Virginia co-angler changed by Falcon
Non-boater chronicled his experience among the Elite
Monday, April 7, 2008
The party's over. I'm home and back at work, which in many respects makes it feel like Falcon never happened. Everyone else rolled on up the road to Amistad and I'm back in D.C., where it's colder and I have to wear a suit during the day.
Think about it — Fork is one of the world's greatest trophy bass lakes and it's going to seem like a dinkfest after this donkey rodeo we just experienced.
I still haven't figured out what this event means historically. Records were broken and while they may never be broken again, don't count on it. No one thought 108 would be eclipsed, or 115, or 122, but this week those numbers were shattered. The Rojas 45-2 limit was nearly matched, so never say never.
Before I go, I had a few random items that I forgot to mention over the course of the week that seemed at least mildly important, so here they are, in no particular order.
- I have to give major respect to the folks at Falcon Lake Tackle. Not only did they open early and stay open late, but they were friendly, helpful and reasonable. Check out their website at www.tackleandrods.com and you'll see that they have a wealth of information about Falcon and the surrounding area and that they update it frequently. I'm a fanatic for local tackle shops and if they were all like FLT, they wouldn't be a dying breed.
- Both James Niggemeyer and Brent Chapman wore ear plugs when they made long runs to protect their hearing. First time I've seen that. My wife often says that my hearing is going, so maybe I should try it out. Actually, what she says is that my hearing is selective, and if that's an accurate diagnosis then they might not cure the problem.
- James told me that he once asked Rick Clunn what sort of weight he thought would win a particular tournament and Rick replied that he sought to "maximize his day" rather than shoot for a predetermined amount. I'd like to think that I fished a pretty "clean" tournament. On Day One, I had 11 bites, caught nine keepers, one short and missed one c-rig fish. On Day Two, I had seven bites and caught six keepers, although I did farm a fish that Yusuke and I conservatively estimated at between 4 and 5 pounds. I thought that was going to cost me making the cut and teach me a hard lesson about life in the big leagues, but fortunately it didn't. I'm also glad that history didn't repeat itself on Day Three, when I hooked into Shamu. That day, I caught nine keepers and only had one c-rig fish hang me up (broke it off). More importantly, when Marty went flipping, I gave him room and didn't hit the prime bushes and still managed to cull twice by casting a big 10-inch Power Worm around the general area.
- The information we got ahead of time was that Falcon is about 80,000 acres, but at this water level it was probably closer to 50,000. For a lake of that size, it seemed to fish small. I don't know if that reflects some inherent quality of the lake itself, or merely the fact that these pros are so good that no stone (or bush) is left unturned. Also, despite the big weights, don't think that your average bass clubber could head out there for three days of practice and repeatedly sack monster limits. Anyone who has fished with these guys on multiple occasions knows that they are almost super-human when it comes to seining an area, even the lowest guy on the food chain. Bill is a pretty damned good fisherman, and Mark Davis gave him plenty of area to fish, but Mark still outfished him nearly 3 to 1 and doubled his weight.
I did something that I've never done before in a tournament — purposely threw back a legal fish before I had a limit. After I had three on the last day, I caught a bass that was just over 14 inches but was bleeding pretty badly. Since you cannot cull a dead fish, Marty encouraged me to release it. I already had the 8-12 in the livewell, so I had little to lose and I took his advice. Thanks, Mr. Stone, for giving me the stones to make that decision.
- Remember how I said last week that I don't have much luck with the draw? Well, I retract that slightly. I had a couple of great draws this week. But still, I'm sure I'll never have an obvious big-name draw like the guy staying in the hotel room next to mine. Fishing his first pro-am, he drew Timmy Horton on Day One and KVD on Day Two. I still beat him.
For me, the measure of how much I enjoyed one of these events is whether I'd consider moving to the tournament site. Now you have to remember, I've lived in major metropolitan areas my whole life (I went to college and law school in New-York-Whatareyoulookingat-City) and my wife is from Chicago, so the transition to some of these more rural areas might take some adjusting.
Nevertheless, after the first time I fished Guntersville, I was convinced that lake would be our future home. I decided all we needed was: (1) a great lake; (2) a Super Wal-Mart; (3) high speed internet; and (4) cable TV.
If we needed a little bit of extra income, the redhead could work at the dog food factory. But now that I've been to Zapata, I've adjusted my criteria to create a sliding scale where if one of the four elements is missing, it can be overlooked if one of the other elements is superlative. So the great fishing at Falcon trumps the fact that the nearest Wal-Mart is 40 or so miles away. I'm serious about it — I'd spend October to April there if I could and I'd fish until my thumb was worn away.
But in all likelihood I'll have to wait a bit on that. In the meantime, I hope the Elites go back to Falcon again next year. I'll do whatever I can to go back. But if you're still reading, don't worry about putting in for the draw. You really wouldn't have a good time in Texas. I'm sure they'll go to some other lake that would suit your style better.
Thanks for reading. I hope I gave you some insight into the mind of a tournament-crazed co-angler and a feeling for Zapata and Falcon Lake. It's rare that a vacation (and in particular a tournament destination) lives up to all of its pre-departure hype. It's even rarer that it exceeds your expectations. This was one that pushed the fun meter as far to the right as possible.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
8-12, 22-00, 54-00.
That's not my Social Security number. It's not a phone number in Czech Republic. It's my personal best bass, personal best limit, and personal best multi-day tournament weight.
What do they have in common? All were achieved today.
As Napoleon Dynamite would say, pretty flipping sweet. Or, in the case of that one big donkey, pretty Carolina-rigging sweet.
I averaged 18 pounds of pissed-off Falcon bass for the past three days. Prior to this week, I only weighed in one limit over 18 in my life.
It must've been the mini-donuts I had for breakfast again. (Those things are the real deal.)
That seems like thousands of years and thousands of miles ago, back when my right hand was still useful. Between the torn-up thumb and palm from lipping fish and the multiple line cuts and fin jabs, it's not too much fun typing this right now. (You know it's a good tournament when you have to carry Neosporin and gauze in your tackle bag.)
Speaking of my tackle bag, I could've left most of it at home. I only caught one fish on a moving bait all week, a suicidal 4-pounder that crushed a buzzbait. Actually, it missed a buzzbait, then broke me off. I tied on another, the fish missed again, and then cast number four resulted in a flushing commode type of reaction and a fish in the boat. All I can figure is it was a fry guarder.
Now the tournament's over, I can reveal that every other fish was either flipping plastics or dragging the old "quitter's rig" (aka, "the Cannonball"). A 10-inch Power Worm (didn't Aerosmith sing about that?) did a lot of the damage. On the rig, I usually used a 7-inch watermelon or green pumpkin Yamamoto lizard. That's what nailed the big girl.
When I got her in the boat, Marty Stone asked me what my personal best fish was. I replied an even 8.
"It was 8 even," he said. "That mule will beat it."
Speaking of Marty, he was an absolute gentleman all day. Because of Big Bertha, I had almost 20 pounds by 11 o'clock (do you know how good it feels to type that?) and he wanted to go flipping.
He ended up losing most of the 20 or so bites he had flipping the rest of the day. I could tell he was distraught, but he handled it like a professional.
I spent much of the afternoon just casting the big worm around, trying to locate unseen bushes and stay out of his way. It was the right thing to do and I hope someone would do the same for me under those same circumstances. I did manage to flip up two good ones that culled out some C-rig fish.
After I caught the big 'un, my next fish appeared to be about 5 pounds when first surfacing, so I asked Marty for some help. The fish turned out to be "only" 3 pounds and he teased me the rest of the day for pushing the panic button for that peanut.
By the way, when is the IPO for Tru-Tungsten? I probably lost $50 worth of their weights this week. Marty smiled when I told him that. Over time I'll probably pay for his kids' college educations.
Bill fished with Mark Davis and said it was one of the best learning experiences of his life. Mark waxed him and Bill still managed to scrounge up 18 and change. This place is a freak show. The folks at ESPN/Disney need to move their operation to this Magic Kingdom.
Meanwhile, Bryant fun-fished with Kurt Dove and whacked his personal best, an 8 1/2- or 9-pounder, with a limit they guesstimated at 26 pounds.
So each of us had an 8-plus, and each had a 20-pound bag. Was this trip a success? You be the judge.
The other thing making it so good is the two of them are easy to travel with: We've been to Lake Winnpesaukee, N.H., Guntersville, Ala., the California Delta and now Falcon together — along with numerous trips closer to home, and even though we're all different personalities, there has never been a problem. Thanks you two, for making this a great trip.
Also thanks to Heidi Roth at Yamamoto for overnighting the baits I needed and to fellow outdoor writer Terry Battisti for finding me two discontinued Shimano Castaic reels this off-season ... they were a key to whatever success I had fishing. And to Clifford Wiedman at Kistler — that Extra Heavy flipping stick I ordered three-day air before this trip was also critical.
Even at the co-angler level, whatever minimal success we may achieve is a team effort. And to Mark Jeffreys of Basszone.com, on whose computer I am writing this — dude, I'm envious you get to hit all of these events, and I hope you whack 'em here on Monday. I wish I were heading on to Del Rio with you.
And I can't forget my wife. Well, actually I can, as she reminded me after I thanked Marty on stage and forgot to give her a shout-out on the webcast.
(I guess I need a little more stage time in my future to get the routine down. Oh, and honey ... the money missing from the checking account is the down payment I put on a doublewide on the lake.)
Once again, I don't know where I ended up in the final standings. I assume they'll mail me my check. That's the least of my worries. The most important worry is figuring out how to get back here next year.
Tomorrow is our travel day. We will once again go past the town of Bigfoot, Texas and wonder how far north you need to go before Bigfoot becomes Sasquatch. We'll hit San Antonio, where the Final Four of the NCAA basketball tournament is going on this weekend and we'll laugh at the fact that all of them are attending the second-most important sporting event going on in Texas right now.
If Bowman will print it, I'll add an epilogue to this tome on Monday night. Thanks for reading. And if you weren't here, I hope I was able to give you some sense of what it was like to be a witness to fishing history.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Three words for you: I'm in baby! Another day of fishing on the best lake in the world for me tomorrow. At this point it's all gravy — obviously I want to catch more fish, but the key to me was getting to Day Three.
Bill drew Mark Davis, and I expect they'll whack 'em. As I alluded to in an earlier entry, how much would you pay on eBay for a day of post-spawn fishing with the best post-spawn fisherman in the world. Neither of us have a chance to win this deal, so I expect we'll both be loose.
That's the good news. The bad news is that BC, the best fisherman among the three of us, missed the cut by just a couple of ounces due to a dead fish penalty.
I really feel for him. He had a great day and moved way up, but it just wasn't enough. Our goal coming in was for all three of us to make the cut, as we did last year on the Delta, but we fell just short. Our friend Kurt Dove is hanging around Zapata for another day, so he'll take BC out to fish for part of the day.
Unlike yesterday, today I needed the alarm to wake me up, and I even hit the snooze once. I decided that the breakfast mini donuts had worked yesterday and you don't kick a winning horse, so I ate another pack in about six bites.
Based on Bill's description, I wasn't thrilled about riding with Yusuke, but I really worked to stay positive. I don't know if they have bull riding in Japan, but if they do, Mr. Miyazaki should be the captain of the team.
Whether it's crushing his Skeeter through rough water or drenching us trying to run the trolling motor into three foot rollers, the dude is an absolute cowboy out there. I have the sheared off reel handle to prove it.
When I was in Tokyo last year, I bought a Daiwa RPM crankbait and for some reason I knew that Yusuke had designed it, so I mentioned that in the truck and his eyes lit up. Good ice breaker, Pete.
It wasn't intentional, but I wanted to gauge out how he'd be in the boat, whether we'd have conversation, etc. His wife strapped the two little kids in their car seats and we headed to the ramp. She can back a trailer pretty well.
For many of my single years, I said that would be a prerequisite for my eventual wife, but the woman I ended up marrying is still working on using a baitcaster, so that lesson will have to come on down the road.
At blastoff I was much more tense than yesterday, and when 11 a.m. rolled in and I didn't have a fish (and he had 5) I was feeling pretty sorry for myself, and I had to force myself to snap out of it.
Even though I had more weight yesterday, I felt that I fished very well mentally today. Every time I started to get down (two swimmers in the livewell at 1 p.m., losing a 5-pounder at 3:30) and became convinced I'd squandered my chances, I gave myself the proverbial kick in the butt and willed the bites to happen. I finally culled out a 14-inch squeaker 10 minutes before we had to go in. I still don't know what place I'm in (31st with 31-15), or whether that fish helped, but it was monumental for my confidence.
Did I mention that Yusuke had a 34-pound sack? My right thumb and palm are raw from lipping more 5-pounders than the average fish hatchery manager sees in a year. But for me it was like the Greek myth of Sisyphus (or was it Tantalus?), the guy who rolled a giant rock up a hill, and every time he neared the top it escaped his grip and rolled down.
Yusuke had one sweet spot — he'd hit it, catch a five plus, and as he worked his culling tools we'd drift 200 yards away in the gale force winds. He'd idle back up, catch another, and the process would start over again — lather, rinse, repeat.
I had three midgets at 2:30 and kept commenting that I could use two of the ones he was throwing back. When I finally nailed my fifth, Yusuke came down from the front deck. I thought it was going to be for a handshake, but instead he gave me a hug. Hmmmm.
That's the first Japanese man love in my 38 years on this earth. Between that and talking about his 34-pound sack, I better stop before you get the wrong idea … not that there's anything wrong with that.
They served us tacos while we waited for the pairings — chicken, beef and sausage (or, as my lovely red-headed, Chicago-born wife would say, a "sassage sammich"). Good, didn't have to go out to grab a bite, could work on my tackle, get supplies for tomorrow, type this deal and hopefully be showered and in bed by 11 again.
While I'm experiencing diarrhea of the keyboard, I really need to thank the whole JM crew for letting me do this. Thinking back on the Delta tournament, exactly 12 months ago, there are so many little vignettes that I'm sure I've forgotten. This has given me an opportunity to memorialize them, and it just happens to be at the greatest tournament that ever happened.
Of course, I also was given the opportunity to humiliate myself … maybe that gave me a slight boost. Everyone knows that the fishermen work their tails off, but the guys who bring you the news get so little respect. So thanks to Steve Bowman for coming up with this idea, to Steve Wright for his guidance, to Sam Eifling for checking in on me, to Kyle Carter, Mike Suchan and countless others behind the scenes who bring this to you in a timely fashion.
I can't forget to thank photographer James Overstreet for making me laugh consistently. Not only can the man spot a whitetail behind a brick wall, but he also has the innate ability to remind me that I'm from the north without even trying.
The two times in my life I felt most like a Yankee were: (1) when I drove from Memphis to Greenville, Miss., and had no idea those were cotton plants on the side of the road; and (2) when I heard a conversation between Overstreet and Gerald Swindle and pretty much needed a translator to understand even snippets of what was being said.
Thanks also to all of the friends who have called, emailed and texted me. I want to call every one of you back, but I am bordering on incoherent at this point. My journal entries may reflect that, and if they do I apologize, but I'm about a frog's hair away from being a quivering mass of jell-o.
In 60 hours, I'll be back in the office.
"Work is for people who don't fish" — I don't know what that means, everyone here is working their tails off and I won't get suckered into the debate about whether they're athletes or not, but I don't know how they're going to go straight to Amistad for another toadfest (although I'd be willing to try that opportunity on for size)
Does anybody know what the wind is supposed to do tomorrow?????
April 3, 2008
I set the alarm for 5:20 a.m., but from 4:45 on I was pretty much awake: That's rare for me. I usually hit the snooze button at least two or three times and still have trouble motivating myself. It wasn't really a problem, though, even though I've been out in the sun for 12 hours a day every day this week. That's how good this lake is — it can get Pete Robbins to operate on minimal sleep.
I used the soccer mom van for carpooling, dropped off B.C. at Morizo's first and then Bill at Yusuke's. Then I hit the Valero and ran into Clark, who was sporting the plain white T instead of his full-on general's outfit. I got some chocolate mini-donuts for breakfast, not my usual but just seemed right — and scarfed them down on the way to the Chapmans' campground.
I don't know how to describe the feeling I had at takeoff, except to say that it was both hopeful and with a pit in my stomach. On one hand, I knew any cast could produce the fish of a lifetime. On the other, if I came in with one little swimmer and had to listen to a bunch of co-anglers say "You could throw it anywhere and get bit," I would be pretty disgusted. Been there, done that, bought the rainsuit.
Brent was very low-key and it stayed that way throughout the day, even when he thought the bite wasn't as good as it should have been. Since I know some members of his family are reading this, let me make it clear: there's no way the Robbins Curse will affect his career. He's the consummate professional, out there to do a job — and he does it well. He may not breakdance or scream a lot, but if you look at his stats over the years, he should be recognized as a star of the sport.
I know I recognize him as a good stick because he kicked my butt, but in the friendliest way possible. He had 30+ pounds. I thought I had 14 or so and was pleasantly surprised when Keith read out that I had over 17. Of course, this is Falcon, so who knows where that put me. It's 10:15 p.m. as I write this and we just finished dinner at El Paraiso (again), I haven't showered, and I need to finish up my tackle. Whose idea was it for me to write this deal every night?
In deference to Brent, I'm not going to talk about our fishing at this point, except for a few non-revealing points: First of all, he had a 9 pounder. I just don't have much experience with fish that big unless they have whiskers or live in the salt. You could have told me it were an 11 and I would've believed you. It had big old half-dollar eyes — the only one with bigger eyes was me, when the big sow came up and wallowed the first time.
People said this place is like Erie, I thought they were talking about the quality of the fishery, but it turns out they were talking about the wind. It howled today, and there was no escaping it. We clipped the top of one and got a little wet.
Also, remember that 50 pounds of tackle I brought? Well, I caught most of my fish on a single bait, and it was something I bought here in Zapata.
So much for preparation.
When I saw Bill after we checked in, I motioned to ask how his day went. He gave a big thumbs down and I thought he said "one fish." When we met back at the room he was distraught about his day and went on and on about how bad it was — then he revealed that he had 4 for over 15 pounds.
(Only at Falcon.)
He's fishing with Mark Tyler tomorrow. I recently wrote an article about Mark's goat farm so I hope Bill quizzes him on that. B.C. is fishing with James Kennedy. B.C. had 12 pounds today — that's out of the cut, but only one bite away from top 20. It's wide freaking open, dude.
One more note: Charlie Hartley got a lot of positive press from the Classic and I've always been amazed at how nice he is when I've interviewed him. I learned today that it's completely genuine.
As we milled about the takeoff area, I heard him complement Wade Grooms on his performance in Florida, then when Ray Sedgwick went by Charlie, mentioned he'd seen the Kissimmee show on the Deuce and that Ray had given a great performance. Add Charlie to the "James Niggemeyer All Stars" (pros who are too nice to be fishermen).
Lots of calls that I haven't answered.
I did manage to call the Ultra-Understanding Red-Headed, Chicago-Born Wife (UURHCBW) and told her to put the house up for sale, put the dogs in the car, and head straight for her new home in Zapata, Texas.
I may be singing a different tune tomorrow, but today was what it's all about. And I'm not talking about what I caught, but rather about learning what it means to be a professional angler, knowing that I'll never be one, fishing on the best lake in the country and then letting the UURHCBW know that I had chocolate donuts for breakfast, beef jerky for lunch and I big old Mexican combo plate for dinner and not worrying about her reaction (thus the UU label).
April 2, 2008
Up at 5:20 again. I'm not used to fishing five or six days in a row, particularly not in tropical heat, but one thing I really enjoy about a long fishing trip is getting in a rhythm.
Anyone who's fished a lot of multi-day tournaments knows what I'm talking about — by day three or four, you've blocked out everyone and everything else and your day revolves around competition or preparation.
Bryant was going to fish with Bernie again, and Denny had a sponsor obligation, so Bill was riding with Shaw Grigsby. Bill practiced with Shaw one day at the Delta last year and said it was the most fun he'd ever had in a boat without catching a fish. I dropped him off and took the soccer mom mobile over to the luxurious Oso Blanco to find Jeff Kriet's Longhorn boat and truck.
I recently wrote an article about Kriet and Mike McClelland as the Odd Couple — close friends who are complete opposites, especially when it comes to cleanliness.
Jeff's truck is filled with all sorts of debris: Dr. Pepper cans, sandwich wrappers, old receipts. If it were 20 years old, I'd swear you could find an old pack of Scuppernong jelly worms, too.
Once again, Jeff approached things somewhat differently than James or Marty and I think that experience will help me as a co-angler. Got off the water a little after 2 p.m. and made our way back.
I called my good friend Heidi Roth at Yamamoto to order some things overnighted that I think I might need. She is a lifesaver. Still, I had to go to the tackle store. That's part of the routine I was talking about in the beginning of this entry.
We made our way to the meeting with trepidation. Bill calls me the career killer. In the five BASS pro-ams I've fished, I've had 11 pro partners — and 10 no longer fish BASS.
Some left voluntarily (Chad Brauer, Chris Baumgardner) while others weren't even one-hit wonders (Darrin Schwenkbeck, Rudy Gautreaux, Bo Fraser). Not to say they were bad partners, just that the chance of me and KVD sharing some laughs and some of Sherry's magic cookies tomorrow is out of the question.
They fed us pretty well at this one — fajitas, beans, 'tater salad, good tortillas and, most important, lots of cold drinks.
Bryant was the first to be called, and he drew Morizo Shimizu. Bill and I remained as the room thinned. Finally they called me and Brent Chapman.
I am stoked, because I know he knows what he's doing. If Brent reads my history here, he may be a little less stoked. Believe it or not, my heart was pounding during the roll call. I don't know why. I've fished with Brauer and KVD, I've been in high-level business meetings, all that type of stuff, but every time I go through this I'm a wreck, even just at club tournaments.
If you're any sort of tournament angler, you may feel the same way. Outsiders may not understand it, but this is what life is all about. None of my relatives bass fish but I believe I was born to do it. Every aspect of it fascinates me and the passion is there all of the time, so I take even small things pretty seriously.
Bill draws Yusuke Miyazaki. So two of the three of us have drawn Japanese anglers. None of us speak Japanese. I'm a freak for Japanese tackle and my brother lives in Tokyo and is fluent, but that doesn't help us all that much.
Back to the room, I learn Clark the Spark is leaving me for a better offer — apparently his own bed is better than continuing to sleep atop a boat cover on my floor.
I respool some reels, winnow down my tackle to confidence baits, and head back to the Oso Blanco to borrow Steve Wright's computer. He bought some of the most God-awful looking steroid-freak pork rinds and the keyboard is full of crumbs and residue.
It's 9 p.m. as I finish this and I'm headed back, but may not go to sleep for a while. With an 8 a.m. blastoff and a late boat number, I don't have to meet Brent until 6:45. At this point, that's like sleeping until noon.
Thinking good thoughts and trying to remain calm. It's going to be mighty embarrassing if I struggle on this pond with all of the Bassmaster.com readers following my every move.
I think it's going to be a six-Gatorade day. Hopefully, I'll have five big 'uns to go with them.
April 1, 2008
Happy April Fools Day. Don't you feel like a fool that you didn't sign up for this deal? The word seems to be that records will fall. I don't know if that's true, but I'm ready to find out.
One thing I forgot to mention yesterday was the weather. It's going to be pushing 100 every day this week.
With James, the wind started to blow in the morning and I thought it was going to get nasty for a while. I thought we were going to see Falcon's wrath, but we got lucky — I'm sure it can get nasty when it blows.
It's flat as can be around here. Today, it started off glassy out, and by 3 p.m. it was brutally hot. I guess I didn't reapply the sunblock well enough because this Yankee has a bit of red on the neck. At 3, it was dead calm, by 4 it was blowing hard again, but it was actually a welcome relief to cool down a bit.
Fishing with Marty Robinson was enjoyable — he approached some things differently than James did, but that's all I can really say about that. He has a plumbing business back home in South Carolina and had to take a bunch of business calls. He would put the phone on speaker, hold the antenna in his mouth, talk out of the other side of his mouth and continue to fish. I can't multitask like that, let alone walk and chew gum.
Once again, we came off the water after dark. By the time I got back and met up with Bill, Bryant and Clark, it was dark.
Bill had fished with Denny Brauer for the second straight day and BC had been with Bernie Schultz again. Guess they planned a little better than I did, or at least didn't have the confusing circumstances.
Barely worked on tackle because I was starved. Marty ate some cold Chef Boyardee in the boat (first time I've seen that) and I gorged myself on Pop-Tarts. After they sit in a storage compartment in 98 degree heat for a while, they get a little soupy, but no big deal. Sugar is sugar.
Today's noxious wildlife note — did you know rattlesnakes can swim? A half-mile offshore? I sure as heck didn't and it came as a bit of a surprise, and not the good kind.
The four of us hit El Paraiso, where I had some butt kicking Mexican food, the other thing I came here for. We'll see tomorrow how my stomach handles it. Oh yeah, finally got in touch with Jeff Kriet and we are still on for tomorrow, so I'm 1 for 3, which is better than an "o-fer." Maybe the word about me hasn't gotten around to everyone.
March 31, 2008
In yesterday's haste to get to bed, I forgot to mention that I finally did get a ride. After asking around over and over and over, it seemed that everyone was jammed and Pete would be sitting on the bank Monday or else visiting some of Zapata's scenic landmarks.
Luckily, I eventually got in touch with James Niggemeyer, who agreed to take me out, thereby breaking his typical policy of no riders on practice day. Thanks, James.
For those of you who have never met him, he is one of the most kind, humble pros around. I've interviewed him several times in the past and this year at the Classic. I told him half-jokingly that he's too nice to be a pro bass angler. I arrived at his camper at 6:15 a.m., but he wasn't up yet, so I loaded my gear in the boat and hung out for a bit.
He awoke, came outside and asked if I'd seen any of the rattlesnakes that are typically on the road at night. Not what I wanted to hear — thereafter I became a little more cautious when opening the storage compartments.
We proceeded to the campground ramp — it had taken Chris Lake 20 minutes to get his boat launched there. Terribly pockmarked and shallow. After a few unsuccessful tries, we made it not too much the worse for wear.
In deference to my practice and tournament partners, I'll save any info about the fishing until after the tournament is over. These guys work too hard to have me screw it up for them. We were on the water from 7 a.m. until 8 p.m. James is an absolute machine and I really enjoyed chatting with him about all sorts of things.
Without giving too much away, I can tell you the following:
- I caught my first Mexican bass;
- These are the hardest-fighting fish I've ever caught, bar none; and
- Gillnets suck. It would be a shame for them to ruin this great fishery.
Back at the room by 9, too tired to go out to eat, so we walked into the drive-in next door. Had something greasy, then Clark and I went over to the Holiday Inn to talk with Dave Wolak and Pat Golden. Got back to the room, showered, worked on my tackle a bit.
Clark still doesn't have a room, so he's crashing on my floor. Yes, Clark Reehm, Elite Series pro, living the dream, using a boat cover as a mattress on the floor of the Falcon Executive Inn.
He drove all night, fished all day — how does he have more energy than I do? I'm trying to sleep and he's yapping away about crankbaits.
Thanks for reading. 11 p.m., lights out, Clark is still talking.
P.S. Forgot to mention, I called Mike McClelland when I got back to the hotel to confirm that we'd be prefishing tomorrow. He said that he left a message middle of last week saying he couldn't, had a long-time friend coming down.
It struck me as odd since we'd talked on Friday and he said it was fine. I guess there was a miscommunication somehow. He said he'd check with Jeff Reynolds and get back to me either way within an hour, but when he didn't, I had to scramble to get a partner for tomorrow. Luckily, Bryant ran into Marty Robinson, who he'd fished with last year at the Delta, and Marty agreed to take me.
I thought I had done the boy scout thing and been prepared, but apparently the best laid plans of co-anglers can indeed go awry. I'm batting oh-for-two on prefishing partners, we'll see tomorrow night if it's three strikes and out.
March 30, 2008
Waking up was not a problem this morning. Out of bed before the alarm went off at 5 a.m., let the dogs out, cleaned myself up and we picked up Bill and Bryant shortly after 6 a.m.
Ride to airport — no problem — a rarity for our traffic-congested area. For some reason the United line is super-long before 7 a.m. — and with our rod tubes and 800 pounds of tackle, it's a struggle to zigzag, but we make it to the front with relatively little stress, except for the idiots who ask us if we're traveling with bazookas. You don't joke about that in a DC area airport.
We get to the gate and there's an announcement that they are kicking people off the plane and will announce who shortly. First time I've ever heard of that. Luckily, they get enough volunteers to get bumped that we're safe. One crisis averted and three hours later we're on the ground in San Antonio.
Our luggage comes off the belt unscathed, and we head over to get our rental van … strike that, rental mini-van. Yes, we're rolling in a soccer mom mobile. Pretty weak.
After a stop south of town for a barbecue sandwich (you don't order sushi in Rome, do you?), we're in Laredo two hours later. We buy licenses at Academy and head to Wal-Mart for supplies. Even though it was 77 in San Antonio, it's already 86 in Zapata and supposed to be upper 90s every day we're here.
The last hour we're not quite sure that we're on the right road, but we roll in and the town is actually nicer than we expected. We zip right by the hotel and hit the two tackle shops in town to further weigh down our "Cadillac of Minivans."
Oh yeah, we saw Steve Kennedy's contraption fishtailing down the road — motorhome towing a jeep towing a boat. Finally, we check in at the semi-spacious, semi-clean, more-than-tolerable Falcon Executive Inn (Executive?). My friend, rookie Elite Series pro Clark Reehm calls. He left Arkansas at 1 p.m., got a flat and somehow ended up in Oklahoma. He's running late, to say the least.
As it turns out, he arrives at 6 a.m. the next day as I'm pulling out to go fish … which is another story altogether. I had lined up a ride a few weeks back but due to unforeseeable circumstances he has to cancel, so I'm scrambling to find someone else.
Everyone either declines (do I really look that awful) or has someone with them. A decade ago, you could show up at the lake and get a ride, but due to tightened rules that has definitely changed. We go to Pizza Hut and after waiting at the table an hour, Bill and Bryant are served their pizza, but my ziti does not arrive. I hunt down the manager (couldn't find our server) and he tells me they've been out of ziti all day. I storm out to Mickey D's, eat my chicken in the car, and pick up Bryant and Bill as they walk out. I need bed. 11 a.m. lights out. Practice hasn't even started and I'm wiped.
March 28, 2008
I didn't have work Friday, but I had a bunch of errands to run and writing projects to catch up on, so it didn't really feel like a day off.
That's one of the cool things about being an outdoor writer, I can still say "I traded messages with KVD" as if it's not a big deal … but it is.
I also continued the packing and repacking process. I took my duffel out to the garage and added my tackle to the clothing inside. That put me way over the airline's 50 pound limit. How do I know? Because I brought the bathroom scale down, too.
The problem with that methodology is that if you just put the bag on the scale, you can't see the readout, so I had to weigh myself first, then stand on the scale holding the bag and subtract out my own weight.
The bottom line is that I'm about 20 pounds heavier than I was when I got married three years ago. I didn't really need to know that as I'm heading to a place where there probably aren't too many healthy things on the menu.
Some guys can exercise when they're at a tournament site, but I'm definitely not one of them. In fact, my biggest struggle is usually making it past 8 p.m.
I finally got the big bag down to just under 50 pounds (without losing any clothing) by moving all of my soft plastics into my carry-on. Lizards and brush hogs may not weigh much individually, but you'd be surprised how much a few gallon Ziploc bags full of them can weigh.
Then I got nervous about the carry on rules. I know that they don't allow liquids or gels onboard in quantities greater than 3 ounces, but I'm not sure whether worms and such fall into either of those categories.
I checked the TSA website and there was no mention of soft plastics, so I'm hoping I'm OK. It would be absolutely painful to have all of them confiscated at the X-ray machine.
Fortunately, Bill Roberts, who's traveling with me, is a Federal judge, so I'm hoping that if they give us any trouble with our tackle he'll try to exert a little muscle on them. You'd never know he was a Federal judge when you first met him. He's more likely to talk about heavy metal than res judicata.
It's pretty funny when he tells one of his fishing partners what he does, you can see them stiffen up immediately.
Last year at the Delta he fished with Greg Hackney on the third day. While waiting to blast off, Denny Brauer and I idled over and when the topic of Bill's profession came up, Greg sort of got that googley-eyed look that you see on TV when he catches a big fish. Bill said that it actually broke the ice between them, so that was good.
Since I was at home all day, I got a better insight into what my dogs do between the time I usually leave at 7 a.m. and the time I get home at 7 p.m. I always assume that they sleep a bit, get up, get a drink of water, and then find a new place to sleep.
But we live on a busy street, and about every 15 minutes when a large truck or fire engine goes by, or some other noise occurs, they go crazy barking at nothing.
The Australian Shepherd goes to whichever door is closer to the noise and growls, and the Pug follows her lead and hops around as if she could do anything other than lick an intruder to death.
At about 5 p.m., Riley, the shepherd, kept up the barking for an unusually long time. When I went to check what was going on, it was my good friend the UPS man. I had ordered some line and other supplies from PRADCO last week, and had assumed that they wouldn't be here in time for Falcon, but they got here today.
Now I have to unpack some of my big bag, take out the old line and replace it with the fresh stuff. I have a feeling this is going to continue until the last possible minute.
March 27, 2008
I managed to weasel my way into dinner with Alton Jones, Judy Wong and their families on Tuesday night.
I work only two blocks from Old Ebbitt Grill, where they had a reservation, and my good friend Aaron Hobbs of the Congressional Sportsmens Foundation organized the dinner and invited me. Bassmaster editor James Hall and Sam Eifling (who works for some guy named Bowman) were also there. If I weren't already excited about Falcon, spending time with those two champions would have put me over the top.
The only downside is we're in the off-limits period, so I couldn't talk to Alton at all about the fishery, which was frustrating. With gas near $3.20 a gallon around here, I did talk to Alton about what the pros are likely to expect from their co-anglers in terms of gas money.
I certainly don't want to get labeled as the amateur who didn't properly compensate his partner. With five, maybe six days on the water, that means bringing a fair amount of cash. The whole gas thing really hit home for me on Monday when I decided I "needed" some last-minute supplies for the trip: It was actually cheaper to order the items from Bass Pro Shops with three-day shipping than driving the 90 miles roundtrip to the store to get them.
Besides, there's nothing better than a visit from the UPS man or FedEx guy. That package will be there tomorrow.
When I got home from the dinner, there was an extra-heavy Kistler flipping stick I'd ordered last week waiting for me. I had panicked that my regular heavy broomsticks wouldn't be able to handle some of the Falcon toads and decided it might be necessary to go big — or go to the scales fishless. Of course, each new purchase means more luggage. The folks at United only allow us one 50-pound bag in addition to the rod tube, so as I add new baits and terminal tackle, I'm starting to wonder if I can reduce the amount of clothing I can bring. I really need to start whittling down everything.
March 21, 2008
T minus a week and counting: That's when I'm heading to Zapata, Texas, and Falcon Lake for the Lone Star Shootout.
If you'll notice, none of those bodies of water are anywhere near my Virginia home. That's the great thing about fishing one of these events — I get to go to some of the crown jewel bass fisheries and fish with the best anglers in the world. Typically, they come before my local tournament season starts and it's a great way to jump-start the year. I've been pumped up about this all winter long.
I've always been careful to avoid events that are likely to be primarily sight-fishing tournaments. I've heard that won't be the dominant paradigm at Falcon — keeping my fingers crossed on that front.
Last year, I traveled to Stockton, Calif., with friends Bill Roberts and Bryant Copley and it was an amazing trip. While none of us threatened to win, we all made the cut.
On the first day of his first-ever BASS event, Bryant drew out with Rick Clunn. Bill lipped two 10-pounders for Aaron Martens. I practiced three days with Kevin VanDam and drew some guy named Denny Brauer on Day Three of the tournament.
Sure, it's a little pricey to get out there, but what would you have to pay on eBay for a trip like that?
Bill and Bryant are much more accomplished anglers than I am, so that puts additional pressure on me to not make any mistakes. The two of them can catch fish out of parking lot mud puddles, so even with a good draw I need to be on my game.
We're all aware tournament day is pretty much luck of the draw in one of these tournaments, so we've made a point of setting up pre-fishing opportunities with some great anglers. (More on that later in the week.)
With five or possibly six days on the water, there's a good shot at least one or two of the days will be superlative: I hear they grow big down there and I'd like nothing more than to return home with sore thumbs, memories of big fish and possibly a check.
If I end up bringing just one bag of a staple — or leaving it out altogether — it'll mean scrambling to get some at the local tackle shop … if they have any.
But who am I kidding? I'm going to spend plenty of time and money at the shop(s) down there, anyway — I'm an absolute sucker for new tackle.
I also spooled up a bunch of braid. The only applications I use it for around here are throwing frogs and toads, or flipping the mats on the Potomac. I'll definitely need to get used to it for other techniques during the practice day.
You don't want to be testing out new equipment and techniques when you have a chance at the bass of a lifetime.
I've been to Texas a number of times, but never farther south than Austin. I have a feeling this journey to the Mexican border is going to have an element of culture shock that I haven't experienced at any of the other lakes.
Real Mexican food, for one … the type we don't get up here in our area.
But I plan to be pretty careful with that — I don't want to mess up some pro's day on the water because I need a trip to the bank to do my business.
On top of that, I have a feeling the banks at Falcon are swarming with critters that bite and sting — having the potential for extreme discomfort (and embarrassment).
Pete Robbins is a frustrated attorney who dreams of pursuing a full-time career in the fishing industry. In the meantime, he tries to satisfy his need to be around the tournament scene through a second career as a freelance outdoor writer. A self-described tournament junkie and tackle addict who calls the Potomac River his home water, he resides in Vienna, Va., with his very understanding wife Hanna and their two dogs, Riley and Cookie.
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