Max, the smallmouth bass

Me and Max years ago;  I no longer lip-lift or gill-lift fish to avoid possible injury
photo courtesy Dave Richey Outdoors ©2012

TUSCOLA, Mich. – Tucked down deep in a smooth run near a tangle of tree roots on the Cass River was a smallmouth bass – a special fish, because he was an old friend.

Mind you, when we first met, the fish was just a feisty one-pounder. He was all a’glitter with greenish-brown scales, a hint of red in his eye and the built-in temperament of a barroom bully with a belly full of bad brew.

He liked to scrap, and, like some fighters, he always seemed to lose. After two years of striking a variety of lures that hung from his lip when belly-lifted from the water, I named him Max, which seemed the proper name for a born fighter.

We had numerous dust-ups over a few years.

We were buddies years ago, and it’s been a long time since I thought about him.  This year’s bass opener brought him to mind, the same way we recall other old friends.

Max had a split in his dorsal fin, and was easily recognized/ He would come out and play each time I floated the Cass River, and once we finished our little fight, I would release him back to his favorite haunt. A little tired, perhaps, but losing a fight never seemed to bother the bronze-back – he’d be there, ready and eager to scrap each tune I  came into his life.

Max would come out to play whenever I canoed that section of river. I returned him each time he was landed, knowing he’d be there again whenever I returned. Few people ever fished that stretch of river because of all the uprooted trees across the river. One had to work hard to get through that section of river, but I always returned for another fight and he was most accommodating.

Max lived under a submerged root-wad in the Cass River

An old weathered maple had toppled into the river where he lived. The submerged root-wad offered him the security any fish needed to survive. The river poured over the roots, and the bass grabbed any lure, minnow or other morsel.

His only failing was that he was too easy. I never caught another smallie in that location, just my old buddy.
Three summers passed, and with two or three trips each summer on the river. I guess he was whipped by me a dozen times. Each time we tested the others’ mettle, and Max was getting bigger and more pugnacious.

I soon gave up lip-lifting him because I was concerned that such a method may break his mouth, and prevent him from eating, even though he could easily swim away. (See drawing.)

It was during the fourth season that I felt Max had become a solid four-pounder, but I couldn’t find him.. The canoe was eased into a small back-eddy of moving water, and I arched a cast into the new spot and the Beetle Spin came back without a strike.

The lure was changed, and several more casts were made without a strike.. He just wasn’t there.

It came time to analyze the situation. The area where Max had called home had changed during spring’s high water. Sand and silt had built up in the spot he’d called home, and either he left for another location or he had been caught and kept.

My spirits soared as the canoe was eased downstream 20 yards to another hole that was not sand and silted in. The canoe was tethered again to an overhanging tree limb. Ah, just right for an easy cast to his suspected new home.

The lure twinkled downstream with the current, bumping against some bottom debris, and stopped with a sudden jolt. A fish had sucker punched the lure, and I snapped the rod tip up to set the hook. A bundle of fishy dynamite known as a smallmouth bass, brook the river current with an explosive leap.

The bass cleared four feet of water in a head-to-tail jump

The split dorsal fin was easily seen, and Max now was red-eyed and wild as he surged downstream before skippering into the air again with another jump. He dove for bottom and tried to drive his way back into the submerged debris.

The six-pound monofilament hummed under the strain, and judging from his appearance, he had wintered well. He was a robust four pounds, and any stream smallie that size is a genuine trophy.

We settled into a bare-knuckle scrap. I’d give a bit; Max would take line and then falter slightly, and I’d press the advantage.

It was give-and-take as the battle seesawed for five minutes before Max began fining slowly, just out of reach. He was tired, and he knew he was whipped as I belly lifted him from the water.

He seemed to glare balefully as the hook was worried from his jaw. I held him for an instant, and briefly admired his sleek form. Then planted a smooch on his nose before lowering him into the river.

“Goodbye, old friend, and good luck,” I said as I gave him his freedom.  He whirled in the water, splashed a final salute with his tail and was gone.

I never saw Max again. I heard later that summer that a local kid had caught a five-pound smallie from the river. Was it Max? Who knows, but I never saw that bass with the split dorsal fin again.

I floated the river again a few years ago, and caught a two-pounder, which was belly-lifted while supported in the water and released. I named him Max, Jr.

Maybe I’ll try for him again this summer. He may like to come out and play.
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Read: Lip Grip is OUT! , an informative article from the O'fieldstream Journal about the dangers of the old-time Lip Grip. Plus, O'fieldstream provides solid advice to insure the bass you release has a far greater chance of surviving to live and fight again.