March 20th was the first day of spring and Old Man Winter is still hanging on for dear life. Other than a couple of teasing, all too brief warm spells, the winter weather has been pretty drawn out and dreary (like watching the Flyers this year). I’m sitting here trying to kick a cold turned cough and getting the cabin fever/fishing junkie withdrawal shakes in the worst way as I suffer through that final cold spell before spring finally kicks out the jams with authority.
So what am I to do when the tackle can’t get any more organized , the poor compy is ready to meltdown from surfing every tackle site known to exist, and while I’m staring at blank walls that are beginning to shimmer with magical maps of my favorite puffs before my very eyes? I decide give myself a clear (as in Cristal) and renewed focus for this year’s fishing.
Last year, I starting BNF, and had an emphasis on fishing in the ugliest, skankiest cover, those places that Roland Martin (and his latest sponsored product), your Mom, AND your friends warned you about as a kid (but went anyways and usually got your ass handed to you on a silver platter). Lily pads the size of donk rims and stems like steel cables? Yep. Gnarled Joan Rivers-like trees with otherworldly, alienlike, twisted limbs, and Mr. Burns-like claws that never fail to snag your helpless lure? Yep. Weed beds as thick as your grandparent’s shag carpet (and with the same mysterious smell, color, and stains too)? Yep. Urban water with rusty culverts, dead bodies, shopping carts and mysterious chemical slicks (in other words any suburban Walmart parking lot)? Yep. Went there. Did that.
In essence last year was all about stepping outside the box. It was all about nixing that warm lite beer and Lazy Boy recliner (The Comfy Chair!) of safe easy structure, of familiar baits, techniques, and colors. It was about entering the saloon like Clint Eastwood, double doors a-swinging, giving the place the stink eye, and bellying up to the bar for freight trains, prairie fires, and rotgut whiskey (rats floating in the barrel or Ol Grandad, your choice) until you’ve either scored with the hot chick or are under the table lying in a puddle of puke crying for your mom. It was all about tearing down that wall Mr. Gorbachev, pushing back those Cold War boundaries, freeing East Berlin, (yeah I’m a product of the Reagan era) and never being satisfied with the previous day’s status quo or pattern.
So as I sit here waiting for my chance to get out on the water, I’m resolved not to just sit and repeat the same techniques and approaches that made last year my most successful size and numbers wise that I’ve had yet. So, as was stated so appropriately by John Cleese’s ‘Announcer’ character in multiple Monty Python episodes, “…and now for something completely different…” (and add a little Graham Chapman’s ‘The Colonel‘ character, “Stop it! Stop the program!” too)
Last season the focus was on digging in, getting down, punching through, and getting out. This upcoming season it’s all about fishing up top. Don’t fret, there’ll still be plenty of Punch Hoggin’, A-riggin’ (with a capital “A”, finesse what? Go big or go home son! More baits! More blades!), and dropshottin‘ to keep it interesting. But. This season, BNF will be smashing it up hardcore surface style! (Not Gangnam style. Trust me.) Buzzing. Frogging. Buzz Frogging. Punch Froggin’. Waking. Walking. Swimming. Sliding. Burning. Popping. (Wait a minute! What! What! Whaaaaat? Hold on a minute… Punch Froggin’? Oh yeah! Add it up, you’ll get it!)
I’ll be fishing cool stuff from cool tackle companies in all sorts of cool situations (How about some froggin’ in 40 degree water? Hows that for cool. I’d fish them colder, but if I did fish frogs on hard water it’d be as effective as those epic 89/90 Nordiques.). Cool rods, (though not this one,it doesn’t seem to deal well with as much cool as BNF is going to throw out this year), cool reels, cool lures, cool people, cool videos, just plain all around cool. BNF. Not playing by someone else’s rules besides my own, which I would never do. I play by my own rules, nobody else’s, not even my own.
Until next time…