Reflections: A Lifetime of Smallmouth Bass Prospecting

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When my kids and I cross any bridge within a 20-mile radius of the family farm in Central Illinois, I typically provide some commentary on the fishing, intel that’s now decades old. I’m not sure they’re listening, even during those brief interludes when their ear buds are out. If it was deep enough to keep a crawdad happy, I probably fished it, slogging upstream in an old pair of tennis shoes, prospecting for smallmouth bass that were rarely over a foot long. Prospecting was an apt description, sifting through miles of creek water looking for a trace of color, a certain hue of brown shading toward bronze. If I wasn’t on a baseball field somewhere or walking beans, you could probably find me knee deep in running water, wielding an Ugly Stik with an arsenal of Mepps, Rebel Crawfish, and Mister Twisters jammed into a pocket-sized Plano.

I’d venture that most folks would be surprised at the places one might find a brown bass in that sea of corn and soybeans, a testament to a pioneering spirit that likely gets them into all kinds of trouble. I still recall that day in November, a week into pheasant season, a skiff of fresh snow on the corn stubble as we pushed through the grass and brush along a tiny creek just south of the farm, trying to flush a rooster. The creek was six feet wide at best, an easy hop to the other side. I stopped for a moment at a bend where the water was maybe hip deep and there sat a six-inch smallmouth bass finning under the window-clear pane of skim ice, miles upstream from the confluence of creek and river where members of his clan were common. Twenty-some years later and I still think about that little bass from time to time and wonder just how in the hell it got itself into that kind of place.

Those early days of prospecting were telltale signs of a lifelong affliction. If Ray Kinsella asked, I’d tell him that Tennessee might just be heaven for sinners like me, folks addicted to that special brand of brown bass that spend their days with the world around them steadily pushing back. Between Kentucky Lake and the Smokies, Tennessee is home to miles and miles of loosely named creeks full of clear water and wild fish that rarely see a lure. We would spend entire weekends sloshing up and down creeks all over the state, doing ridiculous things just to walk some stretch of water we’d yet to see. Walking miles back to the truck in the dark—dog tired, dehydrated, and ravenously hungry. I once hitched a ride with a Civil War buff who’d been out practicing with his musket, which sat between us as he low-geared his Jeep out of a holler not far from Dale Hollow. The lavishly bearded Rebel didn’t have much to say, but his backwoods taxi service saved me an hour of trudging.

In Ohio, big smallies would push into the lower end of Lake Erie’s tributaries, some rivers more than others. For a few weeks you could catch giant bass from these streams, fish that had spent most of their lives in a freshwater ocean. There were a few grand nights when at the closing bell my forearms ached from the rigors of battles won and lost. As summer set in, I’d drive halfway across the state toward West Virginia, sleeping in the back of my Dodge Dakota, just to spend some time plying the creeks that defined the western fringes of Appalachia. Seemed bass there hadn’t yet been acquainted with a pearly white Super Fluke.

Then it was on to Brainerd, Minnesota, home of this publication that’s been a part of my life now for more than three decades. I was hopelessly smitten with the Upper Miss, where I’d occasionally see them Lindner boys or the Strawman float by in a trademark Lund. In the evenings, I could scramble down to the riverbank from my apartment and usually catch a few bass off a conveniently placed rockbar before the mosquitos became torrential. But my favorite haunts were the streams that dumped into the main river, where I could solo paddle my blue canoe into places forgotten by most. Summer evenings were often spent in quiet desperation, riding the roller coaster that is topwater fishing. When I needed to put my feet back on solid ground, I might stop and add a few walleyes to a stringer, but most of the time I just couldn’t do it and I’d still be popping, chugging, or walking-the-dog long past twilight.

I’ve landed in Central Wisconsin, the Wolf River drainage in my backyard. After the fireworks each year, I get to prospecting pretty serious, using that same old canoe to get to places where others usually don’t, often with a daughter in tow. Don’t know yet if it’s something that will get in their blood, but they both know the raw electricity of plugging into a free-range, certified organic river bass. No need to ask for a smile when they hold those fish for the camera. At the very least, I hope those memories will bring that same level of joy decades down the road.

On those nights when sleep is elusive, I sometimes contemplate these many places I’ve been and wonder if the bass are still there and whether there is another generation providing them some exercise from time to time. Harassing some crayfish along the way, leaving tracks on sandbars, and maybe some tackle hanging in the trees. Kids who know the difference between a Mepps and Rooster Tail and would go swimming to get back their last Rebel Craw.

I worry some that kids of that sort are largely a thing of the past. But my spirits were lifted the other day by a shirtless kid pedaling down a central Wisconsin back road. He was doing his level best to balance rod and reel across the handlebars while managing a stringer of yellow nylon, from which dangled two freshly dead trout of German descent that were maybe nine inches long. Prospecting he’d been, of a different variety of course, but that’s a distinction of little consequence. I waved as I passed. Removing his hand from the handlebars would have induced rump-over-teakettle sorts of consequences, but he nodded in recognition. I could see his blown-out tennis shoes were still shedding creek water. I submit that there’s hope for this crazy world yet. 

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Daniel Isermann is a fishery scientist who has contributed to In-Fisherman publications for more than two decades.

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