WHEN a fellow goes a couple of hundred miles into Ontario on a fishing trip in October, something’s wrong. Either he’s an optimist, has his seasons mixed, or is just plain stubborn. My case was a combination of all three.
It all started with Floyd O’Neil’s mid-September telegram: “Vacation Unavoidably Delayed Three Weeks Sorry May Hit Indian Summer.” That “Indian Summer” had a treacherous sound to it. Then and there I started digging my heaviest wool duds out of the moth balls. And I was glad I had. Our arrival in the Madawaska River country of eastern Ontario, near Combermere, was noteworthy only for the snow flurries and marrow-chilling gales that howled down from Hudson Bay to greet us.
But we’d come to fish, and fish we did. Early the first morning I had a vicious strike from a big northern pike. He showed his contempt for any fisherman who plied his nefarious arts in duck-hunting season by performing a series of wicked slashes, lightning runs, and thrashing leaps that gave me all I could handle until O’Neil finally gaffed him. Bolstered by this promising start, we cast diligently all day, but that was our one and only fish.
NEXT morning brought another dose of the same leaden skies, snow squalls, and that vicious northwest wind, but we cast stubbornly. About noon we located a school of responsive largemouths and for a few minutes had action aplenty, ending up with a trio of three-pounders. This was more like it. Perhaps the fates had finally relented. But then we plugged steadily and changed lures frequently, and not another fish did we manage to hook!
With feelings lower than the temperature, we returned to camp. As we unloaded the boat, “Indian Joe” Williams rowed up to the landing. We were anxious to see his results for he knows those waters like the palm of his hand. “Not bad,” he said, spotting our three bass, “only—” He stopped short, shaking his head with solemn disapproval.
“Only what?” I asked.
“Only they sure look lonesome as hell!”
“Very funny,” snorted O’Neil. “Let’s see your fish.”
“I’d rather not,” he said with mock concern. “They’re only Irish bass. Besides, my stringer’s kinda weak!”
I’d never heard of Irish bass and neither had O’Neil. Clearly the remark was made to rankle him, and it did. “Produce!” he bellowed, now fully aroused.
“O.K. Take a look.”
WE DID. William’s stringer held his limit of six of the prettiest smallmouth bass that I’ve ever seen in one bunch. Amazingly husky fish, they ran from four and a half to five and a half pounds. I’ve seen whole seasons where I haven’t taken one that size—and here were six of them!
“Lord, but they’re nice,” I gasped. “But why do you call ’em Irish bass?” He grinned. “Partly because they’re scrappers, but mostly because just like any thick-skulled Irishman they go for anything that’s—” He stopped abruptly, then resumed: “But your pal oughta know something about the Irish. You ask him.”
“You Welsh half pint,” ranted O’Neil. “Take your damn fish, ‘fore I throw ’em in the lake and you with ’em!”
With a laugh Williams claimed his bass and trudged off toward the ice house, whistling off-key “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling.”
O’Neil glared at the retreating figure. “Irish bass, eh? Why, he can’t even whistle.”
“Forget it,” I urged. “Let’s figure out his system. He had a snelled hook and sinker.”
“He would. Probably to give us a bum steer.”
“But he wasn’t wet from reel spray. That’d rule out casting.”
O’Neil began to show interest. “I noticed a couple of those fish had no hook marks. I’ll bet they’d wolfed a natural bait.”
“There’s only one bait that’s plentiful around here right now,” I pointed out.
“Sure, that’s it!” he exclaimed, “Frogs! And brother, for fish like those I’ll dunk frogs anytime.”
Next morning found us at the locally famous “Depot,” a fishing spot formed by the Madawaska tapping Lake Kaminiskeg. The lake outlet itself is almost choked by shoals and sand bars; but as the escaping water swirls down into the narrow river channel it has gouged out a series of deep holes. On each side these are flanked by weed beds. Still further downstream the channel broadens out, and the slackening current has deposited débris and deadheads galore. Truly it is ideal smallmouth water.
We anchored upstream, using the current to carry our frogs into the deeper holes below. My frog had hardly sunk out of sight before I had a solid whack. Without thinking, I instinctively struck, and jerked the bait out of his mouth. O’Neil did better. He let his fish take a sizable run, then stop. As the second run began, he snubbed him sharply. With a surging run the bass dived for the deepest water, bulldogging it as he went.
Finding that unavailing, he charged for the nearest deadhead, and boiled to the top when turned just short of his sanctuary. His top-water demonstration was masterful. He thrashed, pinwheeled, plunged, and reared like a wild bronco trying to throw his rider. Game to the core, his stamina was amazing; but in the end the rod’s relentless pressure whipped that streamline, tiger-striped 3½-pounder.
“WONDER why he called them Irish bass?” I mused. “Pass the frogs. I’ll fish while you figure it out.”
I handed him the box of half-frozen hoppers. They were a motley assortment, all sizes and colors—spotted ones, browns, bright greens, even dark-gray specimens. “Big bait, big fish,” O’Neil said, choosing a large, mud-colored one.
But his bullfrog was nonproductive, while the same battered green midget on which I’d lost my first strike caught a pair of two-pounders. Their fights were shorter but no less spectacular than the one O’Neil’s fish had put up.
Again I selected another pea-green frog and sent him down into the dark, swirling water. He met with instant approval. After a long run, nearly to the snags, I set the hook. The response was a furious sprint to the deepest hole, where he punished the rod with his bulldog jolts and slashes. Forsaking these tactics, my bass darted upstream with such speed that had not the shallow water intervened, he’d have fouled the line on our anchor rope. Now he flashed to the surface and headed downstream toward the snags, alternately leaping, diving, and then reappearing like a berserk porpoise. Aided by the current, he nearly made his goal, but his gallant fight had drained his strength. He made a final feeble leap, then turned belly up, a completely beaten fish. He was almost a twin to the first fish, and O’Neil snapped my picture as I held him up.
I hooked on another green frog, while my partner, finding his bullfrog still lively, gave him another try. Again I had a strike in short order; but this time the fish headed straight for a deadhead without wasting his strength in preliminary skirmishing and I couldn’t turn him. Trying a new rig, I used one of the spotted frogs. For the next half hour neither of us had a strike.
“Guess they’ve stopped feeding,” O’Neil said finally. “Let’s move.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Every time I used a green frog I got a hit. Let’s see if that makes a difference.”
Only four green frogs were left. We promptly used two. Almost as promptly, we each had a strike.
“How do you like my system?”
“It’s O.K. Those Saint Paddy frogs sure do the trick.”
“Say, I’ll bet that’s the answer! An Irish bass naturally would be crazy about green frogs.”
“‘Course,” said O’Neil, easily. “I knew that all along.”
“Yeh, so you spend the morning teaching that brown bullfrog to swim!”
His answer, a mighty eloquent one, was to land his fish while I lost mine.
Hastily we hooked on our last two green frogs. Again the bass received them eagerly. This time the fish crossed our lines and in the tangle I lost mine; but although O’Neil had to hand-line his bass, he finally landed it.
Our hands were too numb to untangle the snarled lines, so we rowed ashore, built a roaring fire and had lunch, the main course of which was innumerable cups of pleasantly scalding tea. Finally our warmed fingers solved the line tangle, but a new supply of green frogs was our real problem. A near-by stretch of marsh was scantily populated with frogs and mighty few were the desired emerald hue. In two hours of cold, sloppy going, we finally collected seven, but they paid dividends in the form of four bass—two better than four pounds.
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So, with the short October afternoon drawing to a close, we headed toward camp, stopping en route to cast the bay that had supplied the largemouth bass the previous day. O’Neil missed two hits on his wobbler before he landed a little largemouth, not more than a pound and a half. Usually such fish were released promptly but he kept this one. Then, starting the outboard, he sent us racing for camp.
“How’d you make out today?” asked Williams out of the darkness, as we beached our boat.
“O.K., except for one lousy Welsh bass.”
Off guard, Williams flashed his light. “Where is he?”
O’Neil pointed.
“Why,” Williams protested, “he’s nothing but a little bigmouth.”
“Correct, brother. And that makes him a typical Welsh bass!”
Me, I grabbed the fish and staggered off to the ice house before they started throwing things.
This story was originally published in the September 1941 issue of Outdoor Life.
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