It’s The Rodney Dangerfield Chain O’ Lakes. Right alongside the magnificently named and fun to say Tohopekaliga, it dares names like Coon, Lizzie, Center, Trout for God’s sake, and Alligator, like that’s a species you don’t often find in lakes. No wonder it don’t get no respect as its embarrassed water slinks south to join Toho’s storied wetness on the journey to what remains of the not-so Everglades.

Target fish on Coon Lake flats

It’s definitely the water, because when Dan Sardinia and I tried Osceola County’s so-called “Forgotten Chain,” we didn’t get any respect either, from my 9-year-old wise guy Ely.

Like I told Dan on the way there, “He’ll catch fish. You may not think it to look at him, but put this boy near water, and he figures out a way.”

Ely beat us in all three of his conveniently established categories: first fish, most fish, biggest fish. When Dan tried to salvage a little dignity at the end of the day with “most stumpknockers” (1), it was rejected without consideration.

It was my idea to plumb these neglected depths that were, according to majority opinion, too tannic for good fishing. Dan, a no-holds-barred, fishfinder viewin’, “I’m not playing with you fish,” devoted angler, had just dedicated the past few months to shooting fish in the drawn down Lake Toho barrel and had become accustomed to instant gratification. Gratification of any sort would elude Dan on this trip, but not Ely, who caught a bluegill on a breadball before we left the ramp and never looked back, except to jeer at Sardinia.

Most of the Trout Lake ramp parking area should be converted to a ballfield. We arrived on a Saturday about an hour after sunup and found three trailers had beaten us there. You can talk about pH all you want, but I’m from Florida and I knew fish would find a way to live in anything that looks this good. These lakes are mostly unspoiled with a few scattered houses on them, lined in lily pads, pine trees and grasses, no hydrilla or other aquatic nuisances. We wanted to find out why their denizens have been granted a virtual amnesty by the local anglers.

Though from New York, Dan had to agree. With a soft jerkbait on, he was going for that lunker. He might as well have been fishing for trout. On the other hand, in a forest-lined, lily pad-dotted cove, his nemesis Ely had a whole live nightcrawler hanging perilously below his bobber. His ultralight rod doubled over, the drag screamed in agony (or ecstasy) and he battled in a hefty, fat 9-inch shellcracker. After all the excitement he looked Dan in the eye and said gleefully, “That’s two to nothing.”

Now Dan is an elementary school coach and active participant in Teen Anglers, who’s used to having the upper hand with kids. He loves them, too, and not just for breakfast. But you can see where this sort of thing would start getting to any serious fisherman. I thought I saw his normally grinning jaw take a hard set just for an instant.

“You catch all these you want,” he warned in his baritone drawl, switching to a giant purple artificial worm, “because then I’ll catch one 10-pound bass that’s going to wipe you out.”

“Yeah, right,” the blonde angel fired back, instinctively aware that he’d drawn clam chowder, which is what runs in Sardinia’s veins.

We could see lily pads and shore grass getting bumped around and I was tossing a squirrel-tail jig, which can get everything. “No wonder you’re not catching anything, Dad,” Ely instructed. “That jig is just plain black. You should use one of mine with the red tail. They look like they’re covered in blood.”

“This one should be alright,” I assured him, immune to his wiles, as I continued strikeless in this pregnant looking water.

“We’re on fish,” Dan said hopefully. To prove it, Ely pulled in a smaller shellcracker. “Three to zero to zero.”

“That’s okay. I’m fishing for bass,” Dan restated his mission.

“It’s still zero,” the relentless niner jabbed.