A healthy White River smallmouth

When I began plaintively singing, “What a friend we have in Jesus” over the roar of the outboard motor, my fishing partner suddenly realized the gravity of the situation.

A few days ago I finally managed to finagle an invitation to hit a long-awaited fishing spot, the West Fork of the White River north of Indianapolis.  The site of the worse fish kill in Indiana history a few years ago, all reports indicate that the river has come back better than ever and is a smallmouth bass fishery to rival any in the state.

Our affable host was John Repenning, a local businessman who loves river fishing for bronzebacks.  He is so smitten with smallmouth fever that he owns what I now believe is the ultimate in river fishing craft: a jetboat.

His vessel is an 18-foot center console aluminum johnboat powered by a 95-horsepower four-cycle outboard with a jet drive.  For those not familiar, the jet drive is essentially a giant water pump attached in place of a propeller.  The intake for the drive sits only a few inches below the hull, allowing the boat to run in water that would barely cover the back of an anemic minnow.

As I soon learned, this rig is perfect for shallow river fishing and makes for what we call an “invigorating” ride.

A 4WD vehicle is needed to launch

The trip started at the 116^th street public ramp, essentially a pebbly sandbar that required us to park in the middle of the river to wrestle the boat off the trailer.  We were joined by Kelly Williams, another local fishing fanatic who had contacted John through a friend of a friend.  Kelly seemed like a normal fellow aside from being a muskie fanatic and we got along famously.

After John rejoined us, we fished in the ramp area for a few minutes.  The know-it-all outdoor writer put the first fish in the boat, a mediocre rock bass that fell to a tiny crawdad-colored crankbait.  As we fished, John expounded on the virtues of the tube jig and proceeded to catch a couple of bass to prove it.

With a mischievous grin, John asked if we were ready to head upstream to the “good” fishing spots.  As we secured our gear, he fired up the huge motor and after idling for a moment, jammed the throttle forward.

At this point, please consider the scenario: a burly eighteen-foot boat powered by a 95-horsepower outboard on a river that, size-wise, was really a glorified creek.  I flashed back to John’s garage where he had showed me a bashed aluminum pump intake he destroyed a few weeks prior on an unseen river rock.

Dusk on White River

As we hurtled over the green water at approximately 30 miles per hour, I saw our first rapid ahead.  It was a collection of desk-sized boulders jutting inches above the water with less than a boat-width between them.  Along the shore, the water flowed three inches deep over a gravel bar.  That’s where we were headed.

Trying to enjoy myself, I sucked in a deep breath and looked away.  I decided that it would be better to not see the impact and thereby remain loose rather than get all tensed up prior to the accident.  Either way I would be dead but if I remained limber, it might be an open-casket funeral.

To my great surprise and relief, we shot over the rapid with nary a pebble hitting the hull.  I was impressed beyond words.  Kelly seemed impressed judging by the horrified grin on his face.  That test behind us, the rest of the 10-minute ride was a mixture of fun and exhilaration.

Coasting to a stop a couple of miles upstream, we began fishing.  A head advisory was in effect and the temperature was beyond oppressive.  However, the combination of river shade and a slight breeze made things bearable.  A cicada buzzed like an electrical spark somewhere in a shoreline sycamore tree.

Simple but effective

A nice White river bronzeback

As we drifted downstream, John proved to be correct in his faith of green tube jigs.  As Kelly reeled in three good fish in three successive casts, he pointed out, “If you’re using anything else, you’re wrong!”

We fished from late afternoon until dark, catching around 30 fish.  The biggest bass came right at dark as I pitched a jig into a shallow flat near a weed bed.  The five-minute fight left everyone in the boat hooting and winded.  It was the perfect coda to a most singular day.

As we roared downstream, moving now even faster with the current, I felt relaxed and utterly happy.  It had been a good day and a great new experience.

Everything was wonderful.  At least until I realized it had grown so dark that the knife-edged rocks weren’t really visible anymore.

As we roared into our first rapid, Kelly decided to join me for another gospel tune.

Urban wilderness

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