By Tom Betts
I have spent many hours fishing Georgian Bay during the past 50 years, and I thought that I had seen just about everything. A recent bass fishing trip, however, changed my mind.
On the evening of August 1st I found myself bouncing on the waves in our little 14-ft camp boat, accompanied by my daughter Madison and her cousin Jadyn. It was a sunny and warm evening, though the gusty wind kept us on our toes and made the fishing a little difficult.
We were doing what we usually do … trolling small lures along rocky shores and shoals, expecting to be entertained by an assortment of small bass and hoping to bump into a few of their bigger brothers. Action had been slow, and we decided to change locations.
After motoring across some open water, I slowed near a likely looking shoal and told the girls to let their lines out. Moments later, Maddie’s small rod doubled over and she excitedly uttered something like, “Ooh, hey, I’ve got one! Whoa, I’ve got a big one!”
But after just a few seconds had passed she began to doubt herself. “I think I’m snagged,” she said sadly. “It feels like the bottom.”
As a careful observer, I thought otherwise. Through some sophisticated physics and calculus, I had determined that the boat had been moved a substantial distance by the wind and that Maddie’s line had moved with us! “You are not snagged,” I countered, “you have a big fish!”
This had happened to us before … an innocent shoreline troll for smallmouths turns into a big pike, for which we are ill-prepared with no net, no wire leader, etc. Now, as Maddie held on to a slow moving line, I assumed she had ahold of one of these wandering big fish.
Very gradually she gained back a little of her 6-lb test line, and I could tell the fish was coming near the surface. When I noticed a patch of white just under the surface of the wind-broken water, my thoughts quickly changed. “Oh my gosh,” I shouted, “I think you have a huge walleye!” Now that would be an amazing and rare catch for us!
About this time I could see the fish more clearly, and I realized that it was neither walleye nor pike. In fact, as Maddie delicately eased the huge fish to the boat, I uttered a confession to my curious fishing crew: “Girls, I have no clue what we are looking at.”
We hoisted the fish into the boat, easily removed the tiny barbless hooks that had held onto him, and then gazed awestruck at something we had never seen before. “What is it?” the girls said in unison? “I … I … I don’t know,” I admitted, a little embarrassed. After years of plying the waters of Georgian Bay, I was experiencing a “first.”
Eager for a successful release, we snapped a few quick pictures and then gently placed the unknown creature from the not-so-deep back into the water. A casual flick of a big tail sent him back down into the dark water.
We were in the dark too. But suddenly an image popped into my mind, an image I had seen somewhere at some time. “Look up freshwater drum,” I suggested to Maddie, and a minute later, thanks to the cell phone technology that is so often close at hand, Maddie confirmed my thought: “That’s what it is,” she proudly announced, “a freshwater drum!”
At that point we knew nothing about the species, and we even entertained the idea that it might be a Great Lakes invasive. But further research has given us a much better understanding. The freshwater drum is the only North American freshwater species in the family Sciaenidae, and the solo member of genus Aplodinotus. Many saltwater relatives exist, including the famous red drum that attracts anglers to North Carolina’s Outer Banks each fall.
The freshwater drum, often referred to as sheepshead, is in fact native to the Great Lakes, including Georgian Bay, though they seem to be very rare in our area. They feed on macroinvertebrates and small fish, and there is evidence that larger individuals may consume invasive zebra mussels. And they can be large – the world record tops 54 pounds! Males can make a grunting sound, although the reason for this is unknown. Freshwater drum can be good table fare if prepared properly, though Maddie’s fish returned to the cold waters of Georgian Bay, hopefully to eat some zebra mussels.
Our bass forays are always memorable, but certainly the evening of August 1 will rank high among unique cottage moments. I never expected that an hour of bass fishing would result in a once-in-a lifetime experience, but that is very likely what it will be. In a way, the night of the freshwater drum is a reminder to me of what fishing is all about … and that is that a line in the water is a connection to an unknown world, a silent world of mystery and magic.
Download this story and the entire WCA Fall Newsletter October_3_2018 in PDF format (1.5MB).