riverrat

You don’t go often enough!

I have done really well the past 2 years in March, last year March was much better than April or May.

I have done really well the past 2 years in March, last year March was much better than April or May.

It depends on how it is set up. I have a 1832 Blazer paddle john with a foot control bow mount and transom mount trolling motors, and no one plays "guide". I'm looking for good fishing buddies-worth their weight in gold.  Friends are a dime a dozen.

It depends on how it is set up. I have a 1832 Blazer paddle john with a foot control bow mount and transom mount trolling motors, and no one plays "guide". I'm looking for good fishing buddies-worth their weight in gold.  Friends are a dime a dozen.

It depends on how it is set up. I have a 1832 Blazer paddle john with a foot control bow mount and transom mount trolling motors, and no one plays "guide". I'm looking for good fishing buddies-worth their weight in gold.  Friends are a dime a dozen.

It depends on how it is set up. I have a 1832 Blazer paddle john with a foot control bow mount and transom mount trolling motors, and no one plays "guide". I'm looking for good fishing buddies-worth their weight in gold.  Friends are a dime a dozen.

It depends on how it is set up. I have a 1832 Blazer paddle john with a foot control bow mount and transom mount trolling motors, and no one plays "guide". I'm looking for good fishing buddies-worth their weight in gold.  Friends are a dime a dozen.

Males are somewhat still on beds, guarding fry, In my opinion, it’s a great spawn.  Had a huge blow up on a buzz bait today in shallow riffle. Followed it up with 3.5” swimmer and connected on this girl. 20” long and 4.4 lbs.  

The first time I ever heard of the John Day River in Oregon was back in 1987, when I won the first of state Nevada Trout Stamp contest.  I had to go to a sports show in Reno to sign prints of the design, and the booth across from where I was signing at the show had a large mounted smallmouth hanging on the wall.  So naturally I went over and talked to the people there.  They were running trips on this river in Oregon that was full of smallmouth.  Well, I was interested.  Their photos of the scenery was nothing like what I'd pictured rivers in Oregon to be like, but what really turned me on was that they said they were the only outfit running guided trips on the river during the low water of mid- to late-summer, and in a five day trip we would never see another person.  So I traded a painting for a trip for me and Mary.
That trip, in 1988, was epic.  There were six other clients besides Mary and me, but all but one of the others were not serious anglers.  It wouldn't have mattered.  We all caught smallmouth until our hands were chewed nearly to ribbons from lipping and unhooking fish.  They came in all sizes.  The majority were under 12 inches, but there were plenty of 14-16 inchers and enough 17 to 20 inchers to keep us fishing like crazy trying to catch more of them.  I counted the number of fish I caught on my second best day of the five days we were on the river, and ended up with 175 smallmouth that day.  I probably caught at least 20 that were over 17 inches, topped by a couple 20s and a huge 21 incher.  And the scenery was simply spectacular.  The guides told us we'd never see but one sign of civilization, the roof of a shed that was atop the plateau, miles away, but could be seen briefly if you looked up a side canyon.  They were right.  They weren't right about everything...they told us not to worry about a tent because it never rained during the summer, but on our fourth night a huge thunderstorm struck and the 11 of us spent hours huddled under a 12 by 20 foot tarp, wind howling and trying to blow our shelter away.  Just one more facet of the story of that trip.
Naturally I had to go back.  Our second trip was a few years later with another couple, artist friends of ours, on a section farther upstream that wasn't quite as wild or scenic but was still pretty spectacular, as was the fishing.  Then in August of 1999, I did another trip on the lower wilderness section, this time with a different company, accompanied by cwc on here and two other Missouri anglers.  This time, the fishing was disappointing.  There had been a huge landslide farther up the river just prior to our trip, and the river was still working its way through the debris, fluctuating in flow and remaining very murky.  We only averaged about 25 fish a day because of those conditions.
After that, the river went on the back burner...still a stream I'd like to return to someday but not a priority.
But then I met Dirty Ed on the Riversmallies website, and fished with him and his two friends, Doug and John.  Dirty Ed's real name is Ken, and the three of them are from Ohio.  I don't know who first mentioned the John Day, but Ken really wanted to fish it, and I started getting excited to go back.  We tentatively set up a do-it-yourself trip for last summer.  But other things got in the way and I couldn't go, and besides, the river was extremely low by early July, so Ken and the others opted out as well.  But we were bound and determined to do it this summer.
It started out being a canoe trip.  The kind of watercraft you use on the John Day is somewhat dependent upon water level.  If it's flowing under 500 cfs, canoes and kayaks make the most sense, and typically by mid-July it's down below that mark.  When I had floated it before, it had been down around 300-400 cfs, and the first two trips we had used inflatable one person kayaks, while the guides carried all the camping and food gear in smallish rafts.  The third trip, we'd floated in one person pontoons propelled by kayak paddles, with again the guides using small rafts.  So obviously the river was doable at that level in rafts, though they weren't recommended below that 500 cfs mark.  And the fly in the ointment was that, because we were doing a DIY trip, we wouldn't be able to use the private access the guides used, which not only cut 14 miles off the trip but also was below the one true hazard, Clarno Rapids.  Clarno Rapids is rated class 3 and 4, and would either be dangerous to kayaks and canoes at flows above 500 cfs, or nearly impassible in rafts below 400 cfs, or so the guide books said.  So we watched river flows religiously as the time approached.  It looked for a long time like the flow would be right around that 500 cfs mark by the time of out trip; the river had been a little above normal all early summer, and though it was dropping steadily, the snow pack in the mountains at its headwaters was still substantial.  So by the time we absolutely had to make a decision on what kind of boats to use, it seemed rafts would be in order, and that's what we would end up taking.
Then the river started dropping much faster, and by the time of the trip, it was down below 400 cfs, and we were pretty nervous about Clarno Rapid.  Would we be able to make it in rafts?  Two more of my Montana buddies were going to go, and we planned to take three rafts.  John would row solo in a smallish raft and carry a good portion of the gear.  Ken and Doug would be in a smallish raft, and my two buddies and I would be in my bigger raft.  But at nearly the last minute, my buddies had to cancel.  Now I had to make a big choice...take the big raft by myself?  Or could I do it in my one person Water Master raft?  I decided to take the Water Master.
You have to get permits to float the John Day, which is both an Oregon scenic river and a National Wild and Scenic river, though there is no limit (so far) on the number of people floating it.  We got the permits, and the Ohio boys drove out and met me at our Montana house.  The next morning we piled all my stuff, including the folded up Water Master, in their big Dodge truck along with all their stuff, and drove the 10 hours to Arlington OR, where we spent the night.  The next morning we drove to Fossil, dropped off a set of keys with the guy who would shuttle our vehicle the 70 miles from put-in to take-out, and headed for the river at Clarno.  Our first view was both promising and worrisome--the riffle near the bridge didn't look very big, but there were small smallmouth swimming all around the sandy ramp to the water as we unloaded, inflated the rafts, and loaded all the gear.  After more than an hour in 90 degree sunshine, we started down the river, through that first riffle where we at least never touched bottom, and we were committed to 70 miles and 6-7 days of wild river.
 
We were so worried about Clarno Rapid, 5 miles downstream, that we didn't even rig fishing rods, we just steadily rowed.  The riffles were easy at first, but a mile above Clarno Rapids we encountered the first thing I was worried about, shallow riffles over a mostly solid basalt bottom.  I'd been worried mainly that the basalt would be sharp and might damage the rafts, but we slid over the shallows with relative ease.
Clarno is actually two rapids, an upper and a lower.  We finally came to Upper Clarno.  We got out to scout it, and it had an impressive three or four foot drop through big boulders, but looked easily doable in the center gap.  
No problem.  I ran it easily even in the little Water Master.  Then, a quarter mile downstream, the river split at a rocky island, with most of the water going over a shallow rock riffle with about two feet of drop...and then we were at the head of Lower Clarno.  We climbed up the hill to scan it, and it didn't look good.  It was a boiling obstacle course.
Which went a long way before funneling down a bit to the last big drop, about three feet through the jagged teeth of a row of huge boulders.
Viewed from below, you could see that final drop, with the only option the gap on far river left, which is to the right in this photo.  
The problem with that option was the huge boulders guarding it just upstream, which you had to slide behind to line up for that drop.  And then there were two barely submerged boulders just 10 feet above the drop, and there was really no way to avoid both...you'd have to slide over one of them.  And finally there were other boulders barely underwater just below the drop.  But there was nothing to do but run it.  I took off first, finding it surprisingly easy to negotiate the obstacle course of the rapid until I neared that drop.  I slid into position, and saw I could hit the gap easily, but the roiling, boulder strewn water at the bottom of the drop looked even scarier from river level.  I'm sorry to say I chickened out.  I eased over to the bank and the other guys, who were there watching, helped me slide the loaded Water Master over the rocks behind the big boulder on the edge of the bank.  Then I ran the last bit of froth below.
The other guys all have a lot of whitewater experience, but Ken wasn't feeling well.  John was next, and he made it down the rock garden, slid into the gap perfectly, over the submerged guard rocks, though the gap barely wider than his raft, and rode out the waves below.  Ken then asked him to take the other raft down.  He did, even better.  We were past Clarno!
More to come.

Longtime members of this message board might remember I go on a solo 2-3 day float about this time of year every year, to a stream that will remain unnamed.  This year I had time blocked out for the next three weeks, and just planned to watch the weather forecasts for a three day period with as little chance as possible of thunderstorms, because I hate being in a tent by myself when a storm hits.  Sure enough, the last three days looked perfect, so Wednesday morning found me making the drive to my creek.
This time I wanted the entire three days, and decided to put in a few miles upstream from my usual spot, even though I knew that there would be less water up there.  My shuttle guy even tried to talk me out of it, saying there wouldn't be enough water.  It had been many years since I'd been on that upper end, the absolute upper limit of possibly floatable water.  But I remembered it as being only slightly smaller than my usual put-in, so I was willing to chance it.
The first riffle told the tale.  I made it down it, dodging rocks in just a few inches of water, both banks close enough to touch with the paddle, but I knew there would be wider riffles I'd have to walk.  Now...how would the fishing be?  
I quickly found out that the fishing would be excellent.  Nothing big, but plenty of 8-12 inchers, and the occasional 14-15 incher.  This upper end gets fished even less than the rest of the float, and the fish were willing.  No paint or aluminum on the rocks...it had probably been a month or more since anybody had tried floating it.  There were a couple places where one could drive a 4WD vehicle to the creek, and there were some signs of people around them, but I saw nobody, even when I came to my usual put-in spot, often a popular swimming hole, in late afternoon.  And I'd forgotten how beautiful that upper end could be, with picturesque bluffs and big, clean gravel bars, many of them more rock than gravel in this headwaters section.  The water was almost as clear as air, the bottom clearly visible even in the frequent deep pools.  The habitat was spectacularly good, with rock everywhere and pool after pool 5-10 feet deep.  I saw a few bigger smallmouth, though none that I thought were over 18 inches, and caught one 17 incher and a couple 16s.  During the morning, a buzzbait seemed to be working best, but by afternoon, with the sun high and bright in a cloudless sky, the fishing slowed.
When I came to my usual put-in, I had to start making a choice about how much longer I'd fish before setting up camp.  Either quit fairly early in the evening and camp a mile or two below, or keep fishing til nearly dark, to get past the next possible spot where I might run into people, before camping for the night.  I decided to let the fish tell me what to do...if the fishing picked up, I'd fish until late.
The fishing picked up.  Walk the dog topwaters began to work, and the fish got bigger.  I caught several 15-16 inchers, and then one that I couldn't quite stretch to 18 inches, but it was close.  So I kept fishing.  I passed the access with maybe 45 minutes left until dark, passed up several gravel bars that weren't high enough, level enough, or fine enough gravel, and finally stopped on a barely adequate bar about the time I began to need a flashlight to see.  I'd set the goal of catching 100 bass that day, but didn't quite reach it, finishing at 95.
Luckily, my tent is easy to set up, and as usual, I didn't need to cook anything; I bring only cold food on these late summer trips.  The stars were fully showing as I ate by the light of my flashlight, and I spent another half hour just staring up at the stars and listening to the night sounds.  My hearing isn't what it used to be, and I miss hearing some of the insect noise, but the katydids were chorusing loudly.  Then I turned in, digging out my phone and reading a Kindle book I had downloaded, while the phone charged from a portable charger.  Finally my eyelids drooped and I drifted off to sleep.
To awaken to something messing around with my cooler just outside the tent.  I grabbed the flashlight, but by the time I flicked it on the critter had disappeared.  I turned it off, and five minutes later it was back.  Again I failed to catch it in the light, but this time I'd heard the little chittering sound it made, and I suspected I knew what it had been.  More on that later.
I awoke in gray dawn, mist thick over the river, dew dripping off my tent's rain fly.  I thought about sleeping a little longer, but the creek was calling.  I hastily broke camp, just throwing the wet tent in the canoe, and started downstream.  The fish were active on topwaters, and I was catching some nice ones.  The buzzbait, unlike yesterday, wasn't producing, so I settled on one of my new favorite commercially available walk the dog lures, the Sixth Sense Dogma.  Unfortunately, as I'd find out, I only had one of them.
I soon came to a guy sleeping on a cot on a gravel bar, the only person I'd see until I reached the take-out.  He had a kayak pulled up on the bar, and a camp set up, but back in the trees I could see his vehicle, so I suppose he'd driven to that point.  Just downstream, within sight of his camp, a mother otter and three half-grown young ones were cavorting in the shallows along a gravel bar.  A great blue heron was watching them from a safe distance.  And swimming across the river just below was a big cottonmouth.  Wildlife galore.  Then, a half mile downstream, was ANOTHER otter family.  And this time, as they watched me, I heard them making that same chittering sound.  I KNEW that sound around my tent the night before was an otter.
The fishing slowed in mid-morning, so I stopped to spread the tent out on a gravel bar and dry it out, while eating a late breakfast.  I roamed the big gravel bar, noting the laid-over, nearly uprooted trees along it.  This year's big flood had really scoured the creek channel and ripped out a lot of trees.  I even saw several spots where there had been landslides.  But this upper section is still excellent habitat, and most of the banks had survived more or less intact.  That would not be the case as I floated farther downstream.
In early afternoon, the fishing picked up again.  I caught another one just under 18 inches, and then a gorgeous 19 incher.  But then my frustration began, and it began when I hooked a very big fish on a long cast down a fast run.  I don't know how big it was exactly, because it hit in fairly fast water and I didn't get a good look at it on the strike, but I thought I saw a very long, bronze side as it turned.  Then it drove for a downed tree.  I had to stop it, so I clamped down on the spool of my casting reel.  The fish was just too strong.  SNAP.
My only Sixth Sense Dogma.  Funny how you catch some fish on a lure, gain so much confidence in it that when you lose it, you just don't think anything else will work as well.  But in this case, there was a big reason for it.  You see, the Dogma has three very sharp trebles.  I'd been having trouble with missing strikes on my usual two hook WTD lures until I put it on, but it was deadly on hooking the bigger fish.  I had no other three hook lures that I had confidence in.  I tried the one other three hooker I had, but just didn't like the way it looked in the water...and wasn't catching fish on it anyway.  So I defaulted to a Sammy 100, which is about the closest I had to the Dogma.
As the afternoon waned, the Sammy began to interest big fish...but I simply couldn't hook them, or keep them hooked.  In the last two hours of the day, I had at least a half dozen smallmouth that I was sure were over 18 inches hit the lure, a couple of them multiple times, and came up empty every time.  I checked the hooks.  They seemed sharp.  I kept catching smaller fish.  But why couldn't I hook those big ones?  The last two hit in fast water just above the spot I'd planned to camp, and I almost kept fishing, since it was still about an hour until dark.  But I was frustrated, and hungry, and tired...and this is one of my absolute favorite river campsites, so I stopped beneath the huge, looming bluff with the setting sun making the rock glow, and set up camp on the high gravel bar with fine, smooth gravel.
A whippoorwill was my only nighttime visitor this night, and it didn't call long before moving on.  A screech owl called, and was answered by two barred owls.  I read more of my book before sleep.
Another misty dawn, more dew on the tent.  A new day...surely I'd have better luck with big fish.  Like the day before, I broke camp quickly and started fishing.  But the fishing was slow.  The Sammy wasn't producing anything.  Other WTD lures did no better.  So I gave the buzzbait another try, and it was the ticket.  Fish after fish for a short while, and many of them in the 15 inch class, with a few 16s and a 17 thrown in.  And then I hooked a really big one, and yesterday's frustration returned when it took me into heavy current.  SNAP!  The line had broken up into my rod, apparently a weak point.
After that, the fishing slowed, but I did get a few more strikes from probably big fish, but my replacement buzzbait wasn't hooking them, either.  The habitat had always gotten marginal on this last stretch, but the flood had really wrecked it.  One run in particular, a place where I'd caught several big fish in past trips, and had seen one of the biggest smallmouth ever blow up and miss my topwater a couple years ago.  It had been smooth, moving water of medium depth along a steep alluvial bank covered in smallish trees, with a bluff set back from the bank about 20 feet.  I hardly recognized it.  The flood had basically removed that entire alluvial bank, except for isolated clumps of trees and mud, and now the river flowed up against the bluff.  It actually looked to be better habitat than before, with big rocks that had been buried now exposed, but it was laced with downed trees in the water, nearly impossible to fish.  I was at the end of it, and hardly paying attention as I made one more cast into marginal water above the riffle with the Sammy...and as I reeled the lure in after twitching it half-heartedly a few times, the water exploded...and I missed another very big fish.
I caught a fish here and there in marginal habitat, nothing in the deep pools, a few in fast water at the the heads of pools.  It seemed like the more mediocre the water looked the better the chance was that I'd catch fish.  So when I came to a nice little log at the head of a short, shallow pool, it had "everything" I was looking for on this day.  Sure enough...it was where I broke off that buzzbait on the big one.  
I kept fishing because there was water to fish, but I was tired, and the fishing slowed to almost non-existent in the last mile.  So after being very, very careful with all those fish I'd caught on all those multiple treble hook lures, I finally made a mistake.  Trying to make a very long cast, I wound up and came forward with all my might, but the lure somehow hit the end of my paddle sticking up behind me, glanced off, and into the back of my right arm.  Freak accident.  I've had to get hooks out of myself twice on this annual trip, but this time I knew it was going to be difficult to impossible.  I could, mainly by feel, get my side cutter pliers back there and clip the split ring holding the hook to the lure, but getting the string trick to work was going to be impossible.  So I paddled the last quarter mile with the hook stuck in my arm, loaded up, and headed home, where Mary helped me pop it out, the first time she'd ever had to use the string trick.  She's a former nurse, but it made her rather queasy...but it worked, as usual.  A strange end to a sometimes frustrating but ultimately wonderful as usual annual solo adventure! 
Final totals:  95 fish the first day, 97 the second, 40 the third.  That first day, probably 75% of them were under 12 inches, but the other two days I'd say 40-50% were 12 or better.  Nearly all came on either the various walk the dog topwaters I used, or buzzbaits, though I went through one stretch of an hour or so when a Superfluke was magic on 12-14 inchers.  Eight otters seen and at least one heard that I didn't see.  Four eagles.  A whole bunch of herons and vultures.  Five deer, including a fawn that I paddled up to within 20 feet before it totally freaked out, running frantically up to mother on the other end of the gravel bar and hiding beneath her belly even though it didn't quite fit there anymore.  One other person encountered.  One mediocre campsite, one spectacular one.  Well over 30 miles paddled with no mishaps paddling, one hook in the arm.  Two very raw thumbs, and a big blister on the side of my left middle finger where the callous from the trigger of the rod handle had softened from my time in Montana...I had to scrounge a rotten t-shirt hanging on a limb, cut a strip from it, and wrap around the finger to be able to keep fishing without hurting every cast, and especially every time I set the hooks.  One good book finished while lying in the tent.  Yep...successful trip!

the river is dropping fairly quickly but still about twice it's normal flow . still muddy to off color with some clarity in slower water near shore . temps high 60's . 

weather has been great, not even an old curmudgeon can complain about it . 

At one point , singlespins over and around the under developed water willow beds at a nice steady pace was the ticket . The next time you could not buy a bite on singlespins . Chatterbaits and rattlebaits over and around the beds did catch smallmouth and channelcats.
Rattlebaits worked both directions on the current seams also produced . A jig/pig bounced downstream past the current break produced the two nicest smallmouth of that trip .

Next trip ,I could not buy a bite around the waterwillow cover . However creekmouths and the front edge of riffles produced a lot of smallmouth in a wide variety of sizes . The only lure that produced was a hard jerkbait, mostly three turns of the reel handle , two jerks and repeat . Most of the fish pounded it on the jerks. The only other thing that worked was to jerk it down and let it deadstick with the current . The only indication you got of a bite was to see the line start doing something different, i never felt a pickup. The biggest smallmouth of the trip went for that approach . 

It really feels good to being getting back into the swing of things .Healthwise , I'm feeling much better, that will likely change in July when I start radiation and chemo combined . 

I will survive . 

The music menu for the trips has been varied , Grateful Dead, Led Zepplin , James Taylor and the original Chicago Transit Authority [ Poem 58 being the favorite].

Peace

Please, use it all you want Mitch. I'm not embarrassed at all. 
And while you're at it, please complete the story. Tell Rick how it was the RS bully, Josh I think it was, that I called out for giving grief and calling a 12 year old kid names for asking what is a simple question to us but was all new to him. He went well over the top on that kid. Don't just tell part of the story that you think justifies what you do. 

I certainly don't know the outward difference between a Syrian Christian, a Syrian Muslim, and a Syrian Jew.  Many Americans are profoundly ignorant about the world around them- Sikhs and Indians are routinely misidentified as Muslims. 75%+ of Muslims aren't Arab.  I have to routinely remind friends and coworker Bosnians are neither Russian nor Christian.  I have a friend from Madrid, and I've watched people's tone, attitude, and body language change when he opens his mouth and speaks in a Spanish accent instead of Middle Eastern. I have another friend from Tunisia everyone assumes is from Memphis because they don't "sound African."  If we were good at identifying terrorists (or even identifying Muslims) it'd be one thing- but most Americans are so clueless about the religion and its demographics they could point out a Muslim on the street only a fraction of the time.  It'd be hysterical, except our position in the world means our ignorance has consequences for millions of others. 
 
Growing up where I did, when I did, I went to school with Muslim refugees Iranians, with Pakistanis, with Somalis and Kenyans.  They went to class, they got decent grades, they played soccer, they were on the football team, they swam, they ran track.  Turns out they were just people, there wasn't anything inherently awful or evil about them.
Grade school through high school I had classes with Bosnian refugees- while I was in third grade learning multiplication their houses were being shelled.  They were survivors of genocide- they witnessed bombings, executions, hangings.  Six, eight, ten year old kids- if they were lucky they didn't have to actually watch their parents, grandparents, extended family killed.  They were not the instigators of violence.  They were not the perpetrators of violence.  they were the victims of violence. 
It's not a joke, it's not something to be treated cavalierly. Human beings are not M&M's.  Stripping people of their humanity makes a facile argument easier to defend.  It makes unjustifiable behavior seem justifiable.  That's why at various points in history we've reduced other human beings to numbers on a page, on a uniform, or on a forearm.  Refusing candy because one may be poison sounds pragmatic.  Allowing the entire population of Branson to be executed because one resident may be a terrorist is psychopathic.  The math doesn't change, but removing the human element certainly makes the decision easier to stomach.  The only difference between you and a Syrian refugee is that you're not a Syrian refugee, and that's simply a product of random chance. You won the effin' lottery when you were born here instead of there.  Don't mistake that blind, dumb luck as meaning you're any more valuable, more meaningful, or more irreplaceable than any other human being.  You're just lucky.
The world's a risky place whether we do something or do nothing, and we're going to be threatened by terrorism whether we accept zero refugees or ten refugees or a thousand or a million.  Your parents understood that- they were willing to fight and sacrifice and die for the cause that all human lives are of inherent worth.  They accepted European refugees when asked.  They accepted Russian refugees.  They accepted Jewish refugees, not knowing the full extent of what was going on in Germany.  You guys don't have the same luxury of ignorance. You guys can rationalize it however you like, what you're saying is you're willing to compromise the welfare of 10,000 people for a 0.0001% reduction in your perceived sense of risk. 
 
 
I can't think of a better definition of cowardice. 
 
 
 

Knowing what we know now about the wars that were started and how our vets are treated.....How can you think poorly of draft dodgers?   
Seems to me that they were considerably smarter in hindsight.

Who cares???......I want more 18+ fish 

The polite past you crave also had dead black men hanging from trees. 
 

20+ miles away on the opposite side of a big lake ?    
I just really doubt that.   Even if they do concentrate on getting back "home" that equals up to alot of fish wandering around trying to find their way, and NOT behaving in any kind of a normal/predictable manner.   
I just don't see the purpose of it anymore.  This is 2016 for Christ sake, we either need to find a better way to score tournaments, or stop allowing 200+ of them every year on every lake.

Not trying to pick on you Magicwormman but statements like these always crack me up. Going to church every Sunday does not automatically make someone a good person. Some of the biggest turds in society can be found carrying a bible.

Spent a few days at Ray Eye's fall turkey camp on the Big Piney. No turkeys bagged, but Doc loved the view from the overlook.

You are sensationalizing.   I dont hate the things they do, but if I did that really wouldn't be a big deal cuz they don't DO much of anything around here besides cut grass and drive around looking at things (probably just verifying that the grass got cut).  

Not all reservoir/upstream relationships are the same.  Smallmouth that would migrate to and from Norfork have to cover a long stretch of marginal smallmouth habitat (water too cold from the big springs that begin the trout section).  I imagine some do, but not many.  More may migrate down and up Bryant Creek, but chances are that most smallies on upper North Fork simply migrate as far as the spring water influence, if they migrate at all.
Wappapello on the St. Francis has very little smallmouth habitat, too silty.  And the smallmouth population in the river above it isn't very strong until you get up above Sam A. Baker Park.
I'm sure many smallmouth migrate from the James to Table Rock.  Probably quite a few run up and down some of the smaller streams feeding Table Rock and Bull Shoals.  But they are entering lakes that already have significant resident smallmouth populations, unlike those on Black River.  That might make some kind of difference.  A bigger difference, however, is that Table Rock and Bull Shoals fish have a vast amount more lake to spread out into.  Black River fish winter in a very small portion of Clearwater, which isn't a big lake anyway.
As for MDC, I think they've accomplished quite a bit; I don't see them as being do-nothings, and I wouldn't send that idiot Jason Smith a check if he had a gun to my head.  I want NO part of encouraging him to meddle in their affairs.  I might not be happy about their assumptions and mindset, and I'd like them to do more, but they could be a lot worse..

It makes no difference who you are, what you're fishing from, what derby you may or may not be fishing, what the heck your silly jersey has on it or how many Power Poles you might have on your rig --- if you get to a spot and someone else is fishing there, in a kayak or a 40-foot cabin cruiser, you wave and move on to your next spot. We have people on the lake these days --- and elsewhere in public places --- that need to be placed on house arrest until they learn some dang manners.

SMA: Smallmouth Bass Management Area
That's the thing. It's not science, or money, or fishermen input, or gigging, or any of those things. Actually, it's quite simple. Not easy, but simple.
The key word is "Management."
It isn't done. Management implies active involvement and care taking. Setting a limit, making a rule, putting it in a wildlife code isn't management. It's just rule making. While the science may be correct, there is no follow up enforcement or personal contact or any sense that the MDC cares enough to monitor first hand the rules they implement. It's just a sign on a wooden post. Management requires reasonable attention and a sense of duty to make sure policy and goals are met to the satisfaction of those in charge. 
In other words, direct and constant human involvement in SMAs on a regular basis is required before any regulation can be considered effective.
 

It's as if they are resigning themselves to the fact that that a 20" smallmouth is an unachievable goal, that's why. We know different.  I've never seen a 100-year-old man as healthy as some of these 20 inchers that I find.