My love is trying to kill me. No matter how many times I’ve tried pleading, begging, listening and learning, I always find myself in trouble.
No matter what I do, topwater lures are out to get me. My most recent run-in was a few weeks ago when I was working a plug over a weed bed.
Watching the walk-the-dog lure dodge left and right like a line dancer, I let my guard down. That’s when a big bass swirled on my lure. I pulled hard on the rod to drive the hooks home, but the line went slack. Then six razor-sharp hooks were speeding at my face. I heard the wind whistling through the split rings as I closed my eyes and ducked for cover.
I expected warm blood, but my head felt cold. I opened my eyes and saw that the lure had shot my hat off like William Tell’s apple. I rescued my hat from the water and yanked the hooks out of the brim. Maybe I should wear a helmet and full body armor.
A smart person would give up the topwater bug for a safer technique. I could catch just as many bass with a bobber and worm. But nothing beats the excitement and beauty of a topwater bite. The lure seductively popping and weaving like a careless critter. The rhythmic action cleaving the smooth surface of the water and leaving a wake that says, “Eat me.”
Then, in slow motion…
