Trophy fish, a klutz and a bass guide

MARBURY, Md.

The day began under cloudy skies and stronger than predicted southwest winds. In an aluminum bass boat, navigation on a breezy Potomac River was a bit of a chore at first, but eventually things slowed down and with the help of an electric trolling motor the boat slowly moved us forward. Guide Dale Knupp and I cast plastic grubs toward a rock and gravel-filled shoreline near the Chicamuxen Creek.

The lures, Mann’s 3-inch-long, avocado color Sting Rays (no, I don’t own stock in the company), were pierced onto quarter-ounce ball-head jig-hooks, then liberally dabbed with a crawfish-flavored attractant known as Smelly Jelly. The grubs were gently hopped across the underwater boulders and pebbles. Occasionally, they’d snag freshly emerging milfoil grass, a wonderful aquatic river ingredient that is partially responsible for making the Potomac a veritable bass-breeding factory.

Dale and I chatted about the two eagles that soared above and four pompous, stiffly wading blue herons as they went about the same business we were engaged in: catching fish. The truth be known, the herons fared better than we did. But pretty soon my Charles County neighbor sharply lifted his rod upward to set the hook to something as yet unseen.

“It’s a good one, I believe,” he said, referring to a bass that showed itself near the surface after a bit of give and take. Considering we were on a tidal river where bass don’t grow big as easily as they might in large lakes, this was a trophy largemouth.

In the rush to pick up a landing net that would get Dale’s bass into the boat without injuring it, I accidentally kicked the butt end of one of my rods — a fine $170 Fenwick Techna AV that held a spanking new $110 Abu Garcia Torno baitcasting reel, and — “splash!” — the rod and reel fell into the Potomac. Worse yet, there was a strong, pulling tide and despite my quickly throwing a marker buoy onto the spot where my outfit had disappeared, the fishing gear had already slipped away from the area.

I went about netting Dale’s bass, a wonderful river fish that turned out to weigh around 6 pounds.

We snapped some photos and then Dale insisted we drag the river bottom with treble-hooked metal lures to see if we could hook my rod and reel, but the search was futile.

“Let’s continue fishing,” I suggested because the limited amount of time we had was quickly shrinking. True, I was mad as a wet hen but tried hard not to show my anger over losing one of my rods and reels. The two of us began to cast again, me with another, even more expensive outfit.

After I hooked a small bass and Dale nailed a couple of yellow perch and a youthful largemouth, I slowly moved the boat downriver. Within a stone’s throw of an area known as Moss Point, a popular stop-over for most Northern Virginia and Maryland bass hounds, the Coast Guard-licensed guide and I continued slinging and slowly retrieving the Sting Ray grubs. The water was less than 5 feet deep, but there was a deep drop nearby.

Suddenly, Dale shouted, “What in the world have I got here?” Knupp’s rod bent sharply, line came screeching from the reel, and an obviously very strong fish pulled 12-pound-test monofilament from the guide’s reel at will.

At first we believed it to be a heavyweight carp because they’ve been known to snatch up Sting Ray lures that look like a tidal bull minnow. But this critter was heading for open water, away from the shoreline.

“It has to be a striper,” I mumbled while running the trolling motor to keep up with the fish and Dale was able to gently coax a few precious feet of line back onto his reel. This was not a time to “horse” in a fish. It had to be given plenty of room and line whenever it demanded it.

After 15 minutes of pumping and groaning, Dale brought a well-fed rockfish to the side of the boat. He asked me to hurry and get a net over the striper’s head. “Once we get the head into the net, the rest will follow,” said Knupp. “Fish never back up, so let’s not worry about whether it fits.”

It worked. Dale hoisted a roe-filled female that we guessed to weigh well over 35 pounds, maybe as much as 40.

A fast photo session finally over, Dale cautiously slipped the striper cow back into the river, and we watched in amazement how she still had plenty of power, quickly sounding. In a flash of silver and black stripes and scales, she rapidly moved away from the boat.

My ordeal was over. In the fish-catching department, my pal gave me an old-fashioned whipping, then I lost a fine rod and reel, and when I arrived back home, the wife’s car was gone. She was out spending money I hadn’t even earned yet. Some days, you simply can’t win.

• Look for Gene Mueller’s Outdoors column every Sunday, Wednesday and Thursday, only in The Washington Times. E-mail: gmueller@washingtontimes.com.