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S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 5 1 four-pound fish than I can remember. Our guide had the place dialed, having fished it for decades. He knows just when the bass pull off into deeper water and where to hook them. Obregon bass follow migration routes, and he has them mapped in his head. Obregon is among the prettiest lakes we'd ever seen, framed by red rock cliffs and jagged mountain peaks. As regal saguaro cactus observed our efforts, I realized it's the loveliest place I have bass-fished since Lake Powell. We even ran a bald eagle off a rocky point where we soon hooked more fish. I won't forget the magic of fishing a lake where on every cast you knew you had a very real chance of hooking that bass of a lifetime. And every year they are getting bigger since the introduction of Florida strain bucketmouths. Nor will I forget Ramsey cackling like a madman over that fish, more animated than I've ever seen him while duck hunting together in three countries. n mounted 18-pounder leaping through a table-top display. Both were local fish. But it's a sad fact that much of the famous bass fishing in Mexico, unlike the wingshooting, still remains under the dark shadow of the cartels. That's because the drug lords like to set up shop on these lakes so they can pump water to grow marijuana crops, and they are happy to defend them with gunfire. Lake Obregon just outside the city is a blessed exception. We jumped at the chance to spend a morning chasing bucketmouths, and were pleased to see the availability of state-of-the-art tackle and boats. Ramsey's outfitter guides here and tourney fishes Obregon with his son from his 22-foot, 300-horsepower Ranger, winning up to $10,000 a pop. There are 185 members in the lake's bass club and most have their own boats. A 30-minute rocket trip across the lake in the predawn ended at a flooded point with willows and brush showing due to high water conditions on the 23-mile- long lake. In perfect 72-degree weather and 80-degree water, I worked a Sinko worm to hook two small bass on my first three casts. As Ramsey finally joined in the casting, he claimed he could take or leave fishing nowadays, but you should have heard him yelling and carrying on when he hooked a seven-plus pounder right away. " W H O A - L O O K I - T H A T - B I G - G R E E N - B A C K E D - S O W- B E L LY- MAMA!" And when it leaped: "SUMBITCH- IS-HUUUUUGE!" he shouted, carrying on like it was the last five minutes of the Classic and the fish would make him a rich man if he landed it. He really needs to do a fishing TV show. This kind of action kept up for about an hour. We hooked five fish on topwater cardiac strikes, and lost a whopper, as well as a Rio Rico topwater—ouch, a $26 plug—when the monster got into the trees. We all saw it because like most fish here, even that huge female did a fancy bit of tail-walking. When the sun was up good the bite fell off and we had to work for fish like everywhere else. I never got my dream ten-pounder, but pulled in more two- to Back in the States shooting ducks and geese that fall, those bigger birds seem to be swimming in molasses as they flew past the decoys. I had to work at not leading them too much, and cleaned house. My dove hunt took place a year after that first trip to Obregon for black brant. There is nothing like shooting those big black ocean geese, nor escaping an Illinois winter in February for t-shirts and icy 'ritas. Together, they are two of my favorite hunts ever, and both were through the same outfit, with Ramsey. He'd been right about the brant, and even more right about the doves. I want to go back so bad I can't stand it. A few friends think I'm crazy to go to Mexico, but I think they are crazy not to. Mind your manners and your business, don't venture into areas you're not supposed to, and it's just fine. I never felt threatened and have felt far more menaced in every large American city I've ever been to. And yes, my heart will always yearn for Argentina, particularly Patagonia. The warm people, the super-natural duck hunting, the roar of the stag. But doves? I will choose Mexico, margaritas, and more whitewings than I ever want to shoot, thank you. It's perhaps not the insane bird numbers of South America, but at times it's pretty damned close, and the bottom line is each morning and evening we shot absolutely all we and our shoulders wanted to shoot . . . all just 500 miles south of Tucson, Arizona. Does it get any better than that? If YOu WANT TO GO Contact Ramsey Russell at Getducks.com. BASSTOPIA Any true southern boy worth his grits and gravy has at least a mild big bass fascination, and Mexico is traditionally as close to nirvana as a bass-lover can get. At the lodge we booked with Ramsey, a 14-pounder leers from the entryway, and when you're done shaking your head at that one, you'll probably notice the mexICO Redux Continued from page 127