As I wait for the first tournament of the 1996-97 B.A.S.S. Central Division season on the Arkansas River, I cannot help but think back to my first B.A.S.S. event ever, this same tournament one year ago. Some lessons in tournament fishing come gently. Others hit you over the head with a jig rod. Mine came the hard way.

In practice that year, my traveling partner and I had located an area loaded with bass. Not just fish, but quality fish, the kind that make an angler think he can box 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. That was the plan.

The drawback was distance.

Those fish were about 65 miles from tournament headquarters, and getting to them meant locking through two separate locks on the river. Each one took roughly 30 minutes, so I was staring at close to two hours of travel time one way. That is a serious commitment in a tournament, but the rumor was that a lot of the field was making the run and finding success with the limited fishing time they had once they got there. The trade-off was supposed to be worth it because those far-off areas received far less pressure.

I had every intention of making the run if my partner did not win the coin toss.

In B.A.S.S. competition, once you meet your partner, you flip a coin to decide whose boat you take and whose fish you visit first. My first-day partner was from New Jersey, and to his credit, he was perfectly willing to make the long run. So off we went.

We left with our flight, put the hammer down, and began the long haul. Two locks and two hours later, we finally pulled into my area. I dropped the trolling motor in a hurry and started fishing. I made a few casts, then eased up to a big laydown. I ran a spinnerbait down both sides of the tree, letting it flutter as it reached the end of the log.

Nothing.

So I picked another target and cast again.

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

Now, two thoughts hit me at once.

First, I was amazed that the fish had not eaten my spinnerbait, because I knew that bass had just seen it. Second, this fellow was now catching my fish.

We kept working through the area, and he caught two more quality fish on that jig, fishing right behind me in water I had already covered. At that point I came completely off my game plan. I put down the spinnerbait and tied on the exact same jig he was throwing.

That was mistake number one.

Soon we pulled up to a big treetop lying in the water right against the bank. I had the perfect angle on it, so I made ten careful pitches into every nook, cranny, pocket, and branch I could reach.

Nothing.

So I chose another target and made another cast.

That “guy” pitched right into the same tree and set the hook. A good fish came thrashing up, tangled in the limbs and hanging below a branch. I hit the trolling motor and crashed us right into the tree. Not to knock the fish off, of course. At least that is what I told myself. I was only trying to get close enough to reach it.

I did, and by then he had four solid fish in the livewell.

I backed off that tree after banging through the limbs, clattering around with the trolling motor, and basically disturbing every fish in the county. Then I decided I had better make a few more casts into it anyway. I flipped to it several more times, but by then I was convinced that if another fish was still in there, it was either too spooked to bite or smart enough to leave.

So I moved on to another tree.

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

Another three-pounder.

At that point my mind left the building.

From then on, I was what can only be described as a full-blown fishing fruitcake.

I somehow managed to catch one keeper before we had to head back, just enough to avoid blanking, but I can assure you that fish was caught more by accident than skill. Mentally, I was in another zip code altogether, kicking rocks and carrying around the kind of fat lip only a bass fisherman can understand.

Days two and three went about the same way, and I finished way, way down in the standings.

It took me a while to look back on that tournament clearly and understand what all I had actually learned. One lesson, of course, was how it feels to get absolutely waxed by your partner on your own fish. That one was not hard to remember. But with a little time, the whole thing began to take on a more humorous cast. The sting faded, and the education remained.

Looking back now, I can see that I might have helped myself a lot by staying more tuned in, more aware, and more committed to my own strengths. Instead, I let another angler’s success pull me completely off balance. That is a costly mistake in tournament fishing. The fish are hard enough to catch without letting your own head get in the way.

So now, as I prepare to head back to the Arkansas River in the third week of this month, I do so with a little more experience and a much better idea of what not to do. Sometimes that is almost as valuable as knowing what to do.

With a little luck, and with those old rookie mistakes still fresh enough in memory to keep me honest, maybe this time the Arkansas River will treat me a little better.

Then again, if it does not, I will probably get another good story out of it.