Don't feel bad Joe buddy, and keep following your instincts. That's what
being a complete bass angler is all about.

I once took a 120 mile round trip run on Lake Champlain, only to come back
to Mallett's Bay with a single 2-pound bass.

It's all good, lol.

Warren




"Joe Haubenreich" wrote in
message ...
I wish my homing instinct had driven me to your ultra secret honey hole. We
might have weighed in a few fish that way, but we went south from Fate
Sanders Marine... to the pumping station at the Jefferson Pike bridge over
the Stones River.

Joe

"Charles B. Summers" wrote in message
. ..
Kinda sounds like you were across from Four Corners... but that can't be.
The bluffs there are notorious for large catfish, and medium sized
spots...
bit 4 pound largemouths. So, where were ya? Surely you weren't in my
favorite fishing hole trying to persuede Mark into a bite!


"Joe Haubenreich" wrote in
message . ..
Last week I accompanied a respected bass guide on a section of Percy
Priest
that I had not visited in many months. We were fishing a local bass
tournament, and a notion burrowing deep in my psyche told me to go
upriver
to a bluff where one year earlier I had hooked and released a four pound
seven ounce largemouth bass. The fish seemed a little green around the
gills
the first instance I saw it, and so I assumed that meant it was about six
years old then. If it were still in the lake, I calculated it would be a
year older this year.



The urge I felt was inexplicable. I had been catching bass on sloping
points
or around laydowns in coves, and that was nothing like the bluff to which
my
instincts drove me. My partner, too, had been having good luck down
toward
the lower end of the lake and wanted to go straight to his string of
honey
holes. Still, the cliff seemed to call to me, and so insistent was it
that
I
persuaded my partner to point the prow of his Triton into the channel and
make the long run toward the lakes headwaters.



As twilight waned we began fishing around the guano-encrusted pilings of
an
highway bridge just downstream from the bluffs. Hundreds of cliff
swallows
darted around us, a few making kamikaze runs at us and then pulling up in
the last instant to dart into mud huts that clung to the overhanging road
bed above our heads. I was casting a 5/16-ounce Midnight Snack Buzzrbait
toward the cerulean shore. My partner tried a series of crankbaits,
plastics, and spinnerbaits. My buzzbait had built a reputation as a
sure-fire fish magnet on this lake, and with every cast I expected to see
my
bait sucked into a swirling funnel and feel the tug of a chunky
largemouth
bass. As minutes passed by and then evaporated into the evening mists, we
made our way up the bank. Brillian orange and pink-tinted clouds above us
grew weary and grey. Sinister shadows crept out from glowering willows
that
overhung the lapping water like an old gaffer's tousled eyebrows. I
usually
made low, sidearm casts in order to send my clattering, gurgling buzzbait
into the black heart of the deepening gloom, but occasionally I would
fire
a
long cast down the bank and retrieved my lure parallel to the drip line.
By
deft twitches, inspired rod work, and subtle changes in retrieve speed, I
made the bait chirp, hiccup, burp, squawk, and splash like a drunken
coot.



Perhaps the noise was too much for the fish that plied the inky depths,
because by all evidences they cleared out of the area. And since no
battling
bass interrupted my deliberations, I frequently stole sidelong glances at
the ever-approaching bluff. The premonition I'd had earlier in the
evening
of something calling me back to the wall grew stronger, and as I peered
through the gloom at the looming rock wall, a chill swept up my spine,
ricocheted off my occipital protuberance, and escaped from between
clenched
jaws as a shuddering groan.



My increasingly frustrated partner turned silently toward me. His eye
impaled me in its baleful glare, eerie blue glints from our ultraviolet
lamps imparting to his shadowed visage a wraithlike appearance. With
ne'er
a
word, he nudged the trolling motor into life, moving the sturdy
watercraft
onward, and we crept ever closer to the wave-washed cliffs.



I hadn't noticed when the breeze died. Earlier a gentle south wind had
refreshed us as it swept away the heat of a blast-furnace afternoon. But
now, not a ripple was stirred on the water's oily surface. Quail that
serenaded us earlier had retired after a last encore, and as yet no
whippoorwill had begun warming up for an avian rendition of nachtmusik.
Curiously, we heard neither turkey nor owl; no raccoon plied the shore.
Blue
herons that often stalked the shallows were absent, and we seemed to be
the
only warm-blooded creatures in the night. And except for insects, there
didn't
seem to be too many cold-blooded creatures around, either. And the pull
grew more intense. And the crags loomed closer still.



Finally, we drew within a cast-length of the limestone bluff, and I bade
my
companion to hold his distance. As I scanned the waterline, my attention
was
drawn to a slight irregularity in the wall; scarcely a notch - more like
a
hairline fissure that started below the water and climbed upward toward
the
tree roots above. I knew had seen that crevice before - a year hence; I
was
once again above the ambush point of a big bass.



For some reason, I felt certain that the bass I had caught one year
earlier
was still there. patiently biding its time.. eating. growing.. I pictured
it
as I'd last seen it before I dropped it into the water. An unusual
pattern
on its left flank resembled a Rorschach test's bat-like inkblot. It also
had
a W-shaped cleft in its soft dorsal fin. When released, it flipped its
tail
to propel it downward, yet before drifting out of sight, the bass had
turned
and gazed at me in a curious, thoughtful way.



I set down my Buzzrbait rig and picked up an old All Star jigging stick,
matched with a venerable Abu Garcia Ambassadeur reel spooled with
17-pound
test bargain bin fluorescent line. A quarter-ounce slip sinker, 3/0
wide-gap
hook, and 7-inch Power Worm were rigged and ready for service. I swung
the
rod into action, lifted my thumb to release the line, and then feathered
the
spool as the bait slipped into the water just inches from the rock face.
I
peeled off line so that the worm would fall straight down and not
pendulum
back toward the boat as it sank.



Two seconds.. five.. eight..twelve seconds... It seemed like an eternity
before the worm came to rest among the chunk rock at the foot of the
submerged precipice. My eye followed its progress by the glowing line out
in
front of our black light. Carefully I engaged the spool and then slightly
lifted and jiggled the rod tip to impart a little action to the worm. One
subtle hop. then another.. Then another.



And then, nothing.



I reeled in and cast again to the same spot, watching for any twitch or
movement that would reveal the bass's presence. A slow drop was followed
by
excruciatingly slow retrieve. Again, nothing.



Another cast. Nothing.



Another. Nada.



Again. Zip.



Once more. Blanked.



Then we cranked up and headed back down the river to try a few tapering
points. I finally caught a few bass in a cove, just around the corner
from
the weigh in. I don't know why I keep listening to those stupid urges; I
alway kick myself later. I should just stick to where I've been catching
fish -- especially when I've laid down money to fish a tournament.



Well... that's fishing.



Joe