While I have done a fair bit of fishing this year, I hadn’t yet consummated my love affair for duping small stream smallmouth bass with things made of plastic and feather. Thus motivated, I have engaged in a wild, tempestuous liaison with creeks and bronzebacks during the past several days. As is typical for such romances, I had great fun and laughs until the final moment when reality broke my heart and possibly something low in the thoracic cavity.

The final intimacy was a visit to Sugar Creek in Montgomery County with fishing partner Rich. The creek was already high for this time of year and moderately stained, while an overnight rain had the water rising slightly. Such conditions are usually a good omen for creek fisherman and coupled with the overcast day, things certainly looked promising as we slipped into the water. Actually, Rich slipped while I floundered on a slick rock and entered the pool with all the poetic grace of a thirsty bison.

I was using a tiny crankbait of nondescript lineage that had been purchased the night before at the local Mega-Mart. Knowing the water would be stained, I bought this particular bait mainly because of the Firetiger color scheme. For the uninitiated, this color involves lime green and chartreuse upon a black tiger-stripe pattern. Though it can frighten fish into cardiac arrest in clear water, it is great for muddy conditions.

On the first cast, a tiny sunfish smashed the bait. Another sunny also battered the next cast. By the end of the day it was apparent that sunfish absolutely hated this lure, even though it was sometimes a quarter the length of the attacker.

A short while later, Rich and I were standing a rod length apart in knee deep water after photographing a chunky bass that he had released when my reel handle was forcibly stripped from my hand. A nice smallmouth had hammered the tiny crankbait nearly at our feet.

The fish high-jumped several times then sprang into the heaviest current to fight against the unknown pull. Our battle lasted several minutes, including some fancy drag work with the reel, before the fish was finally exhausted and grudgingly came to hand. After photographs and weighing on my new digital scale, I gently held the two-pound fish upright until it swam away after the exhausting fight. Though two pounds is not a huge fish by lake or big river standards, it was certainly respectable in our small creek and great fun on ultralight tackle.

In the remaining two hours, both of us released about 20 bass apiece and I also broke off a much heavier fish that could not even be turned until some unknown nick in the line failed under the heavy strain. This resulted in my making several loud and coarse statements about the line manufacturer. After calming down, I tied on another identical crankbait but the big fish was not having any more of my foolishness.

By now, it was afternoon and we needed to head home even though the fish showed no signs of losing their appetite. Analyzing our results, we realized that all the fish had been caught in heavy current toward midstream rather than the edges of calmer waters where the bass typically lurk. This would seem to indicate that the fish were actively feeding instead of waiting for a meal to come swimming or floating past.

I was aglow, basking in the joy of a great day as we turned downstream. I trailed a few feet behind Rich and made a quick cast to shore when somehow a large rock interposed itself between us. One foot carelessly wedged itself underneath the boulder but I did not realize the predicament until I took another step.

Brown water rushed up as I tried to catch myself before submerging in the waist-deep pool. My hand found nothing to grasp but my knee tried to help by bashing itself solidly against the infernal rock. Thus totally unbalanced and in great pain, I surrendered to the inevitable.

Long experience has shown that the only way to maintain a tiny shred of dignity when falling in a creek is to not flop around like an enraged walrus but to simply and calmly finish your plunge, then stand up without excessive theatrics. Thanks to years of experience, I did just that. Rich reacted as all fishing partners do and nearly burst an important gland while laughing. Continuing downstream, I smiled slightly as if to say “Yeah, the jokes is on me, but these things happen”.

I might have actually said those words but was too busy doing what is commonly known as “the splits” on another large pointed rock just downstream.

Fortunately, my wife and I have decided we have enough children.

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