Doug Pike

Take 'Em!

fieldandstream-editor — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 05:55:00 -0400

When waterfowl commit to your spread, it may seem like a small task to say, "Take 'em." But plenty of easy chances are squandered each season through the lack of good planning and great timing. Here are seven tips for better shot-calling:

(1) Testing, TestingÂ¿Â¿Â¿ Before any shells are loaded, waterfowl hunters should take their positions, then mount and swing their shotguns a few times to get a feel for where their barrels will move in relation to companions, objects, and brush. This drill is as important in an open goose field as in a duck blind, and it makes everyone safer and more aware of their surroundings.

(2) Who's the Boss Choose one person to call the shots, and trust his or her judgment. Among friends, take turns taking charge so that each hunter develops a feel for the right time to unleash the guns. Appointing a designated shot caller discourages the quick-draw artist in the group and assures that friends all get the same opportunities for clean, close shots.

(3) Know Your Limits Distances to incoming ducks and geese can be deceiving. A foggy morning typically makes waterfowl appear farther away than they are, and a bluebird day can make them seem closer. Squinting from under a cap can also lead you astray, as can a stiff wind. A good way to avoid shooting at out-of-range birds is to place the farthest decoys at 35 to 40 yards out, for an accurate marker by which to start the guns.

(4) Watch Your Back Instead of staring blankly into the same hole in the sky, hunting partners should choose specific, separate watch areas. Done correctly, two, three, or four sets of eyes can maintain a constant 360-degree watch for incoming birds. This way, you can carry on casual conversations with your buddies, knowing that somebody is watching your back.

(5) Left, Right, Left If you're the shot caller and your hunting partners are hiding as they should be from watchful eyes overhead, yelling "take 'em" isn't enough. You also have an obligation to declare the birds to be left or right, high or low, in front or behind, so that barrels are moving in the right direction as quickly as possible. Don't use clock positions to express birds' locations: The brain has trouble analyzing that information under pressure, and fast-flying waterfowl can spin through half the dial while the words are falling from your lips.

(6) Looking Up Call the shot if a flock within range passes directly over an open blind or pit. Any bird looking straight down will almost certainly see hunters peering up. Waiting for another pass can be a tactical blunder. Plus, the overhead position exposes vulnerable breasts and necks, making for clean hits and easy retrieves. (7) Early Warning Call the shot a second or two early on a low-flying flock of ducks that show no evidence of circling or lowering flaps to land. The advance warning gives crouched shooters time to rise and swing as fast-moving incomers flare at 20 to 30 yards. Waiting until the zipping flock is within easy range can create a riot of close-quarters confusion. The early call is especially helpful on low wads of teal and divers, such as scaup, which are notorious for buzzing spreads and sweeping past tardy shooters.

Take 'Em!

fieldandstream-editor — Wed, 07 Jun 2006 05:55:00 -0400

The VP's Hunting Accident: UPDATED 2/16: Cheney Accepts Responsibility

fieldandstream-editor — Thu, 23 Feb 2006 04:15:00 -0500

In a Wednesday interview with Fox News' Brit Hume, Vice President Dick Cheney shouldered full responsibility for his South Texas hunting accident.

"I'm the guy who pulled the trigger," the vice president said. "That's the bottom line."

In the interview, Cheney laid out details of the Saturday-afternoon incident in which he shot 78-year-old Harry Whittington during a quail hunt.

"The image of him falling is something I'll never be able to get out of my mind," Cheney said.

Cheney drank a beer with lunch. It's good that he admitted to it, but the consumption took place hours before the shooting. It's a nonissue, much as this whole incident should be soon. (For the record: Alcohol was a factor in only two of the 101 hunting accidents reported in Texas during the past three years.)

This accident was caused by poor judgment, and Cheney was right to come forward and say so. He called Saturday "one of the worst days of my life," as it would be for any hunter thrust into the same gut-wrenching position.

It's important to note that early reports putting Whittington at fault were just plain wrong. The ultimate responsibility for an accidental shooting lies with the person who fires the gun, as the vice president finally pointed out.

Compared to other sports, hunting is a safe activity. According to statistics from various agencies that were compiled by the National Shooting Sports Foundation (click here to read their report), in 2002 there were 47 hunting-related accidents per 100,000 hunters. You're less likely to be injured while hunting than while playing golf (139 per 100,000 golfers), roller-skating (396 per 100,000), or playing softball (926 per 100,000).

Doctors in Corpus Christi say the Austin attorney is on the mend and expected to make a full recovery. His health could change, they say, but more because he's 78 than because he was hit in the face and chest by a barrage of No. 7 1/2 pellets from Cheney's 28-gauge shotgun.

Still think the VP's mistake will do significant damage to the public's perception of hunters? Let us know by taking the latest F&S poll on the home page (it's near the bottom left of the page).

Now that you've all heard more of the story from the mouth of the man himself, has anybody changed their opinion of situation? We still want your comments, and may still publish them in our May 2006 issue of the magazine.
Click here to send us your comments
Click here to read previous comments on this topic

And keep reading to review Doug's previous story on the issue:

Previous story: published 2/14

The Cheney Hunting Accident: A Texan's view of the so-called "Texas hunting protocol"
Doug Pike is a Field & Stream contributing editor who covers the outdoors for the Houston Chronicle. Here's what he has to say about reports suggesting that bird hunters in Texas follow different gun safety rules than bird hunters anywhere else.

Upland bird hunters everywhere knew exactly what had happened when word spread this past weekend that Vice President Dick Cheney shot a quail-hunting companion in South Texas, but some media reports made it sound as if the victim were to blame.

A quail flushed. Vice President Cheney swung his 28-gauge shotgun on the bird and tugged the trigger. His 78-year-old buddy, Austin attorney Harry Whittington, took a piece of the shot string in the upper body and face. Luckily, they were about 30 yards apart, far enough that pinhead-ssized quail shot did minimal damage.

Reports from the owner of the ranch where the VP was hunting that Whittington violated some sort of ``Texas protocol'' requiring hunters to make formal announcement of their comings and goings in the field were a bit misleading. Everywhere that upland birds are hunted, the drill is pretty much the same. It makes sense to let other hunters know when you're moving to the left or right, or that you're back after visiting a nearby tree, but there's no requirement to do so. The onus is on everyone who carries a gun not to shoot at anyone else.

Cheney shot another hunter. Sooner better than later, he should own up to his mistake.

---------------

Think the VP's mistake will do significant damage to the public's perception of hunters? Let us know by taking the latest F&S poll on the home page (scroll down, it's near the bottom left of the page).

And we'd like to hear more from you about what you think of this incident, so click here to send us your comments. If we like them, we may publish some in our May 2006 issue of the magazine.

Safe hunting, everyone. --The Editors

Texas-Size Flats

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 02 Mar 2004 06:00:00 -0500

Springtime on Texas' gulf coast is a flats fisherman's paradise. The expansive shallows offer excellent fly and plug casting to powerhouse red drum and spotted seatrout that routinely weigh 4 to 8 pounds. Aransas Pass is a great place to base your trip, and now is the time to go. Here are two options.

Do-it-Yourself
Kayak fishing around Aransas Pass got an upgrade from exceptional to spectacular recently with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department's creation of the Lighthouse Lakes Trails, a scenic area that protects seagrass beds from boaters. Armed with a map and a handheld GPS, kayak fishermen can explore a seemingly endless string of secluded flats. Rentals are available from Slowride Guide Service (866-758-5307).

Wade the flats, looking for the broad, colorful tails of feeding fish. Pluggers need only dog-walking topwaters, soft-plastic jerkbaits with light jigheads, and weedless gold spoons. Flyfishermen should carry a selection of shrimp and minnow patterns, as well as poppers, in natural and bright colors.

From The Lodge
One of several premier base camps in the area, Shoal Grass Lodge (866-758-5307; www.shoalgrasslodge.com) offers 12 double guest rooms, private dock space, and a kitchen that will have you loosening your belt after every meal.

The fishing is as good as the food, beginning within minutes of leaving the lodge and stretching as far as a half tank of fuel will push a flats boat. Instead of employing a stable of guides, the lodge maintains working relationships with the area's top pros. Chuck Scates and his flyfishing expertise are a phone call away, as are Lefty Chapa and his custom-rigged kayaks.

Rags to Riches

fieldandstream-editor — Fri, 08 Nov 2002 10:20:00 -0500

For two hours, I sat and shivered in the coastal marsh of southeast Texas, a musty bedsheet over my shoulders and my high school buddy fouling the air with what he called "goose music."

"Shut up, man. Goose hunting sucks," I barked that winter morning in 1973. The slick barrel of my brand-new 12-gauge Wingmaster was pitting and rusting before my eyes. Thousands of snow geese traded from roost to feeding field-half a mile away and on private property.

We hadn't fired a shot, and neither of us was old enough to carry a flask. The flame of enthusiasm grew dim. Then, to no credit of ours, a bird actually turned.

"Lay off the call," I whispered. "This one might do it."

The goose was young and gullible, not unlike us, and attracted to the soggy, crumpled newspaper pages scattered over 2 acres of muddy marsh.

I crouched deeper into the muck and peeked around the bill of my cap. Icy water drizzled down my neck. The gray-feathered goose floated directly overhead.

For all our bragging about what great bird hunters we were, we had never actually experienced a real goose in range until that moment. If we were both going to shoot, I wasn't going to be last.

The gunstock hung in my sheet and settled about midway down my biceps. So what? I swung the bead what seemed an appropriate distance ahead of the gliding goose and fired.

The awkward angle and heavy recoil rocked me. My arm felt as if it had been hit with a shovel. The mud beneath my back was softer-and deeper-than I had expected on the way down. The young goose and I both learned a valuable lesson, one that didn't seriously hurt either of us.

Ghost Hunter Origins
Throughout the 1800s and midway into the next century, a few hundred thousand lesser snow geese migrated almost directly between Canadian nesting grounds and wintering areas along the Gulf coast. Prior to development of "staging" reservoirs throughout the Midwest from the 1950s into the 1970s, most geese attempted to overfly the continent nonstop. Along the migration, weaker birds literally fell dead from the sky.

The reservoir system afforded geese and other migratory species an opportunity to rest along the way. More birds survived, more returned north to breed, and the goose population quickly exploded, first to more than a million birds. Then to 2 million. At its peak, the population was more than 6 million by some counts. The change dramatically affected waterfowlers, most of whom had previously recognized snow geese only as tiny, noisy specks high in the air.

Before the Central Flyway had a name, hunters down its length focused almost exclusively on flocks of ducks that "blacked out the sun when they got up in the morning," says Lyle Jordan, who left his family's rice-farming business in Katy, Texas, in the early 1960s to become one of the area's first snow-goose hunting outfitters.

Jordan started Texas Safaris, a goose hunting club that lasted for 26 years under his watch. Snow-goose hunting was a curiosity for local waterfowlers then, a change of pace from hunting pintails, mallards, and teal over prairie potholes created by migrating buffalo during the 19th century. Fast-growing oil and petrochemical companies around Houston also hired Jordan to entertain customers and investors fascinated by the big, smart birds and the unique way that they were hunted.

Early on, spreads of newspapers, paper plates, and white cardboard squares would fool geese, but these soon gave way to cloth decoys-first baby diapers and then torn bedsheets. It was during that "linen period" that hunters realized a white sheet or parka concealed them better than any available camouflage pattern. These flowing white covers earned the men the nickname "ghost hunters."

Tough Guides
In the coastal marsh southeast of Houston, during goose hunting's infancy, was the sawling Barrow Ranch, which offered an inexpensive public day-hunting opportunity. I hunted there during my physical prime and remain convinced that this place was the original Hell, its fires extinguished with mud and saltwater delivered by mosquitoes.

"There would be cars lined up for miles waiting to get in," says Forrest West, who hunted the Barrow through the early years, and whose Los Patos Outfitters is still in operation today. "The farther you could get in there, the fewer other hunters you'd find. We'd just drive until we got stuck, then get out and walk as far as we could and hunt there. You worried about getting your car out later, after the hunt."

Like West, who learned to mouth-call geese from old market hunters around Buras, Louisiana, many of the early outfitters started as guides. Top outfitters paid a premium for talented callers and shooters, who in turn helped attract more business. If nothing else, goose guides were a physically fit bunch. I answered to a 3:30 a.m. alarm as a professional prairie baby-sitter throughout the 1980s and into the '90s.

No one used four-wheelers then. If you wanted something in the field, you picked it up, threw it over a shoulder, and carried it. That went for customers, too.

Most clients didn't mind toting dry, fluffy rags into a field and helping to turn them into a flock of fake geese. It made them feel as though they'd contributed somehow when, in truth, the greatest contribution to any successful goose hunt, then or now, has everything to do with location. As much as they enjoyed being a part of putting out a spread, hunters hated lugging the same load, soaking wet, back to the pickup. Guides invariably left the field with the heaviest sack over one shoulder and 20 or 30 dead geese draped over the other. Back then, federal game wardens didn't mind if the guide carried everyone's geese on the same strap. Neither did the hunters.

Our first big break was banquet cloth, cheap plastic table coverings with thin cloth bottoms that were sold in 100-yard rolls and easily cut into 3-foot squares. One man could carry more than 300 plastic rags, each as light as feathers, in a standard decoy sack. However, you still needed to dry the rags afterward, because even the strongest guides couldn't lug a bag of wet ones across 1/4 mile of shin-deep mud twice a day. One drying method was to spread the pieces across the backyard and hope a strong gust didn't relocate them across the neighbors' fence.

A better place was the local Laundromat, where for 50Â¿Â¿ you could tumble dry a few hundred rags at a time on the "no heat" setting of a big commercial dryer. You could throw most of your wet clothes into the dryer, too. Lint traps filled quickly with soybean stubble, rice hulls, spiders, and grasshoppers to create miniature prairie ecosystems. We got away with it until one guide tried to speed the process by jacking up the heat.

In four minutes, he turned 300 soggy rags into a single, gooey sheet of melted plastic that plugged every vent hole in the spinning drum. That was the only Laundromat in town, and a handwritten sign taped to the door explained in plain English that goose hunting guides were no longer welcome.

Quirky Hunters
Around the same time, a young man named Larry Gore was finding his way around the mud and stubble. More interested in the business side of waterfowling than in dragging wet rags, Gore started Eagle Lake & Katy Prairie Outfitters in 1978. Today, he hosts more duck and goose hunters annually than any other outfitter in Texas.

I guided for Gore, whose operation attracted hunters from around the world, and saw some unusual characters pass through the Kountry Kitchen restaurant, where we met most mornings. We gave the real oddballs nicknames to help us remember.

The man we called the Green Hornet came all the way from Italy to hunt flocks of 100,000 or more snow geese. While he waited in the car, engine and heater running, he sent his personal servant into the restaurant to complete paperwork and secure a cup of coffee. I insisted that this mystery hunter come in and add his own signature to the release form. Besides bringing all the hunters together for a routine safety speech, those early meetings gave guides a chance to size up their hunters.

In order to create the huge illusion necessary to fool snow geese, the tradition was that each hunter carry a bag of rags or decoys. The Green Hornet would have no part of such manual labor. Instead he loaded his helper with two sacks of decoys, two over/under shotguns, a shell bag, and a picnic basket.

During the hunt, the assistant's job was to reload empty shotguns and provide timely snacks from the basket. Around 8 a.m. a cold rain fell. Without exchanging a word, the dutiful servant removed his jacket and draped it over the Green Hornet's shoulders. Neither man spoke English, and I never did figure out their relationship. They paid cash, though, and tipped generously, which made them welcome in any guide's spread.

Expensive Real Estate
It was Gore's generation of outfitters who first dealt closely with landowners. Most of the earlier outfitters either owned land outright, hunted on family property, or had personal relationships with the farmers. Waterfowl hunting rights on the Gulf Coast prairie first gained value shortly after World War II, when farmers traded gate keys for hard-to-get tractor and diesel engine parts.

"When I got into this business, you could lease land for $1 to $5 an acre depending on where it was," Gore says. "Hunters battled with the farmers over water and farming practices and had to take what they got." As rice prices fell, landowners and farmers developed an interest in hunters' dollars.

"You're looking at a minimum of $10 an acre these days," says Gore, "even more around Katy, because it's so close to Houston. Some people are paying $30 to $50 per acre to sublease prime acreage with crops and water."

Rice production now is about half what it once was, but that reduction in farming hasn't dissuaded the snow geese. Instead, it has only served to concentrate the birds. And on the remaining prairie, outfitters and farmers have created more roost areas to discourage the geese from traveling great distances for food. Management is an integral part of waterfowl hunting these days, and an expensive one. Costs for pumping water and plowing fields at precisely the right time, without which a potentially great hunting area might never attract a single snow goose, can be nearly as much as the lease itself. Because management is so costly and the "product" so elusive ("You can't make geese do anything," says Gore), many outfitters only last a few seasons. The annual "Waterf0 or more snow geese. While he waited in the car, engine and heater running, he sent his personal servant into the restaurant to complete paperwork and secure a cup of coffee. I insisted that this mystery hunter come in and add his own signature to the release form. Besides bringing all the hunters together for a routine safety speech, those early meetings gave guides a chance to size up their hunters.

In order to create the huge illusion necessary to fool snow geese, the tradition was that each hunter carry a bag of rags or decoys. The Green Hornet would have no part of such manual labor. Instead he loaded his helper with two sacks of decoys, two over/under shotguns, a shell bag, and a picnic basket.

During the hunt, the assistant's job was to reload empty shotguns and provide timely snacks from the basket. Around 8 a.m. a cold rain fell. Without exchanging a word, the dutiful servant removed his jacket and draped it over the Green Hornet's shoulders. Neither man spoke English, and I never did figure out their relationship. They paid cash, though, and tipped generously, which made them welcome in any guide's spread.

Expensive Real Estate
It was Gore's generation of outfitters who first dealt closely with landowners. Most of the earlier outfitters either owned land outright, hunted on family property, or had personal relationships with the farmers. Waterfowl hunting rights on the Gulf Coast prairie first gained value shortly after World War II, when farmers traded gate keys for hard-to-get tractor and diesel engine parts.

"When I got into this business, you could lease land for $1 to $5 an acre depending on where it was," Gore says. "Hunters battled with the farmers over water and farming practices and had to take what they got." As rice prices fell, landowners and farmers developed an interest in hunters' dollars.

"You're looking at a minimum of $10 an acre these days," says Gore, "even more around Katy, because it's so close to Houston. Some people are paying $30 to $50 per acre to sublease prime acreage with crops and water."

Rice production now is about half what it once was, but that reduction in farming hasn't dissuaded the snow geese. Instead, it has only served to concentrate the birds. And on the remaining prairie, outfitters and farmers have created more roost areas to discourage the geese from traveling great distances for food. Management is an integral part of waterfowl hunting these days, and an expensive one. Costs for pumping water and plowing fields at precisely the right time, without which a potentially great hunting area might never attract a single snow goose, can be nearly as much as the lease itself. Because management is so costly and the "product" so elusive ("You can't make geese do anything," says Gore), many outfitters only last a few seasons. The annual "Waterf

Going After Big Red

fieldandstream-editor — Tue, 22 Jan 2002 04:00:00 -0500

Imagine a time when Gulf redfish prowled the salt from North Carolina, around Florida, and all the way to South Texas. The deep, golden schools of reds covered acres of water as the aggressive fish patrolled inshore flats, grass beds, channel edges, and oyster bars.

That time is now.

The redfish, one of the greatest light- and medium-tackle saltwater gamefish in the South Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, attracts millions of fishermen of all persuasions. The fish, also known as channel bass or red drum, can be taken on heavy bait rigs in the pounding surf, on jigs and other lures in channels and inlets, and on flies in the grassy flats. They grow to tremendous proportions-the world record, taken in North Carolina in 1984, weighed 94 pounds 2 ounces-but a 5-pound redfish on an 8-weight fly rod or a 12-pound-test spinning outfit will put up a dogged, determined fight that you won't always win.

Luckily, anglers can still take advantage of this fine fishery. This wasn't always the case; in fact, redfish were once in trouble-big trouble.

The Redfish Battle
The Gulf of Mexico red drum fishery nearly collapsed-twice in the past quarter century-because of brazen, unapologetic commercial overharvest. Reds demonstrated remarkable resilience to that adversity, however, and responded positively to conservationists' efforts on their behalf.

About 20 years ago, almost two dozen Texans met in a Houston tackle shop to discuss commercial abuses in local waters and map out a solution. Veteran Field & Stream contributing editor Bob Brister, an avid sport fisherman as well as a shotgunning expert, was at that meeting. (Brister's September 1981 story in Field & Stream, "Winning the War on Netters," was among the first to shed national light on the dangers to redfish.) He was there, too, four years later, when the fledgling Gulf Coast Conservation Association (now the Coastal Conservation Association, or CCA; 713-626-4222) broke word that a GCCA-backed bill to grant gamefish status to reds had been signed into state law. Gill nets and other devastating gear types would no longer be allowed for redfish harvest.

Conservationists helped redfish again in the early 1980s, when a recipe for seared or "blackened" redfish by New Orleans chef Paul Prudhomme became popular in thousands of restaurants, creating a huge demand for spawning-class reds. It was only when spotter planes and purse seines had nearly wiped out critical brood stocks, fish as old as 30 years, that federal managers listened to conservationists' pleas and enacted rules to shut down that relentless haul.

Strict recreational limits and severely restricted commercial harvest have helped the redfish recover. The creation of hatcheries-built with help and generous financial support from CCA-to supplement natural production also aided the cause. In Texas, two such facilities produce 30 million-plus redfish fingerlings and many times more fry every year for release in state water. Many are lost to predators. Some, within a few short years, are caught by sportsmen. A few reach full maturity and find their way eventually into the open Gulf, where they become integral parts of this ongoing success story.

Following are updates on the major redfish fisheries in the U.S.

Texas
The 10-gallon brag along Texas' 700-plus miles of coastline is that you "can't throw a rock without hitting a redfish." Bold talk. Make that rock a live shrimp, however, and you might have a chance-fishing has been that good.

While all of the state's major bay systems, inlets, and Gulf beaches can be highly productive, Texas boasts three classic shallow-water venues. From north to south (and with due respect for "fishy" water around every other launch ramp from the Sabine River to the Rio Grande), they are Port O'Connor, Rockport, and Port Mansfield.

Look hard enough, and you can find deep holes and channels at any of these three ports, but the majority of fishing for reds at each takes place over traditional, grassy flats or along protected shorelines where scattered oyster shell interrupts expanses of pale-sand bottom. Wading, drifting, and poling are equally effective, although locals have developed a strong preference for getting out of the boat and stalking these hard-fighting fish on foot.

Overall, redfish action usually is better in the morning hours, before wind whips up a chop and clutters the surface with lure-snagging strands of grass.

Soft plastics and gold spoons are the foundation on which every redfish tackle box is built. Any color plastic might draw fire, but a half dozen each of strawberry/white and pearl/chartreuse tails-with an appropriate stash of 1Â¿Â¿4- and 1Â¿Â¿8-ounce jigheads-will suffice often as not.

Alongside the spoons and jigs in most boxes now rest as many floating plugs, such as the Top Dog, Super Spook, Ghost, Chug Bug, and Spittin' Image. Surface lures didn't see much redfish duty in , Texas boasts three classic shallow-water venues. From north to south (and with due respect for "fishy" water around every other launch ramp from the Sabine River to the Rio Grande), they are Port O'Connor, Rockport, and Port Mansfield.

Look hard enough, and you can find deep holes and channels at any of these three ports, but the majority of fishing for reds at each takes place over traditional, grassy flats or along protected shorelines where scattered oyster shell interrupts expanses of pale-sand bottom. Wading, drifting, and poling are equally effective, although locals have developed a strong preference for getting out of the boat and stalking these hard-fighting fish on foot.

Overall, redfish action usually is better in the morning hours, before wind whips up a chop and clutters the surface with lure-snagging strands of grass.

Soft plastics and gold spoons are the foundation on which every redfish tackle box is built. Any color plastic might draw fire, but a half dozen each of strawberry/white and pearl/chartreuse tails-with an appropriate stash of 1Â¿Â¿4- and 1Â¿Â¿8-ounce jigheads-will suffice often as not.

Alongside the spoons and jigs in most boxes now rest as many floating plugs, such as the Top Dog, Super Spook, Ghost, Chug Bug, and Spittin' Image. Surface lures didn't see much redfish duty in

Out On a Limb

fieldandstream-editor — Fri, 11 Jan 2002 04:00:00 -0500

The average fisherman would rather lose a bass than a lure, though common sense dictates that any strike-especially one from a potential career fish-is worth considerably more than the cost of a lure. As a result we pitch and skip baits around the perimeter of threatening cover, but just can't bring ourselves to punch a cast straight into the snarls.

Big mistake.

Most bassers already understand that if a lure is not banging structure, it's not in the strike zone. Bass crave cover, and catching them means putting the bait right in there with them. Becoming a better bass fisherman means applying that same aggressive attitude to visible obstructions. Doing so will bring more strikes and will not leave any more vacancies in the tackle box.

Fact is, probably 90 percent (or more) of the casts that finish in a tree don't end in a break-off. A calm, patient waggle will free most misfires, even with treble-hooked crankbaits. More important, 100 percent of the casts that don't penetrate dense, visible cover will not catch fish tucked deep within it.

Light Touch
The most practical approach to overhangs and flooded brush is an upgrade to "muscle" rods and lines. In prime bassing water, no good cast lands far from a potential snag, and a rig with backbone can haul a fish through the tangles and into the open before it has a chance to react. Likewise, heavyweight tackle can also pull a hook through soft wood or navigate a leaf-stripping path to freedom, if the need arises.

Such tackle, however, wouldn't be appropriate in clearer water. But by taking a few precautions and following up with some subtle trickery, you can fish the same snags on lighter gear.

Bassing guru Will Kirkpatrick, whose "Fishing Schools" classroom is Sam Rayburn Reservoir in the piney woods of East Texas, stresses that the light-tackle bass fisherman must learn to dance around problems rather than stomp through them. If you're throwing a worm, Kirkpatrick says, make it a straight-bodied worm rather than a broad-tail that might wrap a limb. Use a screw-lock weight (or a toothpick plug) to secure the sinker against the hook eye and worm so the two don't become separated and work against each other. Lightweight jigs fitted with weedguards (3Â¿Â¿8 ounce or less) also navigate well through exposed brush.

"I like short-armed spinnerbaits, too," he says. "I cast them beyond the brush, lift the rod until the lure is right over where I want it, then drop it straight down between the limbs and back into the water." The spinnerbait's stubby arms act as a built-in snag deflector.

Downsized craw worms (again with a small weight snugged tight to the hook) may be the best "brush busters" in the box. Craw worms have accounted for more entries in Texas' ShareLunker program, which accepts only bass weighing 13 pounds or more, than any other lure type. Kirkpatrick opts for 3-inch models, the "skinnier" the better for snaking through exposed brush.

Working the Angles
Toledo Bend pro Jim Morris throws Wacky Worms, exposed hook and all, into shoreline bushes and trees. His insurance against hangups is a small piece of an old worm slipped over the hook point and barb. Another Morris strategy is to upgrade to a 71Â¿Â¿2- or even an 8-foot rod; he uses it like an old cane pole to dip soft plastics vertically into gaps between limbs.

Where visible structure lends itself better to a horizontal rather than a vertical assault, the best cast is a sidearm or underhand flick of the wrist that launches the lure low across the surface. "I know a guy who puts his baitcasting reels away and uses a spincasting reel to fish the brush," Morris says. "He pitches a little Rogue up in there as far as he can, then just twitches it in the same spot until something happens."

My friend Jim Van Hoozer spent a lot of pre-children weekends competing in bass tournaments. HHe did quite well, judging by his trophy collection. One of the things he did best was to snatch big bass out of shoreline brushpiles.

"When the water got clear, I'd go as light as 6- or 8-pound-test line," he says. "That's important, because you've got to get the bite first. I'd throw a worm right into the thick of everything and shake it around a little. When I'd feel the hit, all I'd do is lift the rod very gently and try to lead the fish out of the cover without it knowing what was going on."

Just as a dog will hang fast to a bone on a string, a bass will hold a lure against modest pressure. Once you coax the fish away from trouble, Van Hoozer said, you can lower the boom and start the real fight.

Because retention is so critical to this little trick, opt for soft, scented plastics and hide the hook well. A gentle tug of persuasion between their lips doesn't seem to bother the bass, but they don't have the same tolerance for foul tastes or sharp jabs.

One disadvantage to crashing the bushes is increased noise. The closer you get, the more likely your boat will crunch and creak and put bass on alert. Proper distance is a judgment call; calculate it on the amount of incidental commotion in the area, such as might be caused by wind or chop, your own casting ability, and how much you really care about losing lures.

Bass are structure-oriented fish, and catching them means putting a lure where the fish can see it. Now and then that also means leaving a lure where you can see it. The decision should be easy. Weigh the known against the unknown. You know where to get another lure, but unless you make the cast, you'll never know what's under that bush.

Ultralight Spinning Tackle Comes of Age

fieldandstream-editor — Fri, 11 Jan 2002 04:00:00 -0500

Ultralight fishing combines much of the finesse of flyfishing with the high-tech innovations available in spinning tackle. It is also a far less expensive sport to get into: You can purchase a very serviceable ultralight rod and reel combination for less than $100. (A comparably equipped flyfishing outfit will cost a lot more.)

The basic idea is to catch fish on a short, lightweight rod, using a tiny open-face reel, 2- to 6-pound-test line, and a minuscule lure, which often weighs less than 1Â¿Â¿8 ounce. There almost isn't a species of gamefish that cannot be taken on an ultralight rig, provided you set out mentally prepared -- and heed the following guidelines.

1. Don't let the task at hand daunt you. It may seem ludicrous to cast to 3-foot-long northern pike, barracuda, or striped bass with equipment that somehow seems better suited to pursuing guppies. It also appears virtually impossible that such a small rig will ever cast far enough to get you to feeding fish. But the truth of the matter is that ultralight rods and reels are built for high performance. If you let the technology you have purchased do its job, you can concentrate on spotting the fish, presenting the lure, and fighting your catch.

2. Use the light weight of your lure to sneak up on the fish. A 1Â¿Â¿12-ounce spoon makes a tiny splash as it hits the water; often fish will not even notice that something foreign has fallen from the sky. This is the principle behind flyfishing -- the artificial fly lights on the water so delicately that the fish below see nothing unnatural in its arrival. If your quarry has no reason to fear that something is amiss, it will be more apt to make a mistake and attack your lure instead of a live baitfish.

3. Be observant. Before casting, take a careful look at your environment. The riffling water upstream from u will likely hold healthy trout and bass while the rumbling of the water over the rocks will do a great deal to mask any noise you may make on your approach. On lakes and other still water, keep an eye out for disturbances near the surface. The sight of small minnows flipping about in the shallows may be the result of larger fish (bass or pike, for example) corralling and feeding on them. Your cast in both of these instances should be placed over the target area and a good 10 to 15 feet beyond the action. As you bring the lure through the turbulent activity of the riffle or the panicking minnows, the larger fish will only see what appears to be one more baitfish trying to escape them.

4. When you hook into a fish, be patient. Even a 1-pound smallmouth bass is going to be a challenge on ultralight gear. Remember to make use of the high technology you have at hand. Don't try to horse the fish in; it won't work. You will only succeed in snapping your line. Let the reel and rod do the heavy work. If you use the drag, make sure it is set light enough so that a big fish will be able to run without overly straining the line. Don't be afraid to experiment.

While fishing for bass in my home state of Vermont one spring, the fish seemed determined to thwart us. We had unsuccessfully worked the shoreline of a small 40-acre pond with Jitterbugs, jigs, spoons, shallow-diving crankbaits, and spinners for almost three hours. Although fish did chase our lures and would even occasionally swipe angrily at them, none would commit to attack.

In utter frustration, I removed the jig I had been working and attached a weedless plastic frog. I tossed the lure up against the bank and worked it steadily through the weeds. Still no action. I cast into a maze of tree branches from a fallen maple and twitched it through. There was a follower, but it refused to hit. Finally, I cast the plastic frog out into an open area of extremely shallow water near a weedbed that emerged about 20 feet from shore. I slowed my retrieve down to a crawl and was rewarded when a 13-inch bass struck. The fish had been lying in the weedbed and the tentative movements of my frog had lured it out of hiding in hopes of an easy meal.

The bass tore out into the open, creating a wide wake in the 6- to 8-inch-deep water. The light rod bent sharply as the fish began to run back toward the protection of the weeds, but the reel's drag slowed it down considerably and the bass turned back toward the shallows. With nowhere to go, the bass zigzagged through the shallows, churning up mud and splattering the air with droplets of water. The fish finally turned onto one side, completely spent. Although far from trophy size, this little bass proved to be a terrific match on ultralight gear. I cast the plastic frog out into an open area of extremely shallow water near a weedbed that emerged about 20 feet from shore. I slowed my retrieve down to a crawl and was rewarded when a 13-inch bass struck. The fish had been lying in the weedbed and the tentative movements of my frog had lured it out of hiding in hopes of an easy meal.

The bass tore out into the open, creating a wide wake in the 6- to 8-inch-deep water. The light rod bent sharply as the fish began to run back toward the protection of the weeds, but the reel's drag slowed it down considerably and the bass turned back toward the shallows. With nowhere to go, the bass zigzagged through the shallows, churning up mud and splattering the air with droplets of water. The fish finally turned onto one side, completely spent. Although far from trophy size, this little bass proved to be a terrific match on ultralight gear.

Out On a Limb

fieldandstream-editor — Fri, 11 Jan 2002 04:00:00 -0500

Ultralight Spinning Tackle Comes of Age

fieldandstream-editor — Fri, 11 Jan 2002 04:00:00 -0500