The morning air always seems brisk on the day of a tournament, and the sun has an ominous look as it rises over the water. Senses are heightened, nerves are sharp and spiny, and the anticipation of blast off invokes anxiety. Most tournament bass guys get their fix right then. We do it for the adrenaline; the pure emotion which can only be met by competition. Some fish the Tour. Others are weekend or weeknight warriors fishing for local bragging rights. Yet beyond the lights and glamour, there is another group of tournament anglers. A group often overlooked and overshadowed by the guys beating the tournament trail. Yes, I’m talking about the Die-Hards.
The ice had only just left the surface of the water on a frigid April morning, and two of the best friends ever to share a boat are headed to a lonely patch of river to dodge floating ice in the hopes of feeling the first fish of spring. As expected, the boat ramp is empty and the flowing water looks as thick as the syrup from my morning toaster waffle. My lifelong friend and fishing teacher Correy is hustling around to get his boat ready to head up river to inaugurate another year of bass fishing. Correy is a river maniac who lives for the bite. This would be our 25th year of fishing together and after five months of winter we are ready to get on the water. In those five months, we organized our tackle a dozen times, prepared rods and reels, looked at maps and dreamt about getting back out there. We were over prepared to say the least, but dreams of fishing again kept our blood pumping through the winter. After a quick check of the equipment and a puff stale exhaust from his Yamaha, we were en route.
After a tooth chattering 15 minute ride we arrived at the “honey hole”, a small slack riffle on the edge of a steep river bank. Although it was only about 30º that morning, the sun was peeking out and may have drawn some fish to shallow areas and current breaks. I started the day with a Strike King Series 4S bouncing lazily around some wood and chunk rock hoping to find a hungry beast with spring fever. After every cast I methodically chipped the ice out of my line guides and off the front of my casting reel. Occasionally I would lift or lower my rod tip to keep my line from snagging up on small sheets of ice as they floated by us on their way down river. Though my mind told me I was crazy to be cranking 3’ of 33º water, my body was warmed by the casting and reeling. Anticipation of a strike pumped heat through my veins and kept my fingers tingling, reminding me they were still attached to my hand. Correy threw a little grub and a tube in the same areas, and picked apart some familiar structure in hopes of catching the first one. He knew as well as I did, though, that we were there just to be there. Catching one would be a bonus.
Minutes turned to an hour, and one hour to two. I threw a few different lures and shared some new rods and reels with Correy; I reveled in awe at the pile of ice shavings accumulating at my feet from my casting reel. Even in the cold April air, with the inclement conditions our focus never lessened. We continued our trek up river, tasked with the duty of beginning the year on a high note.
The boat turned a corner, and revealed a wide spot with a bit slower current and a deep trough which the current flowed over. I cast my jerkbait up current to the far side of the hole, and snapped it down to its running depth. I watched, almost in slow motion as the current pushed my bait towards me and the line slackened in response. I could picture in my mind exactly what that bait was doing; sinking slowly in the frigid water, shimmying side to side as the current pressed against it. In perfect harmony, my expectation met my peripherals in the moment when my line jumped forward; my arms swung the rod through the slack line……the rest is history.
I have been a bass fisherman nearly all my life. In fact, many of my friends and colleagues would say that it defines me. I am fortunate to have a wonderful wife, employment, family and friends. I am happy and content with my life and surroundings and want for very little. As the battle ensued that cold April morning, between me and my first 2010 bass it reminded me that I was created to fish. Although I fish tournaments, compete at different levels, participate in television shows and have the support of the industry’s best fishing companies, my existence is fueled by the next bite. When Correy reached into the icy water to lip that first fish for me, it justified a miserable and cold winter. It brought to me a joy that only exists in true fisherman. You can’t hang it on your wall, it doesn’t show up in pictures, and nobody has the logo to add to your jersey. There is no board of directors, and membership is optional, but if you pay your dues you are in for life. It’s easy to get caught up in the grind and business of fishing. Too often we lose sight of the substance of fishing. The day will come when tournaments are gone, but the Die Hard bass anglers will be around long after the Tour is forgotten.
BY: Kendall Ulsh
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