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I’ve tied enough dainty little Catskill flies.  It’s time for some Bass popper mothras.  I love trout, but I was never very good at long distance love affairs.  Where I live…Bass and Pike grow big enough to scare the kiddies off the lake after dark.  I have to keep my Bass flies in their own box.  They like the taste of tiny little trout flies.  I do love fishing for the big boys around here.  It’s a whole different ball game.  I’m stealthy and quiet on a trout stream.  On Devil’s Lake it’s about the weaponry.  Make sure there’s fuel in the boat.  Is the battery charged?  Rig up two fly rods.  One for Pike and Bass and the other for Crappie and Gills.  Start the engine.  Run the bilge pump.  Check the live well.  Got the hemostats?  You better unless you want to lose a finger on a Pike’s tooth.  Where’s the net?  Are the lights working?  Got a headlight/flashlight?  Life jackets, fire extinguisher, throwable…check.  It’s a lot of work but it’s worth it.  Especially when you get out before dusk.  The waverunners are running home to mommy to make their curfew.  The water lays down.  The sunset is glowing over the marina.  A live band starts to jam at the yacht club.  You find your spot….out of the path of the pontoon parade….but not far enough.  They still come too close.  Inevitably a pontoon passenger says….”that guy is…..he’s flyfishing!”  I’m a freak show until the sun goes down.  I cast out over my favorite weed bed.  Gills slap away at it.  My hook is bigger than they are.  Jerk it once…wait.  Jerk it twice…wait.  Let it sit.  All is quiet.  Then suddenly, there’s an explosion of water….like somebody dropped a bowling ball from the sky.  Set the hook, feel the weight.  He jumps a few times.  I bring him in…slowly.  I grab his lower lip, remove the fly and lift him up to get a better look.  I let him go.  No audience.  No hurrahs!  Just me, my boat, my fly rod, the moonlight and another memory.