I'm suspended in my float tube, ensconced in neoprene waders for it is April and the water is yet chilly. The wind is calm beneath an overcast sky, perfect weather for hunting early season largemouth bass. I'm making short casts along the dam side bank of a pond. I toss my large red-and-white foam popper next to a cedar tree downed in about four feet of water. I let the concentric rings recede before giving the fly a short, sharp tug. The concave nose of the popper dips beneath the surface, quickly bobs up and releases a bubble with a loud pop.

Instantly the water bursts open and my fly vanishes. A swift upward tip of my fly rod and the fight is on. I fin backwards, tilt the arcing rod to the right, keep it high and the line taut as I leverage the fish away from the shelter of the submerged tree. I'm sure I've hooked one of the larger bass that haunts these waters. The pulsing power at the end of my line must surely be one of the marauding bruisers who ambush their prey from the weed-choked edges of the pond.

As I reel in the excess line and keep tension on the fish, I notice that while it is powerful it does not fight like a bass. It doesn't bulldog toward the bottom or leap from the water to shake the hook. Instead its vigorous pulling draws my line in circles and figure eights, wobbling as opposed to thrusting under the surface. I let it drag a few feet of line from the spool then crank it back in a tug-o-war between man and fish. It's not giving up and our tussle lasts a minute or two, a fair length dance in a space no more than fifteen feet in diameter. When I finally bring the fish up and tow it toward me, I can't believe what I'm seeing. The dark green and brown striping, the turquoise filaments around its mouth and eyes, and the bright orange throat beneath the gill plate make it clear that this is no bass.

It's a bluegill, far and away the largest I've ever seen. I lift it flapping sideways out of the water and pin its body on the mesh flap strapped across my lap. It measures more than 12 inches long and probably eight inches high. Bluegill have tiny mouths but this one has completely engulfed my fly, a stout conical popper measuring at least three-fourth of an inch broad and more than an inch and a half long (not counting the chenille tassel tied around the hook that's curved behind). I probe its mouth with my hemostats to dislodge the hook from its throat, careful to minimize harm. So broad and fat is this fish that I cannot touch my

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