07/09/2012 10:01AM
The Last Shot
It was day six, the last full day of the trip and I sat in my campsite after lunch shaded from the perpetual brilliant sun and contemplated where my final Boundary Waters fishing adventure would take place for the season. The pattern for the week had demonstrated the afternoon bite to be the most productive. There was no real reason to rise from the comforts of the sleeping bag during the climb of the morning sun, nor was there any cause to endure more time spent in the canoe late into the dusk of the evening. I peered across the expanse of the lake towards a waterfall and portage, the general vicinity in which most of my apprehended conquests had taken place the last few days. After a bit of reflection, I determined this would be my crowning destination.
I made a visual examination of the canoe which rested on the gravel entry down at lake level. Essentially everything I required was already loaded from a previous outing and prepared to depart. I grasped the strap of the food pack and hauled it downward towards the canoe, wanting to avoid any varmints who had inclinations of pillaging my last dinner. I picked up my life jacket, threaded my head through the opening and zipped it up. It is a tandem canoe and the bow was laden with weight to trim the vessel. There are a few things I miss while embarking on a solo trip and one of them is weight in the bow. I clutched the front handle and lifted the bow off the gravel and into the lake. Once it was completely floating I ushered myself to the stern and plopped down into the tractor seat leaving my legs hanging over the gunwale waiting for the water to drain from my sandals. Flipping my legs inside the watercraft and pushing off from shore I was on my way.
Not having too far to paddle an established rhythm of strokes was never accomplished. Occasionally I would execute a J-stroke and at other times found myself doing the hut stroke. The lake was essentially wrinkle free with a slight breeze fanning out of the west. The surrounding shores were serene. The skies were azure freckled with cumulus clouds. This would be considered one of those quintessential Boundary Waters days with the temperature reaching into the lower 70s. I continued my leisurely paddle until reaching the upper portion of the falls.
The water level at the falls was lower than normal with several rocks protruding from the surface of the lake. I glided into the area with a slight pull from the current generated by the falls. I gathered up the rope which was tied to my anchor bag, lifted the bag from the bottom of the canoe and tossed it onto one of the flat rocks poking out of the lake. I felt as though I had just pulled up to a dock on a lake typically littered with motor boats.
I inspected my two fishing rods and tried to make a determination on which lure would be used to begin my angling afternoon. On one rod I had the Heddon Lucky 13 in the Bull Frog color, which is an extremely effective top water bait. On the other rod was a Strike King Zulu tied to the end of the line in the gray and pearl two tone variation. It really wasn’t a difficult decision to break down and analyze since over ninety percent of the fish caught during the week were subdued by the latter.
I glanced across the swift waterway to the shoreline and then down to the rods again. I seized my weapon of choice and removed the hook from the pole’s guide line. I reared back my trusty fishing apparatus and flung the Zulu to the other side of the watery pinch. Twitch, twitch, pause, twitch, twitch, and pause, down amongst the boulders the lure worked in the walk the dog, dying flutter motion. This procedure took place more than several times without producing any results. I scratched my head and then figured it was time to make a switch over to something else. The Lucky 13 was the next selection in the line up. It was heaved in the same general direction of the past casts. The cigar shaped, concaved nosed enticement was popped and chugged traversing the lake flow numerous times, producing the same outcome as the initial lure. The pinnacle of the outing so far had been encountering the bald eagle spying on me from the summit of a dead pine limb. I felt kind of discouraged. That is why it is called “fishing” and not “catching” I surmised. It was now time for Plan B.
I retrieved the anchor bag from the rock dock and initiated powerful thrusts of the paddle to avert being swept down the falls. Once out of harm’s way I cased out the shore for a parking place that would not impede fellow portage trekkers. I found a suitable landing and pulled the canoe up onto some rubble amidst the falls and portage. I lifted the anchor out of the canoe and placed it on the shore being cautious of any renegade winds. There was no real reason to take the canoe and food pack down the portage to the end of the falls; I would fish from land once I arrived. Nor did I find it necessary to take all my tackle either so I stored the main tackle box in the food pack. I unstrapped the Ultra-Pod from the thwart which held my 35mm camera. Another element I desired while solo tripping was having someone there to snap pictures of my trophy fish. The Ultra-Pod and camera timer would have to be the replacement for this duty. I snatched up my rods, soft plastics tackle case and the Ultra-Pod with camera attached and headed for the trail.
The terra firma journey commenced with a slight gradient ascent followed by a decent downward slope in elevation. There were a few twists and turns and the falls could be heard echoing through the pines as squirrels and chipmunks scrambled across my path. The majority of the thoroughfare was dry with sporadic aged mud puddles which had not seen rain since my arrival within the confines of this beautiful area. Before the portage concluded into the connecting lake there was a meandering secondary trail which proceeded towards the base of the falls on my left. I wound my way through the brush to reach the powerful current produced by the elongated falls. Next to the falls rested an enormous flat boulder which rose several feet above the ground. Previously one afternoon was spent napping upon its level surface. This rock was also used for my Ultra-Pod set up with the camera lens angled towards the lake in an optimistic fish holding position.
On day three, I coasted into this same area near the lower falls after a long day of paddling and fishing and tossed my first casts into the current. Within minutes I had connected with a smallmouth using the Zulu soft plastic jerk bait which recorded a weight of 4 ¾ pounds on the digital scales. Shortly thereafter I beached the canoe and disembarked to try my luck fishing in an upright position. Less than fifteen minutes later while casting along the falls’ edge I tied into another smallie on top water using the Lucky 13. This watery pugilist weighed in at the scales at an admirable 4 ½ pounds. So now the aspirations were to duplicate or improve upon this previous outing.
The Zulu persuaded several respectable bronzebacks to strike over an extended period of time, but none of them were worthy of utilizing one of the remaining six pictures on the camera. I could see the current from the falls stretched far out into the lake as the water moved in vicarious ways about the distance of a football field. Similar to the movie Groundhog Day, I continued to make the same identical cast over and over again to the same spot with the same results. The whole procedure was simple, I would cast as far as I could along the fringe of the current, allowing the slack in my line to be removed before I would start the process of twitching and pausing the lure back to my stationary position. Methodically I kept at it until it happened. After two twitches of the ol’ Zulu I felt the tell tale tick at the end of the line which normally meant a smallmouth had just bit and inhaled my offering. I reared back with the rod, felt the weight of this fish and about had the rod literally ripped from the palm of my hand. The smallie burst out of the water reflecting the sun off the side of the bronze tigress. She was so distant I could not determine the enormity of my battling opponent. The confrontation continued with the smallmouth executing several leaps and deep diving surges. This was an aerial display that would even make a tarpon jealous. I made progress with some line retrieval and actually had her close to shore, but her spirit was not willing to give up the ghost. The drag sung out its whiney song as it forced my line to depart from the reel. She then executed a few tail walks to induce more panic into the situation at hand. My inner pessimist had begun to wonder when the line would snap or the lure be pulled free from the jaws of this brute. The struggle only seemed to intensify the closer to shore this engagement took place; the word die was not in her vocabulary.
After what seemed to be an eternity but was merely actual minutes, the mighty struggle was settled as I lipped the smallmouth out of the clean clear water. I admired the fish as she was placed on the digital scale. The display read 5.3, 4.8, 5.1, as the fish flopped on the scale hook. It finally relaxed and the digital scale revealed I was holding a 5.0 pound smallmouth. I turned towards the camera being held by the Ultra-Pod and pressed the timer. I stepped back and proudly held up my embattled opponent to capture this moment for a lifetime. On the cautious side, just to make sure, I took two shots. Expeditiously I escorted her back to the lake and began the process of revival, pushing and pulling the smallmouth back and forth to generate water through the gills. The fish was exhausted and so was I, but after a period of time she recovered and abandoned my hold on her.
I paused for a period of time to catch my breath and settle my nerves. I gathered my rod back up into my fingers and attempted a few more ceremonial casts, but I knew in my heart that I was not going to exceed the last catch. I decided to end my week long fishing trip right then. I had a feeling of complete content and could think of no better way to end this angling excursion.
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