The tradition of Tussin started several years back while fishing with my brother, Tyler, and my buddy Uder on Harry S. Truman (AKA just plain Truman) lake. It was during an exceptionally wet spring, in the first few weeks of June, and the lake was delightfully flooded. Schools of carp, white bass, and a few post-spawn largemouths cruised the shallows, in the back end of coves, hunting for baitfish hiding in the newly submerged brush and green flora. The crappie, our chosen quarry, were also active in and around dead cedars and willing to bite almost any offering below the surface. It was one of those easy fishing days where everything is right; the bite, the water, the weather. You find yourself in an euphoric state and you wish that the day would never end. While Uder and I hauled slab after slab over the gunnels, Tyler struggled with a lingering case of hay fever that had tormented him off and on since April, and the uncanny inability to catch a single fish during this apparent period of plenty. He was a sniffling, sneezing mess and his red-eyed mug matched his mood that grew more acerbic with every fish Uder and I caught. His Robitussin induced light-headedness resulted in strange stories and anecdotes along with a steady stream of bitching. As the day wore on and the livewell became well populated with 10"+ slabs, Tyler's situation became more and more comical- the kid couldn't do anything right. If his hook wasn't getting caught on a limb, the line on his reel was forming intricate knots and birdnesting. He once actually had a fish on at one point, a smallish white bass, but it was able to free itself before getting boated. "That doesn't count," I was quick to point out; a person's misery, especially when it's your brother's, can be highly satisfying. That seemed to be the breaking point as Tyler resorted to exclusively whining and asking 'when we were going to leave' instead of fishing. That's when Uder and I began to call him Tussin. Everytime Tyler would spout something derogatory or begin bitching about his cold, Uder and I would respond with something like, "Ahhh, now come on Tussin. Hang in there Tussin, it'll be OK" or "That's just the Tussin talkin'." We even made up a song, though the exact lyrics escape me now. Mainly due to Tyler's incessant griping, we finally were coerced to leave the lake late in the afternoon though the crappie were still biting. We caught somewhere around 20 to 25 keepers and God knows how many dinks and white bass- none of which Tyler was responsible for. From that day on, whenever someone has had a crappy day fishing despite the success of his boatmates, that person becomes Tussin for a day. It is an easily transferable title as it passes from person to person no matter how unlikely. Pretty much everyone I have fished with since has had their turn as Tussin at one time or another. However, I feel like I have been the victim of the definitive Tussin day that took place on April 15, 2006. A date that I have little doubt will live in infamy from here on out.
Todd's Turn at Tussin
Mid-April for the crappie fisherman is like Christmas for children. Hopes run high as the delicious panfish begin their annual pilgrimage in mass to the shallows in order to spawn. The spawn had not as yet reached its peak on the Pomme arm of Truman lake, but there was reason to believe that it was close to commencing as water temperatures increased sharply with the warmer than average days we had been experiencing. My companions, on this ill-fated day, were my younger brother, Tyler (the Original Tussin), and my dad. Our conversation on the way to the lake that morning consisted of talking about past fishing trips and how many slabs we were going to take back home with us that day, but after about an hour on the lake we realized that the crappie had other ideas.
We first went to a proven area that has produced spawning crappie in the past, but we did not pick up one bite. While passing an older gentleman and a young kid, that I presumed to be his grandson, I asked if they had 'caught anything this morning.' He replied that they had not, but had picked up several the evening before from the same spot. We then theorized that the crappie would come into the shallows later in the day as the sun heated the pea gravel to a more comfortable temperature for the fish. With that in mind we headed for deeper water, 10 to 15 feet, with promising standing timber and deadfalls that had fallen from the steep chunk rock banks years ago. A cast toward the bank and a slow retrieve back toward the boat, while systematically testing the different depths of the water column and attempting to avoid getting caught up in the timber that Truman lake is famous for, immediately resulted in a few decent crappie; well, not for me, but Tyler and dad were picking up a few. The fish seemed to be spread out and inconsistent, but if you didn't stay in any one spot too long and kept the pedal down on the trolling motor, you could pick up a fish or two every 15 minutes or so. Rather than catching fish, I busied myself with getting my jig hung up on unseen branches, then breaking off and retying; navigating the boat through the dead timber jungle; and trying different fishing methods and lure colors in order to entice one measly bite.
After catching his 6th crappie, I swallowed my pride and asked my brother, "What color you using?"
"Blue & white," he smugly said. My black & chartreuse tube, the traditional springtime choice, was quickly torn from the jig head and tossed into the olive green water and replaced by a blue and white one. Predictably, I instantly had a bite and I quickly set the hook and began reeling the crappie toward the boat. "Ahhhh, skunk avoided," I thought to myself. The fishing gods must have heard me because as soon as that thought crossed my mind the nice fat 11-incher shook his head violently and spat the hook out like an unwanted piece of gristle.
"Well, looks like I'll be playing the part of Tussin today," I said with some degree of foreboding. Though I was looking for reassurance, all my fishing partners gave me was a laugh and a nod of affirmation, only too happy to have dodged the Tussin moniker themselves... the bastards.
From there the day was tediously predictable. Dad & Tyler consistently caught fish while I bided my time fighting with the trolling motor and practicing my knot tying skills as I seemed to find every submerged log in the lake. As high noon approached I recommended that we relocate and try the Spring creek branch of the lake to take advantage of the warming water and pea gravel banks that surely must hold spawners, though all I really wanted was a change of venue and hopefully, a change in fortune.
As I had hoped, we immediately got into the crappie that were soaking up the sunbathed water. They were all mid-sized (8-3/4") males but there were plenty of them, even I managed to boat two- one being a borderline keeper that I of course gladly tossed into the livewell. Conversely, Tyler and Dad managed to catch 8 to 10 a piece though most, if not all of them, were too small to keep. After an hour of trolling the graveled banks of the Spring creek flat, the crappie stopped biting for whatever reason, so we sped back up the lake to look for similar water in the back end of likely coves that were warmed by small feeder creeks.
Driving the boat down the ancient river channel that snakes its way around the weather worn snags of timber, that have managed to keep themselves erect through the years despite succumbing to their inevitable death 30 years ago when the river system was dammed, always awakes the desire in me to contemplate how the Pomme river must have looked like before Truman dam was built. It also reminds and saddens me to know that eventually the rest of the timber will fall to the bottom of the lake fairly soon just as most of the bigger trees have already. When I first started coming to Truman, the skeletal remains of gargantuan sycamores that surely stood 90, 100, or even 120 feet tall still hovered over the lake with menacing gnarled limbs, but nearly all of those leviathans have fallen into the lake, the victims of wind, ice, and water. Within the next 10 years I'd say all the timber in the entire lake that stands in 15 feet of water or deeper will be gone, which will greatly change how Truman is fished for bass & crappie... but I digress.
As the sun glinted off the wind swept waves, I felt myself being at piece with my Tussin day. I hadn't caught many fish, but what a beautiful day to be out on the lake. The dreary gray clouds that had choked out the sun all morning had finally given way to a high sky. If it was my turn at Tussin then I couldn't think of a better day to get it out of the way; besides, the fishing hadn't been lightning hot anyway. No harm, no foul I thought...
Before heading into another cove we decided to first try the steep embankment that had earlier netted us around 8 keepers. Naturally, Tyler hooked into a keeper on his very first cast while I chose to break off yet another jig. I had, over the course of the day, lost all but about 50 yards of fishing line that now pathetically clinged to my reel. I had prolonged its life over the past several hours with carefully placed casts and fishing with a float, so as to merely hover over any underwater cover as opposed to trusting fate. I had finally made a fatal mistake and got caught up on a deep limb that relinquished me of any usable amount of line. "Well, it looks like curtains for my fishing day," I proclaimed. "No, here take some of mine," my Dad said. "I've got plenty."
I hesitated at first, but then took him up on his offer. We were determined to not leave the lake with any less than 20 slabs in the livewell, and we were only 6 away from that milestone. I'm not quite sure why I thought I might be able to add to this amount, but ignorance is bliss as they say. It wasn't long before I had an ample amount of line back on my reel, along with a new resolve and the foolish notion that the new line might be just what I needed to turn things around.
Dad & Tyler simultaneously cast their lines on either side of a very "fishy looking" submerged forked stump, whose top did not quite reach the surface of the water. Within a second of each other, they had hooked into two healthy female crappie, both right around 12" long and potbellied with eggs. It was at this point that an unfortunate turn of events took place. We flinched with the out-of-place noise of my ringing cell phone that my brother had brought onboard with him for some reason though I had intended to leave it in the truck. "Why did you bring that," I asked. "You can't get any service here." He threw the phone to me, and to my surprise, I had 2 or 3 bars so I answered. It was my other brother, Travis, and we had a nice little talk while we continued down the bank, mainly discussing how we had faired and how much he wished he could have come with us. By the time he hung up, we were nearly at the end of the bank before it gave way to the mouth of a small cove. I then put the phone in my pocket and brought up the trolling motor.
"Tyler, how 'bout you start up the motor and take us across to the other bank. I'm tired of getting up and down," I would come to eat those words. Tyler, always a risk when behind a wheel, started up the motor and began to ease toward the other steep bank, a mere 70 yards away. It should be noted, for reference, that Tyler once managed to park a Ford Explorer up a tree... backwards. I was in my own world and fixated on the throbbing of a newly attained sunburn and tying yet another jig head to my line, as I had broken off for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was then that the boat unexpectedly listed toward the starboard side. Tyler had driven the boat onto the top of an unnoticed tree limb.
We first went to a proven area that has produced spawning crappie in the past, but we did not pick up one bite. While passing an older gentleman and a young kid, that I presumed to be his grandson, I asked if they had 'caught anything this morning.' He replied that they had not, but had picked up several the evening before from the same spot. We then theorized that the crappie would come into the shallows later in the day as the sun heated the pea gravel to a more comfortable temperature for the fish. With that in mind we headed for deeper water, 10 to 15 feet, with promising standing timber and deadfalls that had fallen from the steep chunk rock banks years ago. A cast toward the bank and a slow retrieve back toward the boat, while systematically testing the different depths of the water column and attempting to avoid getting caught up in the timber that Truman lake is famous for, immediately resulted in a few decent crappie; well, not for me, but Tyler and dad were picking up a few. The fish seemed to be spread out and inconsistent, but if you didn't stay in any one spot too long and kept the pedal down on the trolling motor, you could pick up a fish or two every 15 minutes or so. Rather than catching fish, I busied myself with getting my jig hung up on unseen branches, then breaking off and retying; navigating the boat through the dead timber jungle; and trying different fishing methods and lure colors in order to entice one measly bite.
After catching his 6th crappie, I swallowed my pride and asked my brother, "What color you using?"
"Blue & white," he smugly said. My black & chartreuse tube, the traditional springtime choice, was quickly torn from the jig head and tossed into the olive green water and replaced by a blue and white one. Predictably, I instantly had a bite and I quickly set the hook and began reeling the crappie toward the boat. "Ahhhh, skunk avoided," I thought to myself. The fishing gods must have heard me because as soon as that thought crossed my mind the nice fat 11-incher shook his head violently and spat the hook out like an unwanted piece of gristle.
"Well, looks like I'll be playing the part of Tussin today," I said with some degree of foreboding. Though I was looking for reassurance, all my fishing partners gave me was a laugh and a nod of affirmation, only too happy to have dodged the Tussin moniker themselves... the bastards.
From there the day was tediously predictable. Dad & Tyler consistently caught fish while I bided my time fighting with the trolling motor and practicing my knot tying skills as I seemed to find every submerged log in the lake. As high noon approached I recommended that we relocate and try the Spring creek branch of the lake to take advantage of the warming water and pea gravel banks that surely must hold spawners, though all I really wanted was a change of venue and hopefully, a change in fortune.
As I had hoped, we immediately got into the crappie that were soaking up the sunbathed water. They were all mid-sized (8-3/4") males but there were plenty of them, even I managed to boat two- one being a borderline keeper that I of course gladly tossed into the livewell. Conversely, Tyler and Dad managed to catch 8 to 10 a piece though most, if not all of them, were too small to keep. After an hour of trolling the graveled banks of the Spring creek flat, the crappie stopped biting for whatever reason, so we sped back up the lake to look for similar water in the back end of likely coves that were warmed by small feeder creeks.
Driving the boat down the ancient river channel that snakes its way around the weather worn snags of timber, that have managed to keep themselves erect through the years despite succumbing to their inevitable death 30 years ago when the river system was dammed, always awakes the desire in me to contemplate how the Pomme river must have looked like before Truman dam was built. It also reminds and saddens me to know that eventually the rest of the timber will fall to the bottom of the lake fairly soon just as most of the bigger trees have already. When I first started coming to Truman, the skeletal remains of gargantuan sycamores that surely stood 90, 100, or even 120 feet tall still hovered over the lake with menacing gnarled limbs, but nearly all of those leviathans have fallen into the lake, the victims of wind, ice, and water. Within the next 10 years I'd say all the timber in the entire lake that stands in 15 feet of water or deeper will be gone, which will greatly change how Truman is fished for bass & crappie... but I digress.
As the sun glinted off the wind swept waves, I felt myself being at piece with my Tussin day. I hadn't caught many fish, but what a beautiful day to be out on the lake. The dreary gray clouds that had choked out the sun all morning had finally given way to a high sky. If it was my turn at Tussin then I couldn't think of a better day to get it out of the way; besides, the fishing hadn't been lightning hot anyway. No harm, no foul I thought...
Before heading into another cove we decided to first try the steep embankment that had earlier netted us around 8 keepers. Naturally, Tyler hooked into a keeper on his very first cast while I chose to break off yet another jig. I had, over the course of the day, lost all but about 50 yards of fishing line that now pathetically clinged to my reel. I had prolonged its life over the past several hours with carefully placed casts and fishing with a float, so as to merely hover over any underwater cover as opposed to trusting fate. I had finally made a fatal mistake and got caught up on a deep limb that relinquished me of any usable amount of line. "Well, it looks like curtains for my fishing day," I proclaimed. "No, here take some of mine," my Dad said. "I've got plenty."
I hesitated at first, but then took him up on his offer. We were determined to not leave the lake with any less than 20 slabs in the livewell, and we were only 6 away from that milestone. I'm not quite sure why I thought I might be able to add to this amount, but ignorance is bliss as they say. It wasn't long before I had an ample amount of line back on my reel, along with a new resolve and the foolish notion that the new line might be just what I needed to turn things around.
Dad & Tyler simultaneously cast their lines on either side of a very "fishy looking" submerged forked stump, whose top did not quite reach the surface of the water. Within a second of each other, they had hooked into two healthy female crappie, both right around 12" long and potbellied with eggs. It was at this point that an unfortunate turn of events took place. We flinched with the out-of-place noise of my ringing cell phone that my brother had brought onboard with him for some reason though I had intended to leave it in the truck. "Why did you bring that," I asked. "You can't get any service here." He threw the phone to me, and to my surprise, I had 2 or 3 bars so I answered. It was my other brother, Travis, and we had a nice little talk while we continued down the bank, mainly discussing how we had faired and how much he wished he could have come with us. By the time he hung up, we were nearly at the end of the bank before it gave way to the mouth of a small cove. I then put the phone in my pocket and brought up the trolling motor.
"Tyler, how 'bout you start up the motor and take us across to the other bank. I'm tired of getting up and down," I would come to eat those words. Tyler, always a risk when behind a wheel, started up the motor and began to ease toward the other steep bank, a mere 70 yards away. It should be noted, for reference, that Tyler once managed to park a Ford Explorer up a tree... backwards. I was in my own world and fixated on the throbbing of a newly attained sunburn and tying yet another jig head to my line, as I had broken off for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was then that the boat unexpectedly listed toward the starboard side. Tyler had driven the boat onto the top of an unnoticed tree limb.
I had no time to assess the angle of our precarious position upon the curiously strong limb (that was multiplied greatly due to my position in the boat), but it was drastic to say the least; thoughts of cold, green water coming over the side of the gunwales and sinking the boat entered my mind. Had Tyler only gagged the throttle and gently guided the boat over the stick-up we would have been all right, but he panicked and released his grip, leaving the boat teetering like a basket ball on a dowel rod. I had fell backwards in my seat and I struggled to right myself to get my feet back on the deck and underneath me. My arms flailed in exaggerated circles with fishing rod still in hand; white knuckled, adrenaline pumping. For a moment, I believed that I might be able to regain balance, but I had forgotten one thing: On this day, I was TUSSIN!
I have always thought that seat pedestal extensions are solid pieces of aluminum, this is untrue, in fact I now know that they are completely hollow and extremely thin-walled. And as the extension in question was under considerable strain, it finally could not bear the stress of my weight nor the dynamics in which my weight was being awkwardly distributed any longer, and in turn broke off cleanly at the base. It was in this moment I could have thrown my fishing rod toward the boat and saved a $40 rod and a $60 reel, but I was unable to afford the time to collect my thoughts in that brief opportunity and instead headed for the water backwards, and head first. Later, my brother would comment that I'd resembled a soft-shell turtle as I entered the water with little more than a faint splash, a surprise I am sure to all those who know me. Upon entering the shockingly frigid water, my hand instinctively released the grip on the fishing rod to search for something to grab onto. Almost simultaneously, the practical part of my brain rescinded this over-reaction and sent my hand frantically searching for the rod. I was able to a get finger on the tip of the rod but the weight of the reel had resulted in a terminal velocity, and it slipped through my thumb & fingertips like a wet fish and headed for the dark depths of Truman. That was a disappointing loss, but hardly devastating, at least it received a proper burial in the waters it had caught so many fish and brought me so much joy- besides, I have since bought a St. Croix rod and a new Shimano Spirex, both of which are upgrades.
It should also be noted that my sudden absence from the boat resulted in a decidedly significant shift in equilibrium upon the fulcrum of the limb and nearly sent my dad ass-over-appetite into the drink as well. However, he hit the deck knees first and was able to catch his weight with his hands on the gunwale before taking a Nestea plunge into Truman lake; skinned up knees are a welcome alternative to being tossed into cold water.
The sudden loss of my most favored rod & reel had pissed me off, but now I had other fish to fry, namely getting my fat ass out of the cold water that had already sent my muscles into a shivering spasm. After several hopeless attempts in lifting my waterlogged ass into the boat, I grabbed a hold of the starboard gunwale and told Dad to head for shore. Dad, started the motor and made an effort to dismount the boat off the limb, easing the throttle forward, but that only turned the boat in circles upon the limb, which of course added to my increasing level of rage and decreasing vocabulary that had oddly become limited to George Carlin's "Seven words you can never say on television." The frustration of the moment led me to dunk my head back underwater to assess the situation for myself. To my surprise, the small limb had put quite a dent into the aluminum hull, but it didn't appear to be so bad as to encumber any attempt to free the boat off the bastard.
"Would you quit being a pussy and ****ing gag the throttle," I yelled out to my dad after resurfacing once again. Now motivated, or at least pissed off, dad hammered the throttle and finally surged the boat forward and off the cursed limb. I then hung on as dad made way for the shore, but he was unable to steer the boat through the maze of dead snags with me hanging off the side of the boat so I was forced to swim the rest of the way to shore.
I was finally on land and though I was still steaming about the loss of my rod & reel, I was relieved to be free of that vile limb and out of the water that still firmly held the prolonged chill of winter. It was at this time of relief that I remembered that I had placed my cell phone in my pocket only moments before going overboard- this, apparently, was my breaking point. I dashed the cell phone against the rocky bank, showering plastic bits hither and thither. I then unleashed a string of swear words along with a scathing soliloquy of how I believed all fault of the unfortunate turn of events should be placed souly on my brother, the outcome of an unbridled, maddening rage. Tyler's eyes were big and apologetic, as I think he was beginning to worry that I might grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him in the lake, but I was just blowing off steam and licking the gashes of my wounded pride. By the by, my temper wained and a cooler head prevailed, a part of me even began to see the humor in it all. On the way back to the boat launch Dad & Tyler were laughing uncontrollably as they reminisced over my misfortunes and reveled in my soggy-bottomed malaise. I remained stoic for all of about 5 seconds until my furrowed brow finally gave way to giddy laughter; finding the humor in all things trivial and laughing at yourself is the only way I know to keep from going nuts.
So ends this story of Tussin, but be beware of how much joy you take from this tale because sometime, when you least expect it, it will be your turn as Tussin and I promise you will get no sympathy from me.
I have always thought that seat pedestal extensions are solid pieces of aluminum, this is untrue, in fact I now know that they are completely hollow and extremely thin-walled. And as the extension in question was under considerable strain, it finally could not bear the stress of my weight nor the dynamics in which my weight was being awkwardly distributed any longer, and in turn broke off cleanly at the base. It was in this moment I could have thrown my fishing rod toward the boat and saved a $40 rod and a $60 reel, but I was unable to afford the time to collect my thoughts in that brief opportunity and instead headed for the water backwards, and head first. Later, my brother would comment that I'd resembled a soft-shell turtle as I entered the water with little more than a faint splash, a surprise I am sure to all those who know me. Upon entering the shockingly frigid water, my hand instinctively released the grip on the fishing rod to search for something to grab onto. Almost simultaneously, the practical part of my brain rescinded this over-reaction and sent my hand frantically searching for the rod. I was able to a get finger on the tip of the rod but the weight of the reel had resulted in a terminal velocity, and it slipped through my thumb & fingertips like a wet fish and headed for the dark depths of Truman. That was a disappointing loss, but hardly devastating, at least it received a proper burial in the waters it had caught so many fish and brought me so much joy- besides, I have since bought a St. Croix rod and a new Shimano Spirex, both of which are upgrades.
It should also be noted that my sudden absence from the boat resulted in a decidedly significant shift in equilibrium upon the fulcrum of the limb and nearly sent my dad ass-over-appetite into the drink as well. However, he hit the deck knees first and was able to catch his weight with his hands on the gunwale before taking a Nestea plunge into Truman lake; skinned up knees are a welcome alternative to being tossed into cold water.
The sudden loss of my most favored rod & reel had pissed me off, but now I had other fish to fry, namely getting my fat ass out of the cold water that had already sent my muscles into a shivering spasm. After several hopeless attempts in lifting my waterlogged ass into the boat, I grabbed a hold of the starboard gunwale and told Dad to head for shore. Dad, started the motor and made an effort to dismount the boat off the limb, easing the throttle forward, but that only turned the boat in circles upon the limb, which of course added to my increasing level of rage and decreasing vocabulary that had oddly become limited to George Carlin's "Seven words you can never say on television." The frustration of the moment led me to dunk my head back underwater to assess the situation for myself. To my surprise, the small limb had put quite a dent into the aluminum hull, but it didn't appear to be so bad as to encumber any attempt to free the boat off the bastard.
"Would you quit being a pussy and ****ing gag the throttle," I yelled out to my dad after resurfacing once again. Now motivated, or at least pissed off, dad hammered the throttle and finally surged the boat forward and off the cursed limb. I then hung on as dad made way for the shore, but he was unable to steer the boat through the maze of dead snags with me hanging off the side of the boat so I was forced to swim the rest of the way to shore.
I was finally on land and though I was still steaming about the loss of my rod & reel, I was relieved to be free of that vile limb and out of the water that still firmly held the prolonged chill of winter. It was at this time of relief that I remembered that I had placed my cell phone in my pocket only moments before going overboard- this, apparently, was my breaking point. I dashed the cell phone against the rocky bank, showering plastic bits hither and thither. I then unleashed a string of swear words along with a scathing soliloquy of how I believed all fault of the unfortunate turn of events should be placed souly on my brother, the outcome of an unbridled, maddening rage. Tyler's eyes were big and apologetic, as I think he was beginning to worry that I might grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him in the lake, but I was just blowing off steam and licking the gashes of my wounded pride. By the by, my temper wained and a cooler head prevailed, a part of me even began to see the humor in it all. On the way back to the boat launch Dad & Tyler were laughing uncontrollably as they reminisced over my misfortunes and reveled in my soggy-bottomed malaise. I remained stoic for all of about 5 seconds until my furrowed brow finally gave way to giddy laughter; finding the humor in all things trivial and laughing at yourself is the only way I know to keep from going nuts.
So ends this story of Tussin, but be beware of how much joy you take from this tale because sometime, when you least expect it, it will be your turn as Tussin and I promise you will get no sympathy from me.
