Thunderstruck

My grandma’s house and farm has always held a special place in my heart.  I’ve been going there all my life and have always considered it a big playground.  Within a short walk, there are bean and corn fields, creek bottoms, farm ponds, standing timber, and prairie.  It has been a place that I could carry a gun freely at an early age and was entrusted with said responsibility because at times, there might not be supervision (or another person), for miles.  It was a place where rules and laws still exist but without a constant vigilance of authority.  More importantly, the responsibility of making moral decisions was at my discretion.

This amazing setting that required a great deal of responsibility, also gave way to some of the best memories of my youth.  I was given free reign to drive my first four wheeler.  I shot my first dove close to my grandma’s driveway and killed my first buck at the West Place (a section of farmland to the west of my grandma’s house).  I’ve camped out with friends both outdoors and in my grandma’s basement.  It’s where I caught my first fish and biggest fish.  It’s where my family is from and where they still are.  It has always been a sanctuary and an escape. 

I’ve shared this refuge with countless people in the past, but none have reveled in its majesty as much as Busch.  He fell in love with the freedom that existed as well as my grandma herself.  For years, he has even called her “grandma” and she adopted him as a grandson.  A trip to her place held the promise of successes, disappointment, but always adventure.  Going to my grandma’s has become a sanctuary for my friends and me over the years.  It is now a place that is stooped in tradition and memories. After so many trips to my grandma’s for so many reasons, it escapes me why we made our first trip there.  More than likely, it was probably a fishing trip that introduced us to a lifelong series of sabbaticals. 

One fishing experience in particular was completely unique and stands apart from others.  We were fishing in a random pond that is located just east of my grandma’s house.  In fact, you could see her house from its banks.  It was surrounded by tall prairie grasses with one small cluster of trees that offered some shade on a small piece of water but no actual sanctuary.  Near these trees was a creek that helped drain the field that separated the pond from my grandma’s house.  No doubt the creek brought the tree seed from a nearby orchard as well.  A long dam ran along the east bank and different aquatic grasses lined the banks all the way around.  The most defining characteristic was how muddy the water was.  It didn’t matter if it hadn’t rained for two weeks or rained that day because the water always seemed to resemble chocolate milk.

As we arrived on my four wheeler, the water maintained its murky appearance.  Our lure of choice was a spinner bait due to the fact that it created so much turbulence in the water.  Our thinking was that the fish might respond well to vibrations and movement more than sight since visibility was limited.  We began working the dam, shade, and grass edges with success. 

The thing about this pond was that most of the fish were carbon copies of one another.  They could have almost passed for albino due to the fact that the water did not require them to blend in with much or camouflage themselves.  It appeared their growth had been stunted, but not like other nearby farm ponds with little to no management.  Fish were not at the eight or nine inch size that was common in some impoundments.  These fish were in the pound to pound and a half range.  The final characteristic was that they were wild as heck and fought hard.  They didn’t get much fishing pressure and responded well to a number of baits.  Once hooked, the fight was on!  This is what really kept our interest rather than the size.

We were having a great time hooking into these enraged bucketmouths.  Busch worked the north side of the pond while I worked the south.  We were both having success hooking and landing fish.  When we eventually ran into one another we discussed something that both of us had been observing for a while.  Dark and ominous clouds were forming to the southwest and it looked like we were about to get drenched. This was unfortunate since we were catching fish and having a great time.  It didn’t take long for us to decide whether we should tough it out or call it quits.

As any good fisherman knows, a front like this wasn’t just the promise of rainfall, but a switch.  This switch made big fish hungry and made small fish head for the depths.  We talked about how if there were bigger fish in this pond, that this might bring them out.  This peaked our interest and the sound of thunder and flash of lightning did little to deter our resolve.  The fact that we were holding six foot lightning rods was mentioned at one point, but never actually taken into consideration.  The rain began to fall and there wasn’t much of a progression to this process.  There weren’t sprinkles or drizzle, there was just rain and buckets of it.  However the only things on our minds was catching more and bigger fish.  Busch and I were notorious for our theories on wildlife patterns and behavior.  More times than not, these theories were just that, but today, we hit the nail on the head.

As I made a cast near the creek, something big took a swipe at my fire tiger colored spinner bait.  The water rolled and boiled and the feeling of optimism was as electric as the air and passed between us freely.  Before long, Busch had a similar experience.  This only fueled our fire and excitement, and we were approaching a feverish pitch.  That’s when Busch got a good hookset on something bigger than what was common for this pond.

It made deep runs and tried to bury the bait in the bottom of the lake.  It ran, rolled, and violently slapped the water with it’s forked tail.  After an epic fight, he finally landed a fish that surprised us in terms of size and species.  He had landed a four pound channel catfish in the pouring rain on a spinnerbait.  As the rain fell and thunder rolled, we were both caught off guard.

Typically, catfish feed on dead or decomposing matter.  We weren’t sure what to think other than our theories on fronts changing fish behavior appeared to be spot on.  It was then a race to see if we had a pattern on our hands or just a freak occurrence.  After my next cast, this event defined the term “pattern”. 

A wake was pushed away from the bank where I threw my lure and I saw the bite before I felt it.  After a hookset that resembled that of trying to get an F-150 out of the mud with a tow rope, the fight was on.  It was almost identical to Busch’s experience but this time I had the added sense of feel.  The energy that surged through the rod was powerful.  I could actually feel the strength and authority of the fish.  More than that, this is why every fisherman gets out of bed early or spends hundreds of dollars on fishing tackle or stand out in the rain.  The feeling of a big, angry fish is unlike anything in the world.

As the storm raged on and the rain fell, we continued to haul in catfish after catfish.  The bites ended with the rain and each of us had landed 3-4 nice sized channel cats on spinner baits in the rain along with an occasional bass as well.  This was what we had come for.  Oddly enough, it wasn’t the bass nor the catfish.  It sure wasn’t the rain or the feeling of being soaked to the bone in a mid-summer downpour.  It couldn’t have been the shivering that took place on an abnormal July day.  It was the story we had.  It was the adventure that we took home with us.  It was something that we experienced together, and something that we would talk about for years to come.  Heck, it might even be a story that we pass on to the next generation of outdoorsmen…or outdoorswomen.