Autumn is my favorite fishing season of the year—especially when it comes to stream smallmouth!
Being an incorrigible bronzeback fan—an unrepentant lifelong zealot—I can hardly contain myself when the equinox passes and I see the first prematurely yellowed leaves commence to flutter down.
Sure, I also get excited when winter starts to loosen its grip on the land. When the last handful of snow under the side-yard cedar tree melts away, spring’s first daffodils poke tentative green shoots from the sun-warmed earth along the south wall of the cottage, and I can no longer hear the steady metronomic tock of icicles dripping from the eaves.
But by then I’m practically crazed with unrequited fishing fever. Months since I wet a line if you discount the rare ice-fishing expedition I mount once or twice per decade, or trips to warm-water discharges along the Ohio River to try for white bass, sauger, or stripers.
However, such outings are more therapeutic stunts than legitimate angling forays—desperate, life and sanity-saving measures to keep from going stir-crazy if confined one more day indoors.
Otherwise, realistically, a Buckeye bass stream fisherman has maybe a nine-month opportunity window to get his piscatorial licks in during a given year.
Nevertheless, spring smallmouth fishing is a terrific place to start—the earlier the better! But you have to fish around the weather and high-water conditions.
Summer is also often good—especially around the crepuscular hours, but mid-season heat and low-water streams can prove problematic.
But for the diehard stream smallmouth enthusiast, fall is when weather and water hit a superlative prime, and you can expect the best bronzeback action of the entire season!
I’ve been a stream smallmouth fan all my life. In fact, I began going on smallmouth junkets before I could walk! No kidding!
My father was an ardent fisherman and serious stream smallmouth addict. As soon as I graduated from diapers, Dad began taking me along on his fishing outings—much to the consternation of my mother. He would plop me down amid the soft grass beside a good bass hole, spend whatever time it took to thoroughly fish that particular pool, then scoop me up, carry me to the next good spot upstream, and I’d be redeposited onto the grass while he plied that new bit of water.
Mom sometimes went along. She’d poke around the streamside meadows and woodlands for wildflowers, or sit on the grassy banks, watching birds and the sparking water while I played nearby and Dad fished.
When Mom stayed home, and it was just Dad and me, my father would regularly sit me atop his shoulders and wade upstream. I’d cling to his collar tips, gallus straps, or possibly an ear.
Dad always carefully negotiated the rocky riffles and slippery mudbars. Not once did he fall or dislodge me—though when he needed to wade deep to get through a pool, he occasionally splashed water on my trouser legs.
The only real safety hazard came when Dad, an intense fisherman, became overly focused on stealthy stalking, forgetting I was sitting astraddle his shoulders and thus extending another foot or more above the top of his head. He’d stoop to maneuver under low-hanging limbs and brush, and if I failed to quickly hunch and duck, or else smacked a face full of leaves and scratchy sticks—or worse, an occupied spider web.
An isolated stretch of Twin Creek, below Lewisburg, was a regular destination. But we also plied Price’s Creek, Bantas Fork, Seven Mile Creek, Four Mile Creek, Big Bear Creek, Wolf Creek, Greenville Creek, Ludlow Creek, and several others, plus portions of the Stillwater River.
Before farming’s widespread field-draining measures, water levels in many of those streams was significantly higher. They held good populations of fish, including some dandy smallmouth. Today, they’re barely seasonal trickles and haven’t been worth fishing for decades.
Nevertheless. from my very get-go, Dad saw to it that I received a wonderful bird’s eye view and introduction to the peculiar art of stream smallmouth fishing. It’s no wonder I grew up fervently smitten.
I’ve expanded my venue list of prime smallmouth waters considerably—not just locally, but statewide and beyond. Don’t get me wrong, I still love to fish for bluegill, crappie, catfish, perch, walleye, and practically every other species with fins—in freshwater or salt. An inveterate and irredeemable fisherman to the core. I’ve been lucky enough to travel and fish extensively, and parlay my angling passion into scribbled drivel sufficient to earn a living.
But I fervently love wading a stream for smallmouth. And for several reasons, autumn is my hand-down favorite time.
“Smallmouth get fiesty in the fall,” my father used to say. And he was absolutely right!
Autumn’s early days may still be hot—but nights are cooler. As water temperatures lower, stream fishing action increases. Photoperiod behavioral changes from the decreasing daylight also boosts this feeding binge.
Too, stream conditions are practically perfect—flowing but not overly full, generally clear. Lingering high-water periods are uncommon.
From now through mid-November, stream bass fishing just gets better and better. The painted landscape is is color-book fantasy—a kaleidoscopic patchwork of red and orange, lemon, gold, tan, mahogany, and every hue in between. You simply have to stop occasionally just to take it all in—the stunning interplay of leaves and light and sparkling water.
You can still wade wet for a few more weeks. After that, you’ll need hip boots or waders. But as the season progresses, the action just keeps getting better and better. The smallmouth are on the feed, eager to strike, and full of pizzaz once you hook up! Jumps, tailwalks, and spray-tossing aerial cartwheels, along with tackle-testing power runs, are the liveliest of the year!
For me, life doesn’t get much better than standing knee-deep in an autumn-clad creek, ultralight rod arched and straining, hooked up with wild and electrifying 3-pound bronzeback that’s fighting twice as hard as its size might predict. A breathtaking waltz that quickens my heart and fills my soul with joy!
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
