Fishing for Schooling Bass in the Fall

Check out this piece on how Scott Canterbury breaks down schooling bass.

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/64652/Fishing-for-Schooling-Bass-in-the-Fall

Schooling Spots and Flipping Docks As Summer Begins To Ease on Martin

Check out this piece I wrote on good friend Ben Weldon. Some great insight for fishing in September and October on Lake Martin.

http://www.aonmag.com/article.php?id=2403&cid=175

October Ushers Out The Hard Times on Lake Harding

Check out this article I wrote on Lake Harding for Alabama Outdoor News and Georgia Outdoor News. Just click the link below.

http://www.aonmag.com/article.php?id=2429&cid=82

Summer Turns To Fall: The Science behind These Bass Fishing Seasons

New article up on Wired2Fish. Just click the link below to get Greg Vinson's expert opinion as an Elite Series Pro and Biologist. This is my kind of science!

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/64041/Summer-Turns-To-Fall-The-Science-behind-These-Bass-Fishing-Seasons

Shallow Water Bass Fishing, Ott Defoe Style

Check out this piece I wrote on how Ott Defoe sets up and breaks down a shallow water bite year round. Just click the link below.

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/63473/Be-a-Shallow-Bass-Fishing-Angler

Tom Mann on deep drop shotting.

Tom Mann breaks down how to fish deep timber with a drop shot. Check out the article by clicking the link below.

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/62740/Deep-Cover-Shot-Bass-Fishing-Feature

How Docktor G Operates

Check out the latest article I wrote for Wired2Fish on Gerald Swindle. Just click the link below.

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/61566/Docktor-G-Operates-How-to-Fish-Docks-for-Bass

How to Tame a Wolf

Check out the latest article I wrote for Wired2Fish on EverStart Pro Randall Tharp. Just click the link below.

http://blog.wired2fish.com/blog/bid/61351/How-to-Tame-a-Wolf-Fishing-for-Roaming-Bass

An Elite Series Pro Takes On Millers Ferry’s Steamy, Still Waters

Check out the feature I did for Alabama Outdoors News on NetBait pro Greg Vinson. Just Click the link below!

http://www.aonmag.com/article.php?id=2382

A Pro Takes On Mitchell’s Summer Jig Bite

Check out the feature I wrote for Alabama Outdoor News on Straight Talk pro Scott Canterbury. Just click the link below!

http://www.aonmag.com/article.php?id=2357&cid=82

Lake Lanier Spotted Bass with Tom Mann Jr

Check out the feature I wrote for FLW Outdoors Magazine on Tom Mann Jr. Just flip to page 82 of the 2011 August/September issue. If you are not a subscriber then become one today by visiting http://www.flwoutdoors.com/magazine/.



Jt Kenney is the Professor of Flippin' School

Check out the feature I wrote for FLW Outdoors Magazine on Jt Kenney. Just flip to page 96 of the May/June 2011 issue. If you are not already a subscriber then become one today by clicking http://www.flwoutdoors.com/magazine/.

A Season to Remember

Hard knocks. Tough breaks. No fun. This year has been slap full of learning experiences. I learned that you can't jump my engine off with jumper cables. Takes too many cold cranking amps. Got to have a jumper box. Had to throw back 15 pounds. That cost me a couple thousand bucks and about 60 angler of the year points.

I learned that Shimano changed how Power Pro is made when they bought it out and now 50 # braid will break at the boat on a five pounder. A few more points. A few more bucks. I learned that a tie for the last check results in no money. There goes another $1073. I learned that a 22 pound hole on Okeechobee can become a 4 pound hole over night.

But that's just the way the ball bounces. That's just fishing. I knew that when I picked this game to play. Luck is all part of it. Good and bad. I already knew that no matter what you do sometimes things just don't go right.

However their will be times when nothing can go wrong. When you boat flip that five pounder. When you hit the start button and the engine fires off. When the last check is the least of your worries. And the hard knocks will make victory so much sweeter.

The seasons to remember aren't filled with top 10's. Those are the ones to celebrate but the ones to remember have you buried 52nd in points. The ones to remember taste really bitter. They make you question why you spend thousands chasing little green fish around. They make you appreciate the good times.

My first season as a "pro" is done. It did not go how I'd hope and I'm sure it won't at times in the future. But I'm living my dream. I have the opportunity to give it a shot and for that I am eternally thankful. Some valuable lessons learned and hopefully out of the way. I am already ready for January and my next shot. Until then I'll be wishin I was fishin.

Honk if you love Lake Martin

Running and gunning with dad on Lake Martin. I was a young boy in central Alabama learning the ropes. I’m not really old enough to have a 'remember when' story but back then a GPS was an even pricier investment than it is now, with less capability and usually handheld. Therefore we didn't have one. But my dad knew Lake Martin pretty well, a little better than the back of his hand, so it didn't really matter.

I would lie in the bottom of the boat as it skimmed across the clear deep waters. We'd run from one end of the lake to the other, then hopscotch back from island to pocket to creek to island. I was completely lost but he knew where we were and where we were headed. As I grew up I got up from the bottom of the boat and became co-captain in the seat beside him. Learning each turn, island and creek by look instead of name.  

He’d let me drive every now and then. I’d run along about half throttle until I was just shy of an unmarked underwater island or about to miss a turn and he'd lean over and point the right path out to me. I'd adjust. He'd say head towards that opening or those islands. Aim for those houses up on that ridge and then go behind the island just before you get to the bank.

I would have had a hard time in my younger days finding that last turn the other day. I almost missed it anyway. But I'll not likely mistake it again. The pristine houses that were perched with such precision on the edge of the river are no more. Just scattered debris and bare ground.

Last Saturday was the first time I was on the lake since the bout of deadly tornadoes struck the state in late April. I had been to Tuscaloosa and seen the devastation first hand offering my assistance and a few supplies for what it was worth. But I know just a handful of people in Tuscaloosa and had only been through it once before. Not to down play the unbelievable tragedy there but what I saw on Lake Martin just hit a little closer to home so to speak.

Houses that used to be land marks, used get from the ramp to my chosen fishing hole of the day. Houses I’d pass on the way to fond memories. I started thinking about the heartbreak that must be felt by the victims on Lake Martin and those who had lost everything in Tuscaloosa and across the southeast.

I saw a sign coarsely painted in orange spray paint on a set of green doors half on the hinges. Practically all that was left of this house used as a graffiti canvas. A simple statement and a call to action. “Our Sunset will not change. Honk if you love Lake Martin.” It reminded me of the resolve I saw in the faces of survivors in Tuscaloosa who were doing all they could to help their neighbors, friends, and complete strangers.

It reminded me of America. Of the towers falling. Of Katrina. Of trials and tribulation talked about in the book of James. All the things that have passed and are still to come, good and bad. Of a country with faith, hope and love at its foundation. Mortared together with prayer.

It reminded me of the good times when I used to run around on Lake Martin with my dad and of those fathers and sons that lost their fishing companion in the storms. Of the mothers without babies and babies without mothers. Families without homes. All the turmoil that is going on in the lives of so many right now. And how divine the line is between the people inside tragedy and the people outside looking in. The storm could have been 10 miles further south and would have ripped through my home. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t.

Now the storm is in Missouri, and the storm still rages in Tuscaloosa. And on Lake Martin. In Louisiana with the flood victims. And in the heart of millions facing storms of all types right now. These storms show us how quickly life can change completely. Treasure every fishing trip. Help those that have lost. Help those that are lost. Don’t try to understand why you’re on either side of the divine line. Just cross it and lend a hand if you can. Honk if you love Lake Martin. And whatever happens never let the sunset change.   

Matthew 25:40 “The King will reply, ‘I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.’

Consumed

I was fishing when the tornadoes hit. Didn't hit where I was. But they hit. And hit hard. Miles away. But I was fishing. And never really checked up. Consumed by my own interest. Looking back its disgusting.

I saw some pictures and read some articles. But I was just too consumed with my tournament. I called my family and friends to make sure they were fine. Then I went back to what I was doing. Consumed with my performance there.

Now I'm home. Watching video after video. Still impossible to grasp. Thinking. About all those who were consumed. By a storm. Now consumed by rubble. Consumed by grief. Consumed by broken futures, broken families, and broken hearts.

And I'm sitting here tonight with my family. Eating a steak and drinking a Coke. Neither with any taste. They don't have water. They don't have food. They don't have anything to consume. The storm took it all. Mixed it together and threw it back down.

Now I'm consumed by guilt. Consumed by compassion. Consumed by purpose. As we all should be. Its time to help. I'm headed to Tuscaloosa. Go there. Go somewhere. Go help.

Runnin

Well it's the night before day 2 of the Everstart Series on Lake Eufaula. I was very fortunate on a tough lake today. Had 10 pounds 9 ounces including a 4 and a half pound bite. That's more than I've had any of the 6 days of practice here. Sitting in 24th of 148. This is the worst I have ever seen it. A traditionally great fishery plagued by low water and postspawn funk.

I have no confidence that I can catch 10 pounds here again. And that would likely just get me a check if I did. I'm tired of fishing for a check. The big boys don't fish for checks. Hero or zero. They fish for the win. And you know them. Because they win. Sure they finish in a hundredth place or so more times than not. But who remembers those finishes. No one except the angler himself.

So it's time to gamble. Make a long run. About 100 miles. One way. To Florida. Lake Seminole. The promise land. At least that's the hope. A pipe dream really. It's full on at 70 mph. Two locks. Looming threat of possible boat trouble. And a ton of other variables. But its time to swing. This is what great stories are made of. Gamblers. Fence hunters. That's where I got to start looking. That's where winners look. To the fences. It's time to swing.

Now I sit alone

Hustle and bustle. Hurry up and wait. Up at 4:45 am to rush to the boat yard, then off to the ramp to sit for an hour while the sun sneaks up over the horizon and burns away the morning bite. National anthem and chills followed by the sound of 250 horses firing off. Cameras flash and film is etched with memories that won't soon fade. The last thing I hear, "Shaye Baker and Jordan Lee your Auburn University Tigers" as we shower down.

Sprint 5 miles in 4 minutes and then the slowest fishing I have ever done in my life. Grinding it out with the best of them. Fishing has never been so much work. Five keeper bites on day 1, three on day 2, five including one on Joe's last cast on day 3. A grind. Then rush back to the ramp with seconds to spare... an hour before weigh in. Hurry up and wait.

Put the truck on cruise control and coast back to the arena, wishing it were that simple with my nerves. Bag our fish. Slip back stage and wait it out in the tanks. We're announced. Stage lights sift through artificial fog as the chills return. An arena packed with screaming fans. Once in a lifetime kind of thing. My family there to cheer us on. They erupt as we pull out the biggest bag of the final day.

The hot seats. The most comfortable seats in the house. For a moment. As soon as the scales tipped in another school's favor they became hard and unwelcoming. Perched back in our boat off to the side I watched as Florida won their second. And I cheered for them. Two friends who love this thing as much as I do.

Now I sit alone. Friends, family, partner all on the road. No hustle. No bustle. No hurry up and wait. Just sit and think. Process what has happened. Third in the nation. Again. Came real close. Twice. Enjoyed every minute of it. Fished every single day that I was eligible to fish with College Fishing these last two years. Never missed a cut. What a blessing.

But now it's over. I'd like to thank all that were involved with two of the best years of my life. I won't name all that I can think of right now for fear I'll miss one. But know that if you are reading this then you are one of those I'd like to thank. Whether it's mom and dad or someone I've never met. Because you took the time. And you're a part of this game we all love.

Thank you

My Last Hurrah

This is my last hurrah. The final time I'll wear these colors and compete for my university. My last shot to represent College Fishing at the Cup. I embody every worn out cliche right now and I want it so bad I can taste it.

I was on the verge last year. One pound away. Led. Stumbled. Finished 3rd in the nation with my partner after a 14 month journey. But now I'm back. And there's one last chance to sit atop the college fishing world. To be the best out there.

The playing field, Kentucky Lake. It's going to take some giant bags. The competition is fierce. I'm not afraid of them. But I do respect them. I'm going up to bat against some future big names in the professional fishing world. But I have a strong partner in Jordan Lee and a burning desire to finish this thing off right.

I've somehow kept the bad taste out of my mouth. I've been able to see the immense blessing I've been bestowed in spite of the close finishes. We've won one but finished 2nd, 2nd, 3rd, and 3rd. Its a great record that I'm proud of. But if it were enough then I wouldn't be doing this in the first place. No more runner-ups. No more bridesmaids. I'm ready to win the big one.

Its all going to come down to timing. I'm a firm believer that no matter how good you are, no matter how prepared and no matter the competition, when it's your time it's your time. And when it's not it's not. It wasn't my time last year. Here's to hoping its my time this year.

I'm not praying for the win. I'm not selfish enough to ask that in light of all the problems in the world today. I'm just preparing, working, hoping. I heard it said once that if you need something, God will provide it. But if you want it you have to go get it yourself. Well I want this. Now its time to go get it.

The Legend and the Lure

A story is best written the way it is remembered.

Attempting to match his step with my stride, I bounded from one peaked rock to the next. All the while dodging the green ones. He had told me that they were dangerous, though I didn't believe it at the time. Nevertheless I refrained from trespassing as long as my grandfather was watching, venturing out of line only every now and then to test my own waters.

In one hand he carried a rod and reel. His other a mixture of worms, Vienna sausages, and Cokes all bundled together in a grocery bag. Mine were left vacant for now, needed more for balance than burden till I had gained the experience he had. The water was clear. Like cold air. I was looking down when I hopped to his occupied rock and nearly sent us both into the creek.

He had stopped suddenly though we were still one straight away from his favorite spot. I peered around him and saw what he saw. Gus Brown perched on the earthen seat just above my grandfather's eddy. Down where the cool water rolled over the big rock and dug out a nice little bed for the good ones to rest. It was the perfect spot.

Granddad wasn't happy with ole Gus. I could tell not only from his demeanor but also the colorful language he used to describe him. Gus had pestered granddaddy for years wanting to know where he caught all those big catfish. Granddaddy had held out for years too. But Gus promised not to go back, he just had to know, and granddaddy was a trusting sole.

You can't really hold it against Gus. He meant it when he said he wouldn't go back. He just couldn't help it. He was a fisherman after all. And that desire burnt straight through his fear and respect of my grandfather. But granddaddy looked at me and winked. Said, "Don't you worry sugar boy. Gus's ole lady will be expectin him home soon. When he's gone, we're gonna ease down there and catch that one he's been after all day."

I had no reason to doubt him. He was my hero and Gus the villain. Why would good not prevail. We eased down the creek bank a little further to a second string hole. I watched as he readied his rod. Plucked the line to be sure it was up to the task ahead, carefully selected just the right weight, tested ten hooks on his fingernail till he found one sharp enough to suit him, then tied an exquisite knot that he could tell I had a hard time following.

With the patience only a grandfather poses he let his line unravel back through the eye. Then slowly tied it again. Each bend, loop, and twist a masterpiece created from memory. It was second nature to him and an inheritance that I cherish to this day. It still amazes me how he could transfer a wealth of knowledge without a single word.

Gus had spotted us and was getting kind of nervous. My grandfather was the nicest man alive and all the while a terribly intimidating individual. Old school is what they call it. He'd give you the shirt off his back unless you tried to cheat him out of it. A man worthy of a boy's admiration. And a man commanding the respect of his peers.

I was doing my part while we waited, catching Alabama's finest swimbait, brim. While I caught the bait he set the world straight. Told me how things should be and how I had the chance to make them that way. It was too late for him and his era. Yep it was up to us. And he had faith. We both knew where each other stood. He steadfast and I in his shadow. It was simple and perfect.

Gus eased up the creek bank across from us. The path less trod for sure but the loose footing and snaky habitat loomed much less threatening than the close proximity that the normal path held to my grandfather. Like an old dog he kept his head down, daring not meet my grandfather's glare. Had I not been there the roaring creek would have offered little protection from a stern talking to.

However right and wrong wasn't the lesson for the day. Instead he would teach me about investment once we reached the honey hole. I watched as granddaddy hooked my brim just below its back fin. I had grown quite fond of that little brim and it pained me to see this. But he said it was a sacrifice we had to make. A little reluctant I allowed it. I had faith in him too. He'd never steered me wrong before.

He stood there for a second, rod in hand just inches from the water. He solemnly stared out over his old friend. It's hard to say what exactly happened during that short time. Maybe he was determining exactly where he wanted to place that first cast. Maybe he was apologizing for betraying that special bend in the creek by showing her to Gus. Maybe he was just saying hello. But there was a definite transaction made. Only he and the creek know for sure.

The whip of line running through rod guides broke the silence. His weight had just the right fall. That little brim couldn't have hit bottom before his rod tip bounced like it had so many times before. And with a quick grin directed at me he let in to her. Good thing he had checked the line because it now screamed from his reel. That knot was holding up too. Strong enough to bury the sharp hook into the monster's lip.

I had seen granddad catch allot of fish. But I could tell this one was different. This one was big. Bigger than big. He would always fight the small fish but believed it to be more of a dance with the big ones. The goal, to lead. Make her react to you. Let her lead and she'll reach the current. No stopping her then. Or perhaps she'll head for a deep hole and use the logs to her advantage. Better to deny her the chance.

I watched my grandfather turn one ounce brim into a thirty pound cat. As he lifted her from the water I could see my future in his eyes. The shine that fish produced would be my salvation and my end. I would catch that fish alongside him for years to come.  I've caught her a thousand times already. At school and at work. On the front pew of church every Sunday and eating potluck dinner the day we buried him. Every time I pick up a rod I catch that same fish.

I sure cherish those memories. Perhaps it’s because that old creek's finally silted in and that old hole's not quite as deep as it used to be. Maybe because my grandfather and I have made our last fishing trip for a while. Or maybe it’s because they help me appreciate the trips I still get to make with my father. It could be that without them I'd have slipped on allot more green rocks over the years.

There are countless reasons and they're growing by the day. Some days when this life gets a little hectic I wish I was sitting on that old creek bank again. Most days truth be told. I wish I could ask him a million questions. Wish I could just sit there in silence, watching that cork bobbing in the current.

He made a fisherman out of me, and therefore a storyteller. And as a storyteller I’m not a fan of facts. I think they take away from the feeling. So I must admit the timeline is a little fuzzy. All of it happened. I'm sure of it. Maybe just not in that order. But the pieces were all there. He was my dad's dad and a man's man. He was my grandfather and he called his shot.

Maybe it’s just an old story my dad used to tell. Or perhaps it happened to you. Did you see my grandfather’s face or yours just before he set the hook? If you felt this story it’s not because my grandfather meant something to me but because yours meant something to you.

And if you did then you know what I'm talking about. You've been pulled into this same game that so eloquently illustrates life. Right and wrong. Lessons and their benefit. When to dance, when to fight. Faith, patience, investment and sacrifice. A grandfather. His pride in you. The legend and the lure.