Chasing Ghosts: A Mid-March Smallmouth Bass Adventure on Lake Mohave

There’s something about the anticipation of spring that stirs an old fisherman’s soul. After eighty-some years on this earth, I still get that same flutter in my chest when I think about those bronze-backed beauties—smallmouth bass—making their annual pilgrimage to the shallows. The promise of sight fishing for smallmouth bass during the spawn period is enough to get these creaky bones moving before dawn, even after all these years.

Last week, Paulette and I had watched the water temperatures on Lake Mohave climb steadily to a promising 63 degrees. “They’ll be moving in soon,” I told her over our morning coffee on the porch of our winter haven. From our spot, we could see the shimmering surface of the lake catching the early light, Spirit Mountain standing guard in the distance. “Might be the perfect time to catch them setting up their nests.”

But Mother Nature, that fickle mistress who’s been teaching me lessons since my boyhood days on our Kansas Flint Hills ranch, had other plans.

When Weather Turns the Tables on Smallmouth Bass

As we loaded our Key West boat late that mid-March morning, the sky was a stunning shade of desert blue that only the Southwest can produce. White wispy clouds streaked across the horizon like paint strokes from some divine artist’s brush. The temperature gauge on our truck read 70 degrees—perfect fishing weather by any standard. But something didn’t feel quite right.

“Pat,” Paulette said, adjusting her baseball cap against the growing wind, “looks like that cold front really did push through.”

She’s always had a better sense for these things than me. Forty plus years of marriage to this remarkable woman has taught me to listen when she makes observations about the natural world. Growing up in the Flint Hills, I learned to read the land. Paulette, though—she reads the sky.

The lake surface danced with small whitecaps as we launched at Katherine Landing. Our neighbors in the winter community had warned us about the changed conditions, but I’m nothing if not stubborn. After all, these winter months at Lake Mohave are our respite from the snow that blankets our mountain home back in Santa Fe, and I wasn’t about to waste a perfectly good fishing day.

“Water temperature’s dropped back to 56 degrees,” I noted as we idled away from the marina, the Lowrance unit confirming what I’d feared. That seven-degree drop might not seem like much to a casual angler, but for smallmouth bass preparing to spawn, it’s like someone suddenly turning the thermostat down in your house when you’re walking around in summer clothes.

Understanding Smallmouth Bass Spawning Behavior

For those who haven’t spent decades observing these magnificent fish, let me tell you a bit about smallmouth bass and their spawning habits. Unlike their largemouth cousins who can tolerate a wider range of conditions, smallmouth bass are particular creatures of habit. They begin their pre-spawn movement when water temperatures stabilize in the upper 50s to low 60s. When that magic number of about 62-65 degrees holds steady for several days, the males move into shallow rocky areas to create their nests—saucer-shaped depressions they fan out with their tails in gravel or hard bottom areas.

Last week, we’d spotted the vanguard—eager males beginning to scope out territory in protected coves along the Arizona shoreline. It was a thrilling sight for an old bass hand like myself. Sight fishing for smallmouth bass is perhaps the purest form of the sport, requiring patience, stealth, and an eye trained by decades on the water.

“Remember that big four-pounder we watched guard his nest last spring?” I asked Paulette as we skimmed across the lake toward our favorite cove. “Struck at anything that came within five feet of his bed.”

She nodded, smiling at the memory. “You said he reminded you of that old Hereford bull your father had—the one that wouldn’t let anyone near his heifers.”

Memories have a way of layering themselves in an octogenarian’s mind. That bull from my childhood on the Kansas ranch somehow blended perfectly with the image of that territorial smallmouth. Both creatures, separated by species and decades, connected by that ancient instinct to reproduce and protect.

When the Fish Vanish: The Impact of Changing Weather on Smallmouth Behavior

The first cove we entered should have been teeming with activity. Last week, we’d counted no fewer than a dozen smallmouth cruising the shallows, some already clearing spots for nests. Today, it looked like an abandoned town.

“They’ve pulled out,” I muttered, cutting the engine and allowing our boat to drift silently along the shoreline. The polarized sunglasses I’ve worn for decades of sight fishing revealed nothing but empty rock beds and barren sand flats.

The Colorado River’s flow through Lake Mohave creates a unique fishery. Created by Davis Dam downstream and Hoover Dam upstream, this reservoir stretches along the border between Nevada and Arizona like a blue vein through the desert landscape. Spirit Mountain watches over it all, sacred to the Native tribes of the region who understood, perhaps better than we modern folks, the rhythms and patterns of nature.

We spent the afternoon methodically checking every cove and flat where we’d historically found smallmouth preparing to spawn. Castle Cove, Six-Mile Cove, the rocky points near Cottonwood Cove—all eerily empty of the bronzebacks we sought. The wind picked up around midday, sending spray over the bow of our Key West as we navigated toward the Arizona side.

“High pressure system,” Paulette noted, pointing toward the crisp definition of Spirit Mountain against the skyline. “You can always tell by how sharp the edges look.”

She was right. The cold front had brought not just cooler water temperatures but also high barometric pressure—another factor that pushes bass into deeper water and makes them more lethargic. For a fisherman hoping to sight fish for pre-spawn smallmouth, it was a double whammy.

A Lone Scout in the Shallows

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon, as the shadows began to lengthen across the water, that we spotted our first and only smallmouth of the day. We’d tucked into a small protected cut on the Nevada side where a submerged ridge of rock created a windbreak, allowing the afternoon sun to warm that micro-environment just enough.

“There,” Paulette whispered, pointing toward a slight movement near a submerged boulder.

I saw it then—a solitary male smallmouth, perhaps three pounds, cruising slowly along the rock line. He wasn’t yet on a nest but appeared to be surveying potential territory. In the crystal-clear water of Lake Mohave, the fish’s bronze flanks caught the sunlight as he moved, a living reminder of why I’d fallen in love with this species during my first smallmouth encounter on the Kansas River over seven decades ago.

“Should I try for him?” I asked, already reaching for my favorite pre-spawn bait—a three-inch smoke-colored grub on a quarter-ounce jighead.

Paulette shook her head. “Let him be. He’s the scout. Where there’s one, there’ll be more when the weather settles.”

That’s the wisdom of a woman who’s watched me cast to countless bass over our over forty years together. She understands that sometimes the greater pleasure comes not from catching, but from observing—a lesson that’s taken most of my eighty years to fully appreciate.

The Patience of Sight Fishing for Smallmouth Bass

Sight fishing for smallmouth bass requires a particular kind of patience—one that’s different from other fishing approaches. It’s not about waiting for a strike or finding active fish; it’s about entering their world as an observer first, an angler second. When the conditions are right and the fish are on their beds, there’s nothing in freshwater fishing quite like watching a smallmouth bass react to your presentation.

The aggressive streak that makes smallmouth famous as fighters also makes them extraordinary nest defenders. During the spawn, they’ll strike not out of hunger but out of territorial imperative—a biological drive to protect their future offspring from anything they perceive as a threat. Including, of course, your carefully presented lure.

But today wasn’t the day for such experiences. Our lone smallmouth, perhaps sensing the unstable conditions, didn’t linger long in the shallows. After a brief reconnaissance, he disappeared back into deeper water, leaving us with nothing but ripples and memories.

Finding Peace in the Pursuit

As the afternoon wore on and the wind grew more insistent, we decided to call it a day. Sometimes on the water, success isn’t measured by what you catch but by what you learn. Today’s lesson was one I’d been taught many times before but somehow always need refreshing: nature operates on her schedule, not ours.

“We could try again toward the end of the week,” Paulette suggested as we loaded the boat onto the trailer. “The forecast shows warming trends starting Wednesday.”

I nodded, feeling not disappointment but anticipation. That’s the thing about fishing at my age—you come to understand that there’s always another day, another chance, as long as you’re fortunate enough to still be above ground and able to hold a rod.

From our winter sanctuary here on Lake Mohave to our mountain retreat in Santa Fe, I’ve been blessed to experience some of the most beautiful waters the American Southwest has to offer. Each one has taught me something about fishing, about nature, and ultimately about myself.

The Circle of Seasons and Spawning Cycles

As we drove back to our winter home with the boat in tow, Spirit Mountain receding in the rearview mirror, I found myself reflecting on the cyclical nature of both fishing and life. The smallmouth bass spawning ritual has remained unchanged for countless generations—a perfect system designed by nature to ensure the species’ survival.

When conditions align properly—stable water temperatures, favorable moon phases, consistent weather patterns—the spawn proceeds like clockwork. Males move in, build nests, attract females, fertilize eggs, and then guard their progeny until the fry are able to fend for themselves. It’s a cycle I’ve witnessed each spring for decades now, from different waters across the country.

But nature also builds flexibility into these systems. When conditions aren’t right—like today’s cold front and dropping temperatures—the fish simply wait. They don’t fight the conditions; they adapt to them. There’s a wisdom there that I’ve tried to incorporate into my own life, especially in these later years.

Looking Forward to Tomorrow’s Chase

Back at our place, as the desert sunset painted the western sky in shades of orange and purple that would make any artist weep, Paulette and I sat on the porch with cold drinks, planning our next outing.

“The fish will be there when they’re ready,” she said, her hand finding mine as it has for four decades of adventures. “Just like they always are.”

She’s right, of course. The smallmouth bass have been conducting their spring rituals since long before I first wet a line as a boy in Kansas, and they’ll continue long after I’ve made my last cast. There’s comfort in that permanence, that dependability of nature’s rhythms, even as other things change.

Tomorrow, perhaps, we’ll try deeper structure where the smallmouth might be holding until conditions improve. Or maybe we’ll explore the Colorado River section below Davis Dam, where the moving water creates different opportunities. That’s the beauty of these winter months in Arizona—options abound while our mountain home in New Mexico lies under its blanket of snow.

From my boyhood days chasing channel catfish in muddy Kansas creeks to sight fishing for smallmouth bass in the crystal waters of Lake Mohave, the pursuit has always been about more than just catching fish. It’s about connecting to something ancient and true, something that runs as deep as the Colorado River itself.

And even on days when the fish don’t cooperate—when cold fronts push through and water temperatures drop and high pressure systems lock everything down—there’s still nowhere I’d rather be than on the water, with Paulette by my side, searching the shallows for that telltale flash of bronze that signals a smallmouth bass on its spawning run.

After all, there’s always tomorrow. And at eighty-some years, I’ve learned that tomorrow, with its fresh start and new possibilities, is the greatest gift an angler can receive.

Pat writes from his winter home near Lake Mohave, Arizona, and his summer retreat in Angel Fire, New Mexico. His photography and videos of Southwestern landscapes can be found on his website, where he also shares more tales of sight fishing for smallmouth bass and other outdoor adventures.