The Story of My Money Chug Bug: Love, Legacy, Family and the Real Magic of One Lure

A bullfrog-colored Chug Bug, a family legacy, and the lesson that the real magic isn’t in the bait, it’s in the memories.

The author with a well-worn bullfrog-colored Chug Bug lure, known as ‘Money’. | Photo by Kurt Mazurek

Ken Cook won the 21st Bassmaster Classic. George Bush and Dan Quayle were in the White House. Metallica's "Enter Sandman" was on the radio. I graduated from college and cut off my sweet, long, rockstar hair, knowing I was going to have to start thinking about a real job. It was 1991.

A pretty girl named Julie had most of my attention. I say most, because I also have a very distinct memory of staring at another face. I remember looking deep into her giant buggy eyes, studying her oversized, cavernous, bright red mouth. In stark contrast to the delicate, curvy Julie, this one was stick-straight and hard as nails.

A pretty girl named Julie had most of my attention. But, come on! Who could blame me? She was even willing to put on waders and fish with me. | Photo by Kurt Mazurek

The first time I had seen her she was lunging and sashaying across my T.V. screen in a seductive dance that only she could do. "I'll bet the boys are gonna love you," I thought. "And the big girls aren't going to be able to leave you alone!" Suddenly she disappeared in a violent, frothy spray as a giant largemouth bass swallowed her whole to end the commercial.

Actually, I have a very specific memory of the first fish I caught on that old, bullfrog-colored Chug Bug, and Julie was there. We were just dating at the time so she was still trying to impress me, and agreed to join me fishing the shore of a small local pond. I was never terribly smooth with the ladies, so it hadn't occurred to me that this may not exactly be the best plan for a date. In any case, there we were–the three of us–me, Julie and my new Chug Bug.

Having seen the commercial dozens of times and not really understanding much about fishing, my confidence in this untested lure was high. I remember making a long cast to the far outside edge of the thick weeds that lined the shore of the entire pond. I remember being unsure how I was even going to work this bait. Fortunately, it didn't matter because the second it touched the surface, a 17-inch largemouth blasted it! It was magic! I remember in that magical moment, Julie smiled and congratulated me.

In the years since then, Julie has stuck with me and so has that lure. I've come a long way as an angler. I've spent thousands of hours on the water and thousands more studying and refining my approach. I've collected and tested more topwater lures than I can name.

And all the while, that Chug Bug, that exact Chug Bug, has remained in heavy rotation. I, and many of my closest friends, now know that lure as the Money Chug. We called her the Money Chug because she has earned more than her share of checks on otherwise slow tournament days. In fact, for the past several years, Money has been reserved for tournament days only in an effort to prolong the magic.

Old crusty photo, but there's the Money Chug pinned to that bass' lip. | Photo by Craig Mazurek

I have owned dozens of other Chug Bugs, but none of them got the job done like Money. Maybe there's something unique about the exact cup shape of its chugging mouth. Maybe the rattle, or the shape of the rattle chamber emits a slightly different frequency than other similar models. I don't think it's the color, because as the years have rolled on, most of the paint has been sanded off by countless bass and their abrasive lips. I think the most likely explanation is that I'm comfortable and confident when I throw that lure. Money and I have made a lot of great memories together, starting with that first fish.

It’s now decades later. The sun is rising on a brisk September tournament morning as I race down the river with my eleven-year-old daughter, Megan, in the passenger seat. It's her first bass tournament. I flash back to the shore of that little pond where I stood with her mother twenty-two years ago. Back then, I doubt I could have pictured my life today, but now that I'm here I wouldn't change a thing. I can't adequately describe the rush of nostalgia, excitement and pride I feel as I hop to the front deck, deploy the trolling motor and grab my trusty topwater rod. Everything about this moment seems so right–just me, my girl and of course, my Money Chug.

As a dad, it was pretty exciting when my daughter Megan said she wanted to fish a bass tournament with me. | Photo by Kurt Mazurek

Quickly I survey the conditions, the current, the eddies and the shadows, and pick the spot for my first cast. But then I remember I will need to coach my rookie partner. I'm eager to give her my attention and delighted that I have hers.

I describe the shape of the wing dam and explain where and how a predator will use this spot to their advantage. For the next several minutes, I'm casting but most of my attention is on Megan's presentation. Luckily, the kid's a natural and soon she's casting like an old pro.

Confident that she's found her stride, I turn my attention back to my trusty topwater bait. But, something isn't right. I flick my wrist like I've done a thousand times over the years, but instead of the sharp gurgle and spray I know so well, Money responds with a flat sounding splash. Have I snagged a weed? I snap it again to clear anything that may be clinging to her hooks, but there's that sound again. That's weird. I reel in quickly, and after a visual inspection I fire out to the edge of the current break once again. I twitch, and Money just slushes ahead. I twitch harder. Slush. What in the world?

Then as my precious topwater nears the boat, I realize it's not floating, but instead hanging neutrally buoyant, two to three-inches below the surface. I swing the bait to my free hand for inspection, but I already know what this means. Everything looks fine, but somewhere along one of her seams, or maybe near one of the hook hangers, the hard plastic has worn thin over time, and she's filling with water. Money has fooled her last bass.

I hesitate briefly but it's tournament day and my new partner is counting on me. I snip the 14-pound-test, monofilament and reach for my topwater box. I select a black Chug Bug that has been producing pretty well for me on non-tournament days. With more reverence and sentimentality than I normally allow myself to feel, I gently position my battle-scarred, bullfrog Money Chug in an open compartment of the Plano box, take one last look and snap the lid shut.

The logical part of my brain knows that I'll still catch plenty of fish. I've worked for a long time to become an effective, efficient, rational angler, and I don't believe the magic of a special lure deserves the credit for my successes. But I do give that lure credit for being part of my passion for this activity.

As much as I enjoy the act of fishing, I love the memories, the stories, the legacies and the lore that fishing helps me create. The Money Chug is forever part of MY story. Will I miss it? Of course. Will I forget it? Never. I'll never forget standing on the shore with my future wife the day that lure became part of my fishing story. Time has taught me that these stories and memories are the real magic part of fishing. That was the magic of the Money Chug.

A short while later, the water just ahead of the boat erupts as a school of bass violently attacks a helpless school of baitfish. I fire into the heart of the commotion and snap the rod tip twice causing my black Chug Bug to lunge and splash seductively. Suddenly she disappears in a violent, frothy spray as a giant largemouth swallows her whole. Megan smiles and congratulates me and a new story begins.

In case you would love another little shot of fishing nostalgia, my daughter wrote an article from her perspective of that tournament day, looking back now as a young adult. Enjoy!

Fishing with Dad: The Bass Tournament That Taught Me More Than Winning