A Little Dinged Up
“Good god,” Max says from the bow, “please, please, please get a new reel. Hell, I’ll even pay for it.”
This is not the first time he has pleaded with me to replace this gimpy old Orvis beater. All around us white bass are blowing up in violent, silvery slashes and boils as they push huge schools of threadfin onto underwater humps. It’s a brief chaotic burst of activity that occurs every summer evening in this stretch of the Tennessee River. Any well-placed Clouser or Deceiver is immediately smashed. Hookups come on nearly every cast. As I take up line to land another thick pot-bellied bass, Max says he can’t tell if I’m turning the spool or scraping it on a rock.
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