Football
Don Wirth 19y

Harry's huge hunch!

"Charlie, I done made up my mind: This is gonna be the year I do it!" Harry pledged as we sat at the bar at Zonker's tavern sippin' the foam off our brewskis.

"Do what?" I wondered as I unscrewed the lid from the big pickled egg jar on the bar 'n' plucked me out one of the tasty treats. "Pay your bills?"

"Naw, I'm serious!" Harry retorted. "This is the year when I'm gonna catch Ol' Iron Jaw!"

Now in case you ain't followed our adventures in Bassmaster over the past three decades, Ol' Iron Jaw is the biggest, meanest bass in the state, a wily denizen of Belly Button Bayou what has eluded Harry time after time. Harry is absolutely obsessed with catchin' it, and I swear, worryin' about it has affected his mind — sorta the same way Capt. Ahab went crazy chasin' after that big white whale in that Moby Dick yarn.

"And what makes you so certain your golden moment has arrived?" I wondered. "You ain't seen that dad-blame fish for three or four years now. For all you know, she's dead, or some tourist with a spincast outfit caught her."

"Charlie, a backcountry bassin' man like me just knows these things," Harry explained. "I got a huge hunch my luck is about to change!"

"Sorta like I got a huge hunch I'm gonna get stuck with this bar tab?" I sighed as I slapped down a five-spot. "C'mon, let's split! If we're goin' fishin' in the mornin', we gotta get our tackle ready!"

The alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. When I stumbled downstairs to brew a pot of coffee, Harry was standin' outside the door, pacin' like an alleycat. "Hurry up, Charlie!" he grumbled when I let him in. "We gotta hit the water pronto! It's Saturday, 'n' I don't want all them weekend warriors gettin' there ahead of me!"

"Relax!" I humored him. "Ol' Iron Jaw's way too smart to bite just any ol' lure. She's hunkered down next to her favorite stump right now, just waitin' for you to toss her that spinnerbait with the big blades that she likes so much!" Harry had hung the behemoth bass twice before on his homemade spinner, what has tandem blades the size of hubcaps and throws out enough vibrations to jar his fillings loose.

We arrived at the Bayou shortly before sunup and slid our trusty johnboat into the murky waters. Harry climbed aboard, sat down and plopped a big accordion file folder on his lap. "What's that?" I wondered. "And, are there any donuts inside it?"

"This is a complete file of articles pertainin' to giant basses and the catchin' thereof, ripped from the mile-high stack of fishin' magazines in my basement!" Harry announced proudly as he shined his flashlight on the contents. "I got 'em all cross-tabulated so's I can instantly pick out the ones dealin' with the conditions we is facin' right now! I figure that armed with this much knowledge, there's no way Ol' Iron Jaw can escape me!"
"I think you need to pull out the article on how to deal with mental delusions when fishin'!" I laughed. "Harry, you is takin' this lunker pursuit way too serious! Basses the size of Ol' Iron Jaw ain't never caught as a result of advance plannin' . . . it's always just a happy accident! How else can you explain the fact that nine times out of 10, tourists, kids 'n' total novices are the only ones what ever catches them great ol' big 'uns?"

"Pish-tosh!" Harry snorted. "Just you wait 'n' see — I's gonna outsmart that big momma bass on my own terms!"

The sun crept over the horizon and Harry searched through his file folder for guidance on what to do next. Me? I just started chunkin' a big ol' scuppernong Jelly Worm like I always does. "Aha, here it is!" Harry said excitedly. " 'Lunkers at Daybreak' by J. Farnsworth Pfeffermunster, OutdoorLife, May 1952! Hmmmm . . . the author suggests casting a Heddon Surface Minny close to cattails and bulrushes within the first 30 minutes of daylight!"

"That's just peachy, except for the fact that (a) there ain't no cattails or bulrushes in Belly Button Bayou, and (b) you ain't got a Heddon Surface Minny 'cause they ain't been manufactured for 75 years!" I explained.

Just then a bass boat roared around the corner at breakneck speed, sped toward us, turned at the last minute and drenched us with a wall of water! "My files!" Harry moaned as his articles dissolved.

"Mornin' boys!" Wilbur Wangle, Harry's arch rival, said as he idled back around us. "How d'ya like my new hot rod bass rig?"

"You idiot, you ruint my lunker bass files! I oughta —"

"Harry's hell-bent on catchin' Ol' Iron Jaw once and for all, and he thought searchin' through his vast archives of fishin' magazines for lunker tips might give him the upper hand," I explained to Wilbur.

"Why, that's the stupidest thing I ever heard!" Wilbur guffawed.

"You wouldn't think so if you could read!" Harry shot back.

"Well, maybe I'll just go out and catch Ol' Iron Jaw myself!" Wilbur sneered. "I got a wall at my fillin' station that'd be just perfect for a lunker bass mount!" And with that, he took off down the lake like he was shot out of a cannon.

Harry tore open his tacklebox and tied on his big spinnerbait. "Head for that stump flat up in Dingleberry Creek, Charlie! My hunch tells me that's where Ol' Iron Jaw is a-waitin'!"

We arrived at the honey hole, only to find Wilbur workin' it over good with a big divin' crankbait! "Hey, Ugly!" Harry hissed. "Get outa my spot!"

"First come, first served!" Wilbur retorted.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah!"

Wilbur's crankbait bumped off a stump and his rod buckled nearly in two. "Thar she blows!" he cried jubilantly. A 7-pounder leaped from the water and threw the plug. "Did you see that monster?"

"Baloney, that was a midget compared to the sow I's about to hang!" Harry replied — and darned if somethin' big 'n' ornery didn't smack his spinnerbait on the very first cast! He worked it alongside the boat 'n' lipped the lunker, a fat 9-pounder. "Woo-wee! Whaddaya think of that, Wilbur?"

Wilbur didn't answer 'cause he was hard into another big fish. This one ripped drag as it surged around his bass rig; he swung it aboard and it weighed 12-2 on his De-Liar. "How 'bout them apples?" he grinned.

This competition with Wilbur, combined with his "huge hunch" about catchin' Ol' Iron Jaw, had Harry worked up into a fever pitch. He made a long cast onto the stumpflat with his hard-thumpin' spinnerbait, raised his rod to get the blades turnin' good, and instantly a bass smacked it! It jumped skyward, thrashin' and carryin' on. "That poor fish is only 'bout 3 pounds!" Wilbur chuckled. "With all the lunkers on this here flat, cain't you do no better than that?"

Harry was reelin' in the bass when, out of nowhere, a humongous wake appeared on the surface! Next thing ya know, his pool-cue rod was loaded up to the max and the drag on his trusty red baitcastin' reel was spittin' sparks! "What th—" he sputtered. That's when it happened: the waters parted and the biggest bass in the Bayou shot out of the water, gills rattlin', and crashed back down like a Buick fallin' off a bridge!

"Great jumpin' Jehosophat!" I sputtered in disbelief. "It's Ol' Iron Jaw!"

The record-class bass, having swallowed Harry's 3-pounder like a bon-bon, was steamrollin' off the flat and headin' for deep water. Harry knew exactly what he had on the end of his line, and was doin' his absolute best to deal with it. "Remain calm!" he told himself aloud, remembering the advice from an article entitled "How to Land Trophy Bass" by Claude Fingerhut in the June 1961 issue of Sports Afield.

"Here, lemme help ya land that hawg!" Wilbur allowed, net in hand. Just then Ol' Iron Jaw changed directions, bulldozed under Wilbur's trolling motor and — KER-POW! Harry's line parted.

Harry went ballistic. "You #$%&!" he croaked. "You cut my line with your @#$% trollin' motor!"

"Tweren't my fault!" Wilbur claimed innocently. "I was just tryin' to help out a friend!"
Harry was silent during the drive home. "Y'know, if you really think about it, losin' Ol' Iron Jaw ain't a total tragedy," I offered, tryin' to cheer him up. "Leastways you proved you don't need nothin' but your country-fried bassin' instincts and a little luck to catch the biggest bass what swims! Besides that, seein' as how Ol' Iron Jaw escaped, you still has somethin' to look forward to!"

"You is right, good buddy!" Harry replied. "I really does have something to look forward to: murderin' that #$%^ Wilbur!"

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