In Michigan there is a small village called Otter Lake, on the shore of the little hunk of water which is its namesake. No expert has ever proclaimed Otter Lake a national hot spot for anglers. No one has ever said of it in print that it offers anything stupendous, colossal, terrific, or sensational. And that is curious, because it does.
But what is more curious is this: I am using this small and unknown midwestern lake only as an example. It has not one thing to recommend it over hundreds of very similar lakes of the Midwest. It is simply that every spring and early summer the majority of fishermen miss, right in their back yards, some of the fastest, most exciting and wonderful fishing on earth: big, slab-sided, battling bluegills, taken on light tackle, with trout stream technique.
It has been fashionable for years to underestimate the sporting qualities of all panfish, possibly because they are so common. Some anglers are plain snobbish about it. Some think of the amount of sport only in direct proportion to the size of the fish, forgetting that the stature of any fish is only relative to the tackle and method used to hang him. Many have never thought of making high sport of the doughty bluegill in this manner. But most of us are simply so busy following the herd and chasing the rainbows the ads proclaim, that we pass right through the forest without seeing the trees.
If you want to learn and practice fly fishing techniques, but have no access to trout water, the bluegill is an excellent alternative.
So pull up here for a moment, at Otter Lake. Pause in your race to that far-off dream paradise, park your car in the village, and walk down to the shore. Look out for the kids playing ball in the park. Don’t be distracted by the cars passing a block away. This isn’t the wilderness, true. It’s door-step stuff, nostalgic as the scene of the barefoot kid with the cane pole, but dressed up, streamlined, and action packed.
That guy in the waders, over there where the old ice house used to stand, where the pilings still stick up above water–that’s me. Don`t start feeling sorry for me, now, because I can’t get away to the Canadian bush. Just walk over closer and I’ll show you some real fishing fun. And that–remember?–is what fishing is supposed to be for.
I make a cast, dropping a small gray dry-fly onto the flat, shallow, open water along the weed beds. I let the fly lie for a moment. With a very light wrist movement, I twitch the fly ever so lightly. There is an instant swirl of water, a splat audible way up on shore as the big fellow socks the fly. I lift the rod tip quickly, and the little rod goes down in an arc that says a fish of at least a couple of pounds must have banged the fly.
But no, he’ll weigh no more than a pound. Maybe a hair more, but far more often a whole lot less. However, his sides are flat, his body deep and solid. His spirit is fabulous, and his circle upon circle battle, fought frantically and without let-up on the dainty tackle I’m using, doubles his weight and strength.
Look at him run! Always that flat side against my steady pressure. He doesn’t leap, it’s true. But he comes up to skitter and splash wildly at the surface. If he’s big, and the leader is 3x or 4x, he w0n’t be landed in a hurry. He has to be worn completely out, handled daintily. But, luckily, his mouth is tough, so the hook seldom pulls out. I work him in at last, scoop him into the net, grasp him, and hold him up for you to see. What a gaudy little critter, with his bright orange throat, dazzling blues about his head, the lavender of his sides, and his extra-large black ear-flaps showing that he’s an old codger who got too big for his scales this one time.
I set him free, press the fly between folds of facial tissue to dry it. I whip it out again, and socko, the action starts immediately. If you’ve got the time, and want to stand there until dusk, watching, I can bring in a hundred of these babies without covering more than a couple of city blocks of shoreline. That,for my money, is action. I’ve fished the U. S. from coast to coast and border to border, and I still don’t think there’s anything better!
It is usually assumed that tyro anglers start out on such fish as the bluegill, then graduate to trout. But my case, oddly, was just the reverse. When I first started fly fishing, years ago, it was for trout. For a long time it simply never occurred to me that other fish were worthy of light trout tackle. Then,like many another, I started bugging for bass occasionally when I couldn’t go trout fishing. And then one spring I really got stuck.
I was in the Thumb section of Michigan. I couldn’t get away to go north for trout. I was frantic to go fishing. But why go if it couldn’t be for trout? And then the bass season opened. Opening morning I went over to Otter Lake, a few miles from home. Alas, every boat on the lake was rented. I stood around feeling sorry for myself awhile. Finally I strung my rod and walked over by the old ice-house pilings. From shore I whipped a big bug out over the shallows, just to be doing something.
The bug dropped, I started to lift it for another cast, and whammo! Whatever had hit it had really meant business. I tried again. Bang, bang, bang! A big bluegill, without question. But the bug was too large for him.
Right then the whole idea hit me, and I wondered why I’d been so dumb for so long. In May, June, and July especially, the big bluegills swarm in shallow water. They spawn, and then hang around for some weeks until, with hot weather, they pull out to deeper water. Why did a fellow need a boat to fish for these dashing little gamesters? True, waders are always associated with trout fishermen, and stream fishermen, but for no very good reason. A pair of waders, a light trout rod, some small flies—it added up to a whale of a lot of fishing fun.
I drove back home and collected the equipment, and during that day and evening I caught and released over two hundred huge bluegills, and still took a hand-picked limit home with me! I was sold on the sport immediately, and I’ve been following it ever since. Many a time I have waded a lake shore, catching them hand over fist, while boats still-fishing a short distance out never so much as corralled a bite. They were fishing too deep, where the fish weren’t. I have also seen fly fishermen working from a boat and getting few results, when I could wade, and by making far less commotion and offering a much lower silhouette, make a killing.
A lot of angles on this action-packed pastime occurred to me as time went on. It’s all well and good to go on those long vacation trips into the north country after trout, or other larger game fish. But the fellow who takes up this wading-for-bluegills idea can work all day, drive a mile or so almost anywhere in the Midwest, and with no boat or bother have seven evenings of good fast fishing a week, if he likes. Expense is all but nil, sport is tremendous, and on the table those tasty bluegills can’t be beat, especially at today’s prices!
There’s the family angle, too, and the appeal to the fellow who either has never fly fished before, or is more or less a tyro at the game. You don’t have to be an expert with light tackle to catch big bluegills on flies. In addition, the lake shores, where there are no obstructions and no currents, are wonderful places to practice casting while getting paid off in thrills. And that youngster who is just learning, or the whole family, for that matter, can join in the fun. If you have never stood in shallow lake water with kids and grown-ups — men and women both — scattered out along the shore, all beating the water to a froth with fly lines and lures, and all yelling at once that they’ve got one on, you’ve missed some fishing fun that’s as good as you’ll ever get. If there aren’t enough waders to go around, a pair of shorts and sneakers will do. There’s no better way to teach a youngster, or your wife, to use a fly rod. For here they can get immediate results, along with the work!
There will be those, of course, who will scoff at the idea of bluegill being a brilliant-battling game fish. But their scoffing will come out of pure ignorance. I have caught literally thousands of trout, big and little. Today, in the Midwest, it is mostly the latter, and trout fishing is definitely on a put and take basis, with the put, for most fishermen, a lot higher than the take. I have, many times, fished trout all afternoon, and at dinner time started in on bluegills, using identical tackle. And I will go right out on a limb and say that no seven or eight inch trout will ever come close to putting the bend in your rod — even with the stream current assisting him — that a bluegill of like measurements will. If you don’t believe me, you can prove it to yourself mighty easily. Furthermore, while you’re battling ten of those medium-sized trout you can be battling a hundred bluegills. There’s no shortage either of waters or fish, where this dynamic little character is concerned. And everyone, who makes of him a substitute for trout by using trout technique and tackle for him, will assist in taking pressure off the trout.
There will be those, too, who will wonder about the conservation angle connected with taking bluegills possibly from spawning beds by this wading method. It’s a good point, and one that needs clarification. In late years, fish biologists have proved conclusively that in most of our lakes there is a tremendous over-abundance of bluegills. They breed themselves swiftly into over-crowded conditions. In hundreds of lakes where anglers have been waiting for years for the little ones to grow into big ones, and scrupulously putting back under-sized fish, actually all the fish are stunted.
Most lakes, in other words, need more bluegill fishing, not less. This will help keep a check on bluegill populations, and keep their numbers in proportion, making toward bigger, more healthy fish.
I have done a great deal of bluegill fishing in the South where bluegills are spawning practically every month in the year and are being caught in astronomical numbers right off their beds every month in the year. Yet their numbers are never depleted. So have no qualms about this angle. True, in the North, this fish spawns only once a year, during May and June. But after that the hordes go to deep water, where wading and flies are impractical, and so the pressure will be in proportion.
Even though this is a simple sport that anyone can follow, I discovered as I went along that there are definitely several fishing tips and tricks to be learned. One of them has to do with the wading. After I had fished my ice-house location at Otter Lake for a few sessions, I tried another nearby lake. I pulled on my waders, barged right in — and darn near got myself into a dangerous situation. At the edge of the weed beds some few yards out from shore, I took a step forward, and went down like a stone.
Lakes, I thus found out the hard way, are quite different from streams, when it comes to wading. Bluegill lakes are usually weed filled, and the constant decomposition makes for mucky bottoms. I would not say that wading lake shores is dangerous. It is only dangerous in proportion to the carelessness of the wader. You have to know how to judge the bottom. For example, here is a stretch of shoreline where tall, slender reeds thrust up out of the water. The practiced lakeshore wader will know immediately that this spot will have a sand bottom. These reeds grow in sandy locations, possibly with a shallow layer of mud on top. This will invariably be a place with solid footing. And it will usually have bluegills in abundance, especially if heavier weed beds exist on either side, or farther out toward deep water.
Here, however, is a place where lily pads grow right in close to shore. Other underwater plants are almost always found associated with lily pad patches. These spots will invariably be treacherous. Possibly you can wade them. But be careful. Put one foot down gingerly until you get solid footing. When you move, take one step and get solid footing again before going on. The mud may be bottomless, or so close to it that you’ll get a ducking.
Here is another spot, where an old sawmill used to stand. You can see the thin slabs lying under water, left from log trimmings. Stay strictly away from this spot, no matter how good the fishing. There may be fifty feet of rotten sawdust underneath! I know. I got into one once and had the scare of my life.
Gravel, or plain sand beaches will seldom be good fishing bets, though safe wading spots. Look for patches of reeds, with weed beds on either side and out below the surface toward deeper water. Such places will contain plentiful bluegill food, give you a good stand, and allow you to reach all the good spots with a long cast. Obviously old pilings, logs, etc., make excellent bets. So do tiny coves. A few days of practice will teach you where to find the fish and how to recognize good and bad footing. And remember, you don’t have to have deep water. One to five feet is plenty.
I found out a lot, too, about tackle. Anything heavier than a 4 or 4.5 ounce rod is taking advantage of the fish and spoiling a lot of your fun. If you want the very tops in sport, get yourself an 8 ft. or 7.5 ft. rod of 3 to 3.5 oz. These little toothpicks really dive into a circle when a big bluegill whacks the lure.
I think my trout fishing experience set me off on the right foot as far as lures were concerned. I reasoned that a bluegill has a very small, round mouth. I wanted to present a fly that could be taken swiftly, in one smashing gulp. And so I started by choosing my lures right out of my trout-fly box. I`ve had many an angler give me an argument on this. “Why do manufacturers build panfish bugs,” they say, “if not to use for just fishing as this?” My answer is that I’ll be darned if I know why they build ’em. A great many of them just aren’t much good, at least for bluegills. Their mouths are too small.
Let me illustrate with an experience. A couple of years ago I was going bluegill fishing and a friend gave me some small bugs fashioned from a tiny cork, a No. 8 hook, and a batch of tail feathers. I tied on one of the bugs, waded out and laid down a cast. Immediately there came a strike. That’s one of the first things you learn when fly fishing for bluegills: they’ll hit almost anything when they’re in the mood. I’ve had them slam huge bass flies time after time. But I didn’t hook this fish. I cast again. Same result.
The answer was obvious. The hook was too big, the cork inhibited setting it, and the tail feathers stuck out so far the fish was simply.grabbing them. The one saving grace of the bug was that it floated well. This is the principle upon which most panfish bugs are built. In stream fishing with dry flies, the fly floats down with the current. In lake fishing, where you must impart movement to the bug by twitching it, a bug must be a good floater or else you’ll constantly be dunking it.
But I still had trout flies in mind, along with the size of a bluegill’s mug. I put on a palmer-tied bivisible with still, thick hackle, hook size No. 12. I doped it, cast it lightly, twitched it very daintily. There was a tremendous sock at it, and with an easy, swift lift of the rod, I had my fish. I’ve proved this time and time again, even going down to size 16 flies when the fish were hitting lightly. A bluegill can grab such a fly all in one hunk, with nothing to inhibit his strike. And certainly the hook is large enough to hold him. I’ve taken four-pound trout on the same.
Thus, here is my general outfit. Four-ounce rod; HDH line; 9 ft. leader tapered down to 3x; small, stiff-hackled trout flies. Color of flies isn’t important, to my way of thinking. That old wheeze about using gaudy flies for panfish is meaningless. Grays, browns, etc., do just as well. The long, fine leader is important, however. True, you can catch fish without it, but if you want the big ones, you have to remember that they got big by being smart.
How well or how badly you cast won’t be too important, so take heart if you’re a tyro. But the way you handle the bug will make quite a difference. Cast, let it lie for a moment. Now start it crawling, by taking in line slowly with your left hand. This crawl method, rather than heavy jerks of the fly, will help keep your fly from submerging. And watch it when you first start the movement, after the fly has lain quietly for several seconds. Nine times out of ten, a big one is watching. When movement starts — bango! Use facial tissue to dry your fly off after every few casts, and after a fish is caught.
Writing of this fast and satisfying fishing brings back exciting memories of scores of sessions I’ve had at it. One in particular stands out. I had gone north for trout fishing one June, and was staying in a cottage on the shore of Otsego Lake. Numerous fishermen after bass, pike, and panfish were plying the lake. One late afternoon I had come in from a nearby stream with a limit of trout and was cleaning them when a boat came to the dock. Three dejected anglers got out and stood watching me.
“It’s bad enough not to be a trout fisherman,” one of them said, “but when you can’t even so much as catch a bluegill on your vacation, it’s downright disgusting. I’ll sure never come here again.”
“Nor I,” said one of the others. “I doubt if there’s a fish in the lake.”
Now that was too much for me. These were out-of-state people and I hated to have them carry home such an impression of a lake in my home state. I gutted the last trout, wiped my hands, and said, “‘Would you fellows like bluegills for your dinner?”
“Would we!”
“If you’ve got some extras–” another began.
“I haven’t,” I said, “but I’ll get you some.”
My neck was out, I knew, but as they followed me with puzzled frowns I walked over to the cottage and picked up my fly rod, still strung and with a small trout fly still on the leader. I slipped into my waders, grabbed net and creel, waded in right by the boat dock, and started up the shore, casting. Directly in front of their cottage, and on my fifth cast, there was a swirl and a sound like the pulling of a champagne cork. I banged the hook into him, the rod jerked down, the battle was on. When I slipped the net under that old whacker, I would have bet on him to weigh well over a pound. My audience, ashore gaped and gasped.
Just past their cottage, the shoreline dipped in, weed-filled, to form a small, shallow cove. The closer I got to the cove the faster the strikes came. Action was heaped on action in a swift sequence of swirling water, dancing rod, and bulging creel. In less than an hour, I had a fifteen-fish limit, hand picked, with every bluegill of pie-plate proportions and in the pound class.
And I had something else, too. Three wildly enthusiastic converts were all talking at once as they scaled the catch for their meal. I’ve made a lot of other converts to this sport, since the day I got wise to it. It’s something anybody can do, anytime during spring and early summer, within quick driving distance ot where you sit reading this — not something to dream about doing in some faroff someday. If you fish for fun and fast action, don’t miss it!