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Old 07-23-06, 07:36 AM   #1
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Default old lures - new bass- beginners guide to bass background

Thought some new to bass fishing could read some basic knowledge of bass fishing since the 60's...
Bass fishermen are an eclectic lot, not generally following any one system or method to achieve the ultimate goal: catching bass. Fishermen spend countless hours on the water in pursuit of dreams, and are collectors of sorts. A few are out there to accumulate trophies or bragging rights. Others are content just to gather a few memories of good times spent with friends or family. Some want the satisfaction of catching dinner. One thing common to all of them is the belief that a fisherman can never have enough good bass lures.
I came of bass fishing age during the transition from wooden to plastic bass lures. The only lures available in the early 1960's in the rural area I grew up in where holdovers from a different era. Wood bass plugs are now legendary, but they had their drawbacks. They were difficult to produce in quantity. The paint chipped and easily scratched by the teeth of green dragons with large mouths they were designed to infuriate. Some cracked and split with heavy use. Most were topwater lures not designed to dive very deep, but they did float and catch bass.
Robbing father's tackle box was standard practice for a kid with the beginning symptoms of bass fever, and I was no exception. My dad's lure collection from his pre-family, pre-small business years was composed of many different examples of the wooden bass plug era. By the time I was old enough to be considered dangerous to largemouth bass, those old lures were not in the best of shape. They were faded, warped, splintered, and sported more teeth marks than the law allows--but I learned to fish with them, and caught enough bass to become thoroughly hooked on the concept.
Along about 1962, a wonderful thing happened to bass fishing: quality lures made of plastic hit the mass market. The first one I can remember was made by Rebel Lure Company and was called the Rebel Minnow. It was love at first sight for me and the bass that lure was designed to catch.
The Rebel Minnow was incredibly light and strong. A shallow runner, it came in what was then a dazzling variety of colors. All featured a creamy-white underbelly, silver reflective sides, and dorsal colors of blue, yellow, black, and--amazingly--purple. About this time bass fishing was moving from small backwater sloughs and ponds to mega-acre reservoirs. Stocked with largemouth bass and other familiar species like catfish and crappie, these new bodies of water exploded with terrific fishing.
Armed with cutting-edge technology, I graduated from sandlot to big league bass fishing. The fish in those new impoundments never knew what hit them. Those Rebel lures were simply irresistible to bass used to seeing large, chunky pieces of wood. I remember clearly the first time our family armada of anglers fished one of the mammoth lakes constructed for water supply in the mid-1960's. Armed to the teeth with the new lures from Rebel, we fairly bristled with dangling hook menace as we ventured forth in a 15-foot aluminum boat.
A local marina was sponsoring a weekly fishing contest for bass and crappie. My father won both divisions in a single morning. He weighed in a 6.5-pound largemouth bass and a 3.25-pound crappie--both caught on the same blue-backed Rebel Minnow. Rebel Minnows are made and sold under the same name today, just as they were in 1962. I have an assortment of them in my tackle box, and they still catch fish.
It would be sacrilege to discuss classic bass lures without mentioning the Bomber Bait Company of Gainesville, Texas. Ike Walker and C.S. Turbeville decided they needed a bass lure that ran deep. Apparently dissatisfied with lures of the era, they designed and hand-produced one they dubbed the "Bomber." The year was 1944 when they began a limited production for friends. The lure resembled an item much in the news during that war-torn year--an aerial bomb. The original Bombers were made of wood with metal bills and produced until 1971, when plastic bodies were introduced.
Bombers came in various sizes, but all sported the distinctive bomb shape. Other unusual aspects of the design made them unique. Bombers sported a metal bill and an adjustable line-tie. Unlike conventional lures produced to resemble prey fish in color and function (with the line tie and diving bill in front of the eyes), Bombers were pulled backwards--stern first. The bill and adjustable line-tie were located aft, on the rear of the lure body. The intent of the design must have been to imitate the crawfish, a favorite food of largemouth bass. The large diving bill and nose-up attitude when retrieved made the Bomber nearly snag-free when fished in woody areas. They would shoulder aside most hang-ups. The Bomber model 500 in black and orange striped pattern was murder on bass looking for a crustacean to crunch.
Bombers came in a variety of suggestive color schemes, and because of their wooden bodies, possessed superior floating ability. You could fish them in a variety of ways, but they were at their best when cranked down to the bottom to plow a trench deep enough to lay cable in. The sight of a wobbling, struggling, big-eyed Bomber raising clouds of silt was the undoing of many a largemouth bass.
Bombers were discontinued in the early 1980's, when Pradco acquired the Bomber Bait Company, and replaced them with the Model A. Even though wooden Bombers are considered a classic lure now, they are not all that rare or hard to find. Commanding prices of $5 to $10 each for lures in respectable shape, fishermen can still afford to buy them from collectors and use them for what those Texas boys in Gainesville originally intended--catching the heck out of largemouth bass.
It is hard to imagine what bass fishing would be like today without soft plastic lures. Imitations of worms, insects, amphibians, and minnows made from rubber compounds were developed in the late 1800's. The first rubber worm-type bait received a U.S. patent in 1877.
Those early attempts bear little resemblance to today's multi-scented, mouth-watering delights. The early "creepy crawlers" were stiff, two-dimensional versions of a bass smorgasbord. Hand-carved wooden lures prevalent during that era were in no marketing danger from the rubber revolution of the late Nineteenth Century.
Zoom forward in time about fifty years. Was it coincidence or fate that a machinist from Akron, Ohio, began melting a new compound called "polyvinyl chloride" (PVC) on his kitchen stove and poured it into a hand-carved mold shaped like a night crawler? We will never know, but in the late 1940's, Nick Creme was a man with a vision.
A mid-western machinist and fisherman, Creme grew weary of catching bait for every fishing trip. He began experimenting with various compounds of PVC and rubber obtained from friends in the tire manufacturing industry in Akron. He and his wife, Cosma, turned their home into a laboratory and developed the first soft-plastic worm that looked and felt like the real thing in 1949. Creme termed his creation the "Wiggle Worm" and began marketing them by mail in 1951. Creme moved his flourishing business to Tyler, Texas, in 1960--a plan that must have been divinely inspired, because East Texas became the birthplace of modern bass fishing and the plastic worm led the way.
My introduction to the plastic worm was in the late 1960's. By then, Creme's product was showing up in a few small tackle stores in my area of the western United States. Used to the "cast and crank" action of fishing hard-bodied baits, I was dubious that what appeared to be a child's toy could catch bass.
Creme's pre-rigged worms with beads, in-line spinners, and exposed double hooks were the first soft-plastic bass lures carried by my local vendors. Although the new fish attractor was suspiciously useless in appearance, bass loved them. Cast one out, let it sink to the bottom, work it just fast enough to make the spinners turn, and bass hammered it.
With the advent of "Texas rigging," the plastic worm became a sensation in the bass fishing world. Although associated primarily with largemouth bass, soft-plastic lures revolutionized the entire fishing industry. Creme's creation of an easy-to-use, productive lure has probably resulted in more bass caught than any other design in history. The original Wiggle Worm has been renamed the "Scoundrel," and just recently a curly-tailed, pre-rigged version was introduced by Creme--still located in the heart of bass country U.S.A., Tyler, Texas.
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Old 07-23-06, 08:01 AM   #2
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WOW, what a great read. Still have and use the old wooden Bombers and as a baitmaker it has the action that I try most to duplicate. Another wooden lure, for shallow water is the Spence Scout, in shallow cover it is the best bait I think you can use. When Strikeking made the plastic version they went from Corvette to Yugo.

Thanks again for the trip down memory lane.
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Old 07-23-06, 03:45 PM   #3
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Good god you just wrote a novel!!! Great writing though.
Does anyone know of a fishing addictions program? Cause I need one.
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Old 07-23-06, 03:59 PM   #4
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IT WAS the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.

There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.

France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.

In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of "the Captain," gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, "in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:" after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fir on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence.

All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures- the creatures of this chronicle among the rest- along the roads that lay before them.

IT WAS the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.

With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary "Wo-ho! so-ho-then!" the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it- like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.

There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all.

Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the cars, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers. As to the latter, when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in "the Captain's" pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable nondescript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards. So the guard of the Dover mail thought to himself, that Friday night in November, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up Shooter's Hill, as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlass.

The Dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two Testaments that they were not fit for the journey.

"Wo-ho!" said the coachman. "So, then! One more pull and you're at the top and be damned to you, for I have had trouble enough to get you to it!- Joe!"

"Halloa!" the guard replied.

"What o'clock do you make it, Joe?"

"Ten minutes, good, past eleven."

"My blood!" ejaculated the vexed coachman, "and not atop of Shooter's yet! Tst! Yah! Get on with you!"

The emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit. Once more, the Dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side. They had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close company with it. If any one of the three had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot instantly as a highwayman.

The last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill. The horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.

"Tst! Joe!" cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his box.

"What do you say, Tom?"

They both listened.

"I say a horse at a canter coming up, Joe."

"I say a horse at a gallop, Tom," returned the guard, leaving his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place. "Gentlemen! In the king's name, all of you!"

With this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on the offensive.

The passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in; the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow. He remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained in the road below him. They all looked from the coachman to the guard, and from the guard to the coachman, and listened. The coachman looked back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back, without contradicting.

The stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet indeed. The panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation. The hearts of the passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.

The sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.

"So-ho!" the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar. "Yo there! Stand! I shall fire!"

The pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering, a man's voice called from the mist, "Is that the Dover mail?"

"Never you mind what it is!" the guard retorted. "What are you?"

"Is that the Dover mail?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I want a passenger, if it is."

"What passenger?"

"Mr. Jarvis Lorry."

Our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name. The guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.

"Keep where you are," the guard called to the voice in the mist, "because, if I should make a mistake, it could never be set right in your lifetime. Gentleman of the name of Lorry answer straight."

"What is the matter?" asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering speech. "Who wants me? Is it Jerry?"

("I don't like Jerry's voice, if it is Jerry," growled the guard to himself. "He's hoarser than suits me, is Jerry.")

"Yes, Mr. Lorry."

"What is the matter?"

"A despatch sent after you from over yonder. T. and Co."

"I know this messenger, guard," said Mr. Lorry, getting down into the road- assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the window. "He may come close; there's nothing wrong."

"I hope there ain't, but I can't make so 'Nation sure of that," said the guard, in gruff soliloquy. "Hallo you!"

"Well! And hallo you!" said Jerry, more hoarsely than before.

"Come on at a footpace! d'ye mind me? And if you've got holsters to that saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em. For I'm a devil at a quick mistake, and when I make one it takes the form of Lead. So now let's look at you."

The figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood. The rider stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper. The rider's horse was blown, and both horse and rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of the man.

"Guard!" said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.

The watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman, answered curtly, "Sir."

"There is nothing to apprehend. I belong to Tellson's Bank. You must know Tellson's Bank in London. I am going to Paris on business. A crown to drink. I may read this?"

"If so be as you're quick, sir."

He opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read- first to himself and then aloud: "'Wait at Dover for Mam'selle.' It's not long, you see, guard. Jerry, say that my answer was, RECALLED TO LIFE."

Jerry started in his saddle. "That's a Blazing strange answer, too," said he, at his hoarsest.

"Take that message back, and they will know that I received this, as well as if I wrote. Make the best of your way. Good night."

With those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep. With no more definite purpose than to escape the hazard of originating any other kind of action.

The coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round it as it began the descent. The guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box. For he was furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes.

"Tom!" softly over the coach roof.

"Hallo, Joe."

"Did you hear the message?"

"I did, Joe."

"What did you make of it, Tom?"

"Nothing at all, Joe."

"That's a coincidence, too," the guard mused, "for I made the same of it myself."

Jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of holding about half a gallon. After standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill.

"After that there gallop from Temple Bar, old lady, I won't trust your fore-legs till I get you on the level," said this hoarse messenger, glancing at his mare. "'Recalled to life.' That's a Blazing strange message. Much of that wouldn't do for you, Jerry! I say, Jerry! You'd be in a Blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion, Jerry!"
Selling live waterdogs for less since 2005.
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Old 07-23-06, 04:32 PM   #5
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WTL I plugged all that into my decoder ring and this is what I got.

Fish fry at P-N-J's 8-11-06. Must bring your own fish because my tow vehicle is broken along with all my Daiwa's. Guess I should've kept my Shimanos.

Cya there,
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Old 07-23-06, 06:10 PM   #6
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Nice post William, I totally agree.
Does anyone know of a fishing addictions program? Cause I need one.
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Old 07-23-06, 06:53 PM   #7
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got any visine? if so pass some my way
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Old 07-23-06, 09:48 PM   #8
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Originally Posted by IL.bassin
WTL I plugged all that into my decoder ring and this is what I got.

Fish fry at P-N-J's 8-11-06. Must bring your own fish because my tow vehicle is broken along with all my Daiwa's. Guess I should've kept my Shimanos.

Cya there,
My said the same thing I need directions though

There are three types of Snakes I hate 1. Live Snakes 2. Dead Snakes 3. Sticks that look like Snakes. And Gators too!
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