A Highway Runs Through It by BRUCE VAN WYNGARDEN PHOTO BY BRUCE VAN WYNGARDEN John Ryan with a 5-pound urban bass. Ah, the mystical allure of fishing: the graceful uncoiling of a fly line across a crystalline Ozark stream, the soft gurgle of a buzz bait through an ancient stand of cypress, the flash of a bonefish across an azure Florida flat, images guaranteed to stir the heart of any fisherman and start him dreaming of vacations to come. But what if your next vacation isn't until August? What if you've promised your kids that long-delayed trip to Disney World? What if your weekends are all booked into the next millennium? What then, Bubba? Here's what: The fact is you can catch all the fish you want and be less than 10 minutes from downtown. And I'm talking about big bass -- on uncrowded water -- inside the Memphis city limits. When you think about it, it really isn't that surprising. If you look for water as you drive around Memphis, you'll see it everywhere: small lakes off the interstate along the Wolf River, cypress-studded wetlands near T.O. Fuller, and on the way to Shelby Forest, dozens of borrow pits tucked behind trees, left over from highway construction. Most of this water is seldom if ever fished, and even if it is fished, it's by bank fishermen looking for catfish or bream. You won't see any fancy bass boats with radar. You might see a guy sitting on an overturned bucket watching his bobber. John Ryan and his brother, Andy, have spent years exploring these local watersheds. Through trial and error they have developed a method that works, and they've learned where the big fish are. Last week I asked John to take me on an expedition into the world of urban bass fishing. He agreed, but only on the condition that I not specifically identify any of his prime fishing holes. We meet at John's Midtown house at 5 o'clock on a Wednesday afternoon. Ten minutes later, as we round a curve on I-240, Ryan says, "Pull onto the shoulder and slow down." The rush-hour traffic roars by heedlessly as we turn onto a deeply rutted, two-lane dirt track that drops steeply through the trees along the highway. We are towing a 12-foot aluminum boat, our ticket to uncharted waters and, according to John, big bass. "We caught a couple of six-pounders here last week," he says. "And we've hooked bigger ones." As we slide the boat into the water, I see that the ground is littered with a few pieces of Styrofoam and some beer cans. It's not exactly nature at its finest. (In fact, the EPA has issued advisories against eating fish caught in most Memphis-area rivers and creeks. Smart fishermen just play catch-and-release.) "There are a few people who come here and fish off the bank," Ryan says, noting the debris, "but you never see any boats here. We'll have the lake to ourselves." Our boat has no motor; Ryan uses a small sculling paddle to work us across the still water. The lake, a man-made pit probably created during the construction of the nearby highway, is two hundred yards long, about half as wide. Trees -- flowering mimosa, sycamore, willow, and oak -- hang over the shoreline. A blue heron glides across in front of us; tiny swallows soar and dive, skimming the surface for insects. If it weren't for the sound of the traffic, or the highway light stanchions visible over the trees, we could be in the backwoods. "This is really amazing," I say. "No one knows this is here. You could start a guide service." "Yeah," John says, "a quick getaway for the harried businessman. Get him on a fish or two, then get him home in time for dinner." "Could work," I say. "Might want to advertise in the Flyer." We cruise in silence, headed for the far end of the lake. "You doin' any good?" The voice comes from a man sitting in a chair among the trees. He wears overalls and a striped umbrella-hat. Two bobbers hang motionless in the shady water in front of him. "Just getting started," I say. "You using artificials?" he asks, looking at our rods and flashy spinner baits. "Yep. Fishing for bass." "Bass?" he says. It seems a concept as foreign to him as geophysics. As we move away, Ryan whispers, "You might be a redneck if ... your fishing equipment includes a folding chair." At the end of the lake Ryan stops sculling and says, "Throw a lure into that stump bed." Almost immediately, we both have a small bass on. For the next couple of hours we slowly work our way around the shoreline, stopping at various points and inlets, catching fish steadily. We aren't taking any particularly large bass, but they're all fat and healthy-looking. I wouldn't be surprised if most of them had never seen an artificial before. It's good fishing. As darkness falls John takes a 5-pounder on a crank bait. It seems only fitting that as he holds it up for me to photograph, the night is split by the blast of an airhorn from an 18-wheeler roaring by. Twenty minutes later we're watching the Spurs and the Blazers at John's house. Urban fishing -- it ain't geophysics, but it works.