Last week my wife Hanna took her first fishing trip without me, meeting up with her lady angler friends from Tennessee and Wisconsin at Kentucky Lake. It’s a renowned tournament venue, mostly for its summer offshore ledge fishing, but they were there during the “yellow flower” bite and it promised to be a shallow water slugfest.
While they had some success, Mother Nature ultimately won the battle. Hanna’s group slugged it out through heavy winds and torrential rains, but they wisely drew the line when lightning showed up. Each of their two full days on the big pond they had to make the retreat due to approaching electricity and buzzing graphite.
Anyone with half a brain who fishes a lot has been in the same position. What do you do when you’re in a fishing town and fishing isn’t on the immediate agenda? Some people would go eat. Others would go drink. Some might take a nap. Personally, I’d look for a tackle shop, and in a tournament town like Paris, Tennessee I bet I’d find a few good ones. Hanna had learned to fish under my tutelage, so I assumed that she’d do the same. When she called that second afternoon and said that they’d gotten chased off the lake, I asked what they’d done, fully expecting that she’d tell me about some great local swimbait she’d found, or about a stash of old Wiggle Warts she’d rescued from the closeout bin.
“How was your afternoon?” I asked.
"Good. We went shopping,” she replied.
“That’s my girl,” I thought to myself, then asked hopefully, “Where did you go?”
“The shoe outlet.” My hopes were dashed. I guess I need to take my victories for what they are. We all have addictions of our own.