Bass beds, no strikes. What’s the deal?

If your lake contains smallmouth bass, spawning season probably has started, or will soon. It has started on our lake (Birch, near Harshaw, Wisconsin). My brother and I noticed spawning beds while fishing earlier this week. We cast to several of them with severely limited results.

Now, it is said that catching smallmouths (or largemouths for that matter) from spawning beds is so easy as to be un-sporting. That is true, but only at the right time in the spawning cycle. On our lake, the water temperature has just edged into the lower 60s F, which is the trigger point for spawning.

When this happens, the males move into the shallows and use their tail fin to sweep away sand and expose gravel to create a circular spawning bed, slightly bowl-shaped and two to four feet in diameter. The males then wait for females to arrive.

At this stage, the male bass are not the least bit interested in food. They spend the time after ice-out (the period known as pre-spawn) feeding heavily, but when spawning time arrives, they basically quit eating. A friend, master wood carver and sometime sculptor of language, Tom Tittl of Manitowoc, explained this time of food abstinence as clearly as anyone could. Throwing bait in front of a spawning bass, he said, “is like someone offering you a hamburger while you’re in the throes of passion.”

Once the male finds a mate and the eggs are laid and fertilized, the male’s job is to guard the nest (and later the fry) for a couple of weeks. Here is where the fishing gets exciting. It’s not that the bass have started eating again. It’s that they aggressively attack and remove anything that encroaches on the nest where the eggs lie on the bottom incubating. That includes a lure dragged across the bed or a leech or nightcrawler dangled above it.

There are some who say anglers should leave spawning bass alone. Others say that if released unharmed, the bass return almost immediately to the nest and no harm is done. For my part, I like to work the beds a little, just for the thrill of catching (and releasing) a few of these incredibly powerful, acrobatic fish in the early season. Mostly I prefer to leave them alone and let the reproductive process play out.

Now as I ponder the spawning ritual, I can’t help asking: How many women wish their men would behave more like smallmouths – males who make the bed and take care of the kids?

Your lake just took a deep breath

The last post talked about thermal stratification in your lake. I mentioned that in winter there’s a layer (a thin one) of cold water directly under the ice, and beneath that the slightly warmer – yet denser – water that makes up most of the lake’s volume.

Well, a week or two ago, the ice melted, and the wind’s action stirred that surface water in with the rest, so that the water temperature was fairly uniform from top to bottom. This condition is important because it allows the lake to, in essence, take a deep and restorative breath.

In this time when the lake is not yet stratified (with warmer water on top and colder water below, as in summer), wind and wave action can mix oxygen into the water. So if you imagine putting a drop of blue food coloring into a bowl and stirring, that in a sense is what happens with the oxygen in your lake – it is thoroughly and evenly mixed in. This is called the spring turnover.

Of course, oxygen is what the fish, snails, crayfish, plankton and all manner of creatures need to survive. That includes the microscopic creatures in the lake sediments that break down dead material that sinks to the bottom.

As the weather gets warmer, your lake is starting the process of stratifying for the summer – warmer water on top, cooler water below. Later on we’ll explore what this stratification means to the life under your lake’s surface. 

Your lake has layers

Your lake has layers

A year ago at the Wisconsin Lakes convention, a featured speaker asked for a show of hands: “How many know what a thermocline is?” Only about half the hands went up, and this in a room filled with lake lovers – lake residents, lake association people, anglers, DNR staffers, watershed managers.

So that tells me if I say your lake has layers, not all of you will say, “I knew that!” Yes, your lake has layers – and it’s for the simple physical reason that a less-dense liquid floats on a more-dense one, as oil floats on water. OK, that’s not a pretty image, but it makes the point. Warm water is less dense than cold water and will float on top of it.

What happens as spring moves into summer, and warm air and sunlight pump heat into the lake, is that the deep water stays cold, while the water nearer the surface gets warm. So in summer, your lake has a layer (a thick layer, mind you) of warmer water floating on cold. Between them there’s a zone where the temperature changes rapidly.

The technical term for this condition is thermal stratification. And again in technical terms, the warm upper layer is the epilimnion, the cool lower layer is the hypolimnion, and the zone in between is the thermocline.

On most lakes in Wisconsin, where I live, it’s easy to experience the thermocline – and you may well have done so without knowing it. Next time you go swimming on a nice summer day, get out where the water is fairly deep, say 15 feet or so. The surface water you’re in will likely be comfortably (or at least reasonably) warm. Now, do a feet-first surface dive. With an upstroke of your arms, propel yourself down. Soon your feet will feel a sudden change to much cooler. That means they have hit and passed through the thermocline. And with this simple test you can determine roughly how thick that epilimnion is.

This thermal stratification is a seasonal thing – it actually less reverses itself in winter, when the colder water is on top and the (only slightly) warmer water is on the bottom. This happens because water has the unique property of actually becoming less dense as its temperature falls below about 39 degrees F and heads toward the freezing point (32).

Stratification makes all sorts of interesting things happen in your lake – about which, more in later posts. For now, just be glad that if you’re asked amid a roomful of people what a thermocline is, you’ll be able to raise your hand. And that you now have something new and interesting to tell your grandkids next time they visit your lake.

Last ice, first fish

Have you been fishing yet? What does your lake hold? If it has walleyes, and if the ice has gone out, those walleyes in all likelihood are moving into the shallows to spawn. Their timing is dictated not by the calendar but by the water's temperature, and three very warm days since ice-out have kicked that up quickly here on Birch Lake. Putting in the pier two days ago, I was surprised that the water didn't chill me through the hip boots.

When I bought walleye minnows (fatheads) yesterday at the bait store in Lake Tomahawk, the attendant advised me to fish no more than 10 feet from shore, in water as shallow as a foot. I shoved off from the pier at about 7 p.m. Being a little hog-tied by habit, I first tried a deeper-water brush pile where I have caught many early-season walleyes. I found none this time and so took the counsel I'd been given.

A great thing about fishing your lake this time of year is the quiet. If it's not a weekend, chances are good you'll be alone on the water, or nearly so. The only other angler I saw was standing in waders, about up to his waist in the water, a couple dozen yards in front of his cabin. He told me he had seen no walleyes but had caught a nice smallmouth bass. He also, as it turned out, could make a very credible loon call, blowing into his cupped hands. (I guess I'd have to say not credible to the loons, who declined to play call-and-answer with him.)

I moved along the lake's southeast shore (where our cabin stands), tossing a minnow on a chartreuse jig into shallow, gravelly areas -- along the edge of a rock bar, next to a white pine that toppled into the water last summer, and finally off a point of land where logs and branches lay in the water. And here I felt the season's first twitch of life transmitted up the line, through the rod, to my right hand. A quick snap of the wrist and I had a fish on. Right away it felt too heavy for a Birch Lake walleye (they don't run too big here), so it had to be a smallmouth bass. And so it was -- about 17 inches, a female plump with spawn. I unhooked and released her.

I hadn't really expected to catch anything -- just wanted to get out on the water, since it was a perfect warm and overcast evening and the forecast called for a cold front overnight. So, bringing in a fish was a bonus. Here's hoping your first outing of this new season is fruitful. Try the shallows for walleyes.

Bottoms up: The lake unveiled

Has the ice gone out on your lake? Were you there to observe it? I had always wanted to see the thaw happen, and this year, at last, I did. It wasn't (as I expected) a matter of observing slow changes over a number of days. In fact, it was sudden, much of the process unfolding in little more than an hour.

Did you know (I didn't until I recently did some reading) that your lake ice thaws from the bottom up? First the snow melts off the surface. Then the sun penetrates the ice and warms the water underneath. Warm air above the ice accelerates the thaw, of course, but it's the warming water below that really does the trick.

When we arrived here on Sunday, April 28, Birch Lake (southeast of Minocqua) was still frozen stiff. That day and the next two days were in the 70s to 80s. Then came three more days of below-freezing temperatures, rain, snow and sleet, before winter's grip finally broke, on Saturday, May 4. At that point, the lake ice still looked solid (we heard reports from other lakes of remaining ice up to two feet thick). Who knew how long it would be until our lake opened up?

Then Saturday saw highs in the 70s, as did Sunday, and Monday, the day it finally happened. I suspect that on those warm-to-hot last days of April, the ice clear of snow, the sun had pumped enough calories into the water to keep the bottom-up thaw going, even as winter came back for a spell.

When I visited the lake's shore Monday morning, ice still covered all except a small area on the far north side. There had been little change (that one could see) when I left for town about 2 p.m. But when I returned at about 5 p.m., about 40 percent of our lobe of the lake had cleared, the remaining ice forming an irregular pattern, like continents in an ocean.

Then, at about 6 p.m., a wind brewed up from the east and began pushing the ice away, at more than glacial speed. Sitting on our deck, I could mark with my eye a feature on an ice sheet, note its distance from the trunk of a tree, and verify its progress. It was a bit like watching the minute hand on a clock, the motion barely perceptible, yet unmistakable.

Within about an hour, all the ice had blown off to the west, the stirring action of wind-driven wavelets surely speeding up the thaw at the same time. Just like that, our entire end of the lake, some 90-or-so acres of it, lay fully open. By morning, the entire lake had cleared, and loons plied the water, crying out with joy.

After the longest winter or the worst spring I remember in my 60 years, a new season has arrived. And all I can say to that is: Bottoms up!

Do you hear it? You can't help but love it.

You probably heard it yesterday. Not the silence that enveloped your lake as March advanced, the snowmobile season wound down, the ice anglers' shanties gone, the lake an empty expanse of white. Not the faint sounds of life, the scratch of a nuthatch on oak bark, the distant percussion of a woodpecker, the woods slowly waking.

No, this was even better -- snow melt water raining down on your deck. Winter had held on, without mercy, barely an hour above freezing since, say, the end of December. Yesterday the temperature topped 50 degrees, and the melting began in earnest. At five o'clock in went  to the lower deck to grill supper, getting a minor shower of roof runoff as I stepped out the door, taking refuge under the screen porch.

I could hear nothing except the loud splatter of large drops on the lower deck boards, the upper deck's much-oversized foccacia loaf of snow turning at last to water, shrinking. Out on Birch Lake, the snow's surface, lit by a low sun, bore a stippled texture, a sure sign of melting (though two feet of snow and 18 inches of ice will take a while to go away).

I lit a charcoal fire, let it burn down, then placed six bratwursts on the grill and sat on one of two stacks of pier boards, stowed under the porch last fall. It was wondrous, on the third-to-last day of March, to sit without a coat and grill supper, fully comfortable, the white smoke rising through the lid vents scenting the air with summer.

It won't be long before I'm down at the lake, knee deep, assembling metallic pier sections in erector-set style. Soon I'll be toting these wooden pier sections, two at a time, down the stairs to lay in place on the frame.

It was a hopeful thought, but no match for the sensation of water splatting down on wood, not in bashful, now-and-then drips, but in a cascade -- abundant, persistent. It was a beautiful sound. I hope you heard it, too.

Reef in waiting

On a lake where most residents are seasonal or weekenders, social events are important. It's good to have extended contacts with people you otherwise would rarely see, people who enrich the lake experience. What kinds of events help pull your lake community together? On our Birch Lake, one activity is fish crib building. A couple of weekends ago I joined about a dozen other volunteers in building five cribs on the southwest lobe of the lake. They now sit out on the ice, awaiting the thaw that will allow them to sink to the bottom.

When I arrived that Saturday morning at the meeting place, the Birch Lake Bar, a few other laborers were waiting as a light snow fell, adding a bit to the six inches of light powder that had come the previous day. Soon more volunteers arrived, and we moved to a neighboring property where logs about ten feet long had been stacked, each one with a half-inch hole drilled toward both ends, a uniform distance apart. These were serious logs, some nearly a foot in diameter.

We wrestled two dozen of them into the beds of two pickup trucks -- some were heavy enough to require four men. Then we drove out onto the ice, needing all the power and traction of four-wheel drive to make it through the snow. We stopped out in the middle of that southwest lobe and went to work. First we dragged two of the biggest logs down and threaded lengths of steel rebar through holes at each end, Then it was a matter of threading the other logs onto those bars, in alternating directions, in the manner of Lincoln Logs, until we had a crib six logs high. Between log layers we piled on saplings and branches, so that the finished product took on the look of a porcupine.

Two cribs thuse built, we went back for another load of logs. And so it went. That morning we built five cribs. Each one would later be covered with wire mesh to help hold the brush in place, then festooned with concrete blocks that would speed their way to the bottom. The end result will be, in essence, an artificial reef in about 18 feet of water, in theory a magnet for walleyes in what otherwise has been a featureless and fishless stretch of rocky bottom.

I enjoyed my first venture in crib building and was glad to make a small contribution to the lake's continuing improvement. Most of all it was good to meet a few more of my neighbors -- we had a good time pointing out to each other the locations of our places along the wooded shore.

Now we just have to hope the cribs sink where we put them. There is always the chance that the lake ice will break up and that a floe carrying the cribs will drift elsewhere on a strong wind. Someone will need to watch where the cribs actually go down. Then it will be a matter of finding them, with help from a fishing sonar, when walleye season opens in May.