I found it intriguing to watch as the operator of a large,
late model bass boat zipped full speed from one side of the cove to the other.
With each stop he might have stayed two or three minutes, maybe five at most,
before he fired up the hundred-fifty plus horsepower outboard motor and flew
back across the two hundred yard wide stretch of open water. He was fishing,
that I could determine, but he seemed so impatient that I would venture a guess
that he did not catch anything, at least I never saw him pull anything in. He
appeared more intent in speeding around for the sake of speeding around than
anything else. In contrast to his neurotic boating behavior, I drifted along
with the gentle breeze in my light weight canoe and managed to catch several
scrappy bass during that same stretch of time. After maybe thirty minutes of
changing locations, out of frustration I would imagine, he finally fired up the
over-powered vessel and zoomed away throwing out a giant rooster-tail behind
his boat having never caught a single fish from that twenty-thousand dollar
fishing rig.
Bass boats are marvelous contraptions with all of their high
tech gear and comfortable seats and powerful motors. Flying off down a lake at
sixty miles per hour certainly would provide a thrilling adventure for most
anyone, but, I don’t know, they seem like an overly expensive and cumbersome
way to go fishing. Oddly enough, even if I could afford one, I wouldn’t buy
one. Maybe it’s just my temperament, but I prefer slower paced, smaller water,
style of fishing and there is no better way to pursue those desires than
fishing from a canoe.
I was first introduced to this unique way of fishing
probably close to forty years ago now when my old friend Ralph took me with him
in his venerable seventeen foot, Grumman aluminum canoe. Even then that old
canoe had seen better days, but it was practically indestructible. It no longer
had much shine to it and there were so many dents scatter down its length it
looked like something from a demolition derby. But, it was stable and solid,
and except for a popped rivet or two, it didn’t leak too much.
I was immediately struck by the simplicity of the craft and
its closeness to the surface of the water provided a unique perspective to the
environment. It was a simple matter to reach down and pluck a bass out of the
water by hand. I don’t remember how many fish we hooked that day, but by the
time we pulled out I was hooked on canoe fishing. Before long I was able to
purchase my own second hand one, a Coleman, not exactly top of the line, but
functional and after all, it was only meant as a temporary solution until I
could afford to buy a real canoe.
What I discovered was that temporary
solutions tend to turn into permanent ones for those of us who must function
within limited resources. Actually I used that canoe for a couple of years then
sold it and ended up purchasing another slightly newer Coleman. It was the
second one that proved to be long-lived and I drug that vessel all over the
place and eventually wore it out.
It wasn’t much of a canoe by the standards of modern
designs, but it served its purpose and provided countless hours of great
fishing and floating. My good friend Rocky eventually purchased his own Coleman
a few years later and so our fleet of low riders began to grow. Another fishing
buddy Curt did the same and before long my brother did as well. Between the
five of us we had five canoes, a collection of fifteen and seventeen foot
models. We looked rather rag-tag at times, but we didn’t care, the results far out-weighed
the lack of finesse. Rocky eventually stumbled into a bargain and was able to
purchase a somewhat heavily used, but still functional Old Town Tripper. It
provided an immediate and much needed upgrade to the quality of our fleet.
Old Beggs Lake, an old impoundment built back in the late
1920’s that sprawled for about twenty acres, became our favorite rendezvous as
it was close and not heavily used. A number of good sized wall hanger bass
greeted us on occasion along with smaller ones too numerous to count, but what
was most important was the time spent getting away. It was a great place to be
alone with your thoughts.
March 12th 1978 was a Beggs Lake red-letter day,
the day I felt like I had graduated to become a real fisherman. Spring came
early that season after an unusually difficult, cold and snowy winter. The
first breath of the new season embraced the landscape and the first signs of
green were beginning to appear. I left early that morning and arrived just
after sunup after having been greeted by the pastel and bold explosions of
sunrise.
The air was cool at first and a light jacket was in order,
but grew warmer as the morning progressed. The first hour or so I managed to
catch a couple small ten inch bass along with a bluegill or two. It felt good
to once again feel the tug on the fishing line. Eventually, I drifted over near
where a large tree limb had blown down during the winter and extended well out
into the water from the grassy edge. I was using a mid-sized, black and yellow
spinner bait and cast the line next to the exposed branches.
Upon the first couple retrieval cranks the line grew heavy
and I thought it had hung up on a hidden limb. When I pulled on the rod, what
was on the other end pulled back and I realized that a fat bass was attached.
The light weight rod bent almost double with line peeling off the spool and the
gears of the spinning reel screamed in protest. It took a few moments but I
managed to pull the big ole gal alongside the canoe and lifted her into the
air. That’s one of the great pleasures of canoe fishing, being so close down to
the action, seeing, hearing, and in some cases tasting the result of the
spoils. She went about four and half pounds.
In hindsight I should have released her, but I strung her up for safe
keeping and let her swim alongside the canoe.
Two casts later I tossed my line along the other side of the
downed limb more toward a small inlet. I barely started the retrieval when the
line grew heavy again…another larger bass had grabbed hold and the fight was
on. I thought for sure my line or the rod would break, but both of them held
and I again lifted another trophy into the air. This one went closer to five
pounds. A red letter day for sure. Later, when I showed my catch to my old
friend Ralph, a grin arched across his face as wide as those fish were long,
exposing his tobacco stained teeth.
“Boy, boy,” he kept saying over and over. “When are we
going?”
We were on the water that next Saturday morning before I had
to go to work.
Canoe fishing became a part of me after that, and continued
to provide an important outlet during sometimes difficult and challenging
times. Not sure what I would have done had I not been able to pursue life
through that avenue. Important life lessons were learned through the venue of
fishing and Old Beggs Lake is where I learned an important axiom; there is more to fishing than catching fish.
Many years later after countless miles of use, I retired the
old Coleman before moving to Kentucky and a new life. Once established in the
new home and job, I was able to purchase a real canoe, an Old Town Camper
model, and she is a beauty. I never realized just how much difference there
could be until I first pushed off the bank in the new Old Town and began to
paddle across the calm waters of a mirrored surface lake. She glides like being
on angel’s wings and has a look about her that defines the classic profile of
what a canoe should be.
Nothing could ever replace the icon of time of Old Beggs
Lake and the memories made there, but I have found another location that is
somewhat larger and maybe a little tougher to fish, but in its own right it is
a perfect spot for canoe fishing. It’s called Shanty Hollow, but that is
another story I’ll share another time.
For now I am encouraged to remember old times from the past.
Oddly enough, there are days I feel like I’ve lost my identity. Circumstances
often prevent me from getting out as much as I would like, either that, or I’m
just getting older and find it more difficult to do so. It is a shame really to
allow such things to happen. Yet on those days when I can drift on silent canoe
wings, I remember once again why those days were so important. I am haunted by
those memories and long to discover them anew.
Keith
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