Weddings, holidays, family reunions ... we're in the thick of summer.
But that doesn't mean I'm not thinking about fishing all the time. Lately I've been thinking about a big bass I let off the hook last Friday. Fishing a scumfrog — I'm continuing to hone my skills with this lure — I missed a modest strike, then casted back out to the same spot and hooked into a big one.
The strike reminded me of a shark attack out of the movie Jaws. One second, my frog is resting on top of the water. And then, with a quick, if-you-blink-your-gonna-miss-it move, something came from beneath the frog, snapped it, and the frog was gone.
I've been working the scumfrog a lot lately, mostly to work on my timing. With all topwater lures, the key to a good hook set is getting the slack out of your line. The frog is no different, except that the wait to get your line tense can seem like minutes, not seconds.
This is sort of what happened when that Jaws-like attack on my frog took place. A reader suggested I count to two before setting the hook whenever I fish with the frog. So earlier in the day, with other strikes, I did count to two, which improved my hook set dramatically.
But when that lunker snatched up my frog, I forgot the essence of counting because everything happened so fast. The normal violent, hungry strike was gone, replaced by the quick unseen.
Perhaps I didn't quiet set my hook on that lunker's lip. Perhaps I didn't even really give a good tug for the hook set at all. I'm not really sure. But that hawg stayed low with a lot of pull, driving the end of my pole into my ribs as it ripped through the water.
And then it shot its body up and out of the water, gave that signature bass shake, and poof, my frog was gliding, almost floating, 15 feet above my head, the line falling slack onto my shoulders as the frog dropped behind the boat.
It's been a while since I've seen a bass that big. Even I had to sit down for a second and just stare in awe.
A friend once asked me if it makes me mad when I lose a big fish like that. I suppose. I'm sure it makes most anglers mad, if even for only a little bit.
But truthfully, whenever I lose a good-sized fish like that, I spend a good part of that day, and the next few days, thinking about the one that got away.
After all, it's the memory of the one that got away that drives us back to the lake, back to the hunt, and maybe, just maybe, another shot at the one that got away.
