E, and here's why:
Carefully watch the weather and barometric pressure, (as well as planet alignments and Farmer's Almanac) to assure the day you're fishing is the optimum day to fish. Also pays to check the moon phase, cuz the sumo walters always are on the chomp when the moon is in the first phase of a waxing gibbous. Or was that a waning Cheddar?
Well, whatever, do your research thoroughly and THEN start analyzing the topo maps. And when I say analyze, I mean ANAL-YZE. Guess, second guess, and triple guess your instincts, especially upon reports from the local bait store, your neighbor Guss, and that asshole little neighbor boy who somehow always is on the hot bite (mental note: tell him to GET OFF MY LAWN the next time I see him AFTER asking where to go fishing).
Finally, on the day of, scratch all your plans when you buy bait and the dude counting out 12 shiners when you asked for a dozen (cheap rat bastard) tells you they're biting right before sundown and to just park it on the first drop-off from the landing. So despite your gut instinct to go to that sunken hump or the inside turn or the 30-foot hole, you're sitting with two holes drilled in 13 feet of water watching your bobber jiggle relentlessly under the molestation from 25,756 four-inch perch.
When a red mark FINALLY comes, it's a god-damned slimer on the dead stick that's too short to keep because of Minnesota's gay-ass slot rules. And then, and THEN, a tiny mark finally comes up and hits your plain silver spoon (it's the 12th spoon tried since you sat down, and the first bit) and you're so excited because the sun is setting and you KNOW this means the bite is on. So you keep the 13 inch walleye out of spite.
And don't graph another fish for a full two hours past sunset.
And then you go home, and for whatever reason, make plans to do it all again next weekend, except THIS TIME you're going to stick to your guns instead of listening to the guy behind the gas station counter with the nose ring who get paid to count shiners every day.
Asshole.
