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Anyone that has ever done much bass fishing in the southern states, from Texas
eastward, has probably had an occasion to encounter a really aggressive and tough critter locally called a grinnel. These
ugly, toothy critters are also known in various locales as dogfish, mudfish and bowfin, probably along with a host of other
local descriptive terms not suitable for general publication. Their shape is similar to a catfish in that they have a flat
head with little beady eyes, but unlike catfish have scales. They do not have sharp spines in their dorsal fins which begin
just behind the head and continue unbroken all the way around the tail They are one of a relatively few fresh water fish,
especially in southern waters, that contain a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. Suffice it to say that any angler that values
his thumb will not even think about "lipping" one of these critters. They readily hit bass lures, from soft plastics, to jigs
to crank baits, to top waters. Most knowledgeable bass anglers will not even allow one to be brought into the boat to be unhooked
since their wild antics can tear up lots of things and the slime they leave behind in the boat is difficult to clean up.
To
set the stage; the Texas state record for bowfin is 17.65 lb., a fish that was a fraction over 36 inches in length.
This
tale is about an encounter I had with one of these critters.
It was late August one year, and I was fishing Lake Fork,
far back up in one of the creeks in an area where there were some open fields surrounded by timber. The hydrilla was thick
in this area and I had been locating open pockets and casting a Texas-rigged worm up to the visible edge of the hydrilla mats.
The pattern had been good and I had caught a number of decent bass during the day.
Just an hour or so before dark,
I stopped in one such open area that was about the size of a large living room. There were visible mats of hydrilla on two
of the sides. The other two sides of the opening were marked by isolated trees from 4 to 6 inches in diameter.
On
my first cast toward the hydrilla mat, there was a solid thump as a fish hit the worm and I reacted with a vigorous hook-set.
Almost immediately, the fish came up just below the surface, where it was clearly visible in the crystal clear water no more
than 20 feet from the boat. My hopes of Mrs. Big (as in bass) plunged quickly when I saw that the fish was a grinnel. Not
just any grinnel, but a huge one! This critter looked to be over 3 feet in length and was as big around as a good-sized
tree limb. My guess is that it was easily in excess of 20 lb..
The amazing thing is that this fish did not jump or
thrash as grinnel are prone to do. Nor did it take off on a high-speed run. Instead it proceeded to swim rather deliberately
toward one of the trees on the other side of the opening. I put all the pressure I dared on this fish, but could only watch
helplessly as it swam probably 30 feet directly to one of the trees, then circled it. After circling the tree, it resumed
its deliberate swim away from the opening at which point the 25# test line I was using gave up and broke.
Why is this
tale worth telling? No reason other than it sticks in my mind not only due to the size of that fish, but the calm manner in
which it freed itself, as if it was rehearsed behavior. Also it causes some reflection on my part about what I would have
done if I had been skillful enough to land this monster. I am one of those that usually don’t allow grinnel into the
boat, either cutting the line or removing the hook while the fish is over the side. Would I have let the possibility of a
new state record cause me to put that monster in the boat? How would I have even gotten it into the boat? At the time, I didn’t
even keep a landing net in the boat, preferring to "lip" the bass I catch.
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