Down on the Farm
Bream and friends complete the expeirience

By Steve Brigman

But the real estate gods granted us the gift of at least another spring on "Gant's." Four of us in two small boats had the place to ourselves. We were armed with all of the tools of the bream trade. We would catch fish on ultra-light spinning gear and small fly rods. We even brought the worms and bobbers.

Gant's is unique among Black Land Prairie lakes. It's spring fed which mitigates the fluctuation between spring rains and summer drought. The relatively constant level helps the vegetation flourish, while a white-rock bottom allows clear water which also enhances the growth. The plant life serves as a filter to give back some of the water clarity. The lake is full of vegetation and full of fish, and most of it is visible through polarized glasses.

The main attraction as far as we were concerned was the bream spawn. Bream beds were clearly visible in the shallow water. Areas the size of a double garage were plowed into small craters, as if some tiny air force had carpet bombed it. A dark shadow guarded each bed.

The fish build their beds in the same places every year on Gant's. Places that seem identical to the bedded up areas are ignored. It was at one of these "raditional" spots that my boating partner and I began our morning. Our friends playfully admonished from the shore us for beating them to the spot.

It is a rare energy generated by knowing your bait will be struck immediately. Few fishing experiences can offer that. But years of throwing flies on the same beds, under the same willow tree, left no doubt in my mind.

As the dimple grew around my small deer-hair popping bug, one of the dark shadows darted to the surface and grabbed the fly. The 6-inch bluegill was clearly visible throughout the struggle. The visual part of the experience is what makes it so great. Many times, four or five fish would race to the bait as the fly hit the water.

I continued to catch bream on my fly rod, while I could see across the lake that two spinning rods were bent over with fish. Soon my fly fishing bias gave way to a very light spinning outfit.

Sure, it's great to catch big fish, but matching the tackle to the fish is what it is all about to me. These bream are great fighters on the lightest of tackle. Soon a nice redear was pulling at my 4-pound test rig.

The redear is the prized catch among this group. They grow to a very feisty size on this lake, and are not quite the suicide bombers the bluegill are. Some days, they can be a little hard to catch.

But not this day. When one of the kamikaze species didn't beat the redears to the punch, they readily took all of our offerings.
Besides being found everywhere from the huge impoundments to the ditch down the street the kids play in, bream are easy to catch. And they put up a respectable struggle for their size. Their pancake-shaped bodies give them leverage when pulling against the rod. Bream are a great fish to start kids on.

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Childhood memories come in fragments; they fade from image to image, allowing only glimpses.

My earliest recollection vivid enough to piece together an experience is of fishing with my father. A friend had loaned us his place on Lake Diversion, south of Wichita Falls. It was a modest tin-covered, square structure built out over the water on pilings. The floor had a large, square hole in its center, built to fish through. We would sleep and fish from the same place.

My father had taken a few days of vacation to catch some crappie and introduce the boy to fishing.

Like I said, it fades in and out. But I can remember a round, Styrofoam container full of small bream. There seemed like dozens of them. Even after we had used up all of our worms, I stood over the fish, watching them.

When I woke the next morning, the fish were gone, having been released shortly after my bedtime. There was a joy to think I could catch them all again.

Now that middle-age is staring at the shorter part of life, I live from fishing trip to fishing trip, building more memories. Any trip into that subconscious corner reveals big bass, sailfish, salmon, redfish, rainbow trout and many others. Friends and places associated with fishing trips reside there too. It is a time to be thankful. That day on Lake Diversion, my father bestowed his greatest gift to me other than life itself: an introduction to fishing. It was bream that got me into fishing, and 40-something years later, I was still catching bream and wanting nothing else.

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To count the number of bream you catch at Gant's in a morning is an exercise in higher math. It's pointless. The fish continue to bite, and the catching never loses its appeal. If one must, the catch should be measured in hours spent on the water. But such calculation are best left to the memory, where fragments of the best moments can be revisited time and again.
As happens too often to such memories, reality calls. One of our party had to leave to take care of business. The balance of the group used the break on shore to plot a jaunt to another pond, one owned by a member of our group.

After a morning of drifting on clear water between walls of willows, we pulled our trucks up to the bank of a pond that sat on a sloping, open cow pasture. The banks were barren of trees and the water murky. The "tank" was built to water cattle, but like Gant¯s, history promised big bream.

The truck radios were turned up. Another spring ritual was unfolding on ice. As hooks were being baited with wriggling worms, Zack, the yellow lab whose primary job was to retrieve ducks for this group, ran up and down the bank in anticipation. He had enough history to know what was about to happen.

The wake from the first bobber to hit the water was still growing when the it bounced twice, creating new wakes. Then it was gone. As a large redear was being wrestled toward the bank, Zack readied himself. Duck season was a long way off, and he was anxious to try his hand at catching a bream. A resounding "No!" from his owner temporarily quelled his effort.
Zack must have wondered what was going on when his three fishing partners threw their arms up in celebration and yelled. The home team had scored a goal.

Many would find it unthinkable to miss a televised playoff game to go bream fishing, but they had no memory of that round Styrofoam container.

The bream were still biting when we decided to call it quits. It is easier to leave when you know you can come back anytime you feel the need.

During the ride home, our guys scored another goal to put the game away. When I turned the radio off, those fragments were coming back already. The circle around the bait was smaller than a basketball when the dark shadows shot toward the popper. The winner of the race announced his victory by breaking the surface. The fish streaked sideways, pulling against the rod.
The memories fade as quickly as they appeared, leaving only a glimpse.