rps

Good advice above. If you must have a cast and reel back lure, in-line spinners work well in fast water. Of course with high water you won't see riffles at Redbud Shoals (above Rim Shoals trophy area and below Cotter) or at Ranchette. I am partial to gold and to pink. BTW, my favorite stretch of the river is Cotter to Ranchette. White Hole and Sportsman Hole are good, especially for browns, but I've always caught larger bows below Cotter.

Check out Lee Creek down toward Fort Smith.

You are not alone. While I have caught a few nice fish, the numbers are way down this year for me on TR. Part of it is the fact the fish were hanging in the submerged brush and trees all June. In 2008, the same thing happened and I thought the top water fishing was miserable that year as well. The other part has been the weird weather. The burn ban is on here despite the Spring floods.

@glennL - I do get hung up. Some days alot, other days just some. I back the boat up to the far side of the hang, put on a glove, and exert a steady pull until the hooks bend out or the line breaks. Half the time I get the bait back. As a result I have a very large number of cranks, and Bass Pro and Cabelas send me the fancy hard bound catalogs. @Martin - The 10/2 Power Pro probably tests out at twice its rating. If I were to switch to 15/4, I would have to carry a strong young man in the boat to break me off when I got hung up.

I did not go out early this morning. I needed to talk with the painting contractor working on my house. I left the marina at 9:15 intent on trolling for walleye. I marked many fish suspended at 14/15 feet. I decided to use information posted by Powerdive and by Mike Worley and flatlined a number 8 Storm Thundercrank - - on 115 feet of PowerPro 10/2 line. The bait ran right at 18 feet deep. I wanted it just below the suspended baitfish. I fished cedar stickups in 24 to 28 feet of water on a shelf flat that adjoins the river channel. This meant the bait was periodically nicking and bouncing off tree limbs. I caught a 19 inch walleye on my second pass and a 26 inch, 5 and 1/2 pound fish on the fourth. On the sixth pass I was hit by a third fish. 29 and 1/2 inches, ten pounds even. I quit then. I figured it would be vain and greedy to try a close out the limit. I was back at the marina at 11:15.

Well written and thank you. So many know so little - not that they wish to be ignorant - and writings such as these are invaluable.

Excellent suggestions all. Any others?

I've read several reviews that seem intelligently written. Here is a link to one: http://www.bigindianabass.com/big_indiana_bass/2011/06/nanofil-line-review.html Other forum discussions range from quality information to rants by dissatisfied Pure Fishing customers. Tackle Tour - IMHO one of the most reliable sources for reviews - has not yet done a review. Most of the other magazine "reviews" so far are the new product/quote the press release/curry favor with the big company variety. I'm staying with PowerPro until something proves itself superior. BTW, I have not found the need for fishing with a leader for walleye (my primary braid use) but I also don't use larger than 10# braid with a 2# diameter.

We don't want you to give away your honey holes, but any description of techniques and generalized type of structure is always welcome.

I have been seriously considering flattening the barbs on my bass lures. Every once in a while, an easy to remove hook would help the odds for the fish to survive unhooking. In addition, with as many self inflicted sticks as I have suffered in the last several years, I have to admit it would be easier on me. I have mashed barbs in the past for trout fishing. So here is the question: How does everyone debarb once the size reaches 4 or 2 or larger? Do you mash? Do you file?

I once posted a request for a stone barbeque pit plans. After more investigation (money, time, etc.) I bought a Weber Bullet to stand beside my Weber kettle. Right now I have 8 pounds of spice rubbed beef brisket smoking in charcoal and hickory at 225. I will put together a potato salad and some dilled cucumber slices this afternoon. Which leads me to the reason for this post. What are your favorite "sides" with grilled or smoked meats? Are you willing to post recipes for these?

Every once in a while I attempt to finish a writing to a publisher standards. What follows is one of those attempts. Growing Up The year I was five, my mother and father started looking for a new house. Danni was three; Amanda was one. The place we lived wasn’t large enough. I remember riding around with them as they looked. One place we looked was a corn field just off South Lewis. It was over a mile outside the Tulsa city limits. The next summer mother and father moved us to a new house on the new street in that corn field. We were not the first family in the addition; we were the second. Several other houses were under construction. The new addition was popular. Lewis was, and still is, a major North-South street in Tulsa. For my first birthday in the new house, I got my first bike. Father spent the time needed to teach me to ride, and then the parents set the rules. I could go anywhere on the bike, provided I did not cross Lewis, 51st or 61st Streets. Joe Creek diagonally cut the section of land within those limits and made the fourth boundary. I was expected to behave and to be back for dinner time. Their rules left me nearly 320 acres to explore and terrorize. About half, mostly to the North, was housing. To the South the land was more rural with two farmhouses, barns, sheds, and fields. Along the creek, scrub oak, grapevine, and underbrush formed a forest. This became my world. Their boundaries were really not a limit I felt. Jeff Cope and I built forts, caught snakes, and did boy things. The scar on his forehead marked the time I jumped from a ledge to catch a branch. The branch broke and smacked him square in the face. As time passed, I became obsessed with fishing the creek. I charted the numbers of perch and catfish I caught. As I grew older, the cornfields began to disappear. New houses popped up in their place. To fish unspoiled creek, I had to go farther each year. Eventually, I had to go under the bridges where Joe Creek crossed Lewis and 61st Street. Each bridge had a path along which I could walk or push the bike. I do not remember how it happened, but, eventually, my parents found out I was fishing on the wrong side of Lewis. My father had an incredible temper. It didn’t come out often, but it was scary beyond belief. I explained that I had not broken the rules. I never crossed Lewis or 61st; I went under them. My mother laughed, but that only made Father madder yet. That was not a good evening. Not long after that, my parents sat me down and set new rules for me. I was allowed beyond both 61st to the South and Lewis to the West. However, I had to check with one of them before I went; if I was on my bike, I had to walk it across; no aimless wandering; and all of the other rules about behaving applied double. My new kingdom seemed boundless again. I was grown up. From my old home, Joe Creek meanders South and East for six miles before it enters the Arkansas River. I fished every hole in the river. My parents understood. When Tommy Meason got knocked down on Lewis by a car, I was afraid they would change the rules. He was a kid who lived two houses up the street from us. He wasn’t with me when he got hit, but I was sure it would make Mother uneasy. That night mother and father talked about it at the dinner table. When Father asked how Tommy was, mother told him he would be fine: “Betty said he’s just like his father, and he landed on his head so he wasn’t hurt.” From then on, when I checked with mother before I left, she would tell me, “Be careful crossing Lewis.” She expected an answer, too. After I turned 16, I passed my driver’s test and got my license. I did not have a car and when I drove I used my mother’s Rambler American station wagon. It was clearly the slowest and ugliest car driven by anyone I knew. However, it was better than nothing as it moved the boundaries farther still. I was grown. The new rules: I had to ask permission and the parents had to know where I was going and why. Each time as she handed me the keys, she continued her habit from before and warned me of Lewis. Mother and father insisted they drive me to college for my first year. Once we unloaded and unpacked, father was impatient to be on the road. On the other hand, mother had a prepared speech she needed to give. Father waited while she lectured, “Write. Study. Don’t drink too much. Be careful crossing Lewis.” Sometime after I was at school, mother and I began to talk by phone late at night after father went to bed. We covered many topics and little was out of bounds. My two favorite dirty jokes of all time are ones she told me during talks. I didn’t realize it at the time, but somewhere I really had grown up. During the fall break of my senior year, I took Nancy home with me. Mother and I had a late nighter during that visit and she eventually asked about Nancy. I talked about this, about that, and about how I admired Nancy. Mother always read me better than I read myself. At the end of the talk about Nancy, she concluded with an enigmatic, “Well, be careful crossing Lewis.” After graduate school, Nancy and I moved back to Tulsa. We went to work; we had children; we went about living, all at that impossible pace only young people can maintain. Every month or two mother and I would stay up late and talk. Some times those talks became a way for me to talk about frustrations and worries, or ask advice. My mother offered advice whether I asked or not, often from the “Get over it” school of tough love. Sometimes she made constructive suggestions. From time to time a gleam would come to her eye and she would use her phrase. When mother got the cancer, it seemed like she was confined to bed and on heavy drugs the next week. I will always admire the unflinching, honest way she faced her own death, but near the end we never knew if we were talking to her or the drugs. Sister Danni came up from Houston and stayed at the house. Every day I visited father in his nursing home and mother at home. I cannot fathom how Danni endured. On my last visit before the night she died, mother didn’t say anything. I sat for a while, musing. When I rose to leave, she tried to say something. I could not hear her. I bent down and she tried again, “Be careful crossing Lewis.” I told her I would and left. It was sometime later that I finally figured out, given the circumstances, the answer I should have given was, “You, too, mom.”

In 2008 I managed to hook myself while topwater fishing alone. Below is the original post I put up the next day on the Ozark Anglers forum. OK. I apologize in advance for the bad typing. I went out after the rain around 4:30 PM. The wife was at the Green Forest high school graduation - she teaches there - and I figured the rain and cloud cover would have the fish shallow. Turns out I was right. The fish were shallow. Between 4:30 and 7:30 I caught 7 LM. 20, 18, 15, 15, 17.5, 12, 19.5 inches. Estimate best five were more than 18 pounds but less than 19. All came on a customized original size, silver black Zara spook. Best day in many many many trips. After I netted the last fish, I was dreaming of more as I tried to unhook the fish. Of course the bait tangled in the net, so I tried to unhook the bait from the net first. Then I could unhook and measure the fish. The fish flopped hard. Suddenly, the 2x Gamakatsu Round Bend #2 treble I installed on the bait was buried in my right index finger near the first joint. Shucks. Darn. Golly. Fish flopped again and another barb caught the life jacket I was wearing. Double darn. I used my left hand (Did I mention I am very right handed?) to slide my pants knife out of my pocket and somehow opened the thing one handed with my left hand. I then sawed my bait out of my life jacket. Next I concentrated on unhooking the bait from the net. Every time the fish flopped, I explained in a calm voice how her efforts were counter productive. If she would lie still, I promised to release her as quickly as I could. Have you ever noticed that females don't listen? After forever, I got the bait out of the net. I bit the line to take the rod out of the equation. My dentist will just have to understand. Down to her and me, I used my needle nose to get her loose. I did measure her, as well as I could with a Zara Spook in my hand, before I turned her loose. Resigned to quitting before the bite ended, I used my left hand to pull and secure the trolling motor, turned the key in my boat, and headed home. As I approached the slip at Holiday Island, new difficulties appeared. The boat I have is not responsive at slow speed. The slip I have requires a dogleg left at the last minute. I was excited and hurting. Things went awry. I put the boat in neutral and went forward to keep the bow from slamming onto the right post of my slip. I used my left hand and arm since my right was occupied. The boat kissed the slip post soundly. Ok. So there I was in the water. I had my left hand on the gunnel and grabbed for the dock with my right. Shucks. Darn. Golly. The right the hand was still full of hooks. That didn't work well. Somehow I got the boat in the slip. Next I had to try and figure how to get in the boat or up on the dock with only one hand. That was a job for trained professionals. Don't try it at home, kids. It took nearly twice as long as usual to tie off the boat, plug in the air pump and raise the boat, put the rods in my carrier, plug in the battery charger, and do all those other right handed things. Then I walked up to the car. Just as I got there, my slip neighbor pulled up. Where was he when I needed help in the water? He was headed out and wanted to know if they were biting. He didn't even ask why I was standing there dripping lake water with a Zara Spook in my right hand. I will call tomorrow and apologize for telling him jigs at 20'. I drove to the emergency room in my stick shift car. Pause for a moment and think about cars. Besides the stick shift, try to imagine putting on your seat belt and turning the car on with a fist full of Zara Spook. I walked in the ER door, lake water draining onto their nice clean floor, and walked up to the counter. Without looking up, the person at the counter slapped a clip board with a form in front of me and said, "Fill that out." I explained to her, in that same calm voice I used with the fish, that she was being insensitive and uncaring. After all, how would she feel if I had had a farm accident and was carrying my own severed arm? I must not have impressed the counter lady. She stuck me in a little cold room. Thirty shivering minutes later this teenager in scrubs wanders in. I started to tell him I didn't need my bedpan changed, but he introduced himself as the doctor. Young Doctor Kildare thought my story was the best he had heard in forever. Several times he had to stop trying to take care of my hand because he was laughing so hard. Do you suppose the hours they keep make them punchy? I got home around 10:30. The wife, without looking up, said "How was your fishing trip? A very good friend who has published 5 or 6 books, Larry Yadon, read the story and suggested I turn it into a Field and Stream type story. Over the space of several months, with his help, I reworded the story. What follows is the revised version. Shucks. Darn. Golly I love to fish topwater baits, and beyond argument, the Zara Spook is my favorite. Bass don’t bite them. They explode on them, crush them, or create sudden, trashcan sized whirlpools to suck them under. You can never predict or anticipate a hit. You must have icy nerve control not to set the hook too soon. I spend hours custom painting Spooks; changing the standard hooks for expensive, black steel, oversize, acid sharpened trebles; and tying on white and red feathers. I prefer the four and a half inch original size and would rather “walk the dog” than fish any other way. As with all obsessions, there are occasional consequences. Late last May we had a fierce, but brief, afternoon thundershower just as I let my eighth graders out. As I drove home the storm cleared. Nancy, my wife, was not due for some time. She had to attend graduation at the high school where she taught. I decided to go fishing. I’ve often had luck following showers. I was right. The fish were shallow and active. Almost immediately I hooked a good largemouth on one of my Spooks. In the next three hours I caught six more keepers. The best five would have weighed more than eighteen pounds. It was my best day in many trips. Better yet, one of my custom Spooks accounted for them all. When I landed the seventh fish, it was nearly as large as the first, almost five pounds. Naturally the bait tangled in the net. A Zara Spook always tangles in the net. I reached to untangle it. As I worked to free the fish and bait from the net, the bass flopped hard and buried the Size 2, Round Bend, UltraPoint, Gamakatsu directly and deeply into the first joint of my right index finger. Shucks. Darn. Golly. I bent close to the fish and net to get a better look at the damage. Before I could react, the fish flopped harder still and hooked the other treble in my life jacket. Faster than I can explain it, the fish, the net, the life jacket and I were now all hooked on the same Zara Spook. By the time my nerves settled enough to begin solving the problems, my finger was truly hurting. I remarked my displeasure another time and began to sort things out. I disconnected the rod and reel by biting the line. My dentist would just have to understand. Then I snaked my left hand into my right pants pocket for my knife. My left hand has zero coordination, but I somehow got the knife out and opened with one hand. Sawing the bait from the life jacket was next. In the mean time, the fish flopped and wanted loose. Between expressions of discomfort, I tried to explain to her that she was not helping. Have you noticed that females often do not listen? I was tempted to use the knife on the net as well, but the good nets with long handles and rubberized netting cost more than I wanted to spend twice. I did not want to cut it up just to get loose. After several minutes of fumbling, left hand work, the bait came free from the webbing. Now we were free from the net, but the fish and I shared the same treble. To free fish you normally just jerk the hook backwards. That meant I would be jerking a honking large hook buried in my hand. I had to find a better way. I decided I needed my pliers. Where were they? They weren’t in the holder I had specifically installed on the boat to hold them. Oh - they were on the front boat deck where I used them on the previous fish. The upset and flopping fish and I went forward to retrieve them. I reminded the fish of our earlier discussion. Pliers in hand, I tried several approaches. All seemed to drive the hook more firmly into my finger joint. The only solution was to hold the spook in my right hand and jerk the hook from the fish at the same time and in the same direction as I moved the Spook. At first, the fish refused to lie still enough. Yet more discussion. Eventually, after several painful attempts, I got the fish, the pliers, and hand jerk coordinated and yanked the bait from the fish. I put her back in the lake. Good riddance. Now free of everything else, I looked more closely at the finger. The point was embedded straight down into the joint. The push through method wasn’t going to work without professional help. There was more daylight and the fish were biting, but my day was ended and I wasn’t happy. As the boat approached my slip at the marina, new problems became obvious. My boat is not very responsive at slow speed. Docking the boat requires a last instant dog leg left with a simultaneous wheel turn and throttle adjustment. That evening I was hurting and one handed. I cut the motor and turned the wheel. It was clear the boat would hit the post at the side of my slip. I scurried forward to fend off the collision. I reached across my body with my left hand and pushed. The boat still kissed the post soundly - too soundly. The water was chilly but surprisingly warm for May. I was glad I hadn’t taken my life vest off when I was hooked to it. Instinctively, I reached for the dock and the boat rail with each hand. Shucks. Double Darn. The right one was still impaled. Hanging left handed from the boat rail, I kicked until I could maneuver the boat in the slip. Next I slithered and leveraged myself up the dock cross beams until I was out of the water. It took nearly twice as long as usual to tie off the boat, plug in the air pump and raise the boat, load the rods in my carrier, plug in the battery charger, and do all those other right handed things. I sloshed up to the truck. Just as I arrived, Bill, the guy with the slip next to me drove up. Where was he when I was in the water? As he got out, he asked me if the fish were biting. He didn’t ask about the wet clothes or the Zara Spook in my hand. He only asked what they were hitting. I later called and apologized for telling him they were taking jigs at twenty feet. Once I was in the truck, the challenges just kept coming. The engineers who designed manual transmission cars and trucks did not envision my predicament. Drivers use their right hands to put on their seatbelts. The key switch is on the right hand side of the steering column. The shifter is made for right hands. Each of these facts does not allow for a big hook deep in your finger and a bulky plastic lure dangling from that hook. The hospital was only about ten miles away, but those ten miles were hilly, two lane miles with stops, starts, and downshifts. The distance seemed much longer that evening. Still wet and dripping, I entered the hospital emergency room. I waded to the counter and started to speak to the lady engrossed in her bodice ripper novel. Without looking up, she slapped a clipboard on the rail in front of me. “Fill that out.” No hello. No “How may I help you?” Just “Fill that out.” I explained to her that I couldn’t, “Fill that out.” My hand was full of hooks. Using the same calm, controlled voice I had used with the fish, I asked her if farm accident amputees had to “Fill that out.” My new, unimpressed hospital friend arranged a small, cold room for me. Thirty shivering minutes later, a teenager in scrubs came in the room. My first impulse was to tell him I didn’t need a bed pan change. It turned out he was the doctor. He looked at my hand and asked if I had caught a big one. Then he wanted to know how I managed to set the hook so well. Next he wanted to know why I was all wet. Every time I answered him, he burst into laughter. He shot my finger full of lidocaine, backed the hook up and pushed the black steel through. Smugly, he clipped the barb off and backed the bend out. When he finished, he wrapped the wound with gauze and slipped a condom over it, “to keep it dry until you get home.” Then he started cackling again. I’m sure the hours doctors spend on duty must make them punchy. I took my precious, customized Spook, now short a hook, with me when I left. Driving home was much more comfortable, but it was nearly ten thirty before I walked in my door. Without looking up, my wife asked, “Did you enjoy the fishing?" Sometime later I was able to submit the piece to an editor and it was published in January of 2011 in the Water N Woods Magazine. A copy is viewable online. I know I am no Patrick McManus, but I was very proud of the finished piece.

You gotta love that "in the way fish" concept. People on this forum would kill to catch 20" bass by any legal method. PD - he thinks they are in the way of his eyes.

PD - you are so bad. Biglerma - tell your friend we all are envious.

When I had my colonoscopy, I was not "out." The part I remember is the three mothers of my students, all younger than I, discussing me with my doctor as he performed the procedure. Small towns are interesting. Glad all is well.

That is an awesome Muskie. Had one on once when I was about 11. Scared me to death and threw the Dardevle back at me. You will find some things familiar here, and some quite different. The lower end of Table Rock is quality smallmouth water. Bull Shoals is a walleye factory, and Table Rock isn't bad. For Muskie you'll have to fish Pomme de Terre. Other facts - Bull Shoals has begun to grow a decent yellow perch population; upper end of Table Rock grows a gazillion spotted bass and a strong population of largemouth; you need to try out the trophy trout fishing on Tanneycomo and on the White River below Bull Shoals. Have you ever fished 3 acres of surfacing white bass? Welcome to the Ozarks.

ok. sounds like a plan. thanks.

I tried to access my blog and found it truly messed up. Can't figure why from this end. Any suggestions?

My recent experience has been "not very productive." Fish have not disappeared. Instead, we are all struggling to find something and somewhere to apply what we do know. Anyone who finds clues should help us all.

Since you have been here, you know how different the lake is from that to which you are accustomed. In addition, this year was a Spring flood year and the Corps has pulled the lake down from its flood peak 15 feet in the last 45 days. Naturally the "normal" patterns have been disrupted. Having said that, I can help some. The thermocline is forming/has formed in the 25 foot range. Most bass are well away from the bank out on the pea gravel flat points in the 22 - 28 foot range. Yesterday around Big M (up river from Viola))I marked bait fish at about 15 feet, I marked and caught blue gills and small bass just off the bottom around 22, and didn't connect with any of the larger marks I saw below that. On a guess, it looks to me that we are entering (later than usual this year) the drop shot period of summer. Search Bill Babler and Don House on this forum. Both guide and post accurate reports on this forum. Bill Beck has his own site and his reports are accurate as well. Captain Joe also posts good information, just not as often. A number of the regular members are outstanding at finding fish and remarkably good about sharing so check back regularly , even after you arrive here. I hope you have a great trip. BTW - Viola is a great location for relative newcomers to this lake.

FC - stirring the pot again, huh. CGB - that canoe has had a ton of miles put on it since it left here. Good.

@quillback - I caught bluegills between 18 and 27 feet. They were smaller than those of the last couple weeks.The bass I caught while worm harness fishing were also smallish. I may have been too shallow for the larger fish on the harness. Or maybe they just weren't biting well. It was the day after a storm front and the wind direction was different than the day before - both not among my favorite signs. @techo - I have had worse days as well, but not usually in mid July. I find early Spring (March) and late August more difficult. For some reason my "experience" on this lake has been misleading me this year. The same was true in 2008.

Fished the flat points between Panther and Owl Creek this morning. 4 of the 5 fish I caught would have weighed a pound if they all weighed together. The fifth fish was a largemouth, ordinary keeper size. Worn out from that excitement, I switched to walleye hunting. I tried harness and I trolled cranks. I visited many different depths between 15 and 30. I would tell you where I found them if I had. Next time will be better.