The day after the Old Pueblo TU Seminar was Halloween, and Mike Mehrer and I headed south to fish for bass. The following story from that day’s fishing will appear in two of our forthcoming books: Really Matching the Hatch II, and Stillwaters. The story will change slightly  to emphasize that aspect discussed by each book, but this is thee core of iit.

Mike Mehrer and I bounced down the dusty dirt road that led into Arivaca Lake in the mesquite savanna-lands of southern Arizona. It was Halloween day, and I had spoken the day before to the Old Pueblo Chapter of Trout Unlimited. Mike and his wife, Julia, has hosted me at their home, and Mike had graciously agreed to take me in search of bass. The small johnboat that we towed with Mike’s F250 would be a great platform from which to explore the narrow, twisting arms of the lake. We rigged quickly, and headed along the western shoreline, pitching a variety of big flies back under the overhanging limbs of the shore-side willows.

Noon found us around on the eastern shore with nothing more to show for our efforts than some good casting practice.  We eased into a narrow alley of water that curved back out of sight and began working the shoreline. Mike’s fly tangled in a patch of aquatic weeds, and his removal method left the line somewhat snarled around him and draping in the water next to the boat on his back side. Immediately a nice bass smashed the fly, fussed for the briefest moment, spit the fly, and bolted for the deep cover of the weeds. At last, a take. We were encouraged. Our shoulders squared, our casting became more purposeful, and we stared just that little bit harder at the water as the flies were retrieved, trying to will the bass to strike. But alas, nothing else happened in that back-bay.

In the next arm of the lake we saw a bass rise along the shore-side grasses, and we cast long and hard but with no evident interest from the fish. It was certainly time to eat the tuna-fish sandwiches that Mike had assembled early that morning. As we sat in the shade of the willows and mesquite, we heard a rise. Looking we saw the rings. Then another. Before our food could be choked down, we had pinpointed a half dozen fish that were rising freely, sometimes jumping clear of the water.

Obviously, they were feeding, and obviously on something abundant. Back on the water, it became evident that the bass were taking a small, light rusty brown dragonfly. The insects were highly abundant and working up and down the shorelines, wheeling tirelessly over the grasses that grew in the shallow edges. The bass were cruising along the outside of the grass, or swimming along totally within it, and jumping to seize the darting insects or to pluck them from the vegetation. I had seen this before, and had managed to catch a few fish by tossing my fly as tight to the grass as possible, even into the grass. But this was not to be a Halloween day filled with treats. The season had tricked us, and it was not to be a day for anything but the right fly.

I had arrived with a few poppers and a box of long flies that ranged through the colors from jet black to flashy white. I had not counted on selective bass eating dragonflies so late in the season, and neither had Mike. By the end of October I figured the bass would be feeding hard on minnows and leeches to bulk up for the coming cold. We unloaded the boxes on them. We tried every bass ploy that we knew, including the Popper and Dropper, only to watch the bass feed blithely on the dragons without so much as a nod to our best efforts. Finally, one small bass had pity on us and took my Icicle with a splashy grab. The barbless hook slipped out easily, and we eased the fish back into the water. It darted off swiftly with a loud “Thank you” from both of us. . Such fishy zeal, even though motivated by pity, deserved to be rewarded with a careful release and a hale and hearty farewell.

Though Mike had another take on a little popper, my small bass proved to be the only fish of the day. It was not a day without other rewards—a beautiful sky, fresh winds, a sense of exploration, and a reminder that selective feeding is selective feeding, whether it’s bass or trout, salmon or blue gills, pike or payara.  Next time, I’ll have my box of bassin’ dries as well, Halloween or not.

Mike setting up to ravage the bass of Arivaca--Ha!.

The bay where we got a serious whuppin' from Mr. and Mrs. Bass.

The bass with a tender heart that took pity on two old guys and threw itself at an Icicle..

The Icicle that even selective feeding bass couldn't resist--at least one small one, anyway.