FanPost

What Boilers do when Sports are not in Session

Once upon a time there was a young man who packed a bag and moved to Lafayette, Indiana, the one place in the world he was able to find the employment he needed to work his way through college. The illustrious career he began that winter was a campus mainstay: Pizza Delivery. Feeding the frenzied freshmen, frat-boys and famished pharmacy students of Purdue on February nights, he somehow found time to begin his enrollment for the following fall. His future never looked so bright, and he faced the world with renewed enthusiasm... until the rigors of Pizza delivery proved too harsh on his beat up mode of transportation. By the end of May, West Lafayette had become a ghost town, and Pizza delivery had dried up for the summer.

The young man was of course me. Pony-less, companion-less, but not aimless, I changed careers to the liquor business, namely Bar Barry on the east side.I was making significantly better than minimum wage without having to fill a gas tank. The hours were great, but the town was still quiet. The one night a regular customer came in speaking of a great day of fishing. Having come from Northeast Indiana, a born fisherman like myself could not resist asking where he had been.

"Head south on US 52 to Stockwell," he said, "then go south through town on North County Road 700E." You'll cross a bridge just before you reach Darlington; just pull over to the side and start wading the stream, casting for bass."

That night I checked the area on a map, and found the name of the stream was Sugar Creek. A little research on a DNR brochure revealed the fish were not safe to eat due to farming contaminants, but nothing said I couldn't wet a line or two anyway. The following Sunday I got in my newly purchased used 4-cylinder hatchback and headed south.

Wading the stream proved easy, as the water was rarely deeper than mid-thigh. From that first bridge I decided to range downstream, where a small pool proved to hold several large-mouth in the 8-12" range, nothing to brag about, but fun all the same. I could not help but notice, however, that something kept blowing through the surface a few yards downstream. Heading in that direction I found a rock shelf I had to step onto. A mere 6" depth of water flowed over this shelf, which stretched all the way across the stream and several yards down the current. I could not see how something big enough to tear up the surface could swim across the shelf without its back sticking out of the water. Several minnows were schooling in the shallow water, and i watched as some approached the area where the hungry predator had been lurking.

The water erupted once more, and the body of a fair-sized large-mouth launched into the air. Even though I could not see how this was possible, I did not hesitate before casting my Rapala in that direction, dropping it softly into the water about ten feet past the last splash point. A slow retrieve kept the Rapala on the surface to avoid snagging the rock, and as soon as I reach the point of interest the water erupted again. In short order I had the bass in hand, removing the hooks to hold the 16" prize before me. By no means a monster, but a good fish by any measure. I set him gently in the water and watched him swim downstream, rippling the surface all the way. Striding over to where the strike had occurred, I found a hole in the shelf about the size of a bathtub, reaching a depth of about 3 feet. The bass had been hiding in that hole, waiting for bait-fish to swim over head. I decided the spot warranted a visit the next time I made the trip.

A few yards farther downstream I came across a small rocky ripple dumping into a pool, possibly the deepest point in the stream at 4 feet. A couple of bushes leaned over the bank to trail branches into the stream, and a fair-sized rock or two provided even more cover points where a bass might hold. I worked my way around the pool from left to right, and on the third cast felt a large strike. I set the hook and quickly realized I had a good fish on once again, but this time I had limited room to fight him as the cover around the pool were invitations for a snapped line. Hardly reeling, I fought as best I could while listening to my line whine as it streaked through the water. Suddenly the line rose, and a large small-mouth leaped into the air and shook his head. Several minutes later I lifted him by a lip; he measured nineteen inches at an estimated 4 pounds.

Large-mouth and small-mouth in the same stream... I knew I had something to do other than school and work during my summers at Purdue



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