Everyone has a fish story. But it takes a special fish story (and a special fish) to impact a life such as to influence its entire direction. I remember the details of this night like it was yesterday, but have never put pen to paper to describe exactly how each event unfolded. Until now.

The scene is set in late September of 2012. Fishing had been steady for us for several weeks leading up to this trip, so morale was high and I was confident.  Still an active student at the time, I remember packing up the jeep before class so that I could leave Columbus and start the two hour drive to my lake of choice as soon as possible. Bait rod, cooler, flathead sticks, layers of cold weather clothes, coveralls, a blanket, and even a propane heater were piled into the hatch. The forecast for the night was grim, but I could not have known what lay ahead.

As I pulled up to my mid-drive pit stop to catch bait, I could feel the change in the air. The sky grew a pale gray, with the wind direction beginning to shift. We had enjoyed an indian summer of warm southern breezes all week, but this was quickly coming to an end. Despite conditions rapidly changing I was able to scrape together enough bluegill to cover me for a full night of fishing. With my new passengers stowed carefully away in a modified cooler I was back on the road.  The closer I grew to my destination, the more the incoming weather front increased its grip on my surroundings.  Drying leaves, though most still green, were shaken from trees and blew wildly across the road. I remember seeing speed limit signs shaking and vibrating with wind speeds gusting above 40 miles an hour. Fish or no fish, as king Leonidas said in the movie 300, “unless I miss my guess, we’re in for one wild night.”

Upon arriving to the lake I immediately added a layer of clothing. Temperatures had fallen a solid 15 degrees in the time since I had stopped to catch bait.  I unloaded at a familiar location, re-checked my rigs, set up camp-catfish, and deployed baits.  Wind howled out of the northwest now, hitting me directly in the face and cutting right through my now three layers of shirts. The thermometer in the jeep read a cool 55 degrees already, still an hour from last light.  “Only a crazy person would sit in this all night” I thought to myself, but my thoughts were short lived as the sound of a steadily rolling bait clicker jarred me back to reality.  Game on. I leapt from my seat and engaged the reel. Feeling tension increasing on the rod tip, I let him have it with a hook set from hell. Almost falling on my back from the lack of resistance, I regained composure and set again. There was weight there, but not much. A flathead of about three pounds surfaced and planed in to shore. Grumbling to myself about the waste of adrenaline and cold weather for a fish this size, I quickly unhooked the fish and turned him loose. “Waste of a good bait” I said out loud as I checked my leader and dug in the cooler for another bluegill. I would soon eat my words.

As a disclaimer, I had been experimenting with several different hook styles leading up to this trip, so I had a variety of hook sizes and models pre-rigged.  I now only use one brand and style of hook, largely due to this trip alone.

After re-deploying a new bait, I settled back into my seat. Dusk was just falling now, but the wind had not slowed a bit. I decided it was time to add a pair of long john leggings below my jeans and dig out a snack. As I was crunching away at some Jalapeño kettle chips, the same rod lurched and started paying out line again. “Two fish before dark?” I thought. I engaged the reel and as soon as the line came tight, I let him have it. This time the rod tip didn’t budge as the rod corked the stiff handle into my guts. That’s better. This fish had an attitude and immediately peeled line heading for deeper water. I let him run, gaining line when I could. The fish made another strong run, and I continued to play him from my position on the bank. This was a grown fish, but nothing I hadn’t experienced before.  “Forty or so” I said out loud to myself. Just then the fish hooked left and bolted directly at a large piece of cover that I had been slowly playing him away from for the duration of the battle. Instinctively I increased the drag pressure a bit on the reel and immediately felt a sickening thump. The fish was gone. I reeled in my line to find that the hook had just simply popped out of the fish’s mouth. This was unusual, so I cut the hook off and replaced it with a more familiar style. I licked my wounds and deployed another bait.

Darkness came down on me like a black cloud blowing in over the hill behind me. Amazingly, the wind had not slowed a bit and temperatures continued to fall. I check the temp again, 48 degrees.  It was time for the insulated bibs. I cracked a caffeinated beverage and sat back down in my chair, still sulking over a nice fish lost for no explicable reason. But the night was young. About an hour passed this time when again, the same rod lurched and began steadily paying out line in the same direction as before. I ran to the rod, engaged the drag, and popped the fish as soon as he came tight. Another solid fish, this one shook his head wildly and tore off for deep water. I kept the pressure on a bit more this time, and after a few good runs had the fish planing toward me on the bank. I crept down to the waters edge and prepared for hand to hand combat. I didn’t have a net with me on this trip (stupidly), so I would have to jaw this fish with one hand while holding the rod. A brutish head broke the surface as the fish rolled onto his back below me. I grabbed his jaw for all I was worth, immediately greeted by a death roll that just about tore my arm from its socket. At this exact moment, slack in my 40 pound-test main line that had caught a jagged rock edge was cut cleanly as the fish writhed out of my grasp. Desperate not to lose another big flathead, I leapt into chest deep water and grabbed the fish around the middle with both arms. The fish thrashed me as I squeezed it against my chest and rolled onto my back on the bank. Soaked to the bone, but I had won. This was a great fish, eventually weighing in at just over 45 pounds. But the brevity of its battle compared to the last fish made me wonder about the size of the one that had come off. The fish was temporarily placed on a bridle, and I went digging for dry clothes.

At about 11:00 PM now, the air temperature had fallen into the low forties. I had enough dry clothes to replace my base layer, but no dry outer layer. After re-tying the lucky rod for the night, I settled back in and covered up in the blanket I had brought.  The wind blowing in my face seemed warmer now with a fish on the rope.  I was excited to photograph him at the end of the trip and release him to continue his fall feeding binge. Wind cut through my blanket after an hour had passed, and I was forced to take a deep breath and put the still-wet coveralls back on. This was going to be a long night.

Just then, another rod took off, clicker steadily cutting through the sound of the howling wind. This fish was headed the exact opposite direction of the others, but at a good enough angle to simply engage my reel and allow the circle hook I had tied on to do its job. The line came tight, and I began to reel down on the fish making sure not to yank or set the hook as I would with a J or Kahle style hook. The fish did not like this at all. Taking off harder in the same direction, the fish was steadily peeling line at near maximum drag pressure on an Abu Garcia 7000 sized reel. I held fast, happy to be tied to a yet another large flathead. Then…nothing. The fish was simply gone. He had never slowed or stopped taking line, or even changed direction. I swore out loud as I reeled in my slack line, immediately cutting the circle hook off and replacing it with something else. At this point I was still totally wet, shivering, and had lost two very solid fish.  I reset the rod with a new lively bait, and started fiddling with the propane heater. I was able to get the heater started, but as midnight approached the wind was still howling hard enough to blow out the pilot light within seconds each time. Desperate for warmth and in an attempt to dry my legs, I covered myself in the chair with my blanket, and fired up the heater under the blanket itself.  Though not the safest idea I’ve had, I was warm.

The night grew more and more uncomfortable as 1:00 AM approached. The witching hour. Starting to doze off, I shut off the propane heater and pulled the blanket tight around myself. I was not totally dry, but dryer than before.  As I began to drift further off to sleep, a clicker lurched again and screamed steadily into the night. This fish was moving fast, but steady. I slipped the reel into gear, tension came fast, and I set the hook hard.  This fish had a serious attitude problem, and almost angrily tore line from my spool out into deep, open water. After taking probably 45 yards of line from the Abu 7000 against stiff drag, the violent head shakes began. I could tell this was a long fish, as the head shakes nearly straightened my arms with each sweep to the right and left.  My heart pounding in my throat, I held on praying they would stop. They did stop, but not how I would have liked.  Unbelievably, this fish also threw my hook. I cursed into the frigid air, and shook my head as the hills echoed my words back to me cross the water almost mockingly. For the record, this was now the third different hook style that I’d lost a large fish on in one night. In disbelief, I set the rod down next to my chair and sulked. This last fish was in another size range for sure, very likely up above the 50 pound mark. Sure, I had still caught two. But the sting of losing a good fish is never easy to swallow. Let alone three.

I checked my watch, 1:45 AM. I check the temperature again, 38 degrees now with wind showing no sign of slowing. I was not prepared for conditions like this, but couldn’t up and leave with fish feeding this hard. Trying to maximize my chances at contacting another grown fish, I swapped rod positions to move my “big bait” rod over to the area where the first three fish had eaten. This combo consisted of a 7’10” extra-heavy action rod and a Penn 330 GTO conventional reel full of 80 pound-test line. I set the biggest bait I had in the exact position to imitate the first three bites, and hunkered back into my chair. It wasn’t just cold now, it was f*cking miserable. Due to the wind direction I was still totally exposed, and did my best to cover my entire body with the blanket. Sleep never came this time, as I tried to prevent the warm air from my breath from escaping the cavern in my blanket where I sat in a ball shivering. “Madness” I grumbled.

I sat under the blanket listening to the wind chip away at my soul, going through the scenarios of the three lost fish over and over in my head. “Perhaps I set the hook at a bad angle” I thought to myself. I decided that if another opportunity came, I would set the hook with a bit more side pressure to attempt to find the corner of a large flatheads mouth. At about 3:00 AM, that opportunity came.

Lurch, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. The large bluegill on my “big bait” combo had been inhaled and was being steadily taken out into the cold, dark night. I grabbed the rod, slipped off the bait clicker, and stepped to the side to give my hookset a bit more angle. Putting the reel in gear, I waited for the line to come tight before swinging the rod over my shoulder with enough force to bring me to my toes. The rod wretched in my grip, with the butt of the handle bruising my stomach. Line poured off the reel just as fast as it had been going under the bait clicker. This was a leviathan. This was a fish I had day dreamed about for the better part of ten years by this point. With disbelief I watched as line continued to peel off the spool directly toward the middle of the lake. Panicking a bit, I put both thumbs on the spool in an attempt to slow the beast. I immediately regretted this decision, as the spinning spool blistered both thumbs within seconds. “What the hell do I have?” I said out loud. Eventually the fish turned to the side and circled back toward me. Never losing power, he began taking line back in a different direction. The big rod creaked as stiff epoxy began to crack around the guides with the tip bent all the way down to the reel. Big bait rod my ass. The equivalent of an extra heavy blank rated to cast around 16 ounces of weight, the rod was firmly connected with about all it could take. After another good run the fish came back toward me. Just as I thought I was getting the better of the beast, I realized why he was headed this way. The large piece of cover that had foiled me earlier in the night lay dead ahead in the big fish’s path, and he knew it.

The length of the fight and power in this animal was so unreal that I began to let my imagination wander to stories of people releasing large alligators into these lakes in the past. I remembered I had no net, and for a moment hesitated before walking down to the waters edge to attempt to eventually jaw the fish. Twice the fish pulled me off balance toward the lake as I walked, almost causing me to fall forward into the water.  I managed to apply enough pressure to barely steer him around the large cover object he was headed for, and had him planing across in front of me. I was gaining on him fast, and shaking like a leaf. As the fish continued across to the right, I suddenly felt a then familiar, sickening pop. My stomach dropped like a rock. But wait! He was still there this time! The oversized hook must have dislodged from somewhere in the fish’s giant maw, but stuck again on the way out.  Thanking my lucky stars, I just tried to keep steady pressure on the fish until he was ready to quit. Then, it happened. Thump, slack. Without any change in pressure or rod direction, the hook had popped just as the giant flathead was finally showing signs of tiring. I had no words. I remember just slumping to the bank behind me in my soggy coveralls and sitting on my haunches as I felt my eyes well up with tears. Anyone that’s been in the flathead game awhile knows the amount of work that goes into each trip, and more so the sheer number of trips it had taken over ten years to come in contact with a beast like this. A legend, a war horse. Potentially even a record class flathead. I checked my drag pressure on the big Penn reel. It was cranked as far forward as the star could turn. The fish had been taking line so fast that I never realized how much pressure I had kept on him throughout the fight.

The sinking feeling in my gut was unreal as I gathered myself up and began to pack my gear. That was enough. I snipped the 12/0 Gama big river hook off of my leader and hurled it into the dark water, never to be tied on any of my lines again. I photographed the 45 pounder from earlier in the night, and sent him back on his way. Checking the dash thermometer again as I started the jeep, I wasn’t surprised to see an air temp of 33 degrees. It sure felt like it. The long drive back to Columbus felt longer with the weight of the night’s events heavy on my mind. I had not only lost four solid flatheads, but undoubtedly the biggest fish of my life. This would also be the last flathead I tangled with for the rest of the 2012 season.

To this day I’ve yet to hook another fish that could hold a candle to the power and endurance of the one described above.  Five seasons and several hundred flatheads later, the hunt for redemption continues. For some reading this, the emotions and despair described may not make sense. For others, the familiarity is likely all too real. I let this event bitter me for quite awhile, but now do my best to enjoy every season and every opportunity I have to fish. The fish is always there, though. Lurking in the dark recesses of my mind every time I prepare for another trip.

I look forward to meeting him again.

 

 

In my last post I mentioned that we were preparing for another full night on the water. Here’s a quick update on how that trip panned out.

Joe V and I arrived at the lake at around 2:30 PM., launched the boat, and began scanning the lake in order to dial in my console sonar unit. We were fortunate enough to forgo the usual bait collecting rituals this week, having been given a well full of big goldfish that a friend scooped from a draining pond (thanks Justin).  A storm blew in on us shortly after we arrived and dumped steady rain for several hours straight. However, Joe did manage to get the HDS 7 looking and reading well by the time the storm had passed.

We chose our fishing location for the night at around 7:00 PM and promptly deployed baits. Our first fish of the night bit at 9:45 PM, a healthy 32 pound female.  This fish completely obliterated its goldfish meal, leaving only a smashed tail still impaled on my hook. This was a first for me. After a quick weight and a photo, she was released to grow up.

After this first fish swam off, the lake fell silent. Joe and I enjoyed some of the Perseid meteor shower through passing clouds, and eventually drifted off to sleep on the deck of the boat. All was still until around 3:30 AM when the sound of Joe’s penn clicking steadily woke us from our nap. Time to put the new rod to the test. This fish was smaller (around 15 pounds), but as our late friend Robby Robinson always said, any flathead is a good one. He was quickly released unharmed.  We settled back into our respective napping areas to try to catch a few more hours of sleep, but were again awakened by steady clicking.  Our third fish of the night bit at around 5:30 AM, and after an impressive display of close quarters combat another flathead met the net.  This fish weighed in at 30 pounds and some change, and was also released promptly after weight and a photo were taken.

Dawn came and the sun rose without another click. Ideal fishing conditions had shifted to drastically less ideal as the morning wore on, so we packed it in and trailered the boat.  Any night involving the capture of a reservoir flathead is a good one, so we were quite pleased with our three. Fishing should only continue to improve from this point on into the fall. We will be out regularly until our lakes go quiet for the winter, so updates of this kind will be posted as often as we can gather them.

Now, a bit more on the new rod I mentioned.  Joe picked up an American Spirit “Monster Cat Series” rod in the 7’9″ XH model, and it performed quite well.  Despite the photos of this rod online (showing a prototype made with cheaper components) the rod comes built with an aluminum down-locking reel seat, nickel colored stainless steel guides, and a unique but useful hook keeper design. Most of the blank is painted orange and black, with a high-vis chartreuse tip section. The s-glass/graphite composite blank responds much like the Bottom Dwellers Tackle Knockout edition rod under load, with a bit more play in the tip. Rated for 20-60 pound-test line and up to 16 ounces casting weight, this action is designed for trophy cats indeed. Here are a few shots of the components.

For a full description of the rod and ordering options for this and other models, check them out at catfishconnection.com.

 

Ironscale, out.

 

 

It will come as no surprise to some that the first real entry on this page involves the pursuit of giant flathead catfish. Time of year and recent trips to blame, this has been the focus of my efforts as of late. I will preface this by saying that as with any of life’s great passions, their pursuit can be taken to the extreme. It has become an obsession.

In general, flathead catfish are little studied and little understood when compared to most other predator species in fresh water. Their habits and patterns are only vaguely outlined and for most, encountering large specimens is more a matter of happy coincidence than prudent effort. Consistently contacting mature specimens of this species throughout the year, however, is one of the greatest challenges in all of freshwater fishing. The current all tackle world record flathead catfish sits at a staggering 123 pounds, with even larger fish having been taken by commercial nets. They are the subject of legend, myth, and lore around the angling community, and almost everyone who’s engaged in a conversation regarding catfish near a body of water has heard the “diver and the dam” stories. However it is a rare few that make the choice to commit themselves to getting to the bottom of those stories, doing what is necessary to regularly encounter this little understood leviathan.

In the recent issue of In-Fisherman’s Catfish Insider (2017 edition), an article was published making the distinction between flathead catfish in reservoir habitats as opposed to river populations. “Flatwater flatheads” was the term used to describe fish that call our giant reservoirs home. This distinction is rightfully made, as habits and behavior seem to differ quite a bit between fish that thrive in lakes and those that persist in rivers. Reservoir fish are far less opportunistic, and prove to be more preferential in what and when they eat. This is not in any way an attempt to knock or discount river flathead fishing, as these fish are warriors and deserve the same respect. This is simply to say that their pursuit differs wildly in both method and madness.

Reservoir flatheads are elusive, territorial, and incredibly in tune with their static environment. Any small change to their surroundings is immediately detected, and their entire level of activity can be dictated by details we are even still struggling to define. Tracking studies have shown that during this post spawn mid-summer season, reservoir flatheads can lie totally still for up to two weeks at a time without leaving their chosen haunt to roam and feed. This factor alone considerably narrows the odds of setting up on a night when active fish will be intercepted by our baits. Let alone choosing the correct location where these seldom active creatures will stalk their prey and with any luck, whatever offerings we were able to collect and present to them. Cap this off with their generally low numbers as an apex predator species in any environment where they exist, and the odds of contacting a true giant are cut down even further. Enter, The Way.

Miyamoto Musashi is heralded as one of the deadliest swordsman to ever live, and died undefeated as a samurai in the 1600th century. In his book “The Book of Five Rings”, this “last samurai” describes in detail the art and logic of swordsmanship and the samauri way of life. He sums up this expansive amount of knowledge and training in one term, “The Way.” The Way encompasses all that must be done in order to become an effective and deadly samurai warrior. A full lifetime of training, experience, knowledge, and dedication summed up so simply. By following this path, an effective samurai warrior will spend his life preparing, but at the time of battle will act with the lethal instinct that is forever engrained in him through years of training. As my career as a reservoir flathead fisherman continues, I’ve come to adopt this term for the incredible birth of skill sets, knowledge, and experience that the most effective reservoir dogs rely on to consistently sway the odds in their favor.

As with any martial art, The Way demands dedication and steadfast persistence. Commitment to the goal and trust in your decisions and abilities. The Way varies throughout the season as environmental and biological factors drive these huge predators in different ways. But most importantly, The Way demands that an angler remains open minded, seeking every opportunity to continue learning. Just when we think we have all of the pieces of this puzzle together, we’re left casually defeated with streaks of fishless night after fishless night. To say that our sport is humbling does it no justice. The amount of work and effort that goes into making each trip possible, combined with sleep deprivation and little success is enough to drive anyone mad. But when everything comes together and an opportunity is successfully capitalized on, the feeling of accomplishment is second to none…

The dog days of summer present challenging yet predictable fishing for us. Keeping bait alive all night in hot water with the presence of a thermocline is a factor that must be weighed in heavily this time of year. Flathead are also more likely to remain sedentary now, becoming stubborn and feeding only when conditions are ideal. We accept these challenges, and continue our pursuit regardless. When this entry is published we will be in the midst of preparing for another full night of hunting, gathering bait, and traveling to whichever body of water is selected to present the best odds given the conditions on that particular night. Gear has been checked and re-checked, rigs prepared days in advance, and shelter and provisions prepared. When we go, we’re in for the duration come hell or high water. Mother Nature has her ways of sending us both at times. But whatever may come of this night, we will have gained another step in the right direction. Whether victory or defeat, we will have learned and added another note to the book. And with any luck, we’ll report back with a grip and grin photo with old Mr. Lowjaw himself before releasing him back into the murky depths from which he came. Until then, trust The Way.

 “Wisdom exists. Logic exists. The Way, exists. Mind is empty”
-Miyamoto Musashi

 

Dictionaries define the word Passion best as “a strong and barely controllable emotion.” Traced back to its roots, the latin word Passi literally means “suffer.” As time goes by I’ve come to realize that the true meaning of the word can always be found lying somewhere between these two ends of the spectrum, shaped by the highs and lows of the roller coaster ride that makes up any great pursuit. This fire burns within every one of us. An internally programmed purpose that when revealed, drives us to follow its course. Passion has a way of showing us both our highest highs, and lowest lows. Along its path we’re shown both incredible victory and crushing defeat. It keeps us awake late at night, and drives us out of bed in the morning. We suffer both as a result of the pursuit, and when kept from the pursuit. It pushes the limits of our sanity, yet we’re filled with “barely controllable” excitement by the mere thought of it at the same time.

This page was born as an attempt to define passion with photos and written word, and to inspire that unrelenting pursuit. This is what makes us tick.