Larry Dablemont

2 weeks ago | maryvilleforum.com | Larry Dablemont

Fishing is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are going to get … and often you’d just as soon it was different than what you ended up with. That’s what happened to me this past week. On a day that I figgered I would catch the farr out of ’em — I didn’t. But I started out with great anticipation. Casting nothing more than a twirly-tailed, yellow plastic jig with a lead head, I laid into a hard-fighting fish that arced my rod like he was a slab-sided, black-bellied, frog-eater.

3 weeks ago | maryvilleforum.com | Larry Dablemont

Recently I wrote about floating the Roubidoux River as boy, working as a fishing guide for newspaper editor Lane Davis. Lane liked to fish that river because he felt it received less fishing pressure and might have more fish, if not bigger ones. I always wondered, what the Roubidoux River was named after. The French name ‘robidou’ means “son of Robert.”It was a great river then, but not so much now. Deeper eddies there have been filled with gravel and sand … so much of the fish habitat is gone.

1 month ago | outdoorlife.com | Larry Dablemont

This story, The Last Big Bass: Old Fighter,” appeared in the October 1973 issue of Outdoor Life. The river was quiet. An owl had been calling earlier in the evening, but now it was close to midnight, and he had stopped. Occasionally a big bullfrog downstream broke the stillness with a series of bellows, then again there was only the constant rushing of water over a nearby shoal.

1 month ago | yahoo.com | Larry Dablemont

This story, “The Last Big Bass: Old Fighter,” appeared in the October 1973 issue of Outdoor Life. The river was quiet. An owl had been calling earlier in the evening, but now it was close to midnight, and he had stopped. Occasionally a big bullfrog downstream broke the stillness with a series of bellows, then again there was only the constant rushing of water over a nearby shoal.

1 month ago | maryvilleforum.com | Larry Dablemont

I like fishing big reservoirs in March. Fifty-five years ago, I fished Beaver Lake with an uncle on a cold windy day using a lure called a spider, just a big spinner bait of that time. For three hours I didn’t catch a single bass, but about ten in the morning, only a hundred yards from my truck, I was rewarded by a hard strike. The biggest bass I have ever seen nailed the spider and fought hard for nearly ten minutes.