Fishin' the Fouche La Fave; Part II

Now, where was I? Oh yeah....


Sometimes to keep me passified, Daddy would take an eel off the trotline and put him in the boat for me to fool around with. They didn’t bite and weren’t aggressive. They were just ugly, and looking for a way to slide back into the dark waters of the Fouche. To me, they were neat creatures. I hear tell that some folks eat them, But WE never did. We’d just throw them back. The gars weren’t so lucky. Daddy killed them anytime he could. They ate sport fish and that was enough for him.

Well, we’d run each of the lines three or four times before going back to the bank. I would be long asleep, curled up on Daddy’s jacket on the floor of the boat. I guess he had to hold his own light, I don’t know. I just knew that I had had my fill of it all and listening to the gentle slapping of the water against the front of the metal boat on the return trip, I nodded off and became a “dead soldier.”

WE would get back to the bank before I knew it. Dad would wake me from a sound sleep. The once-huge fire, now reduced to embers, would smell so good. It provided a little heat also. In the spring, the nights still had plenty of bite to them. Daddy would build up the fire again and retire to the old army sleeping bag for a couple of hours. Before I knew it, he was up and jostling me, “Son; wake up and let’s go. Ole’ big boy’s on the line! We gotta go.” If I got up, he would take me.. If I didn’t, he left me snoozin’ in the tent or in the back of the truck (whatever we happened to be sleeping in that trip) to “guard” the camp. After stoking the fire and piling a couple more logs on one more time, he would slip off toward the river and get into the boat. I’d raise up sometimes and in the flicker of the campfire, I would see him gliding off down the river. What I would give to take just one more of those trips with him.

Daddy would make it back about daylight with his haul. He’d show them to me and I’d shriek with joy. “That’s a big ‘un, Daddy!” I’d probably say. Boy was I ready now! He’d put the fish on ice and would then ready the cooking embers from the night before and would pull out some sausage and eggs and make the most wonderful tastin’ breakfast you ever put in your mouth. The eggs weren’t as pretty as Momma’s but they tasted GREAT… The sausage aroma had to have filled the air of the bottomlands for a half mile… and there was plenty for everyone--even seconds for a hungry boy. A little bit of bark here and there didn’t matter at all…not on the riverbank.

After breakfast settled a bit, Daddy would then begin breaking camp and I would help gather things together and haul stuff to the truck, as I could. Once the truck was packed, we would head down the river and methodically retrieve the lines, one by one, disassembling them as we took them up. We might even take another fish or two in the early daylight hours. Once all lines were in, Daddy would crank the Evinrude and we would be headed back up the river in short order—the morning breeze in our faces and blowing through our hair. We’d unload the boat in the increasing warmth of the welcomed late morning sun, then wrestle the ole’ Jon boat onto the home-made trailer, secure it down and (to my delight) we’d finally get in the truck, Frostie and Hostess cup-cake in hand… and head for the house. Except for the first twenty minutes, I probably slept most of the way home. Camping was neat but home was home, you know.

If we got a bunch of fish, the work was just beginning. Cleaning and preparing them for the freezer was another event in itself, lasting 3 hours or so. Daddy would filet those rascals and put them in empty waxed cardboard milk cartons and fill them with water. Then he’d place them in the freezer for the coming weeks.

Growing up, we never ate fancy, but praise God, we never missed a meal. My Daddy could “catch catfish from dusk ‘til dawn” just like Hank Jr. sings about…and he taught us boys how.

I will never forget the special times Daddy shared with me and my siblings. Tom, my baby brother, eight years my junior, remembers these times in the woods and the water too. Daddy was consistent. He was always there for us. He always had time for his family. We always came first in his life.

“…and what he knew of the water and the woods, he wrote on the hearts of his boys.” I saw these words chiseled on a tombstone once and remembered only those few words. But they represent who he was and who I am.

Daddy died in 1976 at 62 years and 11 months. I was 28. He is on the other side of the river now. I feel him around me much of the time, but I can’t hug him right now. But I WILL see him and hug him again—in Glory. I know that for sure. Right now, well, I just embrace the memories that we made together.

Thanks for comin’ along with me. I needed the company. The times of my childhood are so special to me and I am honored to be able to share them with you. If they remind you of something in your life, how about sharing them? Don't let where you came from be forgotten. Thanks for takin’ the time to read this post. <><

aj

them is two good post - keep them coming.... great story.

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Originally Posted by booger1

them is two good post - keep them coming.... great story.

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Thanks for reading, Boog; I'm honored that you liked the story. Sometime, maybe I'll fish the Fouche La Fave again. I'm not much of a trotline kinda guy, but I likes goin' after bass and specks whenever I get the time.

Again, thanks for reading and posting back. Makes it all worthwhile. :)

aj

aj, enjoyed the read. You wanted to hear of others, so here goes a similar childhood memory.

My maternal grandfather was the cat fisherman in our family. When I got about 5, he started taking me along. It was never a simple overnight trip. Wasn't aware of all the prep work, until several years later, when I was big enough to carry stuff to the truck and the boat trailer.

He would plan, organize, and load forever. '55 Chevy 5 window pick-up, 14 ft. tin boat, with a '52 evinrude 3 hp. Had stuff piled up, and when the Beverly Hillbillies show first came on TV, only then did we kids realize folks thought that look was funny. We just thought it meant we were going fishing. Did I mention it was not a simple overnight thing?

One of my jobs was to go out to the worm bed, and fill several old lard cans with as many night crawlers as I could dig. That was the only bait he ever used. It was lined with tin, covered with tin, and was a compost area just for worm production.

When the truck and trailer reached capacity, he and I would leave Bastrop, La. and head for Lake Providence, La.. Lake Providence is a cut-off from the Mississippi River when it changed course at some point. Cypress lined banks, with all of the characteristics of the river, just without the flow. Once off the asphalt, the long dirt road through the woods was always a challenge to get to the "campsite" at waterside.

Unloading into piles was the first part of setting camp. A 1/4 stranded cable was laid out on the ground between two large oak trees. Ladder up on one tree, and a cable clamp secured the cable as high as could be reached. Come-along was chained up high on the other tree. The canvas tarp, which required two to carry when rolled up, was then laid out over the cable, and the cable winched tight. Did I mention this was not a simple overnight thing?

Once the sides were guyed out, basic pup-tent shape, it covered about a 25x50 foot area. We never got wet, no matter how hard it rained. Sometimes there were as many as 15 sleeping under, with most of the adults on cots. We would dig a latrine way out back and always had a 5 gal. can of lime with a tin cup next to it. Everything went under the tent to be unpacked later. Tent up, latrine dug, meant it was time to start having fun.

There was a trail leading to the bank, that we would hand walk the trailer down till we could slide the boat off and down the embankment to the water. We would then spend most of the afternoon skulling down the bank, stopping every 6-10 ft, to tie a limb line to cypress limbs. Nylon trot line cord, swivel, crimp on weight, and hook had all been rigged and inspected before leaving the house, so it was a simple matter of tying them on unbaited, and moving on down the bank. Couple a hundred usually, but went pretty fast once we got a system down. Motor would never be cranked until we were at the end of the set, and we would only run back to the camp. No riding around. Back to camp and finished setting up.

My uncle would show up after he got off from the mill in Bastrop, around dark, and each of them would have a couple cups of coffee, off the open campfire, and then we'd head to the boat to bait the lines.

My uncle was always in the stern, me in the middle, and my grandfather in the bow. We used carbide headlamps, sizzling and occasionally popping, and would paddle down the bank, baiting up with those huge night crawlers. My job was to hand granddaddy a worm, and then watch for snakes in the branches, and in the water. I got really good with a skulling paddle, knocking them out of the branches, and then whacking them, swimming, with the paddle, sort of like a slicing action to the middle of the snake, and it would break their backs. Great fun knocking out moccasins, and killing them with a paddle. I'm easily entertained.

When the end of the set was reached my uncle would fire the motor and we would slowly ride back down the line. If there would be a fish on after the initial baiting run, it would always be left on, as my grandfather thought it started them to bite better. Always made me want to go and get that first fish, but I eventually learned the importance of leaving it as an attractor. Usually my grandmother would have arrived at camp by the time we would get back after baiting up and would have brought the first night's meal from the house with her.

We would run the lines several times every night, but only once at mid-day. Channel cats were the only target and man did we catch fish. Nothing huge, with a big fish being 6-8lbs. Most were 10" to 18" fish, which was what my grandfather wanted. We ate all we could at camp, and cleaned fish were packed into ice chests, and many a trip, my grandmother would return to Bastrop, and spend all day packing fish into containers for the chest freezers, and then drive back to camp. They supplied about 6 families with all the catfish they wanted, for the last 40 years they were alive.

I grew up going catfishing not for sport, but as a way of putting food on the table. My grandfather loved the camping and the fishing fed his extended family. Most of the trips lasted 4 to 5 days, and we would go at least 6 to 8 times a year. Hundreds of fish were the norm, but occasionally there would be skimpy trips. If the fish were not biting by the second night, camp was broken, and home we would go. Days taken off from work before my grandfather retired,were too valuable to waste.

The vehicles changed, real tents followed, coleman stoves, lanterns, etc., but those memories from the late '50's on can never be changed. The woods are now a subdivision, and the banks now sport boathouses and piers.

After my grandparents got to old to go on their own, with my grandfather in a wheelchair, my wife and I found a camp house across the lake from where we used to go, and for the last few years they were able to go, we would rent the place. We'd roll him out on the pier. I would cast a rod out with a couple of skinny worms dug from under where the worm bed used to be. I think the fish understood, because they always bit for him.

That little kid sure misses his grandfather.

boatstall

...and I'm so glad you penned it to share. Hope you print off a copy or two and put it away for the kids and grandkids to read one day. It sounds like you had a rich childhood...one that may not be moneywise but rich in family tradition! How rare is that these days?

I could smell that carbide light when you mentioned it. Daddy's old truck was a '53 Chevy like the one you described. Isn't it something that no one had the modern conveniences we have now and they got along just fine. I have old photos as you probably do, that show the old folks displaying the stringers of fish they caught and it makes me wish for just one more trip.

Thanks for takin' me along with you. I really, really enjoyed it.

I suggest you copy and paste your story to its own thread. That way it won't be hidden and more folks will read and enjoy your adventures with your family.

Thanks again for takin' the time to write this one up. It's a WINNER! <><

aj

John , that's a great story. Where on the Fouche La Fave River did you fish? I love that stream and have fished most of it at one time or another.:cool:

Thanks for the kind words AJ

I did take your advise on sharing with the family. Sure makes me realize how fortunate we are these days, when we can e-mail our memories of the carbide lamp smells to our kids and family, wirelessly, from a recliner, with the ac on, while watching olympic coverage from China, that I recorded earlier, digitally, from my satellite receiver.

But I, like you, would trade it all to make one more of those trips we remember so fondly. Well. maybe not, this ac feels pretty good.

boatstall

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Originally Posted by NIMROD

John , that's a great story. Where on the Fouche La Fave River did you fish? I love that stream and have fished most of it at one time or another.:cool:

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...we put in at Bigelow and fished from there to where it meets the Arkansas.

It's a great little body of water when not too low. Maybe I'll get back there someday. :)

aj

Great story, that otta be published somewhere, you need to send that to a magazine or something. that's the type of story a lot of guys can relate to, afterall for most of us it was our dad who, even when it would be easier to leave us at home took us along for the memories will will always have and the adventures we try to reproduce for our children.

zinsurance,

You are too kind, sir! But I am glad you enjoyed the story. I don't reckon I could ever write a fiction piece. For me, the stories that come from my youth growin' up in Saline County, Arkansas are just about all I need.

Thanks for taking the time to read and post back. It sounds like you have a few stories of your own you could post here, eh? <><

aj

yeah, I remember going jug-lining with my dad in the farm pond when I was probably 7 or 8, we would get to the pond about 5 pm and set our jugs out with an array of baits and then we would go fish along a submersed fence. My brother and I would always catch bluegills and crappie while dad fished for bass. One evening I looked up and one of the jugs went under the water and reappeared seconds later. I remember telling my dad who was in disbelief and said it was just the waves moving the jug. A few moments later that jug took off across the water, I hollered at dad and when he saw that jug moving he said sh*t boy pull up the anchor. As I pulled up the anchor he started the trolling motor and we were off after that jug. We quickly caught up with it and dad started pulling the line up to see how big our prize was. As he pulled it out of the water I swear it was the biggest catfish I ever saw. I thought the thing had to be 10 or 15 pounds. I recently visited with my dad about that trip and he tells me the fish was only 5 or 6 pounds, but in my mind it'll always be bigger than that. One thing is for sure, he believes me when I tell him his jugs are moving.

That's a great remembrance! It gave me a laugh to envision you two pullin' up that anchor, stowing rods and mayem tryin' to get that boat over there to do business! To me, that is what fishin' is all about. It really is the purest form of fishin'.

Thanks for sharin that one. I'm still grinnin' like a jackass eatin' briars! :)

aj