1997 Arkansas River BASS Central Division

There is nothing quite like the mix of excitement and uneasiness that comes with the first tournament of a new season.

As I look ahead to the opening event of the 1996-97 B.A.S.S. Central Division on the Arkansas River, I cannot help but think back to my first B.A.S.S. tournament ever, this very same event one year ago. It was a rough introduction, but like most hard tournament lessons, it taught me plenty.

My traveling partner and I had found an area in practice that was loaded with bass. Not just fish, but quality fish, the kind that make you feel like you ought to be able to put together an easy limit each day. In a three-day tournament, that has to be your first goal: catch a limit every day and give yourself a chance.

The problem was getting to them.

Those fish were about 65 miles from tournament headquarters, and reaching them meant locking through two dams on the river. Each lock usually took around 30 minutes, so I was looking at roughly two hours of travel time one way. That is a lot to gamble in a tournament. Still, the talk among the anglers was that several fishermen were making the run and finding success in those far-off, lightly pressured areas. I had decided I would make that run, provided my partner did not win the toss.

In B.A.S.S. events, once you meet your partner, you flip a coin to determine whose boat you will fish from and whose water you will fish first. My partner on day one was from New Jersey, and he was willing to make the run. So off we went.

We left with our flight and started that long haul upriver. Two locks and two hours later, we finally pulled into my area. I dropped the trolling motor in a hurry and got to work. After a few casts, I eased up to a big laydown and fired a spinnerbait down each side of the tree, letting it fall as it reached the end of the log.

Nothing.

So I picked another target and made another cast.

Meanwhile, my partner was flipping a jig. He pitched right into that same laydown I had just covered and set the hook. A three-and-a-half-pound bass came to the boat, and into his livewell it went.

That will get your attention.

First, I was stunned that the fish had not hit my spinnerbait, because I knew it had just seen it. Second, and worse, this fellow was catching my fish. We continued around the area, and he caught two more quality bass on that jig, fishing behind me in water I had just covered.

That is when I made my mistake.

Instead of sticking with my own game plan and keeping my head on straight, I let it get under my skin. I put the spinnerbait down and tied on the exact same jig he was throwing.

We pulled up to a big treetop lying in the water on the edge of the bank. I had a good angle on it and made around ten casts into every nook and cranny I could reach. No bite. So I picked another target and moved on.

Then this guy flips into that same treetop and sets the hook.

A solid bass was hung up in the limbs, dangling under a branch. I jumped on the trolling motor and crashed into the tree. Not trying to knock the fish off, mind you, trying to get in close enough to reach it. I did, and by then he had four solid fish in his livewell.

I backed away from that treetop, after banging every limb in it and running the trolling motor all through the cover, and figured I had better at least make a few more casts into it anyway. I did, but by then I was convinced that if there were any fish left in there, they were either gone or spooked beyond reason.

So I moved to another tree.

My partner flipped in behind me again and set the hook.

Another three-pounder.

At that point, my mind was gone.

From then on, I was a full-blown fishing fruitcake. I somehow managed to catch one keeper before we had to head back, just enough to keep from blanking that day. But that fish was more accident than strategy. Mentally, I was off in la-la land, kicking rocks and fishing with a fat lip.

Days two and three went about the same, and I ended up way, way back in the standings.

It took a while before I could really look back on that tournament and understand what it had taught me. One lesson was plain enough: do not let your partner beat you on your own fish. But the deeper lesson had more to do with composure, awareness, and discipline.

Tournament fishing can get in your head fast if you let it.

Looking back now, the whole thing is almost funny. At the time, it sure did not feel that way. But experience has a way of turning frustration into instruction, and that tournament gave me plenty to study. Maybe if I had stayed a little more tuned in, a little more aware, and a little less emotional, the outcome might have been different.

That is the thing about tournament fishing. It will expose your weaknesses in a hurry, and not all of them have anything to do with casting or lure selection.

Well, I will be back there again the third week of this month. This time I will be carrying a little more experience and a much better idea of what not to do. And if I can keep my head straight, trust my game, and get a little help from Lady Luck, maybe this trip to the Arkansas River will end a whole lot better than the first one.

Sometimes the best edge an angler can bring into a tournament is not a new lure or a secret spot.

Sometimes it is the memory of a hard lesson he does not intend to learn twice.