Anyone else read this book? Man the ink isn't even dry on the authors notes yet. Very interesting book about the pursuit of the next world lagemouth and the heavy hitters on the California scene. Most info I've seen as to the "Whole Enchilada" in one writing. It's O.K. and won't win any literature awards but You do tend to feel like the whole thing will stop consuming lives the day it's broken " the world record" but yet someone else will rise to the challange. Actually it puts a pretty good perspective in place for you to be a judge on the 18 million Texas has spent vs. Porter Hall spending $300,000 growing it and Mike long and Mickey from Mission fish's take on it....Bass mafia and Bassholes....It is interesting to nutcase's like us but the average Joe probably still wouldn't get much from it....Where do you think the next world record will come from....I think the day they open up Cuba is the day you can start counting backwards from....Go Mike Long!
The Rip
Sowbelly...The Book
-
mark poulson
Re: Sowbelly...The Book
Rip,
Where'd you find that book? I went to Amazon.com but all I found was how to make pork sausage.
Mark
Where'd you find that book? I went to Amazon.com but all I found was how to make pork sausage.
Mark
-
Brian D.
I am getting a copy
from the author, Monte Burke, next week to write a review for the CA Federation newsletter. More info can be found on <A HREF="http://www.monteburke.com" TARGET="_blank">www.monteburke.com</A>. It is published by Dutton for $23.95.
Here is an excerpt from the preface.
--------------------------------------------------
On April 27, Mike Long went back to Lake Dixon.
He motored the boat over to a flat as the sun came up and noticed that many male bass were in the area. The consorts were there, but where was the giant she-fish that he'd been stalking for a week? He finally saw her, a big black shadow moving slowly near the lake's bottom. The fish swam lazily near the shoreline, pausing to hover over an area about the size of a bathtub. She seemed to be guarding something there. Then she moved out. Mike watched her repeat this movement a few times. He flipped out a white jig into the area and let it sit. She approached the lure, slowly. Mike's heart skipped a few beats.
She started blowing on the lure, something bass will do sometimes on the bed, flaring her gills in anger, trying to get the intruder to leave. Mike figured she was a wise old bass that knew, by instinct, that something wasn't right with the lure. Maybe she'd been stung by a hook before, a distinct possibility in this era of catch-and-release. With a couple more casts, Mike figured out the magic spot where she definitely didn't like the lure, probably on or very near the exact place she planned on depositing her eggs. With every cast to this spot, she became more agitated.
Now he knew it was time to be ready. He checked his drag, got the trolling motor out of the way and worked out in his head exactly how he would maneuver the boat when he hooked her. Then she hit. He couldn't believe how strong she felt, how much pressure she put on his wrists when, with a jolt, she pulled his rod tip almost down into the water. Then the line went slack. She had spit the jig after only a few seconds. He called John at work and told him he had lost the donkey, their nickname for an especially large bass. He was sweating profusely, and had a sickening, hollow feeling in his stomach. "I just lost the donkey and she's not coming back," he told John.
But Mike stayed put, and she did come back, an hour and a half later. He threw in the white jig again, but she paid it no mind. He tried a black jig, but got the same lack of response. He anchored the boat on the shore and tied on a 6-inch Castaic swimbait, a big soft rubber lure that looked exactly like a trout. It was equipped with by far the sturdiest and largest and nastiest hooks of all the lures he had in his tackle box. If he was going to hook the bass again, he would not lose her this time.
He cast the lure out and it hit the water with a loud splash and dropped down onto the nest. He let it sit. He took out some sunflower seeds and chewed them. He put a Walkman on and listened to some heavy metal tunes, like a basketball player getting pumped for a big game.
The smaller males came in periodically and nudged the lure, trying to get it off the nest. An hour later, he saw the female begin to move back in, slowly. Then she quickly turned her body to a 45-degree angle, and hit the lure. She immediately darted for the shore and wrapped herself around a cable near the dock, but Mike somehow worked the line free. She took one more hard dive, then, exhausted, floated up to the surface, and he netted her. Mike heard a cheer rise from the dock. A crowd of maybe ten people had gathered and had been watching the whole thing. He hadn't noticed them until then.
He weighed the fish right away on a hand-held scale called a Boga Grip. It read 25 pounds, almost two-and-a-half pounds bigger than the world record. He yelled to a kid on the dock to run up to the Ranger station to fetch the scale. He put the fish on a rope stringer. The kid couldn't find the key to open the closet where the scale was kept. It took him twenty minutes. All this time, the fish was crapping out waste and dripping out eggs. The kid finally came back to the dock with a scale, but it wasn't a certified one. Mike hoisted the now-exhausted fish onto the scale anyway and took a picture.
He noticed that the fish had a dime-sized black dot just under its gills, like a beauty mark. The scale read "22 pounds, 5 ounces"--one ounce bigger than George Perry's record fish. Mike frantically called Lake Wohlford, a neighboring reservoir that he knew carried a certified scale. Two hours after she had been caught, the fish was finally weighed on a proper scale. The official weight: 20 pounds, 12 ounces. Not the world record, but the first bass of over 20 pounds since Bob Crupi's almost exactly a decade earlier.
The fish was 27 inches long and an impossible 27 inches around, like an over-inflated football. "It was a pretty stressful day, but after we got her weighed and I let her go, I felt very peaceful. I had my 20," Mike says. "But in the end it only made me want to break the record even more."
Here is an excerpt from the preface.
--------------------------------------------------
On April 27, Mike Long went back to Lake Dixon.
He motored the boat over to a flat as the sun came up and noticed that many male bass were in the area. The consorts were there, but where was the giant she-fish that he'd been stalking for a week? He finally saw her, a big black shadow moving slowly near the lake's bottom. The fish swam lazily near the shoreline, pausing to hover over an area about the size of a bathtub. She seemed to be guarding something there. Then she moved out. Mike watched her repeat this movement a few times. He flipped out a white jig into the area and let it sit. She approached the lure, slowly. Mike's heart skipped a few beats.
She started blowing on the lure, something bass will do sometimes on the bed, flaring her gills in anger, trying to get the intruder to leave. Mike figured she was a wise old bass that knew, by instinct, that something wasn't right with the lure. Maybe she'd been stung by a hook before, a distinct possibility in this era of catch-and-release. With a couple more casts, Mike figured out the magic spot where she definitely didn't like the lure, probably on or very near the exact place she planned on depositing her eggs. With every cast to this spot, she became more agitated.
Now he knew it was time to be ready. He checked his drag, got the trolling motor out of the way and worked out in his head exactly how he would maneuver the boat when he hooked her. Then she hit. He couldn't believe how strong she felt, how much pressure she put on his wrists when, with a jolt, she pulled his rod tip almost down into the water. Then the line went slack. She had spit the jig after only a few seconds. He called John at work and told him he had lost the donkey, their nickname for an especially large bass. He was sweating profusely, and had a sickening, hollow feeling in his stomach. "I just lost the donkey and she's not coming back," he told John.
But Mike stayed put, and she did come back, an hour and a half later. He threw in the white jig again, but she paid it no mind. He tried a black jig, but got the same lack of response. He anchored the boat on the shore and tied on a 6-inch Castaic swimbait, a big soft rubber lure that looked exactly like a trout. It was equipped with by far the sturdiest and largest and nastiest hooks of all the lures he had in his tackle box. If he was going to hook the bass again, he would not lose her this time.
He cast the lure out and it hit the water with a loud splash and dropped down onto the nest. He let it sit. He took out some sunflower seeds and chewed them. He put a Walkman on and listened to some heavy metal tunes, like a basketball player getting pumped for a big game.
The smaller males came in periodically and nudged the lure, trying to get it off the nest. An hour later, he saw the female begin to move back in, slowly. Then she quickly turned her body to a 45-degree angle, and hit the lure. She immediately darted for the shore and wrapped herself around a cable near the dock, but Mike somehow worked the line free. She took one more hard dive, then, exhausted, floated up to the surface, and he netted her. Mike heard a cheer rise from the dock. A crowd of maybe ten people had gathered and had been watching the whole thing. He hadn't noticed them until then.
He weighed the fish right away on a hand-held scale called a Boga Grip. It read 25 pounds, almost two-and-a-half pounds bigger than the world record. He yelled to a kid on the dock to run up to the Ranger station to fetch the scale. He put the fish on a rope stringer. The kid couldn't find the key to open the closet where the scale was kept. It took him twenty minutes. All this time, the fish was crapping out waste and dripping out eggs. The kid finally came back to the dock with a scale, but it wasn't a certified one. Mike hoisted the now-exhausted fish onto the scale anyway and took a picture.
He noticed that the fish had a dime-sized black dot just under its gills, like a beauty mark. The scale read "22 pounds, 5 ounces"--one ounce bigger than George Perry's record fish. Mike frantically called Lake Wohlford, a neighboring reservoir that he knew carried a certified scale. Two hours after she had been caught, the fish was finally weighed on a proper scale. The official weight: 20 pounds, 12 ounces. Not the world record, but the first bass of over 20 pounds since Bob Crupi's almost exactly a decade earlier.
The fish was 27 inches long and an impossible 27 inches around, like an over-inflated football. "It was a pretty stressful day, but after we got her weighed and I let her go, I felt very peaceful. I had my 20," Mike says. "But in the end it only made me want to break the record even more."
-
mark poulson
Thanks, Brian, for the website.
> from the author, Monte Burke, next week to
> write a review for the CA Federation
> newsletter. More info can be found on
> <A HREF="http://www.monteburke.com" TARGET="_blank">www.monteburke.com</A> . It is published by
> Dutton for $23.95.
> Here is an excerpt from the preface.
>
> --------------------------------------------------
> On April 27, Mike Long went back to Lake
> Dixon.
> He motored the boat over to a flat as the
> sun came up and noticed that many male bass
> were in the area. The consorts were there,
> but where was the giant she-fish that he'd
> been stalking for a week? He finally saw
> her, a big black shadow moving slowly near
> the lake's bottom. The fish swam lazily near
> the shoreline, pausing to hover over an area
> about the size of a bathtub. She seemed to
> be guarding something there. Then she moved
> out. Mike watched her repeat this movement a
> few times. He flipped out a white jig into
> the area and let it sit. She approached the
> lure, slowly. Mike's heart skipped a few
> beats.
> She started blowing on the lure, something
> bass will do sometimes on the bed, flaring
> her gills in anger, trying to get the
> intruder to leave. Mike figured she was a
> wise old bass that knew, by instinct, that
> something wasn't right with the lure. Maybe
> she'd been stung by a hook before, a
> distinct possibility in this era of
> catch-and-release. With a couple more casts,
> Mike figured out the magic spot where she
> definitely didn't like the lure, probably on
> or very near the exact place she planned on
> depositing her eggs. With every cast to this
> spot, she became more agitated.
> Now he knew it was time to be ready. He
> checked his drag, got the trolling motor out
> of the way and worked out in his head
> exactly how he would maneuver the boat when
> he hooked her. Then she hit. He couldn't
> believe how strong she felt, how much
> pressure she put on his wrists when, with a
> jolt, she pulled his rod tip almost down
> into the water. Then the line went slack.
> She had spit the jig after only a few
> seconds. He called John at work and told him
> he had lost the donkey, their nickname for
> an especially large bass. He was sweating
> profusely, and had a sickening, hollow
> feeling in his stomach. "I just lost
> the donkey and she's not coming back,"
> he told John.
> But Mike stayed put, and she did come back,
> an hour and a half later. He threw in the
> white jig again, but she paid it no mind. He
> tried a black jig, but got the same lack of
> response. He anchored the boat on the shore
> and tied on a 6-inch Castaic swimbait, a big
> soft rubber lure that looked exactly like a
> trout. It was equipped with by far the
> sturdiest and largest and nastiest hooks of
> all the lures he had in his tackle box. If
> he was going to hook the bass again, he
> would not lose her this time.
> He cast the lure out and it hit the water
> with a loud splash and dropped down onto the
> nest. He let it sit. He took out some
> sunflower seeds and chewed them. He put a
> Walkman on and listened to some heavy metal
> tunes, like a basketball player getting
> pumped for a big game.
> The smaller males came in periodically and
> nudged the lure, trying to get it off the
> nest. An hour later, he saw the female begin
> to move back in, slowly. Then she quickly
> turned her body to a 45-degree angle, and
> hit the lure. She immediately darted for the
> shore and wrapped herself around a cable
> near the dock, but Mike somehow worked the
> line free. She took one more hard dive,
> then, exhausted, floated up to the surface,
> and he netted her. Mike heard a cheer rise
> from the dock. A crowd of maybe ten people
> had gathered and had been watching the whole
> thing. He hadn't noticed them until then.
> He weighed the fish right away on a
> hand-held scale called a Boga Grip. It read
> 25 pounds, almost two-and-a-half pounds
> bigger than the world record. He yelled to a
> kid on the dock to run up to the Ranger
> station to fetch the scale. He put the fish
> on a rope stringer. The kid couldn't find
> the key to open the closet where the scale
> was kept. It took him twenty minutes. All
> this time, the fish was crapping out waste
> and dripping out eggs. The kid finally came
> back to the dock with a scale, but it wasn't
> a certified one. Mike hoisted the
> now-exhausted fish onto the scale anyway and
> took a picture.
> He noticed that the fish had a dime-sized
> black dot just under its gills, like a
> beauty mark. The scale read "22 pounds,
> 5 ounces"--one ounce bigger than George
> Perry's record fish. Mike frantically called
> Lake Wohlford, a neighboring reservoir that
> he knew carried a certified scale. Two hours
> after she had been caught, the fish was
> finally weighed on a proper scale. The
> official weight: 20 pounds, 12 ounces. Not
> the world record, but the first bass of over
> 20 pounds since Bob Crupi's almost exactly a
> decade earlier.
> The fish was 27 inches long and an
> impossible 27 inches around, like an
> over-inflated football. "It was a
> pretty stressful day, but after we got her
> weighed and I let her go, I felt very
> peaceful. I had my 20," Mike says.
> "But in the end it only made me want to
> break the record even more."
> write a review for the CA Federation
> newsletter. More info can be found on
> <A HREF="http://www.monteburke.com" TARGET="_blank">www.monteburke.com</A> . It is published by
> Dutton for $23.95.
> Here is an excerpt from the preface.
>
> --------------------------------------------------
> On April 27, Mike Long went back to Lake
> Dixon.
> He motored the boat over to a flat as the
> sun came up and noticed that many male bass
> were in the area. The consorts were there,
> but where was the giant she-fish that he'd
> been stalking for a week? He finally saw
> her, a big black shadow moving slowly near
> the lake's bottom. The fish swam lazily near
> the shoreline, pausing to hover over an area
> about the size of a bathtub. She seemed to
> be guarding something there. Then she moved
> out. Mike watched her repeat this movement a
> few times. He flipped out a white jig into
> the area and let it sit. She approached the
> lure, slowly. Mike's heart skipped a few
> beats.
> She started blowing on the lure, something
> bass will do sometimes on the bed, flaring
> her gills in anger, trying to get the
> intruder to leave. Mike figured she was a
> wise old bass that knew, by instinct, that
> something wasn't right with the lure. Maybe
> she'd been stung by a hook before, a
> distinct possibility in this era of
> catch-and-release. With a couple more casts,
> Mike figured out the magic spot where she
> definitely didn't like the lure, probably on
> or very near the exact place she planned on
> depositing her eggs. With every cast to this
> spot, she became more agitated.
> Now he knew it was time to be ready. He
> checked his drag, got the trolling motor out
> of the way and worked out in his head
> exactly how he would maneuver the boat when
> he hooked her. Then she hit. He couldn't
> believe how strong she felt, how much
> pressure she put on his wrists when, with a
> jolt, she pulled his rod tip almost down
> into the water. Then the line went slack.
> She had spit the jig after only a few
> seconds. He called John at work and told him
> he had lost the donkey, their nickname for
> an especially large bass. He was sweating
> profusely, and had a sickening, hollow
> feeling in his stomach. "I just lost
> the donkey and she's not coming back,"
> he told John.
> But Mike stayed put, and she did come back,
> an hour and a half later. He threw in the
> white jig again, but she paid it no mind. He
> tried a black jig, but got the same lack of
> response. He anchored the boat on the shore
> and tied on a 6-inch Castaic swimbait, a big
> soft rubber lure that looked exactly like a
> trout. It was equipped with by far the
> sturdiest and largest and nastiest hooks of
> all the lures he had in his tackle box. If
> he was going to hook the bass again, he
> would not lose her this time.
> He cast the lure out and it hit the water
> with a loud splash and dropped down onto the
> nest. He let it sit. He took out some
> sunflower seeds and chewed them. He put a
> Walkman on and listened to some heavy metal
> tunes, like a basketball player getting
> pumped for a big game.
> The smaller males came in periodically and
> nudged the lure, trying to get it off the
> nest. An hour later, he saw the female begin
> to move back in, slowly. Then she quickly
> turned her body to a 45-degree angle, and
> hit the lure. She immediately darted for the
> shore and wrapped herself around a cable
> near the dock, but Mike somehow worked the
> line free. She took one more hard dive,
> then, exhausted, floated up to the surface,
> and he netted her. Mike heard a cheer rise
> from the dock. A crowd of maybe ten people
> had gathered and had been watching the whole
> thing. He hadn't noticed them until then.
> He weighed the fish right away on a
> hand-held scale called a Boga Grip. It read
> 25 pounds, almost two-and-a-half pounds
> bigger than the world record. He yelled to a
> kid on the dock to run up to the Ranger
> station to fetch the scale. He put the fish
> on a rope stringer. The kid couldn't find
> the key to open the closet where the scale
> was kept. It took him twenty minutes. All
> this time, the fish was crapping out waste
> and dripping out eggs. The kid finally came
> back to the dock with a scale, but it wasn't
> a certified one. Mike hoisted the
> now-exhausted fish onto the scale anyway and
> took a picture.
> He noticed that the fish had a dime-sized
> black dot just under its gills, like a
> beauty mark. The scale read "22 pounds,
> 5 ounces"--one ounce bigger than George
> Perry's record fish. Mike frantically called
> Lake Wohlford, a neighboring reservoir that
> he knew carried a certified scale. Two hours
> after she had been caught, the fish was
> finally weighed on a proper scale. The
> official weight: 20 pounds, 12 ounces. Not
> the world record, but the first bass of over
> 20 pounds since Bob Crupi's almost exactly a
> decade earlier.
> The fish was 27 inches long and an
> impossible 27 inches around, like an
> over-inflated football. "It was a
> pretty stressful day, but after we got her
> weighed and I let her go, I felt very
> peaceful. I had my 20," Mike says.
> "But in the end it only made me want to
> break the record even more."
-
Erik P
Re: Thanks, Brian, for the website. *LINK*
typing in sowbelly and looking in books brings it right up.. on that note i bought it locally in nor cal and it came out to $26 read it in one night... interesting book
Sowbelly on amazon
Sowbelly on amazon
Advertising
Copyright © 2013-2025 WesternBass.com ®