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It's April 17th. I'd proceeded this spring
on the assumption that panfish are more
active (and thus more willing to grab my fly
offerings) in very shallow water during late
afternoon. My reasoning being that by late
afternoon the shallows have been sun-warmed
a few degrees more, and during the early
spring warmer water equals more active fish.
But two days ago, at dusk yet, I'd pulled big
bluegills and crappie one after another out
of water I thought too deep and getting too
cold to encourage aggressive feeding.
Realizing humbly that I have much to learn
about what fish prefer in the way of springtime
water, I decided to conduct a little experiment
that would let them further my education.
The subject of inquiry being: Do panfish in
mid-April northeast Kansas bite during early
morning hours when lake shallows are typically
at each day's coldest?
Luckily for me, I normally rise for work at
4:45 AM. Well…okay, so I lay there 15 minutes
hitting the snooze button again and again while
contemplating shooting a bullet into the alarm
clock. I really don't get up until 5:00 AM
(plus or minus ten minutes, depending). So I
decided to approach this fishing experiment
the same way I approach a normal workday: drag
myself out of bed and show up, do what I can
then go home.
At 6:30 AM - same time I report to work - I
arrived at the lake instead. In the pre-dawn
light I faintly made out a number of environmental
differences. Rather than parking beside a
300-foot tall, 2 block-long Federal Building
where I spend each workday morning with some
4,000 other federal workers, today I'd parked
beside a 200-acre lake and not another soul
was in sight. No boats, no people, no other
parked cars, no security guards, just me and
the critters. Fish were swirling on the lake
surface, making me feel a combination of anxiety
and embarrassment, like when I show up for work
late?
All things considered, it still felt better
arriving at the lake compared to arriving at
work. I lifted my canoe off the rack, stashed
my modest assortment of paddling gear and fly
tackle into it and shoved off. Someone needed
to get out there right away and try to catch a
fish before they started feeling neglected.
Here was my big chance to be "pro-active,"
like the seven whip-cracking management types
in my office are forever preaching.
This morning I was again carrying two fly rods
in my canoe, like Rick Zieger up in Iowa does
almost every trip. I would start out throwing
Rick's hand-tied minnows (described in my last
article, both of which had miraculously survived
30 minutes of blind casting into submerged brush
just 36 hours earlier). My backup rod carried
a tandem nymph rig - two #14 Pheasant Tails
spaced a foot apart.
My strategy this morning would be to reverse
the way I'd fished this lake two days ago.
The crappies had already established that
they enjoy grabbing Rick's minnows in low-light
conditions at dusk. Would they chase these
same flies in pre-dawn low light? You'd
think so; I mean, the same amount of light
would be entering the water only from a
different direction and time of day, and
the light would be getting gradually brighter
instead of gradually dimmer. But you never
know for sure until you ask.
The crappies quickly told me that yes, they
love Rick's minnow flies in dim early morning
northeast Kansas mid-April light. This finding
came as a relief, as it doubled the amount of
time I have the option of using flies of that
type.
As usual I'd begun fishing close to shore,
gradually working my way into deeper water.
The whole time, of course, that crappie
hotspot I'd found two days earlier was
sitting farther out whispering my name. I
wanted so bad to learn whether those slabs
were still hanging out there during this
pre-dawn period. But before I could fish
myself even halfway to the hotspot another
boat appeared, coming around the point up
ahead. Three fishermen troll-motoring a
bass boat were coming into the same cove
I was in.
There's a drop-off where this cove joins
the lake's main body. The drop-off is
where most incoming powerboat fishermen
turn around and head back to deeper water
after a few minutes flailing the transition
zone with artificial lures. But these guys
were proceeding across the zone, entering
the shallows where I was operating. Their
course was taking them arrow-straight toward
my crappie hotspot, which I interpreted as
evidence they were crappie fishermen
knowledgeable about this lake.
My canoe, although slower, was closer to
the hotspot. For an instant I had an urge
to paddle quickly to it and establish position
ahead of them. Then I realized that doing
something so overt could tip them off to how
valuable I consider the spot, if they themselves
weren't already aware. So I lowered my anchors
and began fan-casting aimlessly into an open
water area that lacked any fish holding cover.
I resolved to sit there waving my rod like a
clueless neophyte in hopes this incoming trio
would dismiss...
...but the powerboat was steaming along, moving
steadily in that tunnel-vision fashion so many
bass fishermen favor - relentlessly trolling,
cast-cast-casting, never pausing to thoroughly
probe any one spot. Yes, and now I could see
that they were throwing large spinners and
spinnerbaits. These guys were after bass,
bless their hearts.
A few moments later they cruised right past
my hotspot with no outward indication they
appreciated its worth, and then they came
past me. We visited a bit, them joking how
they'd caught just one dinky bass all morning.
Friendly guys. They asked if I'd done any
good. I reported catching a few bluegills
(which I had) and told them the bluegill
action was slow (which it was). I didn't
dare utter the word "crappie" out loud, much
less mention that five 1-pounders had assumed
the prone position inside my ice chest, and
a dozen others had got loose before I could
boat them, and fellas, that spot you just
zipped past back there might be knee-deep
with big crappie. It was clear these guys
were here for bass; why waste their valuable
time with boring talk of slab crappies?
The Three Bassketeers trolled farther up into
the shallows then curled around and hummed past
me on their return to deep water. Halfway out,
one of the guys fooled a nice largemouth that
looked to go two pounds. It was great seeing
these fellas having fun, especially when the
bass in question seized their attention at the
same time a slab crappie seized one of Rick's
minnows and I had a fight of my own to deal
with. The bass boys were so absorbed they
didn't notice the struggles (or identify the
species) of my fish. Whew! That was close!
Twenty minutes later the boat was gone, out
of sight back around the point. I promptly
relocated into my hotspot and resumed fishing
with serious intent. Nobody else was around
still, and here it was getting along toward
8:00 AM. Well, who am I to complain if most
folks elect to sleep in on a pretty Sunday
morning like this?
About the only drawback to using minnow fly
tandems is the problems you can have casting
them. The flies are fairly big, and though
lightweight each is considerably heavier than
smaller flies such as the nymphs I use. For
me, the result is that during false casting
my timing breaks down. Once put into that
back and forth motion, the two heavier flies
cause a sharp double tug at the end of each
false cast. If nothing else, those tugs are
very distracting.
But things got worse. My trailing fly kept
wrapping its tippet around the marabou minnow
in such a way that the hogtied marabou fly got
pulled through the water sideways with its hook
held in a weird position? I finally clipped
off the whole shooting match, boxed both flies
and switched to my backup nymph rod.
Retiring Rick's minnows for the morning was
not due to any fault of theirs; they were
catching fish just fine. No, there was more
to it than that: with the morning light shining
into the water I began seeing just how much
submerged brush was REALLY down there below,
and the sight of it spooked me. I hate losing
gear, and putting those minnows at risk suddenly
felt unwarranted. Besides, I'd now confirmed
that crappies will grab the minnows during first
light. What I needed to do now was complete the
experiment by throwing nymphs for a while to see
whether they attract crappie hits during later
early morning hours. (Again, the reverse of how
I'd fished the lake two days earlier.)
The crappies liked my #14 PTN tandem, too. But
I soon broke off the trailing nymph on a snag
and lost heart for throwing tandems of any kind.
In this dense underwater tangle, smart money said
to go with a lone nymph. Crappies have larger
mouths than bluegills, so I decided to use a
larger nymph. My choice was a no-brainer - the
#10 flashback Hare's Ear, a nymph I would pat
on the head like a bird dog if I only could.
Fetch 'em up, Old Reliable! I double clinched
him to my leader and off into the submerged
brush he went. Five keeper crappies bit him,
not realizing that Old Reliable bites back.
By around 9:00 AM enough other fishermen began
arriving at the lake that it was high time I
went. I could have stayed longer and possibly
with good effect, but the sun was up. If I
stayed longer, every crappie I lifted out of
the lake would be as visible as a highway flare.
I'd caught ten nice crappies and eight keeper
bluegills, most of them laid on ice before
these newbies had sipped their day's first
cup of coffee.
One late-arriving fisherman parked near my
truck and hiked to a shoreline spot. He'd
been fishing off the bank there maybe 45 minutes.
I'd glanced at him from time to time and seen
he wasn't having any luck with his live bait
and bobber rig. If he'd walked another 200
feet down the shoreline he might have scored.
But I'm sure he saw that the longer hike would
involve a slow, painful march through dense
thorn vines.
Watching him sitting alone and silent, I
couldn't help but reflect on the years I
fished that way back when I was a kid worm
fishing on the banks of the Marias des Cynes
and Neosho rivers down at Reading and Emporia,
KS. Then sometime around age sixteen I began
watching a Kansas City TV show called "The
Sportsman's Friend," and its host Harold
Ensley inspired me to try ultralight spin
fishing with artificial lures. Tossing a
size zero Mepps spinner and catching scads
of bluegills, small crappie and bass on 2-lb.
and 4-lb. test line became my big fishing
passion. The attraction was the action,
which on many trips was simply unbelievable,
virtually non-stop.
Going back to stationary bank fishing with
bait and bobber...it's a style I don't have
the personality for anymore. Yet I have the
highest respect for the relaxation a person
can enjoy doing that kind of fishing - just
sitting on the bank thinking about life,
listening to the birds sing, watching the
clouds drift slowly overhead, waiting for
your bobber to dunk under. I've done it
so many times. And when you stop and think
about it, what finer way to pass a few hours
time than that?
I guess it's because I also grew up hunting
upland birds that explains why ultralight
spin tackle and now fly tackle hold such
strong appeal. Both methods offer non-stop
action, demand constant thinking and adapting,
physical and tactical things you must do to
succeed. When I'm fly rodding for panfish
it's more like hunting than fishing, like
I'm gunning bobwhite quail or cock pheasants
in the red-hottest weedy draw of all time.
Most Kansans probably view fly fishing as
an overly complex but nearly static form
favored by people who have gone tragically
astray in their thinking and are doomed to
suffer rotten luck because they're throwing
a ridiculously small fly into the water with
a pitifully fragile rod, losing fish after
fish from breaking that super-thin line out
there at the end. Speaking for myself, I'm
one Kansan who definitely used to think that.
But now as my canoe glided past this guy
sitting on the shoreline, I felt...I don't
know...sad for him. Surely he'd seen me
hook and fight a number of fish while he
wasn't doing anything at all. Yet he must
be as happy a person as me, and have faith
that his fishing method would start paying
off any second. It would be rude to paddle
over, strike up a conversation and start
expounding on why I'm convinced that when
it comes to catching panfish, fly rodding
is the most effective and exciting form of
angling ever invented, and I wish I'd tried
it just once forty years ago, but that can't
be changed now.
The night before, had he woke up three or
four times before his alarm clock went off,
like I'd done, and laid there wondering what
sort of luck he'd have this morning? I don't
doubt it, and that would be kinship enough on
this dangerous, badly abused but still beautiful
planet we temporarily live on. ~ Joe
About Joe:
From Baldwin City, Kansas, Joe is a former municipal and
federal police officer. In addition to fishing, he hunts
upland birds and waterfowl, and for the last 15 years
has pursued the sport of solo canoeing. On the nearby
Kansas River he has now logged nearly 5,000 river miles
while doing some 400 wilderness style canoe camping
trips. A musician/singer/songwriter as well, Joe's
'day job' is with the U.S. General Services Adminstration.
Joe at one time was a freelance photojournalist who wrote the
Sunday Outdoors column for his city newspaper. Outdoor
sports, writing and music have never earned him any money,
but remain priceless activities essential to surviving the
'day job.'
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