TSJ Series: Peacock Bass

Ron Klys bowed up at mid-day.

This was it, as far as you could go, the end of the line. For this trip in Venezuela, anyway. Twenty miles to the southwest lay Columbia. I’d ventured away from my compañeros, (loosely described as comrades in South America) way back in the woods, finding greedy peacock bass under the trees. Behind me were shouts for the camera, but it was time to ignore them. I’d taken enough pictures of guys with fish. Now it was my turn…

An opening appeared with room to cast, near a big fallen tree in the water. I flipped the bone-colored top-water out a few feet, and phoom! It disappeared. But it was a small fish, not even three pounds. I horsed him in and was amused to see a 12-pounder following closely. It even nibbled gently on the smaller bass’ tail. I hoisted the small one up and admonished the bigger fish, which plainly seemed disappointed. “You just wait a minute…”

Flipping the plug back out a dozen feet, it disappeared this time in a mighty boil. I reared back with the baitcaster and stuck him. Solid weight, but in seconds the plug came loose. Missed! The plug floated back up and phoom! a second washtub boil. This fish surged to the right like a freight train, unstoppable, plowing through the toppled tree. The 12-pound line broke within five seconds. Hmmm.

Amazingly, the plug then bobbed to the surface again, this time slightly to my left; the bass evidently spat the plug as it swam away. There it lay, my “killer bait” waiting to be retrieved. I fumbled in my shirt pocket, eased out a RattleTrap and tried to tie it on with shaking fingers. Quickly, quickly…phoom! Another big boil, and this time the bone-colored plug disappeared forever. More shouts in the distance: Something about ¡pendajo! and breakfast!...I couldn’t be sure…but headed back through quiet woods, shocked at these greedy fish.