Day in the life of an Elite: Competition

Kevin

Senior Fisheman
Joined
Jan 10, 2009
Location
Craig, Colorado
Best Catch
12lbs
Boat
Charger
#1
it’s 3:45 a.m. and you’re wide awake … waiting for an alarm to sound.
You don’t really need it. You never have. Probably through anxious anticipation, you always seem to wake before it’s time.
As you lay there, your thoughts drift through a series of scenarios — all on how the day ahead might play out. Some are good, some not so good.
Finally, the buzzer sounds. You rise, hit the can, then gather everything you might need. It’s Day 2 of competition, and the clock is ticking.
Daybreak drama
You reach your rig in the hotel parking lot. Everything is secure.
You crank the Tundra, remove the boat cover and unplug the power cord to the battery charger. You then head for a convenience store where you’ll buy a breakfast snack, bottled water and plenty of ice. The forecast is for scalding hot temperatures and no chance of rain.

When you reach the ramp, you’re at the end of a long line of fellow competitors … all anxious to launch their boats. It’s now 5:15 a.m. and your mind’s telling you to hurry, the clock is ticking.
Realizing it’s going to be a slow process, you exit the truck and do a final prep on the boat. Straps, drain plug, running lights … all set. Next, you secure your rods and gear, then do a once-around to make sure everything is secure.
It is.
Back in the truck, you call your Marshal, letting him know your status.
You meet on the ramp. He backs you in, parks the truck, then returns. The two of you sit and chat while waiting for official take-off to begin. You tell him you’re in 38th place, less than a pound from 50th, and that you’ll need 12 more pounds to make the cut.

While applying some sunscreen, your thoughts turn to your equipment. You second-guess every lure, knot and rig, wondering if you’ve made the right choices.
Then there’s an announcement. “Everyone. Please stand and remove your hats, and pay tribute to our flag.”
As the Star-Spangled Banner plays, you can’t help but notice everyone around you — standing, hands pressed against their hearts. Some voice the lyrics, others think them. It’s humbling, but you feel proud. When the anthem ends, you applaud, knowing you’ve started the day right.
Minutes later, the tournament director begins the take-off sequence. Using a loudspeaker, he sounds off, “Boat number 1, Brandon Palaniuk. Boat number 2, Randall Tharp. Boat number 3, Mike Iaconelli…”
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Take-off can be the most anxious part of the day.


As the names and numbers progress, your energy level rises. You can’t wait. The clock is ticking.

The grind begins
Finally, your number is called, and you proceed through checkout: Running lights, livewells, kill switch. You confirm your check-in time, then accelerate away from the dock … wondering if someone will beat you to your starting spot.
Thirty minutes later, you round the final bend and see that no one is there. It’s a huge sigh of relief. You bring the boat off pad, then make your final approach with stealth … wondering if your spots will hold up a second day.
As you guide the trolling motor closer to your target, you make a series of random casts — most are to get a feel for the selected rod and lure. Once in range, you make that all important cast — the one that will tell you if you made the right decision.
Seconds later, the rod loads. You’ve hooked a fish — a sizeable bass — and the battle is on. Quickly it’s subdued and swung over the gunnel. It’s a solid 3-pounder, and you’re off to a good start.
You unhook the fish, start the livewell pump and place it inside. Next you add a bag of ice, knowing the surface temp is too high to sustain a stressed fish, even this early in the morning.

Once that’s done, you check your line, then make another cast to the same target — a snag you found in practice that’s positioned on a mid-river flat with current.
Again, your rod loads and the fight is on. After a brief battle, you swing a second 3-pounder aboard. You’re beside yourself. The quick action far exceeds your expectations.
But then reality sets in. Hours pass without another bite.
The clock is ticking.
It’s still and hot. You’re soaked in sweat. You decide to try another part of the reservoir, hoping your pattern will hold.

The long run cools you. At 70 miles per hour, your thoughts wander, wondering if the move will pay off … and the consequences if it does not.
In two key spots, you encounter other competitors — guys known for their superior shallow water skills. You realize fishing behind them would be futile, so you move on.
Finally, at midday, you reach an unmolested area that showed promise during practice. By dissecting each piece of cover, you manage to complete your five-fish limit. Unfortunately, the three you added are small, and you know you’ll have to increase your weight to have any chance of making it to the weekend.
It’s now 2:45 p.m. — an hour left to fish — and you have the same modest stringer. You decide to return to your starting spot for one last try, hoping no one has been there in your absence.
As you cross the lake, you repeatedly check the time on your GPS.

The clock is ticking.
Finally, you reach your destination … no one in sight. You make a perfect cast to the same snag that yielded the 3-pounders earlier. You get a bite and immediately set the hook, pulling a large fish to the surface. It surges back into the root wad, tangling itself in the cover.
No time to lose, you slam the trolling motor on high. As the boat lunges forward, you go to your knees and start digging, limb by limb, searching blindly for the fish as it buries itself deep within the tangles.
You feel the thrusts of its fins, but you can’t reach it.
In desperation, you begin breaking branches, hoping to free your line. Then, the unthinkable happens.

“Pow!” The line breaks and the fish is free. You crumble to the deck, devastated by what just happened. “Why?” you think, “Why?!”
Eventually, you stand and try to regain your composure. But the loss is nearly unbearable. Just as you’re about to re-rig, you hear a loud splashing sound. Glancing up, you see your fish — all 6 pounds of it — thrashing on the surface, trying to throw your hook.
It’s salt to the wound. You know that fish would have guaranteed a money finish. Instead, you’re left with little time to recover.
The clock is ticking.
Fifteen minutes later — with no more bites — it’s time to head for check-in.

You pull the trolling motor, strap your rods, then look to your Marshal and say, “I did all I could do.” And at that point, you throw the engine in gear and head for weigh-in — clock ticking — knowing you’re a pound short of the money.
Follow Bernie Schultz on Facebook or through his website.
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Missing the cut means you're driving home early.