It’s hard to believe in late December we are still talking early ice, but in the Midwest unseasonable warmer temperatures have kept water open. Northern Minnesota and North Dakota, however, are experiencing some excellent early ice walleye fishing and the remainder of the Midwest shouldn’t be too far behind, so get those batteries charged and hooks sharpened because ice fishing season is coming. Here are 10 tips that will help you land more walleyes as lakes begin to freeze.

1. Be Cautious

Safety is an important consideration for any sort of fishing, especially early ice. Never venture out without letting someone know where you are going. A good spud bar is paramount for testing the ice but any heavy stick will work. Place your cell phone in a plastic bag, carry a rope along and invest in a reliable ice axe in case you should fall through.

2. Rely on Fall Scouting

In most cases, ice anglers like to be mobile, drilling holes in the ice until they find fish. That’s not necessarily a bad practice at the right times, such as mid-day or slow bite periods. However, use your fall fishing as a form of scouting. If you found good weed beds and break lines near shore in September and October, target those same areas the first few days and weeks of ice fishing.

3. Minimize Your Movements

You need to be stealthy when fishing early ice, because fish may very well be shallow or on the move as they transition into the coldest water temperatures of the year. There are a lot of new noises, from footsteps to augers, and ATVs coming from above, making these walleye a bit more cautious than usual. Move quietly and minimize noise especially during peak hours such as early morning and evening. Do your best not to move when the fish are moving. As the sun begins to set, you should already have your holes drilled and be fishing at or relatively close to where you expect the fish to be, come evening. Being set up for the fish before they arrive is key to not spooking them out of the area.

4. What Should You Use for Bait?

Bait size is often overlooked by many ice anglers. But it’s pretty simple. Bigger bait means bigger fish. If you are targeting panfish, make sure you are using small baits such as tungsten jigs and small waxies. If you are targeting eater size walleye, you can often get by with a fathead minnow or shiner on a jig, mid-size spoons, and glide baits will put those walleye onto the ice as well. For trophy walleye don’t be afraid to rig up creek chub, red-tails, and larger profile baits such as Rippin’ Shads, Rippin’ Raps, and many of the other lipless style baits. When the bite gets tough, downsize your baits and minimize expectations. Everyday isn’t a trophy walleye day.

5. To Tip-Up or Not?

Tip-ups have been around for as long as I can remember and they are a great way to cover water and maximize the number of baits you can legally have out. I prefer to fight the fish on a rod and reel versus the old hand lining method. With all the innovations in ice fishing rods, it is easier now than ever. Placing your rod in a rod holder (known as dead-sticking) is extremely effective and many will tell you that their bigger fish came on these setups. A dead-stick rod allows you to see the bite easier. The rod loads up and in many cases will set the hook for you instead of letting the fish swim around freely while getting tangled up in other lines. And when it comes to fighting big fish, you are more likely to land them on a rod and reel combo as opposed to hand-lining a lunker top side. No transducer is needed in the hole of your dead-stick, which minimizes noise and why many believe bigger fish are more likely to bite.

Read Next: This is Your Year to Get into Ice Fishing. Here’s the Gear You Need to Do It

6. Keep Your Bait Alive

Lively bait can be a challenge when you’re fishing in arctic temperatures. But with all the innovations in insulated and aerated bait stations keeping your water moving and bait highly oxygenated they will remain as lively as they were when you purchased them. It’s usually the angler’s fault for not having lively bait. The cold water temperatures create more viscosity in the water, which means everything moves slower. This is why an active bait can attract a fish to bite from a long distance versus a dead minnow hanging below the ice. Shiners, fatheads, and red-tails are all excellent live baits for ice fishing based on your location. Red-tails are a favorite among Minnesota anglers whereas shiners and fathead minnows, work just about anywhere. Creek chubs are the go to in the Dakotas and when kept fresh and alive they are some of the most active live baits under the ice sure to entice a hungry walleye.

7. Start Off Bank Fishing

Shorelines are a great starting point during early ice. Most shorelines hold structures such as weeds, rocks, and sand, as well as warmer water initially, making for a great starting point. As the day progresses, look for deeper water nearby such as main lake points and breaks. If you can find a location with a break fairly close to shore this can be the ticket as you won’t need to move a lot throughout the day and you’ll be in the perfect position for when those active walleye move up shallow to feed again.

8. Find the Weeds

Weeds hold fish all year long, because they create oxygen, which attracts everything in the food chain. Finding good weeds late in the winter is tough, but early ice weed opportunities can be the ticket. The use of a good underwater camera to do some mid-day scouting for weeds can pay dividends come evening.

The Right Rod For the Job

Just like your bait, you need the right setup for the technique you plan on fishing. A soft tip and longer rod can make for a great dead stick. But you will want a more medium to heavy powered extra fast action rod for larger baits when targeting those trophy walleye. The fast action tip will ensure quicker and more solid hook set. A medium action rod will give your bait the proper action when worked vertically through a hole as well as more control over that tanker walleye to guide it up through the narrow ice opening. The right rod will increase your hookups and your ability to land the fish. The wrong rod will increase your odds of missing bites and weak hook sets resulting in lost fish. When your rod is too soft and the action is too slow it’s very difficult to get a good hook set on a fish as all the backbone and strength of the rod are in the lower third near the reel seat. This backbone is what drives the hook home. These lighter and ultralight rods are best suited for panfish. When targeting walleye a longer rod (32-inches), such as a St. Croix CCI Dead Eye, allows the walleye to bite the bait feeling minimal resistance from the rod allowing it time to “load up.” This type of setup is perfect for a “deadstick” allowing the walleye to devour the entire bait before feeling the resistance and in turn self hooking itself.

10. Dress Warm

As ice anglers, we know the cold well, but far too often anglers are not dressed appropriately. Wintertime temps are seldom stable and in the upper Midwest, you can count on the wind making it much colder than what your weather app forecasted. Once you’re cold, it’s hard to get warm without leaving the ice for a short period of time. Wet hands make it even worse. Packing a small fishing towel can go a long way as well as extra pair of gloves. You will see many seasoned ice anglers overdressed for good reason. It’s much easier to take off a layer than add a layer that you didn’t bring with you. Striker Ice suits has a huge array of floatation suites, bibs, and jackets that also come with many layering options, making them a go-to for ice suits and accessories.

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Kellie Renfro and her husband didn’t have a lot of time to fish last Thursday when they took a quick trip out to Lake Nacogdoches. They had to make it to their kids’ baseball practice in a few hours. But as it turns out, they didn’t need very long. Renfro was able to put a 13.27-pound largemouth in the boat, making her the first woman in almost four years to catch a Legacy Class ShareLunker in Texas, KLTV-7 reports.

Renfro told the local news that shortly after making the “last minute” decision, they were on their boat fishing a lake point and her husband caught a 2-pound fish. He then told her to cast from the front of the boat, and when she did, something grabbed her bait right away.

Renfro was using a spinning rod rigged with a V&M Baby Swamp Hawg soft-plastic lure. She said at first, the bite felt like a snag.

“I turned to my husband and said, ‘Well, I’ve hooked a stump,’” Renfro told KLTV-7. “Seconds later, that’s when she started pulling drag, and that’s when I realized I had just hooked into the largest fish I have ever felt.”

Renfro said the fish pulled some serious drag, jumped twice, and took her all the way around the boat before her husband grabbed the net and “made the perfect scoop to get her in the boat.”

After realizing just how big the bass was, the two headed for the dock and contacted the ShareLunker program. Texas Parks and Wildlife Department sent someone out from the Freshwater Fish Hatchery in Athens to weigh the bass and collect data, and they used an official scale to confirm the bass’ weight: 13.27 pounds. The heavy female was 26 inches long, with a 23.5-inch girth. Aside from being Renfro’s personal-best largemouth, the 13.27-pounder was also the first ShareLunker of the season from Lake Nacogdoches.

TPWD confirmed that Renfro is the first woman to catch a Legacy Class ShareLunker (13-plus-pounder) in almost four years. The last Legacy Class entry made by a woman in the state came from Stacy Spriggs of Huntsville, TX, who caught a 13.06 bass during a tournament on Sam Rayburn Reservoir on March 31, 2018.

TPWD also explained that the big, egg-laden female was released into Lake Nacogdoches soon after she was weighed and measured. Typically, the fish would have been taken to the hatchery in Athens, but a spokesperson with the agency said that with all the 14- to 16-pound fish they’ve taken in this year, the “Lunker Bunker” is starting to reach capacity, and they’ve had to be more selective than usual.

Read Next: Two 14-Pound Bass Kick off the 2022 ShareLunker Season in Texas

TPWD’s Toyota ShareLunker program runs year-round. The program allows anglers who catch bass over 8 pounds to loan these fish to TWPD, where they are added to the state’s selective breeding and stocking program that aims to enhance largemouth bass genetics in Texas lakes. To qualify for the Legacy Class, anglers have to catch a bass over 13 pounds and loan it to TPWD during the spawning period, which runs from January through March.

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Invasive snakeheads have reared their “hideous” mugs in the news again recently, this time because they’ve been discovered in Louisiana and Missouri. My reaction to these stories is always, “here we go again.” If you know anything about how these fish have proliferated in the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast, no one should be surprised that they keep expanding their range. They are so tolerant of a wide range of environmental conditions that I’m surprised it took this long for them to hit the news in the South. 

Having spent a bunch of time in Louisiana and Missouri, I can tell you the make-up of many of their waterways are truly snakehead paradises. I could go on about how evidence from other parts of the country (where they’ve existed longer) suggests their presence is not that catastrophic, or how I enjoy catching them so much more than other freshwater species. But instead I want to dispel a couple myths in the culinary department considering the latest snakehead uproar. 

Can You Eat Snakehead Fish?

When people look at a snakehead, they say they’re so ugly. They’re so gross. They’re vile. Who would want to eat them? Well, lots and lots of people, which is one of the main reasons they exist in our waters in the first place. Snakeheads have been a popular food fish in Asia for centuries, and illegal smuggling to supply fish markets in the States is a big reason they ended up here. 

I’d argue that snakehead taste better than many freshwater fish American’s love, and for my friends in the South, you should be a bit excited about the prospect of sticking a few. Nobody does fish cookery better than you guys. 

So in case you bump into one, yes, you can eat snakehead fish, but here are a few things you should know before you do.

Snakeheads Do Not Taste Like Mud

When ranking freshwater fish in terms of their popularity on the table, catfish sit pretty high on the list. Across the South in particular, mom-and-pop roadside eateries that specialize in fried catfish abound. I enjoy my meal immensely every time I visit one, but what many people may not consider is that catfish you buy in a restaurant or fish market are usually farm-raised. This means the fish has been reared in a clean environment and often fed processed fishmeal. Catch a catfish out of the local lake or river that’s been rooting through the bottom, eating decaying fish and who knows what else, and there’s a strong chance it won’t taste as sweet as the one you got from the Stop & Shop. Wild catfish are notorious for their muddy aftertaste, yet this doesn’t seem to turn many people off. The irony is that many folks turn their noses up at eating snakeheads assuming they’ll taste like swamp muck. However, in reality they taste much cleaner and fresher than the average catfish. 

READ NEXT: The Best Tasting Fish You’ve Probably Never Eaten

Snakeheads will feed off the bottom, but they are not bottom feeders. Such is the case with many popular fish like trout, bass, perch. Catfish and carp, on the other hand, are true bottom feeders, hence the muddy flavor injection in their flesh. Despite thriving in shallow, weedy, mucky areas, snakeheads do not gravitate to decaying forage. They predominantly feed on baitfish and insects higher up in the water column like many other predator species, and because of this I’d argue that snakehead meat is milder, sweeter, and has less aftertaste than even a fresh walleye fillet. 

Snakeheads Are Not Bony

Whenever I bring up eating snakeheads to people who have never tried them, it’s very common to hear: “Aren’t they full of bones?” No, they’re not. Trout, pike, and pickerel—all of which are popular on the table—have many more small bones that need to be dealt with than snakeheads. In fact, due to the heartiness and firmness of snakehead meat, they are actually very easy to fillet. 

One caveat, however, is that snakeheads are arguably slimier than most other fish you’d slap down on a cutting board. Furthermore, they seem to just get slimier after they die. Slime literally drips off them, and there can be an inch or more of slime in the bottom of your cooler. This alone turns a lot of people off to eating them. However, there’s no connection between the slime and the quality or flavor of the flesh. 

What I like to do is leave them in the cooler but keep the drain plug open. Prop the cooler at an angle on the lawn and fix your garden hose so it’s showering the fish on a high-pressure setting. Just let the hose wash the fish for 10 minutes or so to drain away as much slime as possible, then wipe the fish down with paper towels before putting it on the cutting board. After filleting, you’ll feel one small strip of pin bones along the centerline at the wide end, but these can be easily trimmed out with two quick slices. 

Snakeheads Are Versatile Table Fare

Ninety-nine percent of the time, when I do see someone cook snakehead on YouTube or elsewhere, they deep fry the fish, often cutting it into nuggets to serve appetizer style. There’s nothing wrong with that, of course. I mean, I like a Cajun-fried snake nugs dipped in a little spicy ranch as much as the next guy, but one of the most unique things about snakehead fillets is that they are arguably more versatile than many other freshwater fish. 

Crappies, walleyes, and panfish are usually fried, and that’s partially because their thinner, more delicate fillets benefit from a batter coating holding them together during the cooking process. Snakehead fillets, conversely, have a texture much more similar to saltwater species like snapper and grouper. It flakes after cooking, but not quite as easily as the meat of other popular freshwater fish. Therefore, it holds up much better to cooking methods like grilling or stuffing, rolling, and baking. 

READ NEXT: How to Catch Snakeheads

The snakehead’s firm white meat has a nice flavor when minimally dressed. However, much like flounder, it also benefits from a good marinade or heavy seasoning. Because it’s so mild, it works well with any flavors you want to incorporate. From an Asian-inspired marinade to an Italian preparation heavy on wine and butter, to blackened with Tex-Mex seasonings for tacos, you’ll be shocked by the deliciousness of these “hideous” invasives. 

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The Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation reports that a young angler caught an unusual fish from a neighborhood pond over the weekend. The short, bream-shaped fish had human-like teeth and looked a lot like its close cousin, the red piranha. Charlie Clinton’s catch turned out to be a red-bellied pacu, which is another South American species that is occasionally pulled from U.S. waterways.

Officials believe someone released the pacu into the pond. The toothy invaders are a popular aquarium species and once they outgrow their tanks, they’re often dumped illegally into local waterways, where they can easily take hold and negatively impact native fish populations. They’ve been caught from a few different fisheries in Oklahoma before. Because they’re “an exotic, invasive species that can cause damage to local ecosystems,” the ODWC asks anglers to kill any pacu they catch.

Dear, whoever released an entire Pacu (a South American fish closely related to Piranha) into a NEIGHBORHOOD pond;

how dare you. pic.twitter.com/WwQqJ9REAz

— Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation (@OKWildlifeDept) July 18, 2023

“Dear, whoever released an entire Pacu (a South American fish closely related to Piranha) into a NEIGHBORHOOD pond;” ODWC wrote in a Twitter post Tuesday, “how dare you.”

Although they look similar to their carnivorous cousins, pacu are actually omnivores that feed on a variety of bugs, nuts, and vegetation. This means they’re more of a threat to native fish populations than humans.

Their teeth should still be respected, though. Just ask Sandra Whaley, whose 11-year-old granddaughter caught a one-pound pacu from Oklahoma’s Fort Cobb Lake in 2018. While unhooking the fish, it bit Whaley’s hand (luckily the bite was minor.)

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These hearty fish from the Amazon can be found in several other U.S. states, including South Carolina and especially Florida—where they thrive in the warm water canals and lakes along with other exotic species like peacock bass. Pacu have even been caught as far north as Michigan, New Jersey, and New York. Most of these catches were panfish-sized, but pacu can grow much larger, reaching up to 90 pounds and over three feet in length, according to ODWC.

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John Byrd Jr., of Bowling Green, Virginia has been fishing the same private farm pond for decades, but he’s never caught a fish quite like the one he landed earlier this month. The chain pickerel had a bright blue mouth, which is the result of a rare genetic pigment mutation, according to the Virginia Department of Wildlife Resources.

“I’d never seen one that color! And I’ve been fishing in that pond for more than 20 years!” Byrd told the department, referring to the 14-acre pond he frequents in Caroline County.

The fish ate a Whopper Plopper lure and measured between 11 and 12 inches long. After landing it, Byrd decided to keep the pickerel and brought it to his taxidermist to be mounted. But first he contacted VDWR regional fisheries biologist Scott Hermann, who confirmed both the species and the rarity of Byrd’s catch.

“The coloration expressed by the blue pickerel is extremely rare,” Hermann said. “It pretty much falls into the once-in-a-lifetime category of catches.”

Hermann explained that chain pickerel, which are native to Virginia and other East Coast states, typically have a green coloration. This comes from the yellow pigments found in the fish’s skin tissue. Blue-mouth pickerel lack these yellow pigments, so instead of mixing with yellow to form green, the tissue shows up as a vibrant blue color.

Read Next: Ultra-Rare Orange Smallmouth Bass Caught in Michigan

While rare, other anglers have caught blue-mouth pickerel before. The first known report of a “blue pickerel” came from an angler in Ithaca, New York, in the late 1960s, according to one evolutionary biologist familiar with the species. After other anglers reported similar catches, a follow-up study determined that only .2 percent of all the chain pickerel caught in the area over six years were “blue pickerel.”

As the VDWR points out, other blue-mouth pickerel have been caught by East Coast anglers more recently than that. An angler in Maryland caught one from Loch Raven Reservoir in 2014, and in 1997, a Pennsylvania angler caught two of them from different lakes in the same month. Several other unconfirmed catches have also been reported on various fishing forums over the years.

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THE ERUPTION was so swift and violent that for a second I thought it had ripped open the bateau’s seams. I pushed hard against the gunwale to steady us, then threw up my hands to protect my face. A deluge of water sloshed me from hat brim to belt. When it subsided I looked up and saw Ted still on his feet staggering in the bow. The muscles of his forearms suddenly knotted and his rod snapped straight, knocking him for a loop and almost spilling him overboard. He fell into the seat. 

“Let’s get out of here before one of those briny tigers drowns us,” I gasped. Ted Henson cackled like he’d laid an egg. 

“Not on your life,” he shouted. “If these fan-tailed monkeys think they can keelhaul me they’ve got another think coming.” He started to rig up again, and I jabbed my paddle in the inky water. 

The twisting water trail, winding down its glaucous tunnel, looked as peaceful as the inside of a church. But I knew better. Below its placid surface were some of the most vicious creatures I’ve encountered in over 40 years. All my fishing life I’d searched for such a place as this, but now that I’d found it I was ready to swap it for a spot not quite so overpowering. 

What amazed me more than anything else about this wild region was the fact that it has stayed undiscovered for so long by the angling clan. Stretching for about 50 miles in the northwestern section of Florida’s Everglades, it lies between the well-traveled Tamiami Trail and the heavily fished Ten Thousand Islands from Marco to Lostman’s River. 

A MILLION ACRES or more, it is a vast open pasture of head-high saw grass networked with mangrove islands, oddly shaped lakes, and countless creeks and rivers. Its waters are lined with snarled mangrove roots and canopied with dense foliage. It is as isolated and virgin as the vast tundras on the top shelves of the continent. Protected on one side by treacherous bogs, and on the other by distance and shallow bars capable of trapping a boat at almost any stage of tide, it is a natural spawning ground for unnumbered species of salt-water fish. 

Ted was on his knees in the bow, rattling around in his lures and looking for one of the same color as that which had been so rudely smashed off the end of his line. He’d left his tackle box on the dock and had piled 100 lures in a cardboard container which he’d been keeping close by him in the boat. Long ago I’d lost count of the plugs he’d lost, and was wondering if his assortment would hold out until noon. The mistake I made was in wondering out loud. Ted cocked a sweaty, sun-scorched face at me and then reached over and jabbed the rod butt into my hand. 

“Since you’re so smart,” he rattled, “let’s see you handle them.” 

Ted held the line and tied onto it a plug the color of country butter and sparsely speckled with yellow, brown, and crimson dots. I’d have picked it as the lure least likely to succeed, but every one of its mates we’d dunked that morning had driven the fish insane. 

“Throw it,” Ted dared, “throw it and hold on to your hat.” 

The jungle pressed down too close for an overhand cast, but the trail was just wide enough to give the six-foot rod a horizontal motion. I flipped the chunk of bright wood into a dark nook. 

Since daylight I’d watched Ted retrieve in short, swift jerks that gave the lure a darting action, like a minnow fleeing for its life. I’d given that line exactly three jerks when a vicious strike almost snapped my wrists. It was a tremendous snook, a robalo, or as the Florida swampers call it, a snuke. 

I BRACED both knees against the rim of the bateau and hung on. The monster threw himself into the air with the power of a tarpon and the speed of a rainbow trout. He hurdled a crooked mangrove stem, beat the water into suds, flung himself clear again, and then plowed headfirst into a tangle of roots. That was all. There was no stopping him, no turning, no checking. His lightning run broke the line and left me rocking. As I fell against the seat Ted giggled like a crazy mermaid. 

I pawed through the cardboard box for another of those candy-colored plugs, but the one I’d just been relieved of was the last. So I picked one of a color that almost matched and clinchknotted it directly onto my heavy leader. We’d started fishing with snap swivels, but a hard-hitting snook had put an end to that by straightening the tiny wire of my swivel on its first ferocious strike. 

I hooked a three-pound fish on my off-color lure and turned it back. I raked the crannies with a dozen casts that failed to produce, so I changed to a lure Ted selected. This bit of hookhung wood proved even less attractive to the fish, so I tied on a bright silver floater and laid it beside an old log. A jack crevallé took it on the run. He wouldn’t go two pounds, soaked to the gills, but he gave my weapon a workout before I shook him off. 

I changed places with Ted, and on the third cast he picked up a baby snook not much bigger than the plug. Ted threw him back and put his rod in the boat. 

“What would you say,” he asked, turning to me, “was the first rule of snook fishing?” 

“Carry a tackle manufacturer with you at all times,” I replied. 

TED NODDED and cranked the motor. Ike Walker, whose business and pleasure in life is the manufacture of fishing lures, was somewhere south of us on the creek fishing with Grady Blanton and Milton Pace. Ike had made the trek into this brackish wilderness for the sole purpose of finding out what kind of lures the big snook find irresistible. He’d brought along hundreds of plugs of every imaginable color, size, and action, and from these we’d selected half a dozen patterns which we’d found most productive. The one we nicknamed Candy was head and dorsal the prize whammy on snook. 

I relaxed while Ted guided the boat along the tortuous run. A movement in the arched branches caught my eye, and a huge raccoon scampered along the aerial pathway from one side of the creek to the other. He was only one of many we’d seen that morning. The mangrove roots within arm’s reach of us were alive with sand crabs-tidbits to coons-and I was amusing myself watching them when Ted suddenly swung the bateau at a sharp angle. “Look out,” he yelled. 

I didn’t know whether to dodge or jump, and had no time to do either before I got a glimpse of an alligator as long as our boat. We’d startled him out of his morning nap, and Ted had swung the bateau just as the monster lunged for the protection of deep water. Somehow he managed to get under us, but his leathery tail hit the boat a terrific smack and sent enough water skyward to make a good-size squall. 

As we putted along, the only signs I saw of other anglers was an occasional beer can hung on a bush. Ted noticed me looking at one. 

“That,” he said, “was put there by Little Tiger.” 

I’d heard about Little Tiger. He was a Seminole guide who lived across from the main road and had been Ted’s escort on a couple of previous trips into this never-never land. We’d spent most of one night trailing him until the road ran out and left our jalopy stuck to the hubs in muck and sand. We’d planned to offer him plenty of greenbacks to take us to a lake where he’d refused to carry Ted because he said it was bad luck.

The two of them had twice started out for the hidden lake. The first time they met a tremendous manatee in a deep run. It was almost as large, Little Tiger said, as one he’d roped in the canal that runs by his village. He tied his line to a bridge and the big sea cow pulled both bridge and Little Tiger into the drink.

The second time, Ted was reaching for a low limb to help keep the boat straight when Little Tiger hit him between the shoulders with his push pole and knocked him out of the bateau. A water moccasin the size of a baby python was stretched across the limb. On both occasions Little Tiger refused to go farther because he declared he’d been given infallible signs of oncoming disaster. 

Ted was saying he didn’t think we’d run into Little Tiger on this trip when we rounded a bend and swept into an open river. The sunlight almost blistered my eyeballs before I caught a glimpse of Ike Walker’s boat ahead. As we glided up to them, Blanton held up a good snook he’d just brought into the boat. 

“If you’re looking for more of those Candy plugs,” Ike said, “you can keep going.” 

“You’ve got them hid,” Ted accused. “Dig ’em out.” 

“We’ve lost all but two,” Ike insisted. “I’ve got to save those for models.” 

“Save one,” Ted suggested, “and we’ll save the other.” 

Ike grumbled, fumbled in the bushel of plugs scattered around his boat, and came up with a Candy that was scarred with teeth marks. 

“It’s the last one,” he begged. “Don’t fish it under those mangroves.” 

We refilled Ted’s paper container with a hatful of other artificials and turned toward the dock to pick up Grady Cushing. Grady had assured us that he knew where Little Tiger’s unlucky lake was. He hadn’t fished it for more than a year, he said, but on his last trip took snook out of it as large as those that had smashed our tackle in the runs. He was waiting for us, armed with a casting rod that was so short it made ours look like television antennas. Ted reached for the sawed-off tubular glass. 

“How long?” he asked. 

“Three feet,” Grady said, “and it’s loaded with 40-pound-test line. Want to try it?” 

Ted laughed. “No, thanks. I don’t crave hand-to-hand combat with those bruisers.” 

We turned and went back up the jungle trail, and as we did so Grady studied the water that was rising in the run. 

“Believe the tide’s high enough now. We can take a short cut to the lake and save an hour’s run.” 

We turned off the deep trail and plowed into a sheet of open water that wasn’t spread much thicker over the marsh than a windowpane. Ted cut his motor to slow and we flushed a flock of bluewing teal feeding in a shallow neck. 

“Those birds should be in the Arctic Circle making love,” I said. Grady wagged his head. “They nest here.”

LIFE IS ABUNDANT on this vast watery prairie. We flushed flocks of colored birds, white ibis, and hawks. Almost every 100 yards we surprised big snook that took off and left wakes like runaway torpedoes. I wanted to stop and throw the Candy at them, but Grady said no. He allowed that a chunk of wood that size would run those snook clean ashore. 

We squeezed through a narrow pass in the saw grass which only Grady and Little Tiger could have known about. The tide was almost high. It shoved us right up under the overhanging limbs, and often we had to lie down in the bateau to get through. We churned through a succession of lakes, each a little deeper than the last, and just before noon came out into a wide body of water the color of chocolate and that seemed to be about eight feet deep. 

Grady turned his head without moving his shoulders, like an Okeechobee owl. “Put your tackle under the seat,” he warned, “and don’t fall overboard. The snook in here are big as crocodiles and just as mean.” 

“Does this lake have a name?” The Floridian flicked his eyes at me, good-naturedly. “We call it the Calamity Hole.” 

It was alive with fish. Mullet were jumping everywhere I looked, and heavy boils around the boat strongly suggested that the snook were large and hungry. Ted and I both reached for the Candy plug, but Grady shook his head. 

“Better go ashore and have our lunch first,” he said. “You’ll need the strength.” 

MY INSIDES were slamming around with the beauty of the place and the excitement of being in a spot few white men had seen. Grady pushed the boat to an open, grassy bank and jumped out, and I dutifully passed him the sandwiches and coffee jug. 

I wolfed down my sandwiches, poured a slug of coffee on top of them, and stalked up and down the bank wondering if my partners thought they were holding a wake. 

“Stop loafing,” Grady called, “and toss a lure to that fish boiling off the point.” 

“But don’t use that Candy plug,” Ted yelped. 

I dug a yellow, polka-dotted lure out of the pile, tied it on, and tested the gut and line. The fish swirled again, and I threw the saffron bait two feet beyond him. He met it at the surface. When I jabbed the hooks home he shot a good five feet into the air and stretched the nylon like a telephone wire. At the top of his thrust I turned him over and threw him hard against the surface. He bounced and took off like a marlin, whiplashing for 50 feet on his tail. 

He jumped again and I crushed the palm of my hand against the reel to stop it, but I wasn’t fast enough. The whirling spool snarled the line into a knotty tangle and the sprinting snook snapped it like a strand of blond hair. 

I licked my skinned knuckles and looked around. Ted was choking on a sandwich and Grady was watching me with an amused glint in his eye. I put the rod back in the boat. 

“There are plenty of plugs,” Grady said with a smile. 

“I’d better save my fingers,” I replied, “I may need them again sometime.” 

We packed our empty food containers in the boat and, with Ted in the bow and me between them with my camera, Grady poled us slowly into the middle of the lake. There Ted had 100 yards or more of battleground all around him. 

The next hour was one of the brightest highlights of my fishing experience. Those snook took everything Ted offered. They hit anything that darted, moved, wiggled, or quivered. I decided that if my hat fell overboard I wouldn’t dip a finger in the water to pick it up. 

I quickly ran out of film, and with nervous fingers locked the camera back in its case. Ted heard the snap click and, without glancing around, handed me my rod. I got the lure into the middle of the lake and gurgled it toward the boat. A husky snook slashed at it and missed. “Speed it up,” Ted yelled. 

The fish took enough line on his second lunge to make the reel whine, and then went into the air. I got him in finally, and Grady hefted him on the gaff. “Fifteen-pounder, at least,” he said. 

Ted was fighting one with his spinning tackle. The monofilament was making like a bandsaw. I lost count of the fish we hooked and landed. After each cast we argued with Grady to give up his push pole and take one of the rods. But Grady wouldn’t. 

“Get your bellies full,” he said. “There’s one spot I’ll try between here and home.” 

The ligaments in my arm finally gave out, and my wrist and forearm got so sore I couldn’t keep a tight line. I began to lose fish or plug on every cast. Grady squinted at the sun. 

“Maybe we’d better get going,” he said. “The short cut’s dry and it’s a long way home.” 

I noticed for the first time that a dozen runs led out of the lake, and each was exactly like the other. The first shadows of late afternoon had brought out the mosquitoes-vicious, hot-needled gangsters that would die for a drop of blood. We hadn’t stopped fishing too soon. We slid into the darkening recesses of the mangroves and crossed flats and watery trails until I was hopelessly confused. Grady shut off the motor. 

“Yonder’s a deep hole,” he said, “at the junction of the creek. Swing the stern around and let me try this short rod.” 

I paddled for 100 yards while Ted kept up a tap routine at the mosquitoes boring through his shirt. Over his protests, Grady tied on the Candy plug and flipped it 40 feet under the limbs to where the mingling currents made an eddy. He retrieved without a strike and was flexing his muscles to lift the plug out of the water when a tremendous snook walloped it right under the bow. The collision flashed me back to the bull alligator Ted and I had jumped that morning. 

I’VE SEEN some classic roping and bulldogging in my day, as well as some unforgettable conflicts with fish, but I’ve never witnessed anything like the fight Grady had with that snook. Why the brute didn’t pull the hooks out of that plug, snap the 40-pound-test line, or break one of Grady’s arms, I’ll never know. Neither fisherman nor fish gave line-not a foot of it. Around and around the boat they went, with both Ted and me dodging to stay out of the way. 

I’ve no idea how the battle would have ended if the snook hadn’t decided on a last desperate bid for freedom. He threw his bulk straight into the air, missing my face by a thin scale, and landed in the boat, his tail slapping gas cans, rods, and gear like the swirl of a tornado. I dodged a plug that whistled past my ear just as Ted planted his brogans in the middle of the whole seething mess and pinned down the snook’s tail. 

Grady put down the rod and took his seat as unconcerned as if he caught a 20-pound snook exactly that way every time.

Presently he cranked the motor and pushed on down the trail, while Ted and I picked lures out of the snook’s sides, belly, and fins, like we were harvesting spiny cucumbers. 

The darkness closed around us, and Ted’s teeth gleamed at me out of his parched face. 

“There are plenty of tricks you could try on these babies” he said, “but I never saw a more confusing one than this.” 

“Than what?”

“Than feeding them candy,” he said. “What else?”

This text has been minimally edited to meet contemporary standards. Read more OL+ stories.

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Ditch pickles and bronzebacks, bucketmouths and smalljaws. Largemouth bass and smallmouth bass go by many names, and when most Americans think about bass fishing, they picture one (or both) of these well-known species. The two closely-related fish are popular with anglers because they’re eating machines that grow to large sizes and put up a great fight when hooked. The similarities don’t end there, but there are also several key differences when comparing largemouth bass vs. smallmouth.

For starters, the two bass have different physical characteristics, and it’s easy enough to tell them apart if you know what to look for. They also inhabited different regions historically, and they still prefer different water types, which means anglers should change their approach when targeting largemouth bass vs. smallmouth. In this article, we’ll take a closer look at these two bass species, their preferred habitats and behaviors, along with some bass fishing tips from the pros. 

The Bass Family

Believe it or not, smallmouth and largemouth bass are both members of the sunfish family (Centrarchidae), which makes them cousins of the mighty bluegill. The two fish are part of the black bass (Micropterus) genus, which includes 13 recognized freshwater species native to North America. These carnivorous fish were historically distributed throughout the eastern part of the continent, all the way from the Rocky Mountains to the Atlantic coast, and from Hudson Bay down to northeastern Mexico.

Some of these species, such as the Cahaba bass, Guadalupe bass, and Suwanee bass, still occupy a very small range in the U.S. (Guadalupe bass can only be found in the spring-fed rivers of Central Texas, for example.) Other species, like spotted bass and redeye bass, have larger home ranges and can be found in multiple states. But none are as widely distributed as largemouth and smallmouth bass.

Because of their huge popularity as a game fish, largemouths and smallmouths have been stocked extensively west of the Rockies, and smallmouth bass are now present in all but two states (Louisiana and Florida) in the Continental U.S. Largemouth bass, meanwhile, inhabit 49 states and have even been caught in Alaska.

In fact, the two bass species have become so popular in sportfishing circles that they’ve been introduced to other countries as well. (Japan in particular has a thriving bass fishing scene.) Biologists now consider these bass to be “cosmopolitan” species, which means they can be found almost anywhere in the world.

Both types of bass are highly efficient apex predators that hunt down baitfish and other prey. What do bass eat? The simple answer is: Anything that will fit in their mouths. But some of their most common prey items include minnows, crayfish, insects, and amphibians.

The two fish have slightly different hunting styles, however. Largemouth bass are classic ambush predators, which means they like to hide in heavy cover, lie in wait, and attack their prey as it passes by. Smallmouths, meanwhile, are more apt to move around and chase bait out in the open. Like most fish, both species have a lateral line, which is a sensory system that allows them to pick up on vibrations and other movements in the water. (More on this in the tips section below.)

How to Identify Largemouth Bass vs Smallmouth

The two black bass species have a similar shape and body profile, but each has a few key physical characteristics that can help with identification.

The most obvious difference between the two is—you guessed it—the size of their mouths. Largemouth bass have bigger maws, and their upper jaw extends well past the eyeball, while a smallmouth’s upper jaw falls in line with the eyeball. For most anglers, this is the easiest way to tell the two species apart.

Another way to distinguish the two is by looking at their dorsal fins. Both fish have two dorsal fins, but largemouths have a tell-tale break between the fins, while smallmouths have clearly connected dorsal fins.

Their coloration can also help with identification. Although this can change depending on the water body and from one individual to another, smallmouth bass typically have brown bodies, and largemouth bass are usually more of a green color. (Some anglers refer to smallmouth as “brown bass” and largemouth as “green bass” for this very reason.)

Where to Find Largemouth Bass and Smallmouth Bass 

Although each bass species can be found in nearly every U.S. state, there are some basic guidelines for where to find good numbers of largemouth bass vs smallmouth.

Smallmouth have historically been a northern species, while largemouth bass have been synonymous with Southern latitudes. This is still the case to an extent, but the two species have been stocked so heavily throughout North America that their ranges now overlap. Today, they inhabit many of the same water bodies (and, like many anglers, I’ve caught largemouth and smallmouth bass from the same stretch of river on the same day).

Since they prefer different water types, however, the two species don’t typically hang out together. Smallmouth bass are more tolerant of cold water and prefer water temperatures in the mid-60s to mid-70s. Largemouth bass are more at home in warmer water, preferring water temps in the upper 70s to mid 80s.

Current, water clarity, and habitat types are other considerations when searching for bass. Classic largemouth water in a river would be a murky, slow-moving bend with thick cover (think fallen trees, heavy vegetation, and boat docks). Smallmouth bass are more often found in areas with current, clear water, and structured bottoms (think rocky shoals, points, and riprap shorelines.)

How to Catch Largemouth vs Smallmouth Bass

Bass fishing can be as simple or as complicated as you want to make it. Both largemouth and smallmouth bass can be found in sprawling reservoirs, but it can be difficult to fish these lakes effectively without a boat. Almost all tournament anglers use specialized bass boats complete with flat decks, aerated livewells, and large, powerful outboards that allow them to move quickly and cover water efficiently.

The best bass boats for the average angler aren’t necessarily the most expensive, however, and you don’t really need one of the high-dollar glitter boats you see on TV to catch fish. An old jon boat will get the job done, as will a canoe. A growing number of anglers are also embracing kayaks for bass fishing, and thanks to advances in battery technology and boat design, the sport has exploded in recent years.

You can still catch fish if you’re boatless, too. Both bass species are often found along perimeter shorelines, and a shore-bound angler can usually find plenty of good holding spots.

Ponds, creeks, and other small waterbodies should also not be overlooked. Depending on where you live, even the smallest ponds can hold bigmouth bass. Farm ponds are probably the best places for beginners to start, and if you can get permission to fish one of these private ponds, you’re almost guaranteed to have some action.

Once you find a waterbody to fish, a basic spinning rod or baitcaster setup spooled with eight- to 20-pound test is sufficient. Just grab a handful of the best bass lures in a few different colors and sizes and start experimenting. Or, if you want to make things as easy as possible, pin some live bait on a hook under a bobber and wait.

Bass Fishing Tips from the Pros

To get a better idea of the different approaches that anglers take when targeting largemouth bass vs smallmouth, Outdoor Life caught up with two fisheries biologists in different parts of the country. One primarily chases largemouth bass in the South, while the other fishes mostly for smallmouths in the Midwest. Both scientists are also tournament bass fisherman.

Tips for Catching Largemouth Bass

Todd Driscoll is a district fisheries biologist for Texas Parks and Wildlife, and he lives and fishes in deep East Texas, which is classic largemouth country. He frequents big reservoirs like Sam Rayburn and Toledo Bend, targeting areas with thick cover and heavy vegetation. Because he often fishes in and around lily pads, fallen trees, and stumps, Driscoll uses a lot of soft plastics for bass and rigs them weedless to avoid getting hung up. The key to catching largemouth bass, he says, is understanding the available forage in any given lake and keeping in mind that their lives revolve almost exclusively around food.

“I would classify largemouth bass as opportunistic feeders and extremely adaptable apex predators,” Driscoll says. “Like Rick Clunn used to say: ‘Find the bait, find the bass.’ There’s a whole lot of truth to that.”

The only exception, he notes, is when largemouth bass are spawning and aren’t as concerned with hunting for prey. But even then, you can still convince a bass to eat a lure.

“That’s the time when a lot of finesse techniques—like weightless soft plastics or wacky worms—come into play,” he explains.

Although he considers largemouth bass to be “primarily sight and sound feeders,” Driscoll often fishes in murky water where it’s hard for fish to hunt by sight alone. To get a reaction in these situations, he likes to use buzzbaits, spinnerbaits, and other lures that move a lot of water and will trigger a bass’ lateral line.

“Sometimes you can fish something that’s totally abnormal to get that ‘reflex bite’ out of bass,” Driscoll says. “Anglers can take advantage of [their] aggressive nature.”

Tips for Catching Smallmouth Bass

Meanwhile, up North around the Great Lakes is where you’ll find NOAA fisheries biologist and smallmouth bass guru Jeff Elliott. Like Driscoll, Elliott fished in bass tournaments before he became a scientist, and both perspectives have shaped his understanding of what makes bass tick.

Because the Great Lakes are deeper than the warm-water reservoirs of East Texas, Elliott often targets bass more toward the bottoms of these lakes, where smallmouth like to stack up among the rocks. The water there is also much clearer, so Elliott doesn’t worry as much about triggering a smallie’s lateral line.

“Sight feeding is a smallmouth’s biggest thing,” he says, “much more so than the lateral line.”

Instead, he focuses more on imitating the gobies, alewives, and other prey that smallmouth key in on. And because these baitfish are highly migratory, he’s constantly tracking their migrations in order to stay on the bass. (Remember: Find the bait, find the bass.)

“Smallmouth bass are very nomadic,” Elliot says. “They move a lot, and as soon as they’re done spawning, they’re ready to follow the food.”

From an angling perspective, this is one of the most important differences between largemouth bass and smallmouth bass: The largemouth is more of a homebody, while the smallmouth is more of a traveler. Elliott, who’s also caught plenty of largemouth bass, says that in his experience, smallies are much more willing to move around and actively hunt for prey.

“Smallmouth bass fishing is so much different than fishing for largemouth,” he says. “Largemouth bass just want to sit somewhere, be lazy, and use their ambush skills to get fed. Whereas a smallmouth bass is just gonna go after it.”

Largemouth Bass vs Smallmouth FAQs

Final Thoughts

Largemouth bass and smallmouth bass are two of the most popular and widely distributed game fish in the world. However, the two bass have different physical characteristics, behaviors, and habitat preferences.

Largemouth bass are more at home in murky lakes and slow-moving rivers, while smallies prefer clear-water lakes and rivers with current. Largemouths also tend to stick closer to home and let their food come to them, while smallies will move around to actively hunt for food.

Both species are extremely fun to catch and they’re easy enough to find. Neither one requires expensive gear—just a basic understanding of bass biology and a willingness to explore your local waters.

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According to a recent story on the website of Australia’s 9 News, Steven Kezic of Perth was the victim of one of the biggest freak occurrences involving a fish I’ve ever seen. While on vacation in Indonesia, Kezic was attending a surfing class and, as he bobbed offshore waiting to catch a wave, a garfish jumped from the water and impaled the bridge of his nose with its sharp beak. The gar in question is not related to the freshwater gars we have in the states, but rather it’s a member of the halfbeak family. The most prevalent halfbeak in U.S. waters is the ballyhoo, which are commonly sold frozen in bait shops and trolled offshore to entice marlin and tuna. Having rigged my share of ballyhoos over the years, I’d have never guessed that the elongated lower jaws, or beaks, of these tiny fish would be strong or sharp enough to pierce cartilage, but the gruesome photos of Kezic’s face are proof positive.

Kezic got away with only a few stitches, but had the fish connected a few inches higher, it could have spiked his eyeball. The funny thing is that while getting stuck by a ballyhoo is so rare it teeters on comical, you are far more likely to get stabbed by a fish than bitten by one. Shark attacks get all the press. We occasionally hear about an unlucky snorkeler wearing shiny jewelry that a barracuda just felt the need to chomp. There have even been documented reports of pike and muskies biting into human flesh. But the fact remains that these cases are extremely rare compared to fish stabbings. So, let’s look at some of the most common fish in U.S. waters that are likely to give you jab you won’t forget. And no, none of them are billfish, because being run through by a marlin is even less likely than getting bitten by a shark.

Catfish

Without question, catfish are the most likely fish to inflict a stab wound, and it makes no difference which species you’re chasing. Every kind of catfish that exists in America—from tiny madtoms to massive blue cats—have sharp, needle-like spines on the leading edges of their pectoral and dorsal fins. And the smaller the catfish the more unhappy you’ll be if you get poked.

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Madtoms are especially nasty, as their tiny spikes are pointier than all other cats. Plus, they inject a mild venom when they stab you. It’s not going to send you to the hospital or require antivenom, but it will make the area around the puncture point throb and hurt a lot worse than you think it should. Catfish spines are designed as a defense mechanism to thwart attacks and, if swallowed by a larger fish, potentially wedge in the attacker’s mouth or throat. All fish are most vulnerable when they’re little, so the spikes on any juvenile catfish will be sharper and capable of inflicting more damage. The most common time to get stung is while trying to get hold of a smaller cat that’s flopping around, so always take your time getting a grip, and keep your hands behind the dorsal and pectoral fins if you can.

As catfish grow and need to worry less about being eaten, their spikes tend to thicken and dull, and quite often end up getting covered over by a thick membrane of skin. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t worry about the spines on a 20-pound channel catfish or 60-pound blue at all, but they pose much less of a threat.

Skates and Stingrays

Whether you’re swimming in Florida, surfing in New Jersey, or wading a flat for seatrout in Texas, the opportunity to step on a skate or stingray is very real.

Stingrays, of course, have been made famous by shows like River Monsters, and most people are aware that a stingray wound caused Australian TV star, Steve Irwin, to lose his life. If one of these stealthy, flat bottom feeders rams its serrated tail spike into your calf, it’ll deliver a heavy dose of venom, which, depending on the size and species, can be fatal. For the most part, stingrays steer clear of heavily trafficked beaches with lots of swimming activity, however, anglers who wade remote flats in the Gulf routinely wear stingray guards on their lower legs.

Skates are more common in cooler northern waters, and while they look like stingrays, they belong to a different family of fishes. The good news is that they don’t have a long tail spine, nor can they inject venom. Skates do have a series of short spines and spikes on their tails, however, and they can also deliver a mild electric shock if you step on them. You won’t wind up in the ER, but you’ll go running for the beach if you put your bare foot down on a skate’s tail.

Spiny Dogfish

Spiny dogfish are a scourge in the Atlantic. A member of the shark family, dogfish rarely exceed 40 inches in length. Though you’re unlikely to contact one while swimming, inshore anglers from Florida to Maine deal with them constantly, and it’s never pleasant.

You could be dropping clams for cod, jigs for striped bass, or squid strips for snapper—if there are spiny dogfish around, they’ll eat it. They thrive from the shallows to in depths greater than 100 feet, and usually if you hook into one, you’re going to hook into a lot more. Spiny dogfish have a thick, hard, super-pointy spine in front of each of their dorsal fins, and they know how to use them. As soon as they hit the net or get dropped on deck, they will writhe, twist, spin, and do whatever they can to bury those spikes in you while you’re attempting to get them off the hook. So tough are their spines that I’ve seen them pierce heavy gloves and even thick rubber deck boots.

Read Next: The Best Saltwater Fishing Rods for 2023

The easiest and safest way I’ve found to deal with them is to step on them. You’re not trying to squish them to death, of course, but by putting some steady pressure on the dorsal fins with the thick sole of a boot or shoe (flip flops, not so much), you’ll stop them from moving so you can get the hook out. Always neutralize the tail first, as spiny dogfish can still whip it around if the front half of their body is incapacitated. Once the hook is out, grab them by the lower jaw with pliers and, with an extended arm, quickly lift them off the deck and toss them overboard.

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Angler Justin Hall of Reidsville, North Carolina has officially broken the state record for channel catfish. He caught a 27-pound, 7-ounce channel cat from a farm pond near his home on May 21, which the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission recently certified as a new state record, according to FOX Carolina.

Hall had fished the farm pond for years, but he seldom caught catfish there, according to NCWRC. Then, in mid-May, his 13-year-old son caught a huge channel cat that weighed an estimated 25 pounds. They let the fish go without realizing that it could have made history.

“I told a friend about my son’s catch, and he told me it might have been big enough to beat the state record,” Hall said.

So, Hall went back to the pond the following week. Using a stout Big Cat Fever casting rod and a Zebco Big Cat XT spincast reel, he tossed out a ball of bread dough for bait.

Eventually, a fish took the bait. Hall muscled the catfish near shore, where his wife was waiting with a landing net. But the net wasn’t quite strong enough for a fish of that caliber.

“My wife went down to the waterline to bring it in … [but] it bent the net,” Hall told WRAL.

The 27-pounder measured 36 1/4 inches long, with a 24 7/8-inch girth. The previous state record channel catfish weighed 26 pounds, and was caught from the Neuse River in July 2021. NCWRC keeps records for five catfish species: the blue catfish, the brown bullhead, the channel catfish, the flathead catfish, and the white catfish.

Read Next: How to Catch Channel Catfish

Channel cats are a popular game fish in the U.S. They’re the official state fish of Kansas, Missouri, Nebraska, and Tennessee, and the “unofficial state fish” of Iowa, due to their status as the most abundant game fish in the state. They’re also targeted by many North Carolina anglers, despite their classification as a non-game fish by the NCWRC.

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How do you fillet a trout? To be honest, most of the time you don’t. Trout are notoriously boney. Subsequently, many of the trout that end up on plates or roasting over a campfire are small, say, 15 inches or less. Given that the smaller a fish the tinier and more delicate the bones, it’s often easier to prepare them whole and simply peel the meat away from the bones after they’re cooked. There are, however, perks to making a little extra effort to properly fillet your trout. The biggest benefit to filleting a trout vs gutting one, at least in my opinion, is flavor. 

Filleting Trout vs Gutting Trout

I grew up gutting my trout, stuffing the body cavity with herbs, spices, lemon, and butter, and foiling them for a fire or tossing them in the broiler. The problem with this method is that no matter how many accouterments you stuff in that gut, it never really seems to flavor the meat. Even if I pan sear a whole trout, the flavor doesn’t seem to penetrate the flesh as much as I’d like. Conversely, a bone-free fillet that’s seasoned well and seared meat-side down will quickly absorb any white wine, garlic butter, or lemon pepper you shake and smear on it. And let’s be real, trout aren’t exactly the most flavorful fish that swim, so it’s worth enriching the taste as much as possible. 

There’s no question that you’ll get a nicer, cleaner fillet off a trout measuring north of 17 inches, but even if you’re loading a stringer with 12-inch stockers, they can be filleted. You’ll have to take your time, and it’s worth investing in a short, thin, flexible knife, but you’ll appreciate the results far more than letting them steam in their own juice wrapped in aluminum foil on the grill. Here’s a quick breakdown of how I fillet my trout.

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Step 1: Don’t Gut Them

It’s common for trout fishermen to gut their fish at the river or lake. Even if they don’t do it on the water, slitting the gut open to remove the innards is often step one back in the kitchen. If I intend to fillet my trout, however, I don’t remove the guts first. Keeping the whole trout intact makes it easier to hold and maneuver the fish while filleting. Whole trout also don’t slide around on the cutting board so badly. 

Step 2: Make Your Cut

Rinse the trout in cold water and dry it as thoroughly as possible with paper towels. This will help it stick to the cutting board more effectively. Position the fish with its back facing you. Using the tip of your knife, make a shallow slice starting from the back of the head to the base of the tail running the blade just above the dorsal fin. Keep running the knife through the initial cut making sure the back of the blade is touching the fish’s spine. During this process you might hear or feel the knife cutting right through the fish’s fine ribs. Keep working carefully down the body until the fillet separates from the fish near the belly. Repeat this step on the opposite side of the trout. 

Step 3: Debone the Fillets

Now that you have two fillets, lay them on the cutting board skin side down. Thus begins the most time-consuming portion of the job—rib removal. If you want to get fancy you can order a cheap pair of deboning tweezers, a tool designed specifically for this task. I, however, have found that the same pair of hemostats I use to get my hooks out of a trout’s mouth does the job just fine. I will caution, though, that I don’t recommend using your fingernails to pull the rib bones. You often end up denting and mangling the fillet while doing so. With smaller trout the ribs can be so fine and fragile that they’ll slip from your grasp or break off in the meat. With your tool of choice in hand, run your fingertip down the fillet feeling for the ends of the ribs. Grab each one individually and slowly pull it out.

READ NEXT: Best Trout Lures

Step 4: Savor the Flavor

Although it’s common to take the skin off the fillets of many species of fish, leave the skin on you trout. Their skin is too fine and brittle, and the meat won’t hold together well if it’s removed. 

Trout Filleting Q&A

How do you fillet trout without bones?

You can fillet trout without bones by using this method but it’s not very effective on smaller trout. 

How do you get pin bones out of trout?

A better way to get boneless fillets is to pluck out the pin bones with a forceps like I do. Either method is a little time consuming, but worth it. 

Is trout better with skin on or off?

Leave the skin on. You’ll thank me later. 

Final Thoughts on Filleting Trout

Now that you’ve got two bone-free fillets, all you have to do now is liberally season them and drop them in a hot skillet or under the broiler for a trout dinner that will be more satisfying than any whole trout you’ve ever eaten.

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