CASSVILLE - To someone living along the coastlines of America, big water means salt water, extending beyond the horizon in a seemingly unending expanse. Boats have grown up to be ships there and most fish are more than an ultralight can handle.
The Midwest has its own big water, however, in the form of the Mississippi River. Geographically, it serves as a dividing line between Wisconsin and our neighbors to the west. It absorbs the great waters of the St. Croix, Chippewa and Wisconsin rivers without fanfare. Massive barges, loaded with grain, coal and other commodities aboard, move effortlessly through its lock system.
To the sportsman, however, it's all about endless opportunities to hunt and fish. Come fall, great flocks of ducks and geese sweep into the sloughs and coves to find respite before moving on southward.
On this day, however, we will cast a line toward a submerged rock pile, a tree tumbled gratuitously into the water from the shoreline or a grass bank teeming with minnows about to be gobbled up by a lunker northern, bass or walleye.
Jeff Mayne has spent untold hours on the mighty Mississip, fishing with parents and grandparents and competing in bass tournaments sponsored by the Grant County Fishing Club.
We head west out of Mineral Point, through Rewey and Lancaster, traversing the green-forested hills that make Southwest Wisconsin's Driftless Area one of nature's finest creations.
Beetown is the last town before descending to the river's edge at Cassville. Mayne insists the Valley Tap there offers the biggest burger I'll ever chomp into. The bun can't hold the bulging chunk of the best beef in the state, he expounds. Sounds like a plan for the trip back.
Moments after putting in, the bow of the 18-foot Champion momentarily blocks the upriver view as my guide guns the 120 horsepower Mercury to full throttle. No wonder my face flattens to the wind as I later learn that the bass boat reaches speeds of 60 mph.
"Actually, this is one of the slower ones in a tournament," Jeff acknowledges.
The boat slows quickly as we enter 12 Mile Slough, a backwater stretch Mayne promises will bring us some hot action. There are only a handful of other boats in the area, leaving virtually the whole place to ourselves.
The boat's tackle compartment brims with a colorful variety of lures - crank baits, spinners, rubbery worms and spongy crawdads. "It's all artificial in a tournament, no live bait," he explains.
"Don't bother bringing anything with you; it'll just clutter up the boat, and I've got everything we'll need," he says, an offer he will later regret.
A few smallmouth bass bring us some nice action, but Mayne expresses disappointment that we aren't catching more and bigger fish. Most are in the 14- to15-inch range.
We make a few casts in each spot, then move on. Jeff has names for each stopping point, one a quiet little cove with the rather unflattering name of "butt crack."
The names of others are not to be divulged. Not that he's selfish or anything, but Mayne threatens bodily harm if I disclose their locations - as if I would be able to describe them anyway.
I can't resist teasing him a bit that we didn't catch anything of size in those alleged honey holes. "They're in there," he snorts with indignation.
There soon comes a time when I no longer want to antagonize my host. He has latched onto a 40-inch northern (snot rockets, he calls them for their slimy skin secretions), but the boat lacks a net large enough to retrieve the monster.
I could have snickered aloud at the lack of a $10 net while the boat overflows with hundreds of dollars in rods, reels and lures. Not a good idea right then, however, as he hands me the pole, while he reaches in to snatch the fish from the water.
Chaos ensues as the northern squirms free, dives under the boat and snaps the 10 pound monofilament line. I was supposed to guide the bruiser around the front of the boat I am told.
We're both disgusted as my (former) fishing buddy lost his fish, and I lost the photo op I need to accompany this article.
It gets worse, however. I'm flipping crank baits here, there and everywhere with one of his prized rods - "These babies ain't cheap," he reminds me. How it happened is a mystery, but the pole snapped in two during what should have been a routine cast.
Henceforth, there will be no sarcastic remarks that normally punctuate these outings. Nope, not a good time to give my fishing companion the business.
Despite our misfortunes, it was a good day to be on the river. I envy, somewhat, the so-called river rats who make the area their home. The click-clack of trains snaking alongside State Highway 35 and the chug-chugging of a tugboat cruising the river make one feel right at home. Life is good along the Mississippi River.
-Lee Fahrney is the Monroe Times outdoors writer. He can be contacted at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
The Midwest has its own big water, however, in the form of the Mississippi River. Geographically, it serves as a dividing line between Wisconsin and our neighbors to the west. It absorbs the great waters of the St. Croix, Chippewa and Wisconsin rivers without fanfare. Massive barges, loaded with grain, coal and other commodities aboard, move effortlessly through its lock system.
To the sportsman, however, it's all about endless opportunities to hunt and fish. Come fall, great flocks of ducks and geese sweep into the sloughs and coves to find respite before moving on southward.
On this day, however, we will cast a line toward a submerged rock pile, a tree tumbled gratuitously into the water from the shoreline or a grass bank teeming with minnows about to be gobbled up by a lunker northern, bass or walleye.
Jeff Mayne has spent untold hours on the mighty Mississip, fishing with parents and grandparents and competing in bass tournaments sponsored by the Grant County Fishing Club.
We head west out of Mineral Point, through Rewey and Lancaster, traversing the green-forested hills that make Southwest Wisconsin's Driftless Area one of nature's finest creations.
Beetown is the last town before descending to the river's edge at Cassville. Mayne insists the Valley Tap there offers the biggest burger I'll ever chomp into. The bun can't hold the bulging chunk of the best beef in the state, he expounds. Sounds like a plan for the trip back.
Moments after putting in, the bow of the 18-foot Champion momentarily blocks the upriver view as my guide guns the 120 horsepower Mercury to full throttle. No wonder my face flattens to the wind as I later learn that the bass boat reaches speeds of 60 mph.
"Actually, this is one of the slower ones in a tournament," Jeff acknowledges.
The boat slows quickly as we enter 12 Mile Slough, a backwater stretch Mayne promises will bring us some hot action. There are only a handful of other boats in the area, leaving virtually the whole place to ourselves.
The boat's tackle compartment brims with a colorful variety of lures - crank baits, spinners, rubbery worms and spongy crawdads. "It's all artificial in a tournament, no live bait," he explains.
"Don't bother bringing anything with you; it'll just clutter up the boat, and I've got everything we'll need," he says, an offer he will later regret.
A few smallmouth bass bring us some nice action, but Mayne expresses disappointment that we aren't catching more and bigger fish. Most are in the 14- to15-inch range.
We make a few casts in each spot, then move on. Jeff has names for each stopping point, one a quiet little cove with the rather unflattering name of "butt crack."
The names of others are not to be divulged. Not that he's selfish or anything, but Mayne threatens bodily harm if I disclose their locations - as if I would be able to describe them anyway.
I can't resist teasing him a bit that we didn't catch anything of size in those alleged honey holes. "They're in there," he snorts with indignation.
There soon comes a time when I no longer want to antagonize my host. He has latched onto a 40-inch northern (snot rockets, he calls them for their slimy skin secretions), but the boat lacks a net large enough to retrieve the monster.
I could have snickered aloud at the lack of a $10 net while the boat overflows with hundreds of dollars in rods, reels and lures. Not a good idea right then, however, as he hands me the pole, while he reaches in to snatch the fish from the water.
Chaos ensues as the northern squirms free, dives under the boat and snaps the 10 pound monofilament line. I was supposed to guide the bruiser around the front of the boat I am told.
We're both disgusted as my (former) fishing buddy lost his fish, and I lost the photo op I need to accompany this article.
It gets worse, however. I'm flipping crank baits here, there and everywhere with one of his prized rods - "These babies ain't cheap," he reminds me. How it happened is a mystery, but the pole snapped in two during what should have been a routine cast.
Henceforth, there will be no sarcastic remarks that normally punctuate these outings. Nope, not a good time to give my fishing companion the business.
Despite our misfortunes, it was a good day to be on the river. I envy, somewhat, the so-called river rats who make the area their home. The click-clack of trains snaking alongside State Highway 35 and the chug-chugging of a tugboat cruising the river make one feel right at home. Life is good along the Mississippi River.
-Lee Fahrney is the Monroe Times outdoors writer. He can be contacted at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
