I got out on the water this past Sunday morning and actually brought my girlfriend along with me. This was definitely the highlight of my weekend, followed closely by my graduation from Michigan State University! We ran back to a shallow cove that I had encountered bass in about a week earlier. Last week they had been real active and I assumed they were edging onto the flats getting ready to spawn. Well this weekend they began doing just that. As I scoured the shallows I began noticing a number of bass hovering over beds, although the majority seemed to be small males. I tried locating some active bass with a fast retrieve of a crank bait, which resulted in a few smaller fish. But we found some real success once I decided to slow down and hit the beds. I started pitching a watermelon and purple fleck tube at bedded bass that I could see. This resulted in a couple nice hook ups and it got my girlfriend her first bass! Although I hooked it, she very bravely reeled it in haha. 

Kylie's first bass

This trip out really emphasized to me once again the importance of having high quality polarized sun glasses. It really makes a huge difference when trying to see fish, cover and structure beneath the surface of the water. Right now I use a pair of glasses with grey lenses, but I am considering grabbing another pair that is a little higher quality with a copper or brown lense. According to a recent article I read in Outdoor life, it seems that a copper/brown lense can be your best all around choice. For more info on picking out the right polarized sun glasses check out this nice summary by Dicks Sporting Goods. I hope to get back out on the water tomorow with some more time and really hit the beds hard. So we’ll see. Anyone else seeing the bass move up on their beds?

For more info on sight fishing for bass on their beds check out this free BASS insider video as Byron Velvik goes after spawning bass on Lake Amistad.

For the fourth year in a row I’ve been fortunate enough to bag work and spend the day on the water chasing redfish with friends.  This years exploits were even better than anticipated. 

My journey to Oak cHill this year was airborne.  I left Orlando Executive around 4:30 in the afternoon planning to meet my great friend, Charlie at a small airport a few miles north of The cHill.  I was wheels down at the appointed time and as I taxied up to the ramp, I could see Chaz waiting there with his yellow lab, Sally. 

Later in the evening at Charlie’s we feasted on a homemade gumbo and washed it down with cold beer from the Evil Keg-o-rator.  While eating we made final plans for the next day’s activities.  A Christmas Eve tradition requires planning you know…

As the sun reached over the horizon and basked the shorelines in it’s orange glow, a small group of friends again converged on Charlie’s house.  Charlie’s place is almost always the hub of all social activities in Oak cHill.   A day of angling adventure requires fuel, biscuits and gravy filled that billet.

With full bellies, everyone set off to find redfish that were eager to consume their offerings.  After running a short distance, I found myself poling quietly across a deserted bay looking for signs of life.  The surface of the water was smooth as the air hung heavy without a breath of wind.  I spotted the first tail reaching above the surface from several hundred yards away.  I increased my speed to intersect the happy fish sooner.

A group of three redfish had their noses buried in the muddy bottom rooting about for something to eat. I put the fly into the air and after a false cast or two sent it downrange.  The fly landed softly in their midst without causing any of them to sound an alarm and flee.  A couple of bumps was all it took to have the fly noticed.  One of the fish zeroed in on the combination of yarn and bucktail and gave chase.  With a flare of the gills and an abrupt turn about, the redfish secured itself to the end of my line.  Christmas never felt so good.

As the morning wore on, the winds that were wrapping around a high pressure system to the east began to increase their speed.  I decided it was time to move on.

I eased the skiff along the oyster lined shores of spot number two as the wind pushed me along.  Visibility was not the best with wind riffles obscuring the view.  Almost as quickly as I saw the first redfish, I saw number 2,3,4,5, and so on.  As the school of coppery toned fish parted to flee my presence I slipped an anchor over the side and nestled up tight to an exposed oyster bar.  Within minutes I could again see the shadows and flashes of redfish eating on the backside of the next bar.  For the next half hour I cast to the bar finding four more fish willing to eat my offering.

With five redfish under my belt for the day I pulled anchor and made a short run to the local waterside joint for lunch with the fellas.

I landed at Executive Airport by mid afternoon, completely satisfied with my 2008 installment of the Christmas Eve tradition…

My nextel chirped as I was crossing the St. John’s river headed eastbound for the coast.

“You on the water?”

I squeezed the button and lamented, “Notchet, I’m bout a half hour from the cHill.”

“Alright, I’m launching now, I’ll see you out there…”

I put the spurs to my old nag and stepped it up to around seventy five in hopes of shaving a little bit of time off the commute.  It wasn’t long before I was easing back towards the skiff, careful to leave enough room for the cart on roids to escape. 

Time was of the essence, I elected to change shoes only and quickly headed out the door; fly rods, pushpole, and fly box in tow.  I longed for a dose of salt greatly.

Despite reports earlier of near calm conditions, the mid day sun had stirred the wind to life and there was a steady blow from the northeast.  Not being my favorite wind to contend with I made a decision and twisted the throttle, eager to get skinny.  The water level was much lower than recent weeks.  I had to really work at it to make it across a skinny section to enter the creek I was hoping held fish.  By the time I made it to the far end of the creek where it branched off to the east and west, I was beginning to realize the error of my ways.  It was getting harder to slide the hull across the muck, water was getting sparse.  In the back of my mind I kept reassuring myself I was entering on an incoming tide.

After fighting my way across areas that would barely cover a heron’s toes, I finally found the skiff enough water to truly float.  I stood there catching my breath surveying the flat that surrounded me.  it wasn’t long before I spotted a small fin tipping above the monochromatic surface.  I eased along setting up my shot, taking the ever present wind into account.  I dispatched my fly, watching gleefully as the line unfurled, rolling out perfectly, landing as I had envisioned it in my mind’s eye.  It was only then when I realized the perfect cast had targeted a catfish. 

Disgusted, I spun the skiff back to the right and again began my stalk, looking for signs of fish to approach.  My hopes were again buoyed as I saw a redfish snaking along, it’s dorsal and tail fins parting the water slightly in a riffled patch of water.  I carefully maneuvered my mount in an effort to intercept the wayward fish, hoping all the while he maintained his line.

My first cast was off the mark.  I stripped in line with reckless abandon in order to pick up again and let it fly.  The second time the fly landed slightly ahead and beyond the fish, a perfect angle to present my wobbling bobbing imitation of a fleeing prey item.

With two quick strips the lumbering beast cycled from lallygagging to apex predator as it surged through the shallow water throwing a heady wake.  I felt the thump and watched as the redfish turned abruptly setting the hook solidly in it’s jaw.

After a spirited fight that reminded me of an ocean side bonefish, I finally had him at hand.  After releasing him for another day, I sat quietly on the deck and  watched the sun fade below the horizon, hopeful the evening was an indicator of what was to come in the following days.

I sheathed my rod under the gunnel and turned on course toward home.  I had a few things left to do before others would be joining me for an evening of lies and fly tying. 

Folks began arriving shortly after dark, tying materials and beer in hand.  We sat around the table for the better part of three or four hours lying, laughing, drinking, and fumbling with fur, feathers, and thread.

cHill’n is good.