Second Place Finish and Big Fish at Southern Kayak Anglers Brushy Branch Event

Dawn is broken wide open as I beat down the unkempt, County Road 136.  The original plan called for a pre-dawn launch and paddle to hammer some Coosa River spotted bass on top water.  But, as typical, I am running about thirty minutes late and enjoy picking my way through a crowded parking area.  Chevy's, Fords, and an amalgam of other misfit vehicles wait wearily, trailers bare, for their captains to come home.  Tires grinding to a stop, I hop out and deploy my Jackson Coosa under the befuddled gaze of a Mom & Pop tournament director.  The normal line of questioning ensues with "You mean you fish in those thangs!?"  This day, however, I was in no mood.  I had a fleet of gas guzzlers standing in the way of a limit of Alabama Spots.  My companion and fellow Tallapoosa Paddling Company Pro Staffer, Stewart Venable, beat it towards a river inflow; taking a swipe at any good looking cover along the way.  Stewart, with little brother Michael in tow, followed a creek mouth while I plied the river mouth with my favorite Lucky Craft Sammy.  Alabama Spots detest walking baits in general, but hold Sammys in extra-deep disregard.  An unlucky fourteen incher chokes the Sammy at the boat.  Not much for size, but nothing beats that feeling of scoring that first tournament fish early on!  I quickly move towards a complex lay-down resting in a deep outside river bend only to be greeted by a gas guzzler screaming towards me.  With motor trimmed up and driver goosing the throttle, the boat coasted to a stop directly over the lay down.  "Well, that is one way to go about it" says I.  Moving upriver to position myself for a nice float down, I am tailed by an inboard, v-8 cruiser, sans-trolling motor, topped by a kid chucking a spinner bait into every available tree.  I love it when a plan comes together.....  I already have a fish on the board, so I shrug it off and beat it toward a deep, submerged tree I spied earlier; the perfect ambush point.  Thirty minutes later I have a four-fish limit all on finesse, soft plastics.  A power fisherman by nature, I have to really, really focus myself to fish finesse.  It has not always been my game, but I give credit to Stewart Venable for giving me confidence in finesse.  It is all about mindset with finesse.  I continue to ply the narrow river and find that it holds enough eighteen-plus inch Alabama Spots to win two or three tournaments; however, the gin clear water keeps them cagey and lure shy.  I had not one, not two, but three magnum sized spots gingerly massage my baits only to turn their noses up with the smugness of a French food critic.  Any one of those fish would have catapulted me into first place; more on that later.  Fish number five comes as I work the submerged tree from a slightly different angle.  The lightning strike came like a Bruce Lee fist and sent an absolute magnum spot erupting from the surface.  Nineteen inches long, an easy four pounds, her aerial display put the "kick" in kicker fish.  Now...decision time.  Do I stay in the river and try to fool one of the cagey behemoths or do I head down river and try to cull with their larger mouthed brethren?  Instinct tells me to move and I am learning to trust my instincts.  This quickly pays off as I weed through several dinks to get to a nice sixteen inch spot who handily culls a short fish.  That sixteen inch spot took more drag than any fish I have tangled with in some time.  It is funny how some fish just fight so much harder than others; size has no bearing on disposition.  Immediately following that upgrade, the wind gods opened the flood gates and began to pummel us incessantly with a gusting twenty mile and hour gale.  The Jackson Coosa holds one weakness as a lake fishing vessel; the rounded nose is easily pushed by the wind.  If you have not tired it, it is physically impossible to finesse fish from a Coosa in the wind.  With stout winds like these, fishing any type of bait became almost impossible.  Deciding to brave the squall, I paddled onto the grass flats hoping to cull my two smallest fish.  Thus ensued two hours of one-eighties, three-sixties, and various other spins that shall not be mentioned lest my shoulders begin to burn from mere muscle memory; blowing adrift is no accurate descriptor.  The river gods, however, still owed me a debit.  Drew Gregory once said something along the lines of “the river giveth and the river taketh away.”  Recently I deposited a  Kodak Plasysport and my trusty Benchmade to the briny depths of Poseidon’s keep.  The river…She owed me a fish…I didn’t know when or where, but she owed me.  And with that the winds died and a light shone from the heavens pointing to a dock that I knew had once, at least, held a fish.  The momentary lull allowed me to pitch a creature bait to the base of the dock’s ladder.  A gentle lift was followed downward on a semi slack line and repeated, and again.  A blustery gust shoved my boat away from the dock and I turned; extending the rod in my left hand, trying to keep the bait in play.  As it passed the final piling, I felt that subtle sensation. A sensation that bears no description, but the attuned angler knows by feel alone.  I cannot describe it other than an instinct telegraphed through graphite and braid that entices an electric “fish on!” through the cerebral cortex.  With the hook set a seemingly enormous bass burst from the depths and sent a shock wave of adrenaline through my body.  Blood pumping, knees trembling, hands fumbling for the net, I fought the fish and prayed she make it aboard.  A roar erupted from deep within my chest when she rolled across the rails and into the mesh.  I had done it.  I followed my plan and my instincts to pull together a winning-caliber tournament stringer.  The seventeen inch largemouth, culling my shortest fish, gave me eighty-one and a half inches and a clear shot at first place.  I was jittery, nervous, and afraid to talk about it.  In baseball, you don’t utter the word “no hitter” when a pitcher is flirting with perfection.  Likewise, I dared not think about winning, much less mention it to anyone.  I would love to describe a frenetic, white knuckle dash to weigh in the winning limit.  That, however, was not the case as Tim Perkins, a river legend and winner of most of Drew Gregory’s River Bassin’ events, bested me by two inches.  I simply could not cull that last, short fish.  I will say that there was a twinge of disappointment.  It is not monetary; I made more money than Tim thanks to the Big Fish pot, but I would gladly trade it for a victory.  Everyone wants to win…every time.   That said, I am actually quite pleased with the results.  I followed my instincts and have developed more confidence in myself as an angler.  There are no decisions I made that I regret.  No big fish lost at the boat or broken lines and broken hearts.  I stayed in the river and caught my limit along with the big fish I needed.  Running out to the main lake paid off as I found the kicker largemouth that I needed for the tie breaking Big Fish.  Tournament fishing, for me, has proven to be a godsend.  I have made a lot of money over the last few events, but that means nothing compared to the trust I now place in my instincts, the fact that I am more in-tune to myself, and the shear confidence I have instilled in myself by going head-to-head, and besting, some of the South’s, and the Nation’s, top kayak anglers.  Standings be damned, that was a win in my books.