“A week, maybe two – six months tops if you’re lucky,” the doctor said. “Lucky?” the man responded. “I’ve never been lucky in my life. Why start now?”
The angler pulled out an ancient, badly scarred wooden plug. Most of the paint disappeared from it long ago, leaving only a few black flecks and discolored bare wood. Only a few threads remained where once brilliant yellow feathers streamed off the back of the popper. Rust had already consumed one of the three treble hooks and nearly closed the nose eye.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” the guide frowned incredulously. “That’s your favorite lure? What is it?”
“I’m sorry, but your condition is untreatable,” the doctor explained. “It’s too far advanced now. We can’t do much for you except give you some drugs to lessen the pain and make the last days of your life more comfortable. Any strenuous activity now will only make it worse. You should go home and rest.”
“Rest? Very soon, I’m going to be resting for a very long time,” the patient snapped. “What difference does it make whether I go tomorrow, next week or six months from now? If I’m only going to live a few days, I’m going to LIVE those days. I’m going bass fishing one last time if it kills me and I don’t care what you or anyone else says about it.”
Ignoring the advice of his doctor and the objections of his family, the old angler called his favorite guide. Booked solid, they had no openings. However, they usually close for the holiday each Christmas Eve. For such a good lifelong customer, though, they made an exception and scheduled a trip for Christmas Eve.
“I’ve been a bass fisherman all my life,” he told his hosts as he arrived at the fish camp on the lakeshore the evening before his scheduled angling adventure. “I’ve caught plenty of bass and won many tournaments, but I’ve never caught a largemouth weighing 10 pounds. I’ve always wanted to catch one in double digits, but so far, my best fish weighed slightly more than 7 pounds.”
“Well, we should have plenty of action tomorrow, but this lake doesn’t produce very many double-digit bass” the guide remarked. “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll see what I can do for you.”
The next morning, the guide awakened the angler with a steaming cup of coffee. Across the lake to the east, shadowy flooded timber in silhouette began to glow with faint pink coronas as the sun lightened the horizon. Above, sparkling stars still shining brilliantly promised an excellent, if chilly, day for fishing.
“I haven’t eaten bacon in years,” the angler told the camp cook. “My doctor said it’s not good for me, but he’s not here today and I feel lucky. Please make me a big plate full of the greasiest, fattest bacon you can find with lots of salt and hot sauce and a biscuit with a heap of butter on it.”
“You got it,” the cook replied handing him a heaping plate of hot pork.
After breakfast, the angler climbed into the boat with some help from his guide. Taping tubes to his nose so he could breathe, the guide placed a portable oxygen bottle beside the old angler. Then, the angler asked the guide to hand him a beat-up and partially rusted antique metal tackle box.
“You won’t need your tackle box today,” the guide advised. “I have plenty of baits for us to use. We’ve been catching a lot of bass on soft plastics and jigs. We’ll probably do some flipping and working Texas rigs along the drops. I have all the tackle you’ll need.”
“I know, but this tackle box is special,” the old angler replied. “It was my father’s box and I haven’t used it for many, many years. It’s full of memories. Each bait in the box tells many stories, but my favorites are topwater plugs. I just love to watch a bucketmouth bass smash a lure on the surface. Even if I don’t open it, I’d like to bring it along with me. It won’t take up much room.”
“No problem,” the guide replied. “I’ll just put it in the locker in front of you.”
For several hours, the angler and the guide canvassed the lake looking for fish. Burning a lot of gasoline with little to show for it, they tossed nearly every type of lure the guide could pull from his immense tackle collection.
So far, the only “catch” happened when the guide hooked the angler’s oxygen hose with his crankbait while casting, nearly hurtling the frail man from the boat. After reattaching the oxygen hose, they stopped near a sunny point to eat a little lunch. Undeterred, the guide vowed he would find fish that afternoon or die trying.
“We haven’t caught anything all day,” the angler said. “Do you mind if I throw something from my old tackle box? I’d like to use my favorite topwater bait.”
“Help yourself,” the exasperated guide replied. “We haven’t had a strike all day with what I’ve recommended. It’s not really the time of year to throw a topwater bait, but it can’t do any worse than what we’ve been doing.”
The angler pulled out an ancient, badly scarred wooden plug. Most of the paint disappeared from it long ago, leaving only a few black flecks and discolored bare wood. Only a few threads remained where once brilliant yellow feathers streamed off the back of the popper. Rust had already consumed one of the three treble hooks and nearly closed the nose eye.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” the guide frowned incredulously. “That’s your favorite lure? What is it?”
“It’s a one of a kind bait,” the angler explained. “I call it, The Christmas Special. You see, we used to have a tire swing hanging from an old oak tree in our front yard when I was a boy. A hurricane came one year and broke the branch off so we lost the swing. My dad carved this plug with his pocketknife from a piece of the old branch, attached hooks to it and painted it. Then, he gave it to me for Christmas that year. We didn’t have much money for toys in those days so it was all he could give me. I haven’t used it in decades, but I’d like to try it today.”
The angler tied on the old wooden plug and tossed it toward the tree-lined shoreline. It plopped and wobbled, making large concentric rings ripple across the placid water before it disappeared into an explosion of foam and frosty mist.
“Got him,” the angler shouted. “It’s a big largemouth bass!”
“Looks like 8 pounds, 3 ounces,” the guide remarked after netting and weighing the fish. “Congratulations. This beats your personal record. Want to have it mounted?”
“No. It lived a long time in this lake,” the angler replied. “It’s close to the end of its life. Let it go to live out its last days swimming freely the way God intended it to do.”
The angler threw the old bait toward the shoreline again. Cast after cast, bass smashed the lure while the guide couldn’t buy a strike on anything. Eventually, the guide just stopped fishing altogether and kept the net handy as the angler caught bass after bass, releasing each one to fight again.
“This has already been the best fishing day of my life,” the angler said as the sun approached the western shoreline. “Just one more cast and I’m done.”
Once more, he tossed the ancient plug toward a grassy point. The lure sat motionless in the water for a moment, silhouetted by the sun setting directly behind it. The wrinkled hands of the elderly angler popped the lure once and it disappeared into another frothy swirl.
Breathing and heaving heavily, the struggling angler fought the fish harder than any other bass he hooked that day. Each time he reeled it close to the boat, the bass ripped off more line from the screaming reel. Eventually, the angler subdued it, pulling it close enough for the guide to net it.
“That’s a giant bass for these waters! It weighs 10 pounds, 4 ounces. I think that’s a new camp record,” the guide exclaimed!
Frayed from restraining so many fish that afternoon, the line broke and the battered lure fell from the fish’s mouth into the bottom of the boat at the guide’s feet. After releasing the fish, the guide turned to shake the hand of the wearied angler and congratulate him, but instead saw the man crumpled in the bow of the boat. The guide tried to revive him, but couldn’t so he dialed 911 with his cell phone.
Soon, an air ambulance helicopter equipped with pontoons appeared and landed in the water near the bass boat. The medics and the guide placed the angler in the helicopter and it disappeared into the darkening sky for the flight to the hospital. At the hospital, the angler’s family gathered to await the news. Shortly before midnight, the doctor came into the waiting room to summon the family.
“There’s nothing I can do,” the doctor explained. “He doesn’t have much time left and wants to see everyone. Come this way, please.”
“We told you not to go fishing,” scolded the angler’s oldest daughter as he lay stretched out on the emergency room examining table. “We knew you weren’t strong enough for such a trip. We knew something would happen if you went fishing.”
As the clock tolled midnight, the pale angler smiled, grasping the hand of his youngest granddaughter and squeezed. He turned to his family and said. “Yes, something did happen today. I received the best Christmas present of my life.”
By John N. Felsher
