Magic on the Withlacoochee

When not dreaming of the Big Strike, bass fishermen are forever trying to hook their friends on Micropterus sal-moides, the wily and voracious largemouth bass. Such was the case when Correspondent Sam Iker, a self-certified "bass nut," lured Associate Editor Ray Kennedy to Dunnellon, Fla.. for a long weekend of fishing on the Withlacoochee River. Kennedy's report:

The shoebox under my arm contained a tangled reel, a 25-c- red-and-white bobber and a dozen rusty hooks --the remnants of a summer of bluegill fishing with the children. Anglin' Sam came armed for an amphibious invasion. As he checked out his gear with John Wilhelm Sr., one of Florida's foremost bass fishermen, Sam unpacked armfuls of monogrammed rods and gleaming reels, a stack of Bassmaster magazines and a tackle box as big as a footlocker. Unfolding like a Chinese puzzle, the box was crammed with all kinds of hardware, first-aid supplies, rod cement, hooks, hook sharpener, pork rinds, floaters, stringer, sinkers and shelf upon shelf of popeyed flies, silver spoons, plastic worms, rubber frogs and fake snakes. "You forgot your harpoon," said John.

What is so special about the largemouth bass? I asked. "They'll battle you all the way into the boat and then bite your leg," said John. "They'll hit anything that moves," said Anglin' Sam. "They'll gulp down crawfish, rice birds, ducklings, water moccasins--anything," said John. "They're the smartest, most unpredictable and most sought-after fish in the world," said Anglin' Sam. "And they taste good," said John.

When I asked for a few tips, John offered to show me the proper way of baiting up on the river. He cupped a lure in his hands and turned his back. I said I couldn't see what he was doing. "Exactly!" he exclaimed. "Neither can the bass. You let one of those Withlacoochee monsters see your bait, and they'll jump up and snap it right put of your hands."

Local Monster. No one in Dunnellon, a lazy, little (pop. 1,146) inland town near Ocala, is above the Chamber of Commerce come-on. The town bills itself as the "Home of the World's Largest Bass," and everywhere from the Dinner Bell Restaurant to Bass Galore Village ("Fishing Headquarters, U.S.A.") are mounted specimens to prove it. Up at Joe L. Cobb Inc., Realtors, Joe has a photograph on the wall memorializing the morning he and a friend boated 18 bass totaling 124 Ibs. in "2 1/2 wild and wonderful hours." Down at Bucky's Sports Center, the natives tell of the local version of the Loch Ness monster, a wicked old mossback called "Ol' Geronimo," who "goes 30 Ibs. if he's an ounce." * Next door at the Belair Resort, Proprietor W.C. Jefferson laments the passing of Charlie, an 8-lb. pet bass that would nose up to the motel's dock for lunch. When one native let it drop that he had recently pulled a 16 pounder out of a "special hole" in the river, Sam's eyes pinwheeled. "Where's the hole?" he demanded. "Where?" The native just smiled.

It was late afternoon when we checked into one of the riverfront cottages at Sally's Fishing Lodge. Anglin' Sam hustled me into an outboard motorboat, and we went putting out onto the river, jouncing over an obstacle course of submerged logs and stumps. The desolate, swampy beauty of the Withlacoochee was stunning. The shoreline was overhung with massive oaks, fanleafed palmettos and knobby cypress trailing veils of Spanish moss. A bull alligator as big as a battleship slithered off a rubbery bank. A bald eagle stood sentinel atop one of the dead stumps towering out of the weedy black shallows. "Bass country," said Anglin' Sam.

Maybe so. but after three hours we had not had a single bite. Dusk was approaching, but Anglin' Sam, that glazed look in his eye, insisted on "just one more cast." One hour, several snags and no nibbles later, a light rain began to fall. "Just one more cast," said Sam.

Finny Brutes. Next morning Sam hauled me out of bed at 6 o'clock. The mist was just beginning to lift off the water when Sam's rod suddenly arched. I couldn't watch, for at that very instant something else was tugging mightily at my line. Rearing back, I saw a flash of white underbelly, and all at once the fightingest fish I ever saw did a half gainer right in front of me and dove under some lily pads. Several frantic moments later, while Sam shouted instructions and I tried to keep from falling out of the boat, we both pulled in nearly identical 3-lb. largemouths. There wasn't time to savor the moment; immediately those finny brutes hit again and again in what the locals call the "Withlacoochee magic hour." When it was all over we had netted 15 bass, each between 1 1/2 and 4 Ibs.

That evening, the fishermen at Sally's camp gathered under the oak trees to do what for them is the next best thing to bass fishing--talking about bass fishing. Some got into long discussions about whether the Nip-I-Diddee plug or the Heddon Torpedo works best on a cloudy day. Others, conspiring like witch doctors, argued whether lures rubbed with catfish-bladder oil or a potion made of anise, strawberry soda pop and cheap bourbon is the most likely to attract the big "kegmouths." George Gregory, a stagehand from Columbus, Ohio, told of his long-running battle with Ol' Geronimo. "He sits out there in a ring of cypress," he said, "just defying you to take him. The first time I tangled with him he snapped my rod in two. So then I went after him with a deep-sea rod and 40-lb. test line. Wham! He hit my shiner, dove under the boat and straightened the hook flat out. He's a world record, but nobody will ever catch him."

Just One More. Two days later, when I pulled Anglin' Sam out of bed at 5 a.m., he remarked that I had a funny glazed look. "Bass on the brain," he called it. The odd smell in the air--a combination of pork rind, outboard motor oil, anise and fish scales--he called "essence of largemouth." That afternoon, while twitching purple-plastic worms off the bottom, I had a strike that seemed to turn the boat around. When I set the hook, it felt like there was an anvil on the other end. Diving and circling the boat, the enormous thing finally came boiling out of the water. Then it tore off for a weed bed and snapped the 20-lb. test line like a kite string. That evening under the oaks I told of my adventure with a "lunker as big as a beer barrel in this special hole in the backwaters." "Where's the hole?" one fisherman asked. "Where?" I just smiled.

Next morning, while Anglin' Sam packed his gear for the jet trip back to civilization, I strolled down to the dock to take a few practice casts. On the first toss a bass picked off my Rapala CD-115 in midair. The largemouth weighed just under 5 Ibs., my biggest take of the weekend. I kept casting, oblivious to pleadings that we had to go. "Just one more cast," I said. "Just one more."

-The world-record largemouth was caught at Montgomery Lake, Ga., by George Perry in 1932. Its weight: 22 Ibs. 4 oz.

This file is automatically generated by a robot program, so reader's discretion is required.