ROE -- Few sounds distress an angler like the snap of a breaking fishing rod.
To hear it once causes melancholy. To hear it three times in a trip is the soundtrack of catastrophe unless the fish are biting. Then, as they did on a recent rainy Friday, the sound is merely a distraction.
The reductionist rod exercise was a pilgrimage to a private lake in Southeast Arkansas with Bob Snider and Jim Tom Bell. The fishing in our previous trips was OK at best. The first, in April 2022, is most notable for the author not falling into the water while precariously balanced on a wobbly bow trying to extricate an expensive lure from a tree. It testified to the character of the other two gentlemen to have resisted the temptation to prompt a baptism.
It was also notable for Snider's daylong run of bad luck that began with him unable to purchase coffee between Little Rock and Roe. It ended with him being unable to buy himself a sandwich at Craig's in DeVall's Bluff because he did not have cash money.
Bell, who bought a bagful of sandwiches for himself, refused to share. The reason why the author did not donate one of his sandwiches has been lost to the fog of time.
Snider procured his coffee early on March 9, and then we picked Bell up at his home in Little Rock. There, Bell broke the first rod before he loaded it into the truck. That's a terrible way to start a trip, but we persevered.
Across town we picked up a boat that belongs to Bell's son-in-law. Bell was excited that the newness of this boat's equipment renders it virtually bulletproof. It has a modern trolling motor with remote control and a "spot lock" feature. Best of all, it had freshly-charged Interstate batteries.
When we arrived at Roe, the air was warm, still, and damp. We were mildly annoyed with Bell, however, for waxing dramatic about how great the fishing had been a few days before. That's bad juju. Bragging about yesterday usually portends poor fishing today.
The boat was barely wet when I stepped on another of Bell's rods. It was a delicate, hollow snap, like breaking a bird's wishbone. Amazingly, this did not disturb Bell's serenity. He had two rods remaining. They were all he needed. He told us about a trip to Lake Guerrero in Mexico with some business associates in the 1970s. They broke almost all of their rods before they made a single cast, and still they had a fine trip.
The mission was dual pronged. The lake is full of bass up to about 8-9 pounds, but it also contains some obscenely big crappie. Bell wanted crappie more than bass, but those are divergent missions. You have to commit to one or the other.
Not here, Bell said. He caught most of his crappie the previous trip in open water in the middle of the lake dragging a small jig through the water. There was no apparent reason for crappie to be there, but big ones were plentiful.
Snider caught the first bass of the day while waiting for me to back the boat in the water. I caught the second one while waiting for Bell to connect the trolling motor to the battery. This took a very long time, just as it did on our first trip. The motor would not respond to the remote controller. It was on high speed, but the prop barely turned. The boat pinwheeled in a light breeze while cavernous cracks appeared in Bell's serenity.
We called the son-in-law. We called him several times. He was unable to diagnose the problem, and finally, he kind of let it be known that our problem was not his problem. Unlike some people, he had other things to do on a Friday besides fish.
Finally, Bell determined that the battery was dead. We deposited Bell on the bank, and he drove back to his cabin to get a replacement battery. Snider and I continued to fish successfully in Bell's absence.
"It's always something with Jim Tom," Snider said, chuckling. "The battery's dead or he doesn't hook it up right. A fuse blows somewhere, or he leaves the plug out, or whatever. You can count on it."
"He and I are cut from the same cloth," I said. "The difference between him and me is that my stuff always happens at once. The whole house collapses at once, and it is emotionally devastating. Jim Tom spreads his mishaps out over the whole day. It's one little thing after another. Nothing debilitating. And since I broke his rod, I've got no right to complain anyway."
Bell finally returned with a different battery, and the trolling motor ran flawlessly.
I used a 1/2-ounce, double willowleaf spinnerbait with gold blades. Snider caught bass on an H&H spinnerbait.
"I catch all my bass on an H&H spinnerbait," Snider said, "because that's all I use!"
That has become Snider's tagline, like "Melts in your mouth, not in your hands," for M&M candies.
I tossed the spinnerbait over a log. A very large bass mauled it, causing the blades to clatter. I set the hook hard, and a mighty crack resounded. My lightly-used Fenwick Venture rod snapped just past the second guide. The loose end slid down the line into the water. I battled the fish as best I could, but the rod stub was no match for a fish of that quality.
"This is the third Fenwick rod I've broken that way," I said. "I sent one back under warranty. The UPS guy brought me its replacement. Before he left, he cut open the cardboard tube. It was empty."
"Empty!" Bell exclaimed.
"Empty. No rod inside," I said. "The UPS guy filed a claim on the spot, but that's the last I ever heard of it. I've got one Fenwick left, and when that one breaks, good riddance."
I expected that to begin the demolition of my emotional domino castle, but the foundation held. I tied the spinnerbait to a different line and continued catching bass up to about 5 pounds. I caught 22 in all, and Snider caught seven. Bell caught about seven or eight, as well. Most of them attacked from beneath withered lily pads and grass patches.
Later, as rain began falling, we returned to the middle part of the lake where Bell said he caught all of his big crappie. They were still there. He caught several giants on a double willowleaf spinnerbait. I caught one on a Bobby Garland Baby Shad in Monkey Milk color with a 1/16-ounce red jighead. My rod was a 5-foot Falcon ultralight spinning reel mated to a Shakespeare Micro Series reel spooled with 4-pound test line.
My highlight came late when a 3-pound bass inhaled the lure. It dashed for a weedline against the bank as I frantically loosened the drag.
"It'll never happen," Bell said as the drag spun with a reedy buzz.
"It will happen, and I expect applause," I said.
I turned the fish at the edge of the weeds and winched it back to open water. The spaghetti noodle of a rod was bowed in a perfect U. The fish made another run and then another, but both times I managed to turn it and gain line. Eventually its resistance flagged. Bell put a net in front of it as I guided it past the boat. As I hoisted the fish, the lure fell out of its mouth. The barb did not embed. There was no applause nor any other acknowledgement of this superb accomplishment.
We quit when the rain settled in, and we got on the road in time to make it to Craig's for lunch. Snider had cash money this time, and he was the picture of serenity as savored his pork sandwich.