THE PULL OF LAKE FORK Article By Joshua Snow RH Team North America
Anyone that has ever traveled to Lake Fork to fish the carp and buffalo challenge knows that you can never leave it. Not entirely. It gets in your head and stays there. I can drag my corporeal self back to the lush verdure of New York State, but Lake Fork is in my brain, itching away. My body is here, doing the things it does, work, gym, fish, sleep, but my brain is back
in dry, flat, windy East Texas, trying to tease another fish from the depths. It calls me back every year, like a siren calling sailors onto the rocks. I’m listening, ready to go. I’d probably live on its banks. I still might. I could spend years feverishly trying to unlock the code to those massive, illusive Lake Fork fish. At 27,000 acres, Lake Fork is a mystery still, even to locals that fish it a lot. Some have managed to crack the enigma. Almost. The late Richard Somerville managed to capture, at the time, the biggest smallmouth buffalo to come out of Fork. Rumor had it, and whisper it softly, that he also had the largest carp. But Richard didn’t care for lake records so they were slipped back into the depths and are now just memories. Ghosts. Austin Anderson spent lots of time with Richard and he is making his run at demystifying Fork. Junior IGFA records, personal best after personal best, massive, lovely mirrors reflect the madness of an obsession we share with the fish of Fork. I would spend every free day here, unafraid to blank if it meant a shot at a true giant. And yes, they exist. I know they exist. Not just ghosts. I’ve seen signs. Fork’s buffalo manifest themselves with two distinct appearances: The longer, more streamlined fish, the darker ones that Austin calls “The Originals”, and the shorter hunch-backs, silvery Quasimodo fish. I’ve captured one of each, a year between them but I won’t forget
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either. My first trip I managed a 43-pound buff but no carp. I’d seen pictures of commons and thought them the most beautiful, well-proportioned carp I’d ever seen. I wanted one, a giant, so very badly but it would not happen until the following year. And yet, when I finally caught
a common, amid the haste and hustle of competition, it slipped back beneath the surface of Fork without even a photograph. I hardly remember it at all. All I remember is that quasi that came shortly after, the big shouldered 55-pound buff that won the big buff prize with minutes to spare. The challenge of Fork gets to me. Fishing among the sunken timber, the wreckage of dogwood and hickory and blackjack oaks, drowned limbs embracing monster fish and fending off hooks while I stare blindly at the water in front of me, aching to peer beneath. And all the while the wind howls above, only for the weather to change in an instant. You cannot be a fair-weather fisherman at Fork. She will chew you up and spit you out. You have to meet it. Challenge it. devote yourself it. The rewards are worth it.
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My third pilgrimage was this year. Fork didn’t give up a buff or carp to me during the tournament, but after the 72 hours of competition I’d already planned to stay longer, another three days, and spend every minute working on the enigma. But Fork had other plans and she laughed hard in my face, baring her teeth with an hellacious ice storm, a thunder sleet event that closed roads, and turned East Texas into an apocalyptic vision in spectral white. My plans were thwarted. Ruined. No, they were shredded and left in frigid tatters. But I’ll be back. Next year. Maybe I’ll move there, the pull is that strong. Maybe cold-hearted Lake Fork will choose to reward my obsession.
Article By Joshua Snow RH Team North America
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