and soon found the advice of a fishing guide who spends many days each year taking parties out in freezing-cold rivers that run into the Great Lakes.

According to him, there are two best ways to keep fishing-rod guides from freezing. One is to use Loon's Stanley's Ice Off Paste, which Bass Pro Shops currently advertises for $7.99 per can. The other way is to use the water you're fishing in. Both methods have proven to work when done right.

Stanley's Ice Off Paste purportedly is the only product designed to keep fishing-rod guides from freezing. For best results, this sticky, waxy paste should be applied to each rod guide at home before you go fishing and left to dry. You can put a small amount onto a thin rag or use your finger to apply a thin layer to all the rod guides.

Unfortunately, like all the remedies to keep fishing rod guides from freezing, Stanley's Ice Off Paste doesn't last all day. You may need to reapply it while on the water.

As explained by the fishing guide, "I like it because it often will get me through the coldest part of the morning until the sun comes out and starts to warm up the rod and the air. When I need to reapply, I always try to do it whenever I'm taking a break...to stop and eat or to move to another spot. I always first dry off each rod guide with a dry cloth or paper towel, then reapply a thin layer and let it dry for 5 or more minutes. Putting the paste onto wet guides doesn't seem to work very well."

The guide went on to say that Stanley's Ice Off Paste works well with mono, fluorocarbon and fly lines.

When using water to keep fishing-rod guides from freezing, you simply dip the rod under the water you're fishing while reeling line back in. As you lift the rod out of the water, tap the bottom of the rod blank two or three times, then tap between the handle and first rod guide three or four times to shake off the excess water. 

Said the guide, "Because rivers are flowing water, the ice will come off faster than in a lake, where the water isn't moving. In the lake, I will move my rod slowly from side to side to remove the ice faster.

"I only dip my rod in the water as deep as I need to clear all the rod guides that I start seeing ice on. That often means only the top three or four guides will get dipped regularly, because these are the guides that are the biggest issue. The lower rod guides closer to the handle might only need to be dipped once every five minutes, or as soon as I see a small amount of ice. In colder water, it's best to dip your rod every one to three casts. When the water's the coldest...in mid-January and February...I recommend dipping the rod tip in the water each time you reel in."

The guide acknowledged that there are several other methods to keep ice off the rod guides, but he also noted that many of these oil-based products may cause problems with the rod and/or the line. Some of these products also may gum up the guides and become sticky, preventing the line from flowing freely through the rod guides.

Among these other products are: Chapstick and lip balm, Pam cooking spray, olive oil, vaseline, and Rain X.

All of these methods can work to some degree in keeping rod guides from freezing. The key is to always apply whatever solution it is that you want to try only to dry rod guides. The fishing guide suggested trying a couple of these remedies to see what works best for you.

Everybody Wants to Find That Hot Lure and/or Color That'll Work Every Time

Staying one step ahead of everyone else is a good way to be in the fishing game. Figuring out what works, what doesn't, and where the fish are constitutes three things every fisherman wants to know when they hit the water.

Anglers always can figure things out by using knowledge from experience, as well as trial and error. Most of the time, however, they would rather have an extra hint or two that helps them achieve success a bit sooner.

Whether those hints come from the old man at the local bait shop, a friend, or as the result of something you've personally witnessed a fish eat at one time or another is really irrelevant. Even though it's called fishing and not catching, we all just want to be out there getting hooked up with great ol' big 'uns...the bigger, the better.

The more creative we are means the more fun we can have.

Take the fella in the accompanying photo at right. He's truly trying to stay one step ahead of everyone else by getting the bass in the local tackle shop's big aquarium to tell him what they like and don't like before he even buys any lures. Wouldn't surprise me if he doesn't also have one of those pocket fishing rods handy to tie the lures onto and give 'em the real acid test before heading to the cashier's stand.

When it comes to choosing what colors to buy, most anglers rely on the general rule of picking dense colors for use in dingy water and lighter, more translucent colors for use in clear water. That's pretty straightforward until you consider the vast number of colors available on store shelves these days...starting with names like scuppernong, roadkill, foxy momma, and chaos. Those may sound like some silly, freaky colors, but you can bet there always are some bass around that will love 'em.

If you get lucky and find one color that works extremely well in the beginning, just don't make the mistake of running out and scarfing up as many of 'em as you can afford. I speak from experience in this regard. I have several boxes in my garage to this day filled with bait colors that only worked but for a very short while.

"I Bobbed When I Should've Weaved"

Sounds like something a boxer, like Mike Tyson or Joe Frazier, might have said back in their day, huh? After all, they were masters at this basic defensive maneuver, which effectively helps a boxer get on the inside of taller opponents.

In this case, however, a bass angler made this statement. Seems he was fishing a tournament on the upper Mississippi River at the time. With about 45 minutes left in the competition, this angler was headed to weigh-in when he found himself stuck on a sandbar, with no way to move.

A couple of fellow tournament anglers tried pulling him off, to no avail. He ended up sitting there for two hours waiting for help to arrive in the form of a fella with an airboat.

Said the stranded angler after his rescue, "I bobbed when I should've weaved. I'd been in this general area several times before but never this particular spot. I was trying to zig-zag my way through it, saw mud on both sides of me, with ripples in the middle, so I just pinned it and kept going...and got stuck."

This kind of incident is nothing new for the nation's mightiest waterway, which has seen water levels plummet to historic lows as a result of drought. Aerial images and meteorological data help illustrate the dire situation that exists today. Sandbars line a narrowing river channel, the result of little precipitation and parched soils across the Missouri River Valley to the west and the Ohio River Basin to the east.

Historically, the winding river was marked by a wide flood plain that would swell during wetter years, while drier years would leave pools and deeper spots throughout the waterway. The river, however, has been altered by dams, levees and other structures, and engineered to maintain a central channel that carries barge traffic that is key to commerce along the Mississippi. As a result, the Mississippi has become so dry that the central channel is about all that flows in some places these days.

The river is so low that many boat ramps don't stretch far enough to even reach the water. Docks that usually float with ease sit tilted and grounded on riverbanks. Stretches of the river have transformed into a marvel of drought, attracting onlookers from near and far.

In the summer 1949 edition of the Milwaukee Journal, Mel Ellis wrote, "If you haven't fished Ol' Man Mississip, forget about any preconceived notions you may have as far as rivers are concerned. Because Ol' Man River isn't really a river at all. In fact, he's a hundred rivers and a thousand lakes and more sloughs than you could explore in a lifetime. He is creeks, bayous, ditches, puddles, and thousands and thousands of impenetrable lotus beds that break big yellow flowers out above green pads."

That may have been true back then, but what you find along the Mighty Mississip today lies in stark contrast to that picture of bygone days. And anglers who fish that river now best think twice before trying to run there at wide-open throttle.

You Would Severely Test the Patience of Even a Saint

We all recognize that statement as something you might say to another person who just really gets on your nerves. And as bad as I hate to admit it, there were a few times back during my youth when I drove my mom or dad to the point where they would say that to me.

These were the thoughts that kept running through my head as I was reading an online account of a very troubled fishing trip.

It seems a boatowner had been coerced into taking an acquaintance fishing at the former's "secret lake." After loading their gear into the boat and shoving off, they had only gone about a hundred yards when the guest announced he had left his tacklebox in the truck. Back to the dock they went. Moments later, they were underway again when the guest realized he also had forgotten his lunch in the truck. So back to the dock they went again. This time, the boater joined the guest for a thorough check of the truck.

As the two were walking back to the dock, the boater looked up and saw his boat floating some 30 feet from shore.

"I thought you tied the boat to the dock," he said to his guest

"Nope, not me," answered the latter.

"Well, one of us is going to get wet," said the boater.

"But I don't swim," replied the guest.

"So what?" stated the boater. "The water's not over your head. It can't be more than five feet deep."

After a lot of whining, the guest finally went in but quickly disappeared. Concerned, the boater quickly peeled off his clothes, sneakers and socks and went in after him. Once he reached the spot where he saw the guest go under, the latter shot up right beside him.

"Fooled ya," said the guest. "I just figured we both should get wet."

Although he felt an urge to hold the guest's head under water, the boater and his guest got out of the water, dried off, and put their clothes on. Soon, they were skimming across the lake, with the Johnson outboard humming along flawlessly.

They had just stopped and started fishing when the guest's first cast went astray.

"Where did my lure go?" he asked.

"You can't see it?" returned the boater.

"No," replied the guest.

"Well, look over here," came the boater's response.

There, hanging from the latter's earlobe, was a treble hook attached to a crankbait that was neatly positioned with one hook piercing his lobe. Blood was running like a faucet down his face.

"What should we do?" shouted the excited guest.

"Get it out!" exclaimed the boater.

"I'll yank it out!" said the guest.

"You will not!" hollered the boater. "Take your dikes and snip the hook off, then gently pull the shank back through the hole."

By this time, the guest was laughing so hard the boater had to help hold his hand while snipping off the hook. Then they went back to fishing, with the boater's earlobe still dripping blood. The wound soon stopped bleeding, but the snickering from the back of the boat continued all day long.

When the boater made a cast up under some overhanging branches, next to his favorite tree, the water exploded. His big bass of a week earlier had returned to the shade along the shoreline.

"Grab the net!" screamed the boater to the guest. Meanwhile, he fought the big fish carefully, slowly moving her close to the boat so the guest could net her. "Where are you?" he shouted to the guest.

"I've got my rod caught in the net," came the guest's reply.

"Well, hurry up!" the boater barked.

As the fish turned on its side and was ready to come aboard, the guest shoved the net over the side of the boat, hit the bass solidly on the head, the hook came loose, and the prize fish was gone. The boater sat down on the floor of the boat and just looked at his hook. It had been straightened out by this fish of a lifetime.

"Don't cry," said the guest.

"I'm not crying, you nincompoop," said the boater. "I'm just wondering if I'll get caught if I throw you overboard."

Throughout the remainder of that day, the boater had recurring flashes of that big fish being knocked off his hook. To make matters worse, the guest attempted to apologize at least a hundred times but broke out laughing each time.

"Well," said the guest, "at least I can let everyone know that you had the fish right up next to the boat."

"Look," replied the boater, "under no circumstances are you to tell anyone about this lake, that fish, or any part of this day." He subsequently couldn't stop thinking, "Now I have to worry about his gums flapping as he tells everyone in the world about that fish and my 'secret lake'."

The guest promised he wouldn't, though, and the two decided to forget about it and have lunch. As the guest handed him a sandwich, though, it was soaking wet.

"What happened to my lunch?" asked the boater.

"I don't know," replied the guest. "I put it in that storage bin."

"That's not a storage bin, you numbskull," the boater said. "That's a livewell."

"What's a livewell?" asked the guest.

"That's where we keep the fish to be weighed in during tournaments," said the boater. "It's full of water."

The guest's subsequent last comment before jumping off the boat was, "Can we go fishing again next week?"

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The good. A fella and his wife went fishing one Friday after he got home from work. They caught a few smallmouth from a section of the local river that used to be inaccessible. Since a dam had been removed, however, they could get to it, using their jet-drive boat.

The good continued into the start of another fishing day on Sunday, when this fella went out with a friend. They fished a different section of the same river and caught some fish...the biggest weighing about 3 pounds.

Things turned bad, though, and the Sunday fishing trip had to be cut short when the boat-owner took a wrong turn through a shallow-water area and skipped across a rock. Soon thereafter, water was spotted in the bottom of the boat...Oops!

The ugly part, as things turned out, was discovering that they had put a hole in the boat. Also, the switch for the bilge pump had stopped working, which forced them to get the boat on step and pull the plug while running to the dock, so the water would be sucked out.

When they arrived back at the dock and had the boat on the trailer, they learned that the hole was about twice the size of the drain plug and was located where the hull and transom are welded together.

As Incredulous As It Sounds, "They Never Even Apologized"

I gotta be honest with you: I rarely think about being involved in a boat crash, even though I've had friends over the years who have been in them. That may all change, though, after today. I this morning read about a couple of crashes that truly are hard for me to wrap my head around just how they ever could have occurred in the first place.

In a mishap from this past August (left), a bass boat, carrying two passengers, T-boned a pontoon boat, with three passengers, on High Rock Lake. Investigators said the 42-year-old driver of the bass boat "was trying to level off (trim) his boat after getting it up to speed and did not see the pontoon boat that was in front of him." My question is:  How do you not see a pontoon boat in front of you?

Fortunately, there were no deaths in this incident, but there were injuries, and people did have to go to the hospital. Meanwhile, the driver of the bass boat was charged with one count of reckless boat operation, a misdemeanor.

In a February 2020 incident on Lake Okeechobee, as reported on BassFan, bass pro Russ Lane (right) escaped injury but had his boat damaged during a crash in which an older couple he characterized as "perhaps in their 70s" hit him.

Lane, at the time, was on the final practice day for an MLF Bass Pro Tour event. He was fishing when he spotted a boat about 150 yards away veer toward him, traveling at a relatively high speed. When it closed to about 100 yards, he wondered whether the driver's intent was to pass between him and the vegetation he was working. At 50 yards, he came to the terrifying conclusion that the driver somehow had failed to see him.

"My first reaction was to kind of hunker down, but it was coming straight for me at the trolling motor at about 30 yards," said Lane. "I ran and jumped to the back deck, and when it closed half that distance, I think that's when the driver saw me. He hooked his boat to try and miss mine, but then it was coming straight at me on the back deck. I jumped back to the front, and I guess it was in mid-leap that they made impact.

"It threw so much water that it felt like a big wave crashing on me. It knocked me to my knees, and I was halfway out of the boat but was able to hold on and pull myself back in."

He said the occupants of the other boat, a 20-foot Triton, had a really weird response to what had happened: "They never even apologized," he explained. "They could've easily killed me or broke me up, but it didn't seem to faze them at all. I told them I didn't know what to do other than call the cops, so the next 5 hours were all about filling out reports and whatnot."

Lane, who runs a Phoenix, contacted the company president, who immediately got a new rig on the road to Okeechobee. Meanwhile, MLF personnel supplied him with a league-owned boat while the Phoenix and Yamaha crews onsite went to work on his busted-up craft.

"The cowling was completely smoked," he said, "but I think what saved the engine was that the Power-Poles got pushed into it, and they acted like a ramp. The other boat went over the engine."

Luckily, a lot of people jumped in to help Lane, but that in no way soothed his jitters. As he explained, "I was a complete nervous wreck. I kept hearing stuff behind me, and I couldn't focus on anything. I usually don't get rattled, but this one shook me up."

Now we know why so many people keep saying, "It's a jungle out there."

'Twas the Night Before the New Season

By Rob Newell

(pictured above)

'Twas the night before the new season, and out on the lake,

Not an angler was fishing; they weren't even awake.

The boats at the motel were covered with care,

In hopes that the first tournament soon would treat them fair.

All of their lures were tied snug to their lines,

While visions of 20-pounders leapt into their minds.

My tackle was done, so I hung up my cap.

Fishing's exhausting, so I lay down to nap.

When in my fitful sleep, what did appear?

A funky little elf with a long shaggy beard.

"Here's a little secret," he said with a sneer,

"Which will help you start a prosperous fishing career."

He held up a tiny bottle with a pea-green tint,

Said it was a magical fish-catching scent.

"This small vial is all you will need.

It is extracted from a rare seaweed."

His directions were simple and very profound:

"Put one drop on a lure, and 10-pounders will abound.

But don't abuse this, or a high price you will pay."

And, with that said, he just went away.

Suddenly I awoke to the dangdest clatter.

I peaked out the window to see what was the matter.

Out in the parking lot there arose a great bustle,

Pro anglers hooking up boats in a serious hustle.

I saw VanDam. I saw Yelas, Wendlandt and Nixon!

Then I realized I was in the same tourney they were fishin'!

Somehow, some way, I am really not sure,

I was a pro angler on the FLW Tour.

I looked at my watch; I had overslept!

It was not too late, so into action I leapt.

I gathered my things and quickly got dressed.

I grabbed my cap, keys, glasses, and life vest.

And as I was leaving, a flash caught my eye.

Across the room by the bed, something was awry.

On the nightstand where my spare change lay loose

Was a small green vial that read "Seaweed Juice."

My lungs stopped in a sudden gasp.

"Where did that come from?" I loudly asked.

I had certainly never spied it before,

And I was the only one who had been through the door.

'Twas my first tournament, and I was desperate.

So I slid the green stuff into my pocket.

I jumped into my truck, my bass boat in tow.

I stopped just long enough to pick up my partner Joe.

At the ramp, light was cracking the morn.

Bill Taylor was shouting on the bullhorn:

"Boats one, two and three..." his voice did call out.

I would catch 'em today, there was never a doubt.

At my first stop, I was filled with much glee.

I pulled out my green secret so no one would see.

I dabbed a drop on a bait and wondered how soon.

Looked around, made a cast, and the water went Kaboom!

The biggest fish I'd ever hooked was jumping around.

Joe freaked out and screamed, "It's at least 10 pounds!"

I got her up to the boat, my palms greased with sweat.

Ol' Joe jumped right down and scooped her into the net.

She weighed exactly 10 pounds on my miniature scale,

Then she went right into the livewell with a flip of her tail.

At that very moment, I immediately knew,

That my dream of last night was about to come true.

If 10-pounders were going to be so commonplace,

There wouldn't be one chance I'd let go to waste.

I told Joe, "Put away your stuff, get ready to run.

If this is how it's going to be, let's have some fun!"

I cruised up and down the lake for a bit,

And out on a river ledge I spied David Fritts.

I eased right up, just like a fox.

Then I pulled the ugliest crankbait out of my box.

He said, "They ain't bitin'." I asked, "That a fact?"

As I discreetly reached for my seaweed extract.

On the very first cast my drag started strippin'.

Momentarily, another 10-pounder I was lippin'.

"Have a nice day, Dave," I said with a grin

As I tore down the lake to find my next victim.

I rode 'round the lake for nearly an hour,

Then I happened upon Mr. Denny Brauer.

I motored up and began to encroach;

I don't think Denny liked my approach.

"Did you practice here?" he asked with emotion.

I just squirted my jig with the seaweed potion.

I trolled to the bank at a leisurely clip,

Picked up my rod and made just one flip.

As I set the hook my rod quickly bowed,

Needless to say, another big toad!

The brute began to thrash and waller,

But all I could hear was Denny holler.

I dropped her in the box, and off I went,

Chuckling about my magic fish-catching scent.

I found Clark Wendlandt working one on a bed.

"How big?" I asked. "10-pounder," he said.

"But she won't bite, I have tried for a while."

"It takes you WAY too long," I said with a smile.

I think Clark knew just what I implied.

Appearing very agitated he turned and replied:

"If you're so darn good, let's see you catch her."

I quickly dabbed a tube with the seaweed nectar.

Before he could blink, she bit the first pitch.

Clark just went crazy, pitching a fit.

I put her in the boat, gigglin' and laughin'.

Then I gunned my 250, with the rooster tail blastin'.

There was just one thing I had left to do:

Find that skinny kid from Kalamazoo.

To find VanDam took only one glance.

He was in the bow doing his jerkbait dance.

I pulled right up to him, feeling real brash.

"Kevin," I announced, "You fish much too fast.

Why you just fished past a 10-pound pig,

And now I am going to catch it on a Carolina rig."

VanDam's jaw suddenly dropped

As I made a cast to his outboard prop.

There was a solid thump from the big sow.

I set the hook and she leapt by his bow.

By now co-angler Joe was freaking out.

He was on the cellphone shouting out:

"Tell everyone this guy is the deal.

He's got 50 pounds--I mean it for real!"

He dialed up Bill Taylor and then Charlie Evans.

Over the phone they screamed, "Good heavens! Good heavens!"

By the time I checked in and sauntered ashore,

The crowds had gathered and I heard a big roar.

All the major networks had already arrived.

I requested two men to help me carry my five.

They brought a big bag, covered in black.

And I loaded my catch into the huge sack.

I worked up the media into a big tizzy.

When I tipped my hat to the ladies, they all became dizzy.

There were thousands of people from here and from there.

The smell of a movie deal hung in the air.

Up in the tent the crowd was in a rage.

Record bass in tow, I mounted the stage.

Then the crowd fell silent. There was not even a sneeze.

The only sound heard was the knockin' of Dean Rojas' knees.

"A new record creel?" Charlie inquired.

"Easily," I quipped to all that admired.

"Well, put them on the scale," Charlie announced.

"The weight? FIFTY POUNDS AND ONE SINGLE OUNCE!"

The crowd roared to a deafening pitch.

I was now famous, and fixin' to be rich.

I had rewritten bass-fishing history.

I waved to the crowd, and soaked up the glory.

"Show us those giant bass," Charlie said,

As I reached into the bag that was heavy as lead

And I thrust up two 10-pounders high over my head,

A hush swept the crowd and the roar just went dead.

Then a pain gripped my gut, intense and so sharp.

Charlie covered the mike, "Uh, Rob, those aren't bass. They're CARP!"

I was preparing to faint, and my stomach bunched up.

And just before I tossed all my lunch up...

I awoke, shaking from the bad dream.

I could not get over how real it all seemed.

So I thought it might bring you some holiday cheer.

And remember, with a new season being so near,

If you meet an elf in the middle of the night,

Who promises 10-pounders on every bite,

Tell him: "Good fishing to all, and that carp are a good fight!"

Rob Newell is a freelance writer and photographer who, for more than 20 years, has been covering tournament bass fishing. He's also a former FLW Tour co-angler champion out of Tallahassee, FL. This piece was first published at FLWOutdoors.com on Dec. 23, 2002, then, because of its popularity, was republished Dec. 23, 2005.

Christmas I Remember Best

By Charlie Flood

Stealing a Christmas tree is something that isn't done every day. And it really wasn't stealing--not like the Grinch who tried to steal Christmas. The motivation and timing were different.

I was a feisty 9-year-old when Dad took sick and left Mom and me sudden-like. That same year, the Great Depression hit the country, but it made no difference to us. We had nothing to begin with. Since Mom was an invalid, our existence depended on kind-hearted neighbors and my marvelous talent for survival.

I sold newspapers on street corners and occasionally moonlighted at night by picking up a bottle of milk from some front porch, a pie from a pantry window, or fruit from neighborhood trees. I thought I had my mother believing they were neighborly gifts, but I knew I didn't fool Him...if you know what I mean.

During the first Christmas season without Dad, I got caught up in the yuletide spirit. Like any other young boy, I reveled in the holiday sights and sounds. My anticipation was high, but deep down in my heart was a gnawing resignation that the man in the red suit would skip right over our little two-room shack. He stopped only at houses that had fireplaces. That's what I told myself. I knew I was being punished and fervently promised that I would leave other people's milk and pies alone.

Meanwhile, there would be no bounteous goodies under the tree. In fact, there would be no tree. That didn't seem right. At least, a tree would ease the hurt. I resolved to remedy this decoration omission. On Christmas Day, I hurried to Petersen's Market. A fresh layer of new snow lay on the street unmarked by passing vehicles...not a soul was stirring.

I figured that since the store was closed, and the unsold trees usually were thrown away, I was embarking upon fair game. As I prowled among the snow-dusted trees beside the store, old man Petersen popped out of nowhere, yelling dire threats and chasing me away.

Nels Petersen was an old bachelor who could squeeze a nickel 'til the buffalo bellowed. Scrooge could take lessons from him...he was that mean. The following year, he installed a fence around the Christmas-tree lot and locked the gate every night. I accepted the challenge.

On that eventful night, when people basked in the warm glow of family togetherness, and somewhere angels were singing, I climbed the fire ladder that hugged the store wall. Hanging onto the rung with one arm and leg, I lifted a busy 6-foot fir over the fence. The next day, old Nels knew one was missing; he had counted them. Next year, the ladder was removed. I dug under the fence. The following summer, the area was cemented and a light installed.

Then came a Christmas that I always shall remember with fondness and warmth. My teacher at school involved our class in making Christmas cards for our favorite person, not counting our families. I participated reluctantly; I was almost 12, and this was kid stuff. I made a humdinger for Nels Petersen. Why I included him as my favorite person, I didn't know.

I pasted up a magnificently decorated green tree with all the trimmings. As I worked on it, my enthusiasm sparked a tremendous artistic fervor. I figured that it would be the only card he would get from anybody. By the time I had finished, I felt a strange kinship for my adversary. I signed it and put it in his mailbox. He spotted me, and the chase was on. I guess he thought I was stealing his mail.

Late Christmas Eve, when the stores were closed and everybody was home, I cautiously peered around the corner of the back of Petersen's Market. Lo and behold, the security light was out, and the lot was shrouded in darkness. The heady scent of evergreen caressed my nostrils. With neck-hackles alert, and nerves keyed for a quick getaway, I moved with suspicion along the fence.

The gate was open! My first thought was that anyone that dumb deserved to lose a tree. My second thought was that he may not be so dumb; this could be a trap! He probably was hiding among the cluster of branches, ready to grab me when I stepped through the gate. A mixture of strategies raced through my mind. Not so dumb, but slow; he never could catch me. I'll rush it, grab a tree, and be gone before he can move. I stood motionless while scanning the enclosure. I spotted a long 7-footer standing in the center by itself--a beautiful ready-made target.

My muscles stretched taut as I sprang through the gate. Suddenly, the tree blazed alive; it sparkled with brilliant colors of light like a Christmas tree should. The sudden brightness stripped me of all anonymity. I felt the whole world was watching me in the midst of a heinous crime.

Just as I was about to turn and bolt, I saw the large, crudely-lettered sign on the tree. It simply read: DON'T FORGET TO PULL THE PLUG AND LOCK THE GATE. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Dazed, I reached down for the connection and saw the presents and box of groceries. Mr. Petersen wasn't among the trees; he was somewhere throwing the switch and watching me. With a suspicious lump in my throat, I waved and called out, "Merry Christmas, Mr. Petersen!" I did as his sign directed and carried home the best Christmas I ever have had.

My new friend and I had learned a beautiful lesson: the joy of giving...all because a simple home-made Christmas card had touched a lonely heart and opened a locked gate.