Skip to main content

Simplicity

As Wildcat Creek slows and widens, just before it flows into what we call Tyger River Swamp, there is a stretch of water that is deep and full of stumps and fallen trees, as well as cattails and willows, making it nearly impenetrable, that is, unless you happen to be the kind of nut that will do anything or go anywhere to catch a fish. And if it so happens that you are warped enough to weave your way through the thick tangle, and get wet from head to toe, not to mention the possibility of coming face to face with snakes, snapping turtles, or the occasional rabid animal, you'd better be prepared to hang on, because there's no telling what you might catch, and there's no telling how big it will be. Sure it's a challenge to fight a five pound bass in heavy cover from the casting deck of a boat, but try it laying on your belly, half-submerged in mud, with a rod better suited to catch bream or crappies with, knowing all the time that it is an exercise in futility. It's not so much if  you will break off the fish of a lifetime, it's when.

I've taken a lot of grief over the years for my lack of good judgement when it comes to waters deemed unsuitable to fish in by normal people. One man remarked that I'd rather wade through a swamp full of leaches to catch a warmouth, than to stand on the front of a brand new boat to catch a record-breaking striper or largemouth bass, but that's just how I am. I've even passed this trait on to my son, who is also a junk fisherman, as some have called it. Truth is, I get a lot of satisfaction sitting on a bucket in the middle of a swamp somewhere, swatting 'skeeters and catching bluegills that fit perfectly in the palm of my hand.

There is just something about fishing in those hard to get to places that intrigues me. I have often found that the rougher it is to bushwhack your way through, the greater the chances there will be a good payoff for your efforts, unless, that is, you get tangled up and can't get back out, or you drown.

My brother and I sliced our way out into the swamp one Saturday and once we reached the water, we had to wade two hundred yards out to get to where we could cast to where fish would be. The weeds were so thick that even a floating worm would snag, and we would pull fifty feet of weeds back on the retrieve. We figured that if we spent a couple of days pulling weeds and hanging them on clusters of bushes all around where we were standing, we'd have a pretty good spot to fish. One good thing, though-- after half an hour or so, the bass began to go nuts, and we couldn't make a cast without them nailing it, if we wanted to. We had a lot of broken lines and lost rigs that day, but we caught more bass that day than either one of us could've imagined.

My son is truly a swamp-rat. He will lay across a dead tree and fish a hole the size of a tractor tire, and catch all kinds of fish. He's an old live bait fisherman to the core, and he won't hesitate to rip off tree bark or dig around under the banks to find just the right bait to use. I wouldn't put it past him to pick maggots off roadkill, if he thought it would produce a fish (you'd never see that on one of those TV fishing shows).He knows that the key to fishing is the ability to adapt to whatever situation you're presented with. Getting wet and nasty, and maybe a little bloody, is just part of the adventure for him.

Soon--maybe this weekend-- I'll find myself knee-deep in mud and weeds, trying to coax a bream to bite. No, I won't catch a wall hanger or fill the freezer with fish, but I will have a good time. And as the sun dips behind the trees, and the frogs begin to sing, I'll look out through the flooded timber and be content.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Point Through Time

Occasionally, the Earth will give up some of her secrets. If one should be so lucky as to stumble across one of those secrets, it can have a lasting impact on how that individual sees himself, and the world around him. History is not just the past, but our past. On my way to a hunting stand one morning, my headlamp caught a glint of white, protruding from the red clay on the bank that I was crossing. I laid my recurve bow on the ground and took great care digging the point out of the mud, then wiped it off on my shirt tail. The serrated edge was as sharp as the day it was made, long before Europeans set foot in North America. Over the years, I have found several points, each unique, bearing the mark of the one who made it. The smaller ones being bird-points, or true arrowheads, the larger were no doubt spear points, used with an atlatl, a device used to hurl the spear at game, or enemy in time of war. They turn up in field edges after heavy rains, or on old logging roads. Sometimes

River Walk

Through clear water you see the first leaves of early fall lying scattered on the smooth river stones on the bottom. The slick rock reflect glints of sunlight in the shallows. Everything takes on the hues of russet and amber and somewhere in there are flecks of gold and flashes of silver swirling in the eddies and riffles, gliding down into the deep pockets along steep banks rife with ferns and alder trees and jewelweed. As far as you can see up the river, trees form a canopy over the water, all bending toward the other side, all lacing their branches together to form a tunnel for an occasional cool breeze to flow through, loosening dead leaves and pieces of dried branches that fall into the current and end up gathering around your legs as you make your way upstream. A river birch growing right on the bank is canted over at an angle across your path, it's root ball pulling out of the soil and rock near the water. At the base of this tree, the river has deposited fallen limbs and

A Kindred Spirit

That morning, I paddled the cove, searching around fallen timber and boat docks for bass. The first one I hung into pulled my kayak around like a bathtub toy, even though he was no more than two pounds. I took a good look at the fish, then flipped him back into the tangled mass of brush that I'd pulled him out of. When I paddled back out away from the bank, I saw a man in a red kayak, working the shoreline toward me, although his only fishing rod was upright in the rod holder, and his hands were prodding the rocks, as if he was searching for something. I just watched him, wondering what he was looking for, and then when he pulled up a wad of mono with a Carolina rig attached to it, I knew he was a treasure hunter. He looked to be around 70-- slender and tall with a white goatee and ponytail, earrings and tattoos, a stubby pipe puffing smoke as he paddled on around the bend to find another jewel. When he looked up, I threw up my hand. He took the pipe from his teeth and said, &quo