Fishin' the Fouche La Fave
Fishin' the Fouche La Fave
Daddy never did anything half-way. One time he started raising fish. The next thing I knew, he had built a wall full of aquariums and fish were everywhere. Another time, he got into exotic birds. Before I knew it, we had Golden pheasants, Ring Necks, Chuckars, California Quail, Bob Whites—you name it, we had a flock of each of ‘em. I won’t even talk about the rabbits he raised, except to say that he probably populated half of Saline County with San Juans.
Come along with me as we load up the flatbottom and the 7 1/2 Evinrude and head for the river. I want to share with you a trotline fishing experience. Will Rogers said, “The best time to go fishin’ is when you have the time and get the chance.” If you have the time, now’s your chance. Get your skeeter dope and let’s go.
Daddy loved the outdoors. We went to the river or the woods any time we could. We always fished a lot. Now, I’m not talkin’ about the “sport” fishin’ like is on TV. We went “meat” fishin’ and he was serious about it! He had a family that had a habit of eating three meals a day and fishin' kept us from a steady diet of Pinto beans!
As a young boy, I loved it when he would take me. I always helped as much as I could. The truth is I probably was more in the way than anything—especially as a little feller, but you would never have known it by the way he carried on. Even when I was an adult, the thrill never left.
Daddy and his cronies were so serious about this trotlining stuff, that they were not satisfied with just one or two trotlines. No, no. They would put out six or eight! There are regulations now as to how many hooks and how long the trotlines can be, but back then, if there was such, I didn’t know and Daddy probably didn’t care too much.
Going to the river, Daddy would stop at his favorite bait store half way between the house and the river and get 300 shiners from the old man. “Shiners” are minnows that are about 4 to 6 inches long—the biggest you can get here in Arkansas. They were three dollars a hundred back then! Now you know I am talkin’ about the late ‘50’s and early 60’s. To my delight, he always got us a bunch of cokes and Frostie Root Beers and Hostess cup cakes. I remember the other fish food also, like Vienna sausages and crackers--son, gourmet goodies on the riverbank.
We would arrive at the river (pronounced fouch la fay) after a 50 minute drive, which feeds into the Arkansas River, at Bigelow, set up camp and start a good oak fire. Then we’d get in the old boat and and head out. We had lights, mosquito dope, shiners, homemade dough blood bait, (and any other kind of bait we could get, including gold fish) line, hooks, weights, all in a row, waiting to be assembled. Off we’d go. If Daddy had a buddy with him, they’d be in each end of the boat and I would be right in the middle, don’t cha know?
I remember the way that ole’ river always smelled. The air always seemed a little crisper, cooler and smelled fresh and unique. The frogs would already be starting up with their nighttime choruses. The owls and whip-o-wills would be adding their accents once in a while. The ever-present crickets would chirp all evening, filling in the gaps. Silence was rare on the river—and adventure was just around the corner!
We’d pull up to the first likely fishing-looking spot and Daddy would tine one end of the trotline to a snag and begin assembling and baiting each hook as we worked our way across the river. The hooks had already been tied to their individual double lines so all he had to do was loop them onto the main line and make sure they were set. Every ten feet or so, he’d drop an anchor. At the end of the line he would tie it to a tree and flag it for ready identification. It soon was totally dark and it was my job to hold the light. I was supposed to keep it out of the ole’ man’s eyes, but sometimes I would get distracted and would hear about it post haste! Who can trotline when they are blinded?—not even Daddy.
You can imagine how much time it would take to set out 6 or 8 lines, each running two or three hundred feet across the river. But that’s exactly what we did, and I’m here to tell you that it got old fast to a 10-12 year old boy—even with cokes and Hostess cup-cakes!
By the time we had set the last trotline, guess what? It was time to go run the first one! “You can’t leave a big ole’ catfish on the line too long or he’ll twist right off,” he would say. So, off we would go, all the way back upstream, with the light searching side to side, keeping watch for logs and other obstructions in the river. We would approach each line watching for the tell-tale sign of the limb or bush that we tied to. If we had something on the line, that ole’ bush would be jerkin’ and jumpin’ and carrin’ on, son! The imagination would run wild. “What is it? WHAT IS IT:” It just HAD to be a 40 pounder! We would take in the fish and have so much fun doin’ it.
But sometimes the river would be too low for good fishing and the turtles, gars and eels would take over. It is exciting, but no real fun to take a 4’ gar or eel off the line, and downright dangerous messing with snapping turtles. They would be plenty agitated and along with their natural nasty disposition, there was surely to be a fight! Daddy would just cut them off the line and let the turtles go. He was plenty smart, I’d say. They were vicious when provoked!
Now the eels were about as big around as my arm back then and averaged about 3 feet in length and were slimy critters, from tip to tip and black as the ace of spades. In the dark, you never knew what you would be contending with as you cautiously brought up the trotline. Sometimes we’d see a flash of white two feet down in the water, which usually was followed by the order, “Get the NET!” I knew it was a catfish or bass of larger than average size.
Part II on the way (This forum wouln't allow me to post it all at once)
aj
