High Heat and Tall Tales

Jim Spencer shows off an excellent smallmouth! Photo by Jill Easton

Summer rivers often require pulling a canoe. Photo by Jill Easton

The heat didn’t ruin the beauty of the river in summer, and if you tried to stay in the shade, it wasn’t so bad. About mid-afternoon, it was 108 degrees, and I’m sure I have never been on the water fishing anywhere when it was that hot.

The fish weren’t tearing it up. I think most of them were reacting to the effect of warming water, and perhaps seeking deeper places to stay cool, wishing they had a cold watermelon! Fish love cold watermelon on a hot day.

Nonetheless, Jim was casting a small spinner-type lure he normally uses for trout, and he hooked into two or three hard-fighting smallmouth which were getting up close to two pounds. He’d land the fish, then release them quickly so they wouldn’t die of heat stroke.

Every now and then we’d beach my 19-foot square-sterned canoe on a gravel bar where there was a nice, cool, deep current and a chance to catch a fish, and we would wade out up to our armpits and cast to the other side. It didn’t work, for some reason; maybe the fish could smell us. In heat like that you sweat a lot, even in the water. I think maybe, in that river, we had an easier time of it that day than other folks in the Ozarks.

As I mentioned in my last column, outdoor writer and book author Jim Spencer and his wife Jill Easton, also an outdoor writer, spent a couple of days at my place last week when the heat was so awful. They were on their way to a trapper’s convention, as Jim still traps on the lower White River and has written a book on trapping.

When outdoor writers get together, they get outdoors somehow, so we went to the river and fished. The Niangua is one of my favorite rivers, though certain sections of it have been ruined by canoe rental companies who just pack it with people, and the refuse and waste that comes with great numbers of people, a number of them with drugs or too much alcohol. But there are places on this great smallmouth stream where the chaos and capsize crowd doesn’t go. That’s where I go. Only a few years ago, the biggest smallmouth I ever caught in an Ozark river, came from the place we fished last week.

I told Jim and Jill the story about that big fish, which I released, and showed them where I figured he still lives. When two outdoor writers are together, one can’t tell a fishing story the other doesn’t try to top. Jim held up that little brown hairy jig with a spinner on it and said, “See that lure? I caught a trout down on the White River not far from my house that would likely be able to eat any smallmouth in this river in one gulp.”

I listened, and though I hate to admit it, I think the story was probably true. Jim said it was a brown trout, and he figured it was a little better than 30 pounds. He was fishing with light action spinning gear and four pound line, after the stocking-sized rainbows that go 14 or 15 inches and rarely larger. The monster brown lay in deep water, and took the little spinner when it passed too close. Spencer was by himself, with a small net, and he kept the fish on for an hour.

“There was four different times I had that big trout up beside the boat, wallerin’ on top of my net, and all four times the net was too small to get him into it. The fourth time he gave a surge and the line broke. All I would have needed to land him was a big net, but who carries a net that big… who expects to ever catch a fish like that?

Big brown trout lurk in the White River, where they spawn in the middle of winter. There are a number of them in the fifteen- to twenty-pound class, and who knows how many that are larger. The biggest landed so far was 39 pounds.

About that time, Jill hooked a scrappy bluegill and hoisted it in. On those small spinners they were catching bluegill and green sunfish right and left, some big enough to put on a platter and make a nice fish fry.

On shallow places below the shoals, where you could see the gravel two or three feet below us, there were dozens and dozens of big black fish, slowly, slowly moving upstream. You could have gigged a hundred of them during the day, drum from two to eight pounds. I have never seen so many drum. Since they sometimes hit small lures, I am surprised we didn’t catch one or two. If you could have drifted a nightcrawler down along those gravel shoals and held it there awhile, I think you could have caught several.

But drum are not prized. The meat is white, and good, but the fish has such a large spine and rib cage that you have to have a big one just to get a filet of any significance. Nevertheless, no one complains about the fight they put up, as they are real scrappers. Before the day was over, we must have seen several hundred of them, a sight I never witnessed before.

We paddled upstream for hours, a couple of miles or better, than turned and headed back, well into the afternoon. I kept using a big buzz-bait, sure that I would hook a hefty bass that Jill could get a good picture of. Just before we reached my pickup, along a deep quiet bank with lots of logs, a monstrous largemouth bass followed the topwater lure and boiled at it right beside the boat. My jaw fell open as I saw his broad side and tail sweep across the surface. I am not exaggerating when I say he would have weighed seven or eight pounds.

Jim heard the eruption of water and turned to see the commotion on the surface beside the boat. “How big was that one?” he asked.

I just told him it was way too big to get in the net! But at least he didn’t break my line.

Last winter in early January, a friend and I floated an Ozark river hunting ducks when it was eight degrees at dawn. All day long the temperature never rose above twelve or fifteen. I have floated the rivers for years and years and years, beginning when I was just a small boy. In all that time, I never floated when it was that cold or when it was as hot as it was last week. But when it is hot, it is easy to cope with. You just get in the water, and stay wet all day. In that extreme cold, you are in real danger. With hip boots and heavy clothing, you are so bundled up you might not get out if you went in. Hypothermia is a killer that comes on you when you don’t know it is there. But what a day it was for duck hunting, mallards were everywhere. The only trouble is, I was so cold I couldn’t shoot worth a darn.

In 108 degrees, it is easy to cast, easy to paddle and easy to swim. Still, I think I will be happy when the cooling weather makes the fish hungry. In October and November, April and May, I won’t complain about a thing. If I should, somebody remind me about what July and early August was like. At my age, I might forget.

Write to me at Box 22, Bolivar, Mo. 65613 and e-mail me at lightninridge@windstream.net.