Satisfaction: Helping pal get his biggest bass

It’s even better when it happens three times in one day.

Faced with a deadline to get a TV segment shot for that night, cameraman Wesley Harris and I couldn’t give in to the treacherous weather conditions Tuesday (March 5).

We had to shoot; failure was not an option.The weather front pushed through midmorning, ending the threat of thunderstorms. It was replaced by a big blow, and lake wind advisories meant there was no way we could hit Barnett Reservoir as planned — or any open lake for that matter.

I gave a friend a call and asked permission to fish his 50-acre lake in Madison County. Understanding our plight, he agreed, gave us the gate code and wished us luck.

Boy, would we ever need it, and we got it in bunches. Harris was in for the best day of fishing he could imagine, and we got to celebrate his catching the biggest bass of his life, three different times. We had a ball.

Winds continued to build as we made the 40-minute drive, and by the time we reached the lake it was blowing a steady 30 to 35 mph, gusting even higher. It was hitting the boat ramp head on, making launching impossible.

We were left with two options, fishing from the boathouse pier or from the bank. I chose the pier, and told Harris to put the camera down and grab a rod. We needed to catch a fish, and two poles doubled our odds.

“If your bosses give you grief, tell them I made you do it because we had no choice,” I told him. “Two lines are better than one.”

Harris, who loves to fish, is a rookie when it comes to baitcasting gear, but that’s all I had with me with line strong enough to fish the heavy cover strategically placed around the pier. The two spinning rigs in my boat were both spooled with 10-pound line.

I rigged two worm rods with shaky heads, with a plan to feature the rig on the 90-second segment — if we could catch a fish.

On Harris’ first cast, across the wind, he backlashed the baitcast reel deep into the spool. I was already working my shaky head through the heavy cover scattered in the cove, but looked at Harris’ predicament and offered assistance.

“No, I think I can handle it; you just fish,” he said.

About a minute later, I looked back and he was still trying to dig through the bird nest that had exploded on the reel.

“You sure I can’t help?” This time I started toward him to help but noticed something funny. His line was steady moving upwind, and it wasn’t long before his rod tip started jerking.

“Dude, you got a fish,” I hollered, and he grabbed the line just off the tip of his rod and jerked back.

I reached up and grabbed the line, and felt the strength of a good fish. I kept it tight while Harris freed enough of the tangled mess to the point that he could reel. Then I let go and let him fight the fish.

About halfway in, the fish got into a brush pile and the battle stalled. The rod tip was still jerking, so I knew the fish was still on. Harris kept the pressure, but nothing was happening.

“Give him his head,” I hollered at him. “Push the reel release, thumb the spool and when he feels the lack of pressure he might swim out. Look! Look! There he goes.”

Sure enough, the line was running free again as the fish swam toward the open water away from the brush. That gave Harris the advantage, and he re-engaged the reel and quickly brought the tiring bass to the pier.

I grabbed the 17-pound fluorocarbon line and slowly eased him up the 6 feet to the pier.

Harris was hooting and hollering, and I was even louder. We could make a show with that fish, which was an easy 6-pounder.

“That’s my biggest bass ever,” he said. “Take my picture.”

After filming the segment, including reeling the fish to the bank and talking about the shaky head, we were back fishing.

Harris went to the far side of the boathouse to allow him to throw with the wind, even though I told him that area of the lake was devoid of cover and had never produced a fish. I went back to working the thick timber, got two good bites but broke the 14-pound line both times.

Then I heard something and looked up and my partner was struggling with a bent pole.

“I got another one, and I think it’s even bigger,” he said. I raced over just as he got the fish to the pier and saw an 8-pounder. Fortunately, we stumbled over an old long-shank fish net and were able to get the fish in it and get it up on the pier.

We high-fived, shot some more video and pictures and celebrated. I retied his hook, replaced his 8-inch purple V&M worm and jokingly told him that I guessed his next one would be a 10-pounder.

And, of course, it was.

Two casts later, he was hollering at me again.

“This one’s got to be bigger; I can’t get him up and he’s under the pier now,” Harris said. The fish had wrapped around a pier piling and had forced a standoff.

“You know what to do — give him his head,” I said, and Harris did. “If he doesn’t swim out on his own, thumb the spool tight and try to coax him out by pulling him toward the piling.”

Harris leaned over, reeled down to the piling and pulled out with the rod tip. It took three attempts but finally the fish swam out and rolled on the surface.

“Whoa, dude, look at that toad,” I hollered. “Got to be 10.”

I grabbed the net, and when the fish turned back toward the pier I was ready and waiting, and it swam right in.

The celebration began.

I studied the location and figured out what was happening. These were female bass that were staging in open water 5 feet deep, just off the first drop from a spawning flat. We didn’t get another bite, but that didn’t matter. Using a cliché line I really hate, I can say it doesn’t get any better.

I have fished for nearly 50 years, and for most of that time I have averaged three days a week on the water. I have caught my share of fish, from blue-water monsters to feisty bluegills on crickets. I still enjoy reeling in every fish that bites my hook and I am looking forward to the next one as I type.

But nothing I can catch would match the excitement I felt Tuesday. In addition to getting our assignment complete, I was part of a special day that a new friend will never forget.

And neither will I.