I came across this article and had to share it with everyone, enjoy.....
Editor's note: Herald contributing columnist Roy Mitchell wrote this tribute for his dad, Stephen Morris Mitchell, who died recently.
By Roy Mitchell Special to the Herald
Date: Dec. 30, 2006 Lake: Weiss Water temp.: 51 Number of bass caught: 8 Time out: Tournament day Conditions: warm, but cloudy with a slight breeze
To honor my father, who passed away two weeks ago, I used only dad's lures in the tournament. I even wore his old fishing hat and replaced my tackle bag with his circa 1960's black tackle box. I mostly used a Norman Little N crankbait he liked. The tiny crank, though, hadn't fared well up until about 10 a.m. Only one shrimp-like bass dared leave a point going toward the Chattooga to take a ride on the Little N. At one point in the morning near Cedar Bluff the crank hung itself on a rock. I flicked the line to find the bait not only free, but with a tug at the other end. The enthusiastic pull ceased before I could even lean into the fish. At the smaller Cedar Bluff Bridge near the old roadbed while casting parallel to the bank, the little green crank turned sideways after caroming off some brush. A 4.49 pounder plucked it off the top of the water with a massive swirl and relentlessly peeled out drag, every run as powerful as a preacher pounding the pulpit, praising the Lord. Finally, the monstrous largemouth accepted his new livewell dwelling. After a dinky bass boldly left his point near the Weiss Mart only to be returned to its watery home, my father's lures and I wandered over to the rock bank I had caught a 3½-pounder off yesterday. Amidst my cranking, a 3 pounder mauled Dad's little, green crankbait. Having 7 plus pounds secure in the livewell, I knew another fish would probably give me a top three finish, using only dad's lures. My brain and body strained more intensely for the next several hours, honoring my father if I could somehow earn a check wearing his hat, using his tackle box, casting his lures. Unforgettable thoughts of dad and his death at daybreak on a Saturday morning, Dec. 16, permeated me. I can't count how many times he and I together fished at daybreak on a Saturday morning. The morning he died a fog flooded the county. None of the fishermen that morning could have hoped to blast off at that hour with an unseen dawn. At the moment of his death, all boats on the lake were stopped, as if allowing him to make his journey first, before any fishing would be done that day. By 2 p.m. I desperately hoped for any bite, any size bass to help my chances of coming in the top three with only my father's lures, almost within sight of where he caught his final fish in August, and within sight of the dock at the Weiss Mart where he had parted a boat for the last time in his life, from this very boat in which I stood. Here I hoped for one last fish, one last fish with dad's lures. I distinctly remember the day this chartruese Little N outcaught me the May before last in Mud Creek. I had been aggressively hurling a spinnerbait from the boat's front while he casually sat in the back seat and toasted me nearly two to one with this little green crankbait. Now, I cast this little green crankbait, returning to the bank where I'd caught the 18-inch fish today and the 19-inch bass yesterday. I had reeled three or four turns of the handle when a heaviness absorbed my connection to the bait. With the headshake reverberating through my line, I knew it was a fish and a big one. He played me without showing himself. It could've been a striper or a catfish. He dove under the boat and then out again, peeling out drag. As my pressure eased him back toward the boat, I saw that it was a largemouth bass weighing around 4 pounds, large enough to maybe win the tournament, using only my father's lures. As I netted him and brought him into the boat, I cried. I cried, sitting in the boat from where my father last fished, knowing I had honored him. The three fish totalled 11.42 pounds, enough to win the tournament. Thank you, dad. I miss you.
