Five Kinds of Bass Grabs

The real warmth arrives in late April. By dawn, backlit vapor rises from the edge of lily pads; at
noon, turtles sunbathe on every exposed log; just after 2 PM, a quilt of gray clouds arrives from
the south. It’s beer-time on your local largemouth pond.

#1: That Has to Be Wood
The cast lands right where the shallows meet the deep. A green and yellow Clouser sinks for a
five-count before you begin the retrieve. A short strip, then about three beats of stillness
before another. Your mind is just starting to wander when the fly sticks something solid, much
too solid to be a fish, so solid your SUP dials toward it. You know you’ve stripped the fly right
into the down tree that is submerged somewhere around here—until that tree tugs backs.

#2: Dude, Why Is My Line Moving?
There’s a new cottonwood down from a winter storm. The limbs are a mess in deep water, the
perfect place to lose a few flies and catch nothing. So instead, you cast a five-inch rabbit strip
into that ring of dark water between the tree trunk and the steep shore. You know the fly is
undulating as it falls toward the fishy bottom. You sip your beer and wait for the grab. But then
the fly line begins to snake away toward those limbs. Your beer falls into the water when you
strip-set too late.

#3: How Did I Lose My Fly?
It’s been a minute. You’ve fished down a whole shore of lily pads without a grab, and you’re
starting to wonder if you just suck at bass fishing. So you reel in and trade the floater for a sink-
tip. Instead of casting at the pads, now you send a long line down the length of them. You’re
working that fly your buddy gave you that throws its rubber legs out every time you stop a strip.
A heron launches from the shadows like a pterodactyl, cawing as it passes overhead. You go to
strip and feel nothing. You strip again, this time a whole arm’s worth, but can’t find the fly. Did
your tippet snap? Nope—there he is.

#4: Did You See That?
A misting rain has started to dimple the surface, and bluegill or chubs or who-knows-what are
rising. It’s now or never on that messy deer-hair popper you spent six hours tying one winter
day. But the cast is tough. You must send it side-armed under heavy, budded-out tree limbs,
then convince the fly to turnover—with a quick tug of the line-hand—beneath the hanging
fingers of a blackberry. Of course you mess it up. The fly snags on the lowest vine. Another tug
pulls the fly free, and it splashes onto the greasy surface. With the rod tip, you give this faux-frog
an epileptic fit, then let its ripples settle back to stillness. You think about opening another beer.
You decide to. You reach for the cooler and only hear the explosion.

#5: Nah, Not Possible.
It’s nearly dark but you’re still trying for another on the popper. It’s nice to fight them, but you
want to see the take. Five docks separate you from the ramp. Then three, then two. By now,
lights are on in every yard; they shine up from the water too. You send a cast toward the edge
of the last dock; the line uncurls and the fly begins to fall, but it won’t reach the water. A
largemouth is leaping to engulf it.

John Larison is the author of Whiskey When We’re Dry. His new novel, The Ancients, drops in
October.