I can’t convince any comrades to fish this weekend. Watching college sports takes priority for some. The Indian river and beach have recently brought on sight fishing depression. The ocean is as opaque as drywall. Remnants still from hurricane Dorian. The river resembles grenadine, ample freshwater spewing out of every gutter and spillway.

I decide going it alone is well suited for some exploratory bass fishing. I have dabbled in a few lakes here and there in the past. The freshwater flame reignited by a few related episodes of the Walkers Cay Chronicles and some new yellow foam popper heads. Not the prettiest flies in the world, but I tie up a few that eerily resemble Homer Simpson.

I decide to try the stick marsh for the first time. A 6,500 acre reservoir that lives up to its name making navigation treacherous at times. Along with a reputation for big bass. Trolling motors are not my favorite but they prove convenient for the lonely angler. mine doesn't get much use any more but it has been resurrected for such an occasion. I can never really tell what level the battery is charged to. I jiggle the alligator clips at my peril as the battery charger spits and hisses.

The 5 speed trolling motor has 3 speeds, give or take. “Turbo mode” can be achieved with the proper sequence of frantic reverse to forward motions of the throttle. Never the less- it gets the job done. I run the skiff carelessly and blindly parallel down a submerged dike, skimming over what I can only imagine was an old levy. Sabal Palms in all stages of life signify the old dike. Jutting out of the water like pungis.

Plane gives way to idle as I push my way into what I deem a suitable spot. The whole lake is sheet of glass, the skiff’s mellow wake absorbed into the cattails and guinea grass until still once again. Under the announcement of black belly whistlers, time loses its importance as I focus on picking apart this shoreline of palm pilings, cat tails and water lettuce. No nook or cranny goes unnoticed by my rude fly. After the ducks have moved through the lake is silent, only interrupted by the splash of a popper or the slurp of a blue gill.

After an hour or so with no bass, I decide to try a spot a few miles south. The perfectly straight levy has lulled me into a false sense of security. Although known to be treacherous, I assumed the perimeter of this perfectly square reservoir could be ran safely. Especially with a tunnel skiff.

Before arriving at the west boundary of the marsh, I realize that no set of gator eyes or turtle snout can go unnoticed. Chiefly because most of them are the stumps and limbs of past trees. Worn wooden nubs barely protruding from the glass- some not at all. I sat the skiff down and began to idle after realizing just how frequent and irregular they are. I lurch forward to catch myself as the skiff gently slides up and off of slick black submerged stump.

Not willing to risk damage to the boat, I opt to crack a beer for the 35 minute set back. Gently idling my way to another known channel. Chopping and sliding my way through a graveyard of gooey timber. I try a few more spots. A number of hours later I am back at the ramp. No eats apart from an early bluegill. An old-timer at the ramp tells me he caught two bass. He claims to fish here every day. Him and I comprise almost half of the people in the parking lot.

The following morning I find myself alone again at another section of the st johns. A thick and shallow little reservoir open to the public. Not known for large fish but aggressive juveniles in numbers. 15 minutes before Sunday’s first light and I am eighth in line. The bass boats in front of me waxing gel coats, eating moon pies and shit talking each other.

My foot leaves the tongue of the trailer as the skiff glides off lifelessly. A few too many cranks later and she begins to purr and scratch her chin on the grassy bank. Another gentleman at the ramp mentions that enough boats have gone by, and should have “blown it all out of there.” by “it” I assume he means water lettuce.

My hypothesis proves true as the humming four stroke winces and coughs slightly as we slide across a matted carpet of frothy vegetation. Just as the day before my yellow popper disturbs the glass. trudging through lily pads and hyrdilla.

after a few missed bass and a large brim I decide to clip off the weed guard. Relaxation sets in. I am now in somewhat of a rhythm from the day before. A fear of submerged stumps is replaced by a nagging curiosity to see how much floating fresh water vegetation I can run over until my warrantied motor gives up. Coots whine and moorhens cluck as the popper glugs through every nook and cranny. A moody green landscape accented by purple hyacinth flowers.

The relaxing nature of a glassy morning slips away. As the wind picks up, the trolling motor remains on turbo mode and the popper whizzes closer and closer to my ear. A few small bass and blue gill prove satisfactory. I tell myself I will leave in 20 minutes, so I decide to try one more spot. After a few minutes the cheap fiberglass bends for a nice size bluegill. Ink black fading to purple. Already 15 minutes late, a perfect end to the morning.

Gear is stowed and the skiff comes to life. The prop gracing shallow hydrilla once more. I race back to the ramp to please my wife and the lord.