I recognized him immediately. The classic hungry mouth always in search of food, the heavy sagging belly. I knew his type. I had seen ones just like him before. He moved slowly like he had all day to do whatever it was he was doing. He paid little attention to me. He simply lumbered away without a single look back.

I knew we were not done, though, and that our paths would cross again soon. In fact, I vowed to make it happen.

“I will catch up with you later,” I told him.

That is how my Fathers’ Day began, making promises to a fat largemouth bass with an attitude of superiority. I could not wait to make good on my promise.

As I attach my old Pflueger Medalist 1494 AK reel to the fly rod, I survey the terrain around Beaver Dam Run aboard Marine Corps Base, Quantico, VA. I decide I can traverse the area no sweat. In fact, I can probably walk the middle of the entire stream. The dam gates are closed and the water is fairly shallow; waist deep in holes, but about knee deep as a rule.

Although I have fished Lunga Reservoir many times in the three years I have lived in neighboring Stafford, I have never been to this side of the dam. Fishing the small creek that runs from the reservoir and under the road called MCB 4 is something I always wanted to do, but for one reason after another, I never did. Today was the day.

This would be the perfect Fathers Day gift. While my family sleeps at home, I will spend a couple of hours on the creek with my fly rod and my trusty “Miss Prissy” popper, by Accardo, with her single No. 6 hook. The fish in the reservoir and in nearby Smith Lake cannot resist the small top water plug with the chartreuse shell and black spatter marks. I am hoping the residents of this little stretch of water have the same tendencies.

First cast.

Bam! Miss Prissy is snatched viciously and pulled toward an underwater log. My No. 5/6 Shakespeare rod bends slightly as I strip the line back. After a brief fight, I am holding the first fish of the day, a hand-sized bluegill with beautiful coloring. It is 6:10 a.m. I can already see that this is going to be a good day.

I release the fish, step into the water and begin slogging downstream toward my intended prey. I am careful not to step in the beds of spawning suckers that riddle the stream bed. The suckers attack Miss Prissy with a vengeance every time she comes near their beds. Some hit and spit, others latch on and offer a nice little fight. I catch three or four of the small fish, mostly bottom feeders, in quick succession. None are larger than 10 inches.

I wish they would quit biting and give the bass a chance. I cast under limbs and into hard to reach areas where I suspect the bass to be. Cast after cast in this little stretch of water, I watch fish roll over the plug. Some do not bite; most do. However, the one I really want remains elusive.

Yet, I think this is one of the best days I have ever had fishing. I know it is the best day I have ever had fly fishing. My friend taught me how to use a fly rod at his little pond near Guffey, Colorado, only a few years back. In fact, it is his old reel I am using this morning, a gift to encourage me to continue. I caught a small trout there and fell in love with the sport. Since then, however, I have not had much luck. I assumed that East Coast fly fishing was not as good; too many trees and shrubs. Today I was proving myself wrong.

I was hooked just as securely as the bluegills and suckers that kept attacking Miss Prissy.

In the two weeks prior to this trip I had begun using the fly rod more and more on the banks of Lunga Reservoir and Smith Lake. I had extremely good luck in both areas. My increased skill with the fly rod made me more confident on this little creek.

A fellow angler (one much more experienced) told me one morning to get rid of my larger, stiffer No. 8/10 rod and go with the lighter rod for this type of fishing. So, on the way to the lake one spring day, I stopped at Wal-Mart and spent $18 on a Shakespeare starter fly fishing kit. My fly fishing experience became immediately more enjoyable.

After working my way downstream for a while, catching and releasing at least 10 more fish, I spot the largemouth again. He is staying just ahead of me. I duck under low-hanging trees, my face inches from the water. I crawl over underwater obstacles, wondering every time what is on the other side. The water is shallow enough and clear enough in most areas for us to see each other.

I decide to be smarter than the fish so I leave the creek and head for the western bank. I circle out away from the water and downstream. About 100 yards south, I step back into the water and begin casting.

Two bluegills and several suckers later, I am within casting distance of where I left the bass. Sandy beds riddle the creek bottom and the smell of breeding fish is strong. It is a heady smell that takes me back to my childhood and the innumerable fishing trips I made with my grandfather to the black water creeks of South Georgia, minus the water moccasins and alligators. I am in heaven.

I move slowly. Line plays out in the air just below the limbs of the hardwoods crowding the banks. Miss Prissy sings as she passes overhead. Lightly she falls beside an outcropping of dead tree limbs. She sits quietly in the water at the end of a four-foot tapered lead, her ripples dissipating in the slow stream. I pull the line once. “Plop.” Settle. I pull again. “Plop.” Once more, BAM! The bass lunges and Miss Prissy goes down hard.

I set the hook.

My line tightens and begins running out. The reel protests as the line is stripped. My drag is set just right. Forces are gelling. This is it. I have bass fever, a feeling similar to that which overcame me when I killed my first and only deer so many years ago. My heart rate increases, my mind whirls. I do not want to screw this up like so many hunters with buck fever do.

I reel and wait, reel and wait. This fish is heavy and the rod bends like a willow in a hurricane. Slowly he comes closer. He darts toward the shore and back toward the middle of the stream where I stand. Suddenly, as quickly as he started, he stops fighting. He becomes submissive and in seconds I am holding a largemouth about 13 inches long, just too small to keep on Quantico. Bass between 12 and 15 inches must be released aboard the base. I am okay with that, though. It is the catching that I enjoy, not the keeping.

I stand knee deep in the waters of this tiny stream, holding a beautiful bass that weighs about two pounds. I thank him for the fight and the experience and set him free. After all, it is Father’s Day; he may have a celebration planned for later. I know I do.

Note: To fish in any of the waters on Marine Corps Base Quantico, anglers must possess a valid Virginia fishing license and a base fishing permit. Both items can be purchased at the Marine Corps Exchange. A valid military identification card is required to use the exchange. Deer ticks are abundant in this area. Be sure to wear insect repellent and to make other necessary adjustments. My morning trip without doing so netted me about 40 ticks. Hartz flea and tick shampoo is handy in that situation.