It has been said the best fishermen never let the truth get in the way of a good story. If this statement holds true, then I have been in the presence of some legendary fishermen. The following account of one adventure with one of these legendary fishermen will be as true as any great fisherman can make a tale.

It was June 21, 2008, when Stan Bird and I slid my white Ranger into the cold waters of Crane Prairie Reservoir. We had been foolish enough to sign up to fish one of the John Day Valley Bass Club tournaments, and we were ripe with anticipation. Stan and I had fished together a few times as he had become a regular partner after the passing of my father.

Crane Prairie Reservoir sits at almost 5,000 feet in elevation, nestled amongst the volcanoes of the Cascade Mountains. The white snow-covered cones decorate the skyline, making for a picturesque setting. The heavy timber and pole thickets remind you more of an elk hunting trip rather than a place to pursue wily largemouth bass.

The lake itself is filled with standing timber, remnants of a forest now consumed by a reservoir.

The bass had once flourished here but now the population had declined sharply, and I new every bite would be important as a five-fish limit would be a challenge. Armed with this knowledge and an eager mind, we eased our way across the lake at 10 mph after our number was called (10 mph is the speed limit for this timber-filled lake, so traveling any distance took time).

I steered the boat towards a dense patch of fallen logs, stumps and standing timber, bouncing off of them like a pinball. It was cold and cloudy that morning with temperatures in the upper 40s and water temperatures in the low 50s.

When we arrived at our destination and began casting around the area, bites were not coming and I was beginning to wonder how tough this tournament was going to be. Suddenly Stan jerked his rod hard to the side and exclaimed: “Got one!”

I turned to see his rod bending in the direction of a large bass, and I hustled for the net as Stan made his way to the front of the boat. As I peered into the chilly waters of Crane Prairie I saw a large stump, and I instructed Stan to not let the fish get into that stump.

Not that Stan had ever listened to me anyway. Seconds later the fish buried herself in the top of the stump a few feet under the water. Knowing how important this fish would be, my mind began to race for solutions to unsnagging the fish before she pulled off the hook.

I then told Stan hurriedly, “I will take my shirt off and go underwater to see if I can reach the fish and pluck her from the stump. Grab my belt loop so that I don’t go all the way in!” I then tore my shirt off and plunged over the side head-first into the glacial waters of Crane Prairie.

Everything was going to plan as I felt my knees seat solidly against the boat gunwale and was anticipating a grab of my pants to hold me back. That grab didn’t come.

I then realized that I might be going for a swim and began frantically trying to swim backwards. Time slowed down as I began to wonder how my eulogy would read. Then I felt a sharp tug and I surged backwards.

With my arms flailing I was able to find the side of the boat and pull myself aboard. Half-frozen and bewildered, I peered at Stan with quizzing eyes and blurted out, “What happened? Why didn’t you grab me?”

Stan looked back at me with a puzzled look and said, calmly grinning: “You said to grab your belt when you went over the side, but you didn’t have a belt on, so I watched you and it looked like you were starting to struggle so I thought you might need some help so I grabbed your belt loop and pulled you back.”

Shaking my head and muttering to myself that “no fish is worth dying for,” I threaded my icy body back into my shirt and looked for the fish. Luckily the fish had exhausted herself and was lying limply under the water, still pegged to the stump.

As Stan manned the trolling motor, I moved to the middle of the boat to try to unsnag the fish and I noticed the line had gone slack. Then I saw the fish swimming towards the boat still hooked, much to my surprise. I swung the rod hard just as the tired bass came to the surface and flipped her into the boat.

I reached down and grabbed her jaw to remove the bait when Stan turned around and exclaimed, “Where did that come from?”

“It’s your fish, Stan,” I muttered back coolly, trying to hide my amazement. I then plopped her into the live well, picked up my rod and went back to pursue fish No. 2, which I hoped would be much easier.

For the tournament we ended up with first place, and that fish was big fish at 4.5 pounds the first day.

People always ask why I like to fish so much, and I tell them you just never know what is going to happen when you fish with a Bird.