A death in the family had taken me back 30 years. Close friends of my parents had earned “aunt and uncle” status long ago without need of relation. My dear aunt had passed, and it was imperative I be there for my mom. These were good people, I mean the best; my aunt being the type of person you aspire to be when you know you could do better. A real saint, never anything bad to say, always smiling even through the terrible illness that ended it.
My “uncle” was, and continues to be, legendary. Easily one of the funniest human beings I’ve ever known, the guy doesn’t mince words or put up with any BS, always facing life straight on, often with a glass of bourbon and a one-liner that puts you on the floor.
An inspiration at not taking yourself too seriously, he was also the first true bass fisherman I’d ever met. First with pistol grips and poly flake, mounted fish and shiny trophies.
Long ago, about the time I was born, the couple had moved with friends to a new lakeside community in the middle of nowhere in northeast Ohio. Rural doesn’t describe this place at the time. There were cows, cornfields and the lake; a reservoir, actually, created, for the purpose of development which the area would later see.
A sidebar to the building of the place was the creation of a phenomenal bass fishery. I mean, this place was loaded, and it didn’t take my uncle long to earn the status of the area’s top angler.
From what I can tell, this was my initiation period. I think we’ve all had it; those of us consumed with fishing the way most people will never understand. Bass fishing seems to exemplify the process. Maybe it’s something in the discovery or the limitless angling possibilities, but I routinely hear stories that fit alongside mine, about the obsession and the photographic-like memory for certain trips or fish or even individual lures.
So, at about 13 years old I find myself in a bass boat running 60 mph down a lake, fixated on the matching rod and reel combos strapped to the front deck. My God, they were Speedspools. Each with a different lure pinned to the cover plate. Fliptail worms, even a lizard, and Rebel Wee-R cranks and, of course, a Rapala floater.
And I’m not even sure how much of this is factually true. As if I may have created some of the details the way you do as a kid with dreams and fantasy and visions of the things that adults seem to disregard. But I swear to God that I can see the light reflecting through that transparent blue worm like I’m looking at it now.
And I remember, 30-plus years later, how we cruised in on a bluffy blank, and the muddy water and the trolling motor going in; I think the old Evinrude model with the funny bent shaft. My uncle is up there on the front, in a seat, not a butt seat but a captain’s chair, and there’s a plastic cup holder mounted to the pedestal pole with a bottle of Fish Formula in one side and a beer in the other. With a chomped down cigar in the corner of his mouth, he rigs that worm, the blue one, and casts it out and, as it sinks, I see his line jump. He freespools for a few more seconds and sets the hook harder than anyone I’d ever seen and up comes this awesome bass. I have no idea how big it was but that doesn’t matter.
Fast-forward a handful of years and I’m the one blazing down the lake in a bass boat like I’d just done the weekend before. It’s the first glass model Bass Tracker with a 60-horse and the fishing is still phenomenal, maybe even better, and my skill set has opened up new possibilities. Traveling far to the upper end of the impoundment put me in shallow water where power-fishing ruled. To this day I remember the first time I tried a Lunker Lure up there, and the day I learned to speed-reel a DB3. I’m talking old-school, here. Quantum 1310 MGs spooled with 17-pound Stren.
And on any given day, it was the best jig lake in the world. There was the evolution to plastic but, for a bunch of years, it was the 7/16 Stanley with a No. 11. Brown, brown and orange, black and brown. Leave it dangling when not in use.
I’d learn every inch of that lake. Like my uncle, I had the spots numbered and cataloged. Head up to No. 7 to fish the rocky point before hitting No. 2, then idle up under the bridge to The River. Oh Lord, The River. No one fished up there but me because it was rumored to be private property, and there was, in fact, an old no trespassing sign nailed to a stump, but I figured what the heck, and there was a huge beaver lodge and logs to flip like on TV. It was worth the chance at jail time.
It’s been decades since I’d been back. We’re all gathered at the clubhouse, overlooking the lake and my dear aunt is gone, and the conversation turns to fishing with a few old-timers. My uncle’s biggest bass still hang on the wall, looking decades old like they are. He hasn’t fished in years. I mention how instrumental he was in my career, but I really mean in my life and my dreams, and the choices I’ve made that impacted everything.
I look across the water at the old spot where the culvert comes under the road and I remember how that’s really an island, with the water running all the way around and how, when the wind blew, water rushed through the pipe and the bass loaded up on either side.
Everything looked different but exactly the same. Big houses and boat docks everywhere but the water was identical. There’s something in the way water looks. I swear I could take a bucket of it from my five favorite childhood fishing spots and ID them 40 years later.
I’m standing there looking out across the water and remembering how I cast a jig up under a bush on that exact bank, yet I can’t remember 90 percent of things that happened between then and now. How many times I’ve wondered why that is. I mean, I can see that riprap from a lifetime ago, and understand the way that exact tree has roots sticking down in the water, but I can’t remember four important things from college.
And I look at my uncle doing his best to entertain well-wishers and he’s so much older but, for a minute, I still see him on the front deck of that Venture bass boat. I know that it all seems so trivial to him, maybe to everybody. But not to me.
What I wouldn’t give to fish that bank one more time. Someone’s back yard, really, that meant so much to me. I doubt it will ever happen. Maybe I could get back somehow.
I’d love to take my uncle. But once old guys quit fishing, it’s over.
I hope I never do.
What would I dream of.
(Joe Balog is the often-outspoken owner of Millennium Promotions, Inc., an agency operating in the fishing and hunting industries. A former Bassmaster Open and EverStart Championship winner, he's best known for his big-water innovations and hardcore fishing style. He's a popular seminar speaker, product designer and author, and is considered one of the most influential smallmouth fishermen of modern times.)
