Woman Midwest-style

Bass are definitely a blast to catch and as beautiful as the artwork portrays.   It brought back this vivid memory of the froggy lure. Summer Bass     I didn't have a boat but usually didn't need one.  Fishing northern Missouri farm ponds, whenever and wherever my buddies and I fished usually produced some fine Largemouth.  I was in 'dog-heaven' fishing anytime, anywhere.      It was a very sultry, hot day in August 1996 that I decided to go fish a pond down the highway.  Only around the curve from my house a ways.  Once inside the gate off the gravel road, if it hadn't rained, my truck could easily maneuver down the slope, over the berm and be out of site from the road. Total privacy.  No trash left behind, no kids running around, no disturbance.  It was actually too damn hot of a day for most sane folks to stand on a bank sweltering in 100 degree sun.  But I was headstrong and tough, sought some adventure, tired of the indoors A/C.    

In Missouri, by mid-March Crappie are biting, then by April, I’ll toss out a line for bass. I would bass fish all year if the weather’d let me, if I could tolerate ice fishing. In spring, starting with worm, then minnows, graduating to plastic lures to tempt the elusive hawg out of the depths. Bass are wary and comfy in its deep hidey hole. In springtime, by the time the crappie slow down their spawn, they’ll move into deeper water, thus more of a challenge to catch, and then it’s the bass’s turn. Spawning bass very aggressively defend their breeding territory, but not so much biting on a tempting lure... Typical bass in spawn mode don’t even pick up the most enticing lure. If I do snag a mamma bass full of eggs, she gets promptly let go and the next cast is away from her nest. Sort of the unwritten rule of fishing, words of my beloved Grandma Shore that I abide by… After they spawn they’re ravenous and I’ve had such fun and luck to catch all sizes. Only onc

Considering that humans can also be on the menu of the largest of predators, I had what I'd say was my worst scary moment while deer hunting twelve years ago.        Remnants of light snow clung to the grass on the southern slope of the open field, the icy patches barely clung to the brown grass... frozen white spots in an abstract painting mottled brown and white with the frigid, sunny morning. Stiff weeds softly crunched underfoot as I still-­hunted. My slightest step could rouse a deer.  Ed had gone into the woods on the north plateau of the timbered ridge, his 'climber' on his back and 30.06 in hand. I envied him having that strength, but my restless legs have been cursed with a childlike tendency, cramping up so I can’t sit still for very long. Easier to head back to the vehicle seeking warmth than to struggle down with a tree stand.  Bundled for cold, I was very content to stalk with the attentiveness of native ancestors.