Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Basin
I finished in 50th place, just inside the money cut at the last central BASS open at the Atchafalaya Basin. This is my best finish ever at this level. People tell me I should be happy, proud etc etc but in reality I am still very disappointed in my overall performance in this derby. I found an area in the spillway which had virtually no pressure which was very unique and way way different than the popular areas which were being fished such as lake Verrett and other cypress or grass lakes. The spillway was flooded approx 3-4 ft allowing the fish to get over the bank and spread out in the trees making them impossible to get at. I searched and searched the north spillway to find an area which had cleaner water and banks which would not allow the fish to get out. Well I found it, little pigeon bayou. The fish were there and they ate every day I just did not figure the subtle pattern out day to day to get a limit each day. There was a suspended crank bait pattern working day one and it shut down on day two but a very shallow flipping bite turned on day two which I did not recognize til maybe 11am and it was a 45 min run to the area leaving me only a couple of hours to get a limit which I only filled two of the five slots. What I am disappointed in is my failure to execute once I found an area holding fish. I do like my performance in practice as far as putting the time in finding fish which were not pressured and all but I hate the fact that I still could not keep up with the daily pattern thing to go ahead and fill my limit out. A limit a day would have let me do much much better in the standings, a simple limit. It did not happen. So, there is still lots and lots of work to be done and it all starts in early January with my season opener at Falcon, if I get in. I know it kinda sounds sick but I cannot wait.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Santee on to the Basin
I went to Santee Cooper with very little practice time available but also with some previous experience on the reservoir, albeit not in the fall. I kinda relied on my strategy of picking apart an area somewhat close to the ramp, so I could spend the maximum amount of time with a hook in the water. Reports on Taw Caw, Wyboo and Potato creeks were promising prior to my arrival and I made the decision to spend most of my practice period in those creeks fishing boathouses with deeper water out in front of them. I did practice up in the stump hole swamp area for two half days knowing that the resident fish population is pretty stable but I had mixed results and stayed with the boat dock pattern on day one. I had a half dozen bites day one and luckily one was close to 4 pounds with another bump fish that is all I put in the jug on day one. Day two rolled around and I decided to take a chance and run to the swamp knowing the pressure on the docks would have to increase as weights were way down after day one. Pitching nail weighted senkos to cypress knees boated lots of bump fish but never a kicker so I put 5 swimmers in the jug for just around 6 lbs. As it turns out the winner of the event was fishing the swamp the entire time just doing something different than I was. Pitching blades and square bills in between select cypress was his pattern fishing for 5 key bites a day and it worked out for him to the tune of 17lbs on day 3. I learned to broaden my bait selection per area after learning the winning pattern and technique. Kinda makes me a little sick knowing I was practicing in the right area and also that 8lbs a day would have put me on the bubble come cut day but I could not get that done. I also learned a great deal regarding fishing cypress and I hope to utilize that in the upcoming event at the Basin.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Toledo Bend wrap up and Santee upcoming
OK, so yesterday we what I consider to be ideal conditions for active bass on a big bass lake. Big time pre-frontal conditions, overcast skies, brisk S-SW wind, and clean water around hydrilla you dream about, green crisp and crunchy. I had a limit spot and went to it first thing, maybe an hour, hour and a half, caught 8-10 sub keeper fish and left it. The rest of the day I sat on my original group of fish, clean deep grass lines in 14-20 ft, lots of wood and one other boat in there. Ideal, I was psyched up. My non boater and me both hooked one keeper apiece.....zzzzzz.....
Weights that day were way under expectations. Approx 8lbs was in like 30th place..
Today, the front had passed, a stiff north wind was howling, 2-3 footers, high blue and 20 degrees cooler. In my mind, a drop shot would never leave my hand and I would sit on my deeper school fish associating to the bait mainly and loosely to break lines near ridges and underwater points. I netted no keepers in a half days effort and only 3 fish over all running 4 separate spots 3 times over. I went to the back of Palo Gaucho and started junking my butt off trying to save some face but to no avail, no keepers were found. Over all today I had 6 bites, terrible.
I really felt lost out there today. I really need to get keen to fish in transition and in a hurry. These last two derbys I have been burned by moving fish, or at least I believe that is the issue. Next comes Santee, and only minimal practice time, to me this whole event will be in practice/search mode.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Final Stren of the year
So tomorrow I get to take on the fish on this big momma.Reports prior to me arriving at the border were good, fish holding to deep grass lines and 16-18 lbs was not a huge effort. Through the week though, the weather conditions have been all over the map and recently stabilized into just a lot of rain, and I do mean a lot, lake rose a reported 12-14 inches over night. So fishing has been rather tough. Just trying to find a group of fish to present to has been really difficult. Yesterday and today I have managed to locate a couple of 'loose' groupings which I plan to go to. Thankfully they are spots I can hit no matter the wind direction but there is a catch, they are 15 miles apart easy. I do need some breeze but not while I am driving the boat lanes.
One group of fish are relating to a grass flat along a deeply wooded bank, kinda spread through out. Depending on the daily kinda pattern going on all I know is there are fish there, around at least. Most in the 3-4 lb class and I hope to get into a mess of those time and weather permitting.
The other group of fish are just south of the Pendelton bridge and they are roamers relating again loosely to a point coming up to 12 foot of water right in the middle of a boat lane. Wave as you go by... Schooling action is there and you can sight fish some targets with your graph on a shot as well. Fish in the 1.5 to 3 lb class are abundant and I hope to score 5 of those first thing and then head south in search of a kicker or 3.
Every rod is gonna be on the deck and it is trash fishing mania, but I really do have confidence if I can get to my fish and actually work em regardless of the weather going on around me.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Hunger of a Rookie
Mike Pharr: Here is a little article written about me last year. Hope you guys like it.
He can't tell you what it's like to be in 19th place in some Tour De France, catchin' wind off Lance Armstrong, wishing he'd have thought about this whole bicycle nonsense. He don't know what it's like to be sitting pretty, bossing a caddy somewhere, and gaining on Tiger Woods on some landscaped field with little holes and flags in awkward, plaid pansy pants, sneaking sips of Jack and Coke. He hasn't dipped his head to accept a bronze medal after spinning 'round on some hanging loops at the Olympics. That would just be silly, and quite frankly, uncharacteristic, especially for some worn out fireman with a broke down trolling motor and more fishing rods then sense.
He can tell you however, what it feels like to show up just before dawn, staring off into Lake Texoma, noticing how it is just stirred up enough to look like blown glass speckled by sterling silver mini docking lights and how the low hum and gurgle of motors dancing just below the surface will set his belly on fire. He can tell you how the co-anglers dot the docks, leaned up against some tie-off pole, staring through the crowds for the guy who'd become a part of their moments of anxiety and adrenaline for the next 8 to 10 hours. How the wind whips the edges of brightly advertised tents, how a distant camera flash bounces off the water's edge and seems to disperse into nervous laughter and far off conversations. He can tell you what it feels like to look across inlets and peninsulas, second guess the instinct, pretending that practice might give him some sort of direction. How the plop of an Omega jig sounds at just the moment it hits the surface and that zeer-zeer-zeeeerrrrr sound signaling the fight from a large mouth bass sends chills down his spine. He was fishing "Pro" at Lake Texoma this year in the Central Open, which in essence, is like saying because he can go break neck speed down West 70th in Shreveport in a 20-ton fire engine dodging Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles, that he ought to be sitting Pole at Talladega, winking at Tony Stewart and cursing his pit crew for not getting his front end quite right. That's exactly what he was doing… minus the fireproof suit and a hot, model wife.
The surreal aura of that first morning, that morning he agreed in his mind that if he didn't make the top 30, he'd be alright, was slightly overwhelming. It was his third tournament fishing Pro. He'd accept defeat gladly, just to touch those moments of expectation, to sit idle in a no-wake zone and stare at the Terry Butchers and Rick Clunns watching and being a part of a dream that passes by like Engine 15 en route to a 3 alarm fire…right through a red light and into a neighborhood that really doesn't care about the flames pulling oxygen from the night sky. The anticipation seemed like blackened smoke sending embers dancing upward, singeing treetops and barreling its way through someone's lost memories, where "Abu Garcia" is simply the name of the guy standing on the corner watching the house burn down and "Omega Tackle" is what the police do at a college fraternity party gone wrong.
It was him…in an element that he almost pined to be a part of, dressed like he belonged, armed with skinny, spindled "weapons of Bass destruction," little Omega-Mega jigs tinkling magic at the end of a 20 pound line.
If he had to tell you what he did, outside of my description, he had only two days of practice. That's die hard run time. Fishermen need more time then that before a tournament. There are low spots, high spots, outside spots, humps, ridges, creeks…... He crank baited in practice, shallow runnin' to be exact along with spinner baits, tube baits, "the whole kitchen sink."
"Reality is……" he grins when he talks about it, "I didn't think the jigs would work, but they did." His question was "How deep do you go?" He noticed the bait fish flickering near a peninsula where the wind current was kicking up activity. "I keyed in," he smiles, "and I noticed a sharp drop on my 'topo map,' noticing the bigger rocks in the water on my Lowrance's Depth Finder. The bigger fish might stage deeper using the shallow side of the ledge as a dinner table."
Later in the tournament, he stole fish, or it seemed, with the Zoom Blue Pearl Hologram Super Fluke, like Bonnie and Clyde at Capital One. No one ever asked "What's in your tackle box?"
He goes on. "I just drug the half ounce Praying Mantis Omega Football jig trailored with a green pumpkin Strike King Rage Crawl Chunk……the rest was 9th place." (Now, I'm completely turn on)
He laughs about the money he paid to be there. Irresponsibly, if you ask the women in his life. Well spent, if you ask the men. He gambles the moments, grieving two broken trolling motors at midnight before "cut day," and then driving 45 miles to Melissa, Texas, to a Co-angler, L.W. Buck's home to borrow another that would peddle him to 9th place overall by the time the last day was weighed out. And 9th place mine as well been the Superbowl win, 3 minutes left, Cowboys down by 6. He wonders why he's even there, remembering the two prior tournaments, feeling like a rookie fireman from Shreveport, Louisiana in downtown New York for September 11th (Oh yeah, he did that).
Even the crowd wants him to win. A little. Nobody shows up, dockside, hollering his name, holding little signs up. He weighs in alone. The excitement is spilling adrenaline into pieces of his spine he didn't know was there. He thinks about Frank Villa, another fireman, and one of his co-anglers at Lake Texoma, and he feeds off the light in his eyes. "If …." suddenly seems like a quote that no longer wiggles around on the end of a line at Caddo or Bistineau Lake, but that bubbles and flicks side to side like a big largemouth bass right there in his hand, with folks taking pictures and spelling his name right on websites that he fell asleep to once.
When he tells the story to me, he crosses his arms, like my grandfather talking about Vietnam. And if he uncrosses them, the feeling will slip away and the memory will wane off. He smiles about it all. And he sits silent. Tomorrow he will put out a fire in the Cedar Grove area of Shreveport, he will send life-saving drugs via IV and sneak someone back from an edge he need not touch. And he'll think about Lake Texoma. And he'll believe.
by Shannon Mack
He can tell you however, what it feels like to show up just before dawn, staring off into Lake Texoma, noticing how it is just stirred up enough to look like blown glass speckled by sterling silver mini docking lights and how the low hum and gurgle of motors dancing just below the surface will set his belly on fire. He can tell you how the co-anglers dot the docks, leaned up against some tie-off pole, staring through the crowds for the guy who'd become a part of their moments of anxiety and adrenaline for the next 8 to 10 hours. How the wind whips the edges of brightly advertised tents, how a distant camera flash bounces off the water's edge and seems to disperse into nervous laughter and far off conversations. He can tell you what it feels like to look across inlets and peninsulas, second guess the instinct, pretending that practice might give him some sort of direction. How the plop of an Omega jig sounds at just the moment it hits the surface and that zeer-zeer-zeeeerrrrr sound signaling the fight from a large mouth bass sends chills down his spine. He was fishing "Pro" at Lake Texoma this year in the Central Open, which in essence, is like saying because he can go break neck speed down West 70th in Shreveport in a 20-ton fire engine dodging Cadillacs and Oldsmobiles, that he ought to be sitting Pole at Talladega, winking at Tony Stewart and cursing his pit crew for not getting his front end quite right. That's exactly what he was doing… minus the fireproof suit and a hot, model wife.
The surreal aura of that first morning, that morning he agreed in his mind that if he didn't make the top 30, he'd be alright, was slightly overwhelming. It was his third tournament fishing Pro. He'd accept defeat gladly, just to touch those moments of expectation, to sit idle in a no-wake zone and stare at the Terry Butchers and Rick Clunns watching and being a part of a dream that passes by like Engine 15 en route to a 3 alarm fire…right through a red light and into a neighborhood that really doesn't care about the flames pulling oxygen from the night sky. The anticipation seemed like blackened smoke sending embers dancing upward, singeing treetops and barreling its way through someone's lost memories, where "Abu Garcia" is simply the name of the guy standing on the corner watching the house burn down and "Omega Tackle" is what the police do at a college fraternity party gone wrong.
It was him…in an element that he almost pined to be a part of, dressed like he belonged, armed with skinny, spindled "weapons of Bass destruction," little Omega-Mega jigs tinkling magic at the end of a 20 pound line.
If he had to tell you what he did, outside of my description, he had only two days of practice. That's die hard run time. Fishermen need more time then that before a tournament. There are low spots, high spots, outside spots, humps, ridges, creeks…... He crank baited in practice, shallow runnin' to be exact along with spinner baits, tube baits, "the whole kitchen sink."
"Reality is……" he grins when he talks about it, "I didn't think the jigs would work, but they did." His question was "How deep do you go?" He noticed the bait fish flickering near a peninsula where the wind current was kicking up activity. "I keyed in," he smiles, "and I noticed a sharp drop on my 'topo map,' noticing the bigger rocks in the water on my Lowrance's Depth Finder. The bigger fish might stage deeper using the shallow side of the ledge as a dinner table."
Later in the tournament, he stole fish, or it seemed, with the Zoom Blue Pearl Hologram Super Fluke, like Bonnie and Clyde at Capital One. No one ever asked "What's in your tackle box?"
He goes on. "I just drug the half ounce Praying Mantis Omega Football jig trailored with a green pumpkin Strike King Rage Crawl Chunk……the rest was 9th place." (Now, I'm completely turn on)
He laughs about the money he paid to be there. Irresponsibly, if you ask the women in his life. Well spent, if you ask the men. He gambles the moments, grieving two broken trolling motors at midnight before "cut day," and then driving 45 miles to Melissa, Texas, to a Co-angler, L.W. Buck's home to borrow another that would peddle him to 9th place overall by the time the last day was weighed out. And 9th place mine as well been the Superbowl win, 3 minutes left, Cowboys down by 6. He wonders why he's even there, remembering the two prior tournaments, feeling like a rookie fireman from Shreveport, Louisiana in downtown New York for September 11th (Oh yeah, he did that).
Even the crowd wants him to win. A little. Nobody shows up, dockside, hollering his name, holding little signs up. He weighs in alone. The excitement is spilling adrenaline into pieces of his spine he didn't know was there. He thinks about Frank Villa, another fireman, and one of his co-anglers at Lake Texoma, and he feeds off the light in his eyes. "If …." suddenly seems like a quote that no longer wiggles around on the end of a line at Caddo or Bistineau Lake, but that bubbles and flicks side to side like a big largemouth bass right there in his hand, with folks taking pictures and spelling his name right on websites that he fell asleep to once.
When he tells the story to me, he crosses his arms, like my grandfather talking about Vietnam. And if he uncrosses them, the feeling will slip away and the memory will wane off. He smiles about it all. And he sits silent. Tomorrow he will put out a fire in the Cedar Grove area of Shreveport, he will send life-saving drugs via IV and sneak someone back from an edge he need not touch. And he'll think about Lake Texoma. And he'll believe.
by Shannon Mack
Friday, October 9, 2009
What could be, what could have been, or whats yet to come?
Mike Pharr: I find myself often wondering at times where I would be if I had made the choice to chase my dreams a little bit harder when I was younger. I realize that 33 isn't ancient but it is significant in comparison to age 23 and the amount of life you can live in just 10 short years. I guess the biggest question though is, do things really happen for a reason or in more specific terms, is there a greater plan? The answer comes in pretty clear after a brief argument with my inner child even though he makes as strong of a case as Al Gore for Global Warming.
I know in my heart that there is a bigger plan and things do happen in the time they are supposed to if you let them. All my life I have wanted to force things to happen then after I jump in with both feet, I back up and realize that its not time. When is my time? Well I don't know the answer to that entirely, but I am sure it will be here when it is supposed to. In the mean time I do have a strategic plan to gradually prepare myself for that day.
I try my best to dedicate my time as equally as possible to each part of my life according to its appropriate priority. Is this as perfectly executed as it should be? Well I can say at times I feel I have it together and at others I don't, but I think I am somewhat headed in the right direction.
I know the one thing I hold dearest to me and absolutely cannot afford to make too many mistakes with is a little 15 month old blue eyed girl with the smile of an angel that can make anything better and worth waiting for without the slightest hint of regret. This is after all my entire purpose in life now and everything else has no choice but to fall where it may.
All that being said, if it in fact made any sense at all, was said to get to a point. Next year I intend to make a go at fishing Pro again. Some of you may already be aware of this and are wondering why is this such a big deal? Well its like this. I have been here before and it wasn't "my time"although I did have some success. Seeing as how my priorities have in fact changed, the season could come down to having to make a decision. Do I fish the Elites if it does turn out to be my time? I suppose the question itself should be the obvious answer but is it that simple. Although it may be premature to worry and in fact I may not be even close to qualifying when its all said and done, I have to consider all possibilities for the sake of the one who needs me more than I will ever need a career as an angler. After all what good would a successful career as a professional angler be if I wasn't equally as successful as a parent or in fact even more successful.
I am sure it will all come together as it should in the timely manner that it should. I know that if you want something bad enough it can be accomplished with the right amount of patience. In the mean time I am extremely thankful for my many blessings as I realize that some aren't afforded the same opportunities as I have been in my life. I encourage all of you to do the same and to always try to be patient. Let things fall in the order they are supposed to and don't become completely discouraged when things come together in a way other than you feel they should at the time. There is a plan so "feel the flow, do the bull dance"!
Break a line,
Pharr
I know in my heart that there is a bigger plan and things do happen in the time they are supposed to if you let them. All my life I have wanted to force things to happen then after I jump in with both feet, I back up and realize that its not time. When is my time? Well I don't know the answer to that entirely, but I am sure it will be here when it is supposed to. In the mean time I do have a strategic plan to gradually prepare myself for that day.
I try my best to dedicate my time as equally as possible to each part of my life according to its appropriate priority. Is this as perfectly executed as it should be? Well I can say at times I feel I have it together and at others I don't, but I think I am somewhat headed in the right direction.
I know the one thing I hold dearest to me and absolutely cannot afford to make too many mistakes with is a little 15 month old blue eyed girl with the smile of an angel that can make anything better and worth waiting for without the slightest hint of regret. This is after all my entire purpose in life now and everything else has no choice but to fall where it may.
All that being said, if it in fact made any sense at all, was said to get to a point. Next year I intend to make a go at fishing Pro again. Some of you may already be aware of this and are wondering why is this such a big deal? Well its like this. I have been here before and it wasn't "my time"although I did have some success. Seeing as how my priorities have in fact changed, the season could come down to having to make a decision. Do I fish the Elites if it does turn out to be my time? I suppose the question itself should be the obvious answer but is it that simple. Although it may be premature to worry and in fact I may not be even close to qualifying when its all said and done, I have to consider all possibilities for the sake of the one who needs me more than I will ever need a career as an angler. After all what good would a successful career as a professional angler be if I wasn't equally as successful as a parent or in fact even more successful.
I am sure it will all come together as it should in the timely manner that it should. I know that if you want something bad enough it can be accomplished with the right amount of patience. In the mean time I am extremely thankful for my many blessings as I realize that some aren't afforded the same opportunities as I have been in my life. I encourage all of you to do the same and to always try to be patient. Let things fall in the order they are supposed to and don't become completely discouraged when things come together in a way other than you feel they should at the time. There is a plan so "feel the flow, do the bull dance"!
Break a line,
Pharr
Thursday, October 8, 2009
The Mighty Muddy Red River
Mike Pharr: I have been out on the ole Red River the last few days and wow at the mud and floaters. It was only 3 weeks ago that the water was low and almost clear. Fishing is real tricky right now. Almost as tricky as trying to read current to know if your about to blast through a lower unit hungry wing dam. Its when the water is high that you learn that finding a needle in a haystack can be mere child's play in comparison to locating fish. However when you do find the "needle" it can be absolutely amazing. I can tell you this. If the river will atleast remain stable for next weekends BASSMASTER Weekend series the weights may be impressive. I wish all of you participating luck and be safe.
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