I didn't move the bug at all. If I could've moved it less, I would have. That's what the bass wanted. At least today. Moments earlier, a yearling impaled itself on my motionless bug not 10 feet from my canoe while I attempted to untangle loose fly line from the clutches of my cooler. When a second fish did likewise after I flipped my bug into a bed of lily pads, that confirmed it.

One twitch was one too many.

In my mind's eye, I pictured a bass eying my popper from below. Who would outlast whom? I had all day. Bass have to eat sometime. Just as the itch to pickup and recast became unbearable, the water erupted.

A gape-mouthed, fat-bellied bass skyrocketed, claimed dinner, and belly-flopped into the hyacinths. The day's first good one.

Raising my rod overhead in an attempt to keep the leader clear of the broad-leafed jungle, I tried to feel the fish's weight on the business end. Was he still there?

At first, I feared he'd spit the bug and fastened it to the greenery. Then I felt a surge. I pulled and the bass responded. Then he pulled, and I let him know I was still there. This went on for about a minute. It was like riding a seesaw.

Tired of the stalemate, I paddled into the slop, reached in, found the butt of my leader, and freed it from the snag. The fish made a dash, found open water outside the mat and jumped itself silly before I paddled back out and finally grabbed its lower lip. It was worth the effort. The bass pushed five pounds.

Fish were lined up along the bank. A bank now visible since water levels in the Alligator Alley canal had dropped. Now, in mid-May, with serious summer rains yet to fall, things were prime.

Rocks jutted out of the water marking the canal edge. A few bass were surely holding out in the deepest drought holes peppering the flats, but the mother lode now called the main canal home. The water had warmed and the bass were happy. If not suicidal.

Anyway, I bugged up 30 or 40 bass during the morning, and more than a few exceeded three pounds. I dipped my thermometer into the dark water. Seventy-eight degrees.

No wonder, I smiled.

Other bass fishermen in their streamlined, metal-flake platforms slowly worked their way along the canal, too, chucking the same reliable worm or stickbait rigs they've used forever. There's an occasional fly rod tucked away aboard some of these boats, but when conventional methods are scoring, there's little chance of it ever leaving the rack.

That's really too bad, since fly fishermen continue to use their fluffy concoctions to tally eye-popping numbers of largemouths. Despite common perceptions, some are also quite large.

After all, why do some bass fishermen fly fish as a regular plan of attack while others consider it an after-thought? Because it's effective. Make that deadly--once you have a basic understanding of the Glades and the impact of water levels on the fishing.

Down here, water levels drive the machine.

During South Florida's rainy season, the water conservation areas west of Dade, Broward and Palm Beach counties are at maximum capacity. This rainy time is referred to as the hydroperiod, in biological parlance, and runs from approximately June until November.

During this time, flood conditions persist far from the beaten track into the hidden interstices of the Glades. A bass could get lost in all this water. Often, he does.

Drought periods are a different story. This time with a happy ending.