My Favorite Sport - The Early Years and Then Some

Fishing...Man's favorite sport, so I've gathered. Well, maybe not every man's favorite sport, but certainly one I've been quite fond of for many years. My love affair with it began many years ago when I was just a little feller. Seems we went on a church outing someplace, I think it was on the banks of Poteau River in southeastern Oklahoma, and most everyone brought along a fishing pole. I could not have been more than four or maybe five years old, but I can still recall flashes of memories standing on a steep muddy bank throwing out my baited line that was connected to a seven or eight foot long cane pole. The old bobber simply sat there somewhat motionless in the slack water. There were lots of people lining the bank, some casting with fancy fishing rigs, but most simply using the old tried and true cane pole method. Not sure what bait I used, probably worms, but I do remember seeing minnow buckets dangling from the bank into the water several feet below. After what seemed like a very long time, someone, one of the men I think, walked by and asked where my cork bobber was. I said I didn't know, it went under a little while ago. He said lift your line up and to my amazement, a fish was dangling from the other end. I have no idea what kind it was, it was just a fish, but lots of folks sure made a big fuss over me catching that smelly old thing...and thus my career as a fisherman began.

A few years later on what was my 7th birthday I believe, my grandparents actually came to visit us and we went to some local park where there was a little creek with a bridge crossing it. My grandfather gave me a long package wrapped in brown paper. Of course I asked him what it was and he just smiled and said it was a flag pole we were going to setup at the park. I believed him of course and eventually after we set up the picnic table with whatever food and birthday cake we had, they all called me over and told me it was time to set up the flag pole. I was all excited and ripped open the long package. To my astonishment, there was no flag pole. Instead there was a brand new Zebco 202 fishing rod and reel. Like a dummy I asked where the flag pole was. After they all stopped laughing, my grandfather told me there was no flag pole, but that fishing rod and reel was all mine, a birthday present, and I could fish the creek below the little bridge if I wanted to. It took me all of three seconds to rush over there. I suppose I just naturally knew how to use that rig for I spent quite a while throwing the hook and bobber into the water...never caught anything if I recall, but every cast was filled with anticipation. 

That rig also came with a hookless practice plug, and after we left I'd spend hours throwing that thing as far as  I could throw it then reeling it in. The first thing each morning, I'd grab that fishing rig and head outside so I could cast it and begged my dad to take me fishing again. Eventually he did, on occasion, but he was trying to finish his college degree that had been interrupted by World Was II and he didn't have a lot of free time, or money, to take me very often.

Over the next several years my fishing exploits were sporadic and fell somewhat into a drought, but the drought was broken when my grandmother's brother, Uncle Manly, took me and my brother fishing one summer morning to a favorite farm pond of his. Said the pond was full of crappie and bass. By this time I had graduated to a newer, more advance fishing rod and reel, a classic True Temper brand, with a blue fiberglass rod and a bait casting reel filled with a few yards of braided fishing line. We over slept of course, and Uncle Manly got patiently irritated with us, but we managed to arrive at the pond just before sunrise. 

He extracted the sections of cane pole from his trunk and with the patience of a master fisherman, and in spite of arthritic fingers, attached a hook, bobber, and a minnow. I was too advanced to use such archaic fishing techniques and began to throw my Lazy-Ike fishing plug. Before he made his first toss, I must have cast a dozen times...no catches. He smiled and flipped the line out about 20 feet or so, and before the bobber settled, a huge crappie gobbled his minnow and he pulled it in. I turned the surface of the pond into a froth with that Lazy-Ike, still no catches, but he simply hooked another minnow on, gave it a quick toss...and within a few seconds landed a second nice crappie. After his third or fourth catch, I humbly asked him if I could use one of his minnows, and of course he said sure thing. A few seconds after tossing it about 30 feet out, boom, my first catch of the morning.

Classic Lazy-Ike like the one I had

This pattern continued until the sun got too high and the fish simply quite biting. I did manage to catch a couple with the Lazy-Ike, but I was taught a big lesson about fishing that morning, and I understood more clearly what being humbled really meant. We caught a good stringer of fish that morning and I caught my first glimpse of what it meant to be a real fisherman and the other values associated with the quest to catch a fish. I kept that old Lazy-Ike lure for many years and caught a lot of fish with it, but on a float trip down the Buffalo River in Arkansas, I, against my better judgement, cast it into a nice looking pool and true to its fish catching ability, I hooked a nice smallmouth bass. A few seconds later, the line snapped and the fish and my vintage lure were gone.

That old True Temper fishing rod and reel served me well during the summer. My summertime friend Geary, whose grandmother lived across the road from my grandparents, and I would get into all kinds mischief together. We'd hound my grandmother or his to take us out to Wister Lake so we could fish below the spillway, which was a great place to catch all sorts of fish, black bass and white bass, to drum and buffalo and even carp, catfish, or gar. One day my grandmother took us out there and simply left us, we were both probably about 8 or 9, unheard of today to leave kids like that, but we were excited. We had no food, no water, just a paper sack with a few hooks, bobbers, and sinkers inside. We waded a shallow area onto a gravel bar that offered a perfect location to cast into the current created by the outflow coming from the dam. Geary had made a DIY dip net out of an old screen door where he had extracted the screen, tied some string to each corner, and placed a rock in the middle to make it sink.

We'd wade over to a shallow area where some minnows were swimming, drop the net into the water and wait a few minutes for the minnows to return, then lift the contraption. Each time we'd catch 2 or 3 minnows, toss them into a minnow bucket, then do it again. After a few attempts we'd end up with a dozen or more free minnows. 

Curiously, an old timer had waded across onto that same gravel bar. He had one of those tackle boxes that opened up into 3 or 4 levels of trays and he carried 3 or 4 fishing rods with fancy rod holders he plugged into the gravel. Geary and I would attach a minnow to our hooks. Using a heavy lead weight attached a few feet above the hook, we'd cast way out into the current which was strong enough to bounce the weight and minnow along the bottom. Ever so often we'd reel in the line and recast. On one such cast, I felt a heavy jolt on the rod and when I started to reel it in, it felt like it was hung up, but then it started to pull back. Whatever was on the other end was so large and in that current, that old True Temper reel's drag could not keep up and it stripped out almost all of my line and bent the pole almost doubled over. I was unable to reel it in. Geary dropped his rod and grabbed the line and pulled it in by hand as I took up the slack. After awhile, we dragged a giant buffalo, or maybe a drum, I'm not sure which, onto the gravel bank. We were jumping up and down...and that old timer simply watched us in amazement. That was the single biggest fish I've ever caught of any kind. All afternoon we continued to catch fish like that until my grandmother showed up to take us home. Cannot recall if that old timer with all the fancy gear ever caught anything, but I don't think he did. 

Since those years I've been able to enjoy fishing in places like the high country of Colorado, the clear  mountain streams of the Ozarks, farm ponds, big lakes and small, and have pursued it in all kinds of weather and conditions. By far my favorite way to cast a line is from the inside of my canoe. Many times when I lived in Arkansas, just a few miles from the Buffalo River, I'd take a Saturday and haul my canoe to one of the put in locations. Being by myself, I'd paddle, or wade and line my way upstream as far as I could go, fishing here and there just enjoying the refreshing flavor of the place. Eventually, I'd find a shady spot and just sit for a spell before floating back to my truck. Those quiet moments were the best moments of the day and they offered me time to reflect on growing up learning about how to fish. I still do such things when I'm fishing, take time to just sit quietly and absorb the peaceful respite of nature.

As a photographer, I am always looking, always observing the world around me. When I find the time to load up my canoe and head over to a favorite fishing spot, most of the time I take my camera with me simply because the nature of bass fishing usually requires an early start, and that consequently, most often is when the light can be at it's best. On one such recent outing, I almost did not take my camera, but at the last moment decided to do so. I arrived at the location well before sunrise and with the air being cooler than normal for that time of year on that trip, magical whiffs of fog danced across the surface of the lake. The ridges that formed the boundary of the lake, hid the horizon, but the sky was beginning to turn bright and reflected off the surface of the water. A gentle breeze stirred the fog, and tickled the water into a light ripple. As I shoved off, to my right a blue heron gently settled next some limbs extending out of the water near the shoreline. 

My eye instantly locked in on the scene and I extracted my camera from its watertight container. The light was low, very low, and I had to shoot at a very slow shutter speed in relation to the 300mm lens focal length being employed, even after boosting the ISO up a notch or two. I fired off several shots trying to hold the camera steady, hoping that at least one of the images would not be blurred by camera shake. The fishing that morning was excellent and I enjoyed those few hours alone with nature. When I returned home and started to browse through the few images I took, I locked onto that first series with the heron. Although I caught several nice bass that morning, that one photo turned out to be the best catch of the day.

Those days afield during the early years when I learned about the sport of fishing were some of the best teaching moments of my young life. During those years more than fishing skills were engrained into my world, things like self reliance, adaptability, persistence, strength of character, and respect for what nature has to offer. As the photo of the heron demonstrates, the most important thing I learned about fishing can be summed up in one phrase: There's more to fishing than catching fish. 

Shooting The Rapids: The Thrill and Humor of White Water

 I used to own an old Coleman Canoe. Paid two hundred dollars for it way back around 1978 or so. They have been manufactured since the late 70's, but have undergone a great deal of structural changes since then. Mine was possibly a second generation model, very close to the original style. It was a fifteen foot model, red in color, constructed of an aluminum tubing frame stretched inside a tough polyethylene plastic shell. Sealed into both ends were two blocks of styrofoam floatation. It was a tough and functional canoe. It was also heavy weighing in around 70 pounds or so. 

On the Big Piney

Even so, I probably put more mileage on that old canoe than the Old Town I've owned now for almost 20 years. In fact, I plumb wore it out for it had a couple of cracks and holes punched into it along with countless scrapes and dents along its length. I would seal the cracks with duct tape and shove off. Probably should have named it Patches, or Bumps, or maybe something else appropriate. 

My old fishing rig

Ended up giving it to my neighbor when we moved to Kentucky. That's when I purchased my Old Town Camper canoe. It's a gorgeous piece of engineering too, but has long since lost its new charm with a good number of scrapes, bumps, gouges, faded color and assorted battle scars earned on its own.  Oddly enough, that Old Town is better suited for flat water than moving water...hull design and such things...although I have made a number of float trips with it and zipped through a few lesser challenging moving water shoots.

That old Coleman served me well and provided the opportunity to explore an aspect of canoeing I've not been able to pursue in recent years: Running white water rapids. We never did a great deal of that kind of floating, but did do enough of it to at least understand the thrill and risk of doing so.

Old Town Camper on my Jeep

 Although the Buffalo River in Arkansas is not particularly known as a   white water float, the upper end of the Buffalo when the water is high   enough is a good place to get into some moderate white water runs.   The  lower end tends to spread out more, but many of the longer calmer   sections of the river are connected by a substantial drop off where a   series of rapids kicks up a challenge.  We've floated all but the last of   the lower part of that river and have had some good fun shooting some  high water rapids.

By far the most fun and most challenging runs we made was on Arkansas's Big Piney and the Mulberry rivers. We caught The Big Piney just about right one time when the water levels were high enough to generate a good flow, but not so high as to create any undo risk. One of the funniest things we saw while running that river was at the put in. We had just shoved off and were waiting inside an eddy waiting on the other two members of our party who were taking  their time getting ready. As we waited, another couple of guys showed up with a very short, maybe 12 feet or so, birchbark design pattern fiberglass canoe that they probably borrowed from someone. Both of these guys were somewhat large, too large really for such a short canoe, and as a result created a top heavy, unstable situation. We watched them load it up with a cooler filled with beer, many of which they had already consumed. Well, they shoved off...and within about 25 maybe 30 feet in perfectly calm water, with a comical plunge followed by a series of explicative phrases, over they went, beer cans and all.

After we stopped laughing we paddled over to help gather their gear which was merrily floating on down river, paddles, empty beer cans, a lunch box now partially filled with a soggy lunch. A few minutes later, they pulled out and left.  Probably the wisest move they made that day, for they would have never survived what awaited them down river.

We were able to run through some good rapids that day and that old Coleman did good. It wasn't the prettiest canoe on the water, but it sure was functional and handled the big stuff with ease. Several times we'd stop and survey the rapids to pick out a good route through, shoved off bow pointed into the current, then allowed the bow to swing around with a hard pull, one left, then right, then a power stroke, a strong back brace to slide across to miss a boulder, rooster tail waves engulfing us shipping water, two then three times, then finally to spill into calmer water.

Sorry poor quality photo -
Me and Rocky running the Mulberry River

After each run we'd lift our paddles overhead and give out a shout of triumph and after each run we'd have to find a gravel bar, pull off and bail out several gallons of water we had shipped before moving on. Can't remember how many rapids we faced that day, but it seemed it was a continuous encounter. 

My old friends Ralph and Neuman, both have long since passed on, floated in Ralphs old Grumman aluminum canoe that day. That old canoe probably was manufactured shortly after WWII and had seen countless hours on the water. It had been used by an outfitter who took it into the Boundary Waters area as part of yearly expeditions. Ralph bought it used many years before I ever knew him, and sure got his money worth out of it. It was because of my experiences floating with him in that old Grumman, I was convinced to purchase my Coleman. His old aluminum canoe was noisy, hot when it was hot, cold when it was cold, but tough and durable. On the Big Piney, what was funny about it was, even though both Ralph and Neuman were accomplished canoers...on flatter water...neither were particularly adept at handling heavy water. 

On one of the first sets of rapids, somehow or another, they got turned sideways, then spun around backwards, and ricocheted and muttered their way through and around boulders and haystacks as they looked over their shoulder. It was a funny sight to witness and teetered on the edge of a disastrous outcome, but somehow they managed to get through it unscathed. We accused them of showing off, of which they readily accepted as the reason why they did it that way. We knew better.

 Because of that old Coleman canoe, I experienced some of the most fun, humorous, wild adventures I've had the pleasure of being a part of, and I solidified strong lifelong friendships. I miss ole Ralph and Neuman, and my brother Ken, for they are all gone now. Our group of six spent many days and hours floating, camping, and fishing, and that old Coleman played a big part. On occasion, even though we live 700 miles apart now, the three of us who are still around, Rocky and Curtis and I, get together for a float trip. Sadly, too much time seems to pass by between those days though.

Ralph and Curtis on the Buffalo River

Yeah, that old Coleman Canoe served me well for all those years. It saw many sunrises, many sunsets, all kinds of weather, storms, sleet, rain, blue skies, hot and cold and it ran a good number of rapids over the years. I originally purchased it as a stop gap measure...until I could afford a real canoe...however, it provided a long term bonanza of thrills and humor, along with memorable moments. I wouldn't trade those memories for any of the newest and best canoes out there.

The Melancholy Warmth of A Wooden Canoe Paddle

 I experience melancholy moments sometimes. Usually on a rainy day, but sometimes not. Often when one of those days disrupts my day, I begin to recall times past spent outdoors with old friends some of whom have passed on now. I miss those days. Even though I now have pretty much all the time I need to pursue such things, for one reason or another, I'm not always able to do so, I suppose that situation contributes to such melancholy moments. Even so, when such days happen and those old memories come back to life, they serve as a reset option to those old desires and pursuits that have lain dormant for too long, and that is a good thing.

One of the many pine covered tall bluffs on the Buffalo River

Just the other day, I picked up an old wooden canoe paddle, one I had not used for many years. In more recent times when I am able to get out with my canoe I employ the use of a newer, more efficient, wooden paddle with a beaver tail blade, but once that old one was in hand, its feel and even its aroma transported me back many years when I and my old friends made numerous fishing trips or float trips, each one an adventure, and in some cases misadventure, in their own right. I suppose the misadventure ones generated the most memorable moments. It was during a time when my photography was limited to using disposable 35mm film cameras. Oddly enough, they did a pretty good job and I am thankful for having them for they captured many special moments spent afield with my friends.

That old paddle is so tattered and weathered, it looks as though it belongs in a museum really. The  laminated strips that run the length of the blade began to split apart a long time ago. They were sort of repaired with glue and heavy duty staples to hold it together. It worked. It's been sanded and varnished so many times the wood has darkened and there are cracks, dents, scars, scuffs, and other assorted wounds across its length, every one a story unto itself. Oddly enough, I find it reassuring to revisit the stories from such scars. Just holding that old paddle and feeling the lumps and bumps it gathered over the years brings them to life again. 

I remember the largest smallmouth bass I ever caught while floating Arkansas's Buffalo River using that paddle. We made numerous multi day floats on that river and that old paddle came along on most all of them. Good times they were. Drifting here and there on crystal clear waters flowing beneath towering, pine accented bluffs and the surrounding woodlands accented with the white bark of river birch trees, well, it just don't get much better. 

Deep within the Buffalo River watershed

We'd drift on the winding currents, cut across and through a set of rapids, then cast into the deep blue hole just below, searching for that elusive big smallmouth bass. Sometimes we'd just stop to stretch our legs or kick back and simply enjoy the view.

My friend Rocky in his vintage Old Town Canoe

Setting up camp at days end on a gravel bar, the subsequent meal cooked over a campfire with its accompanying aroma of smoke and flame, took us toward the evening with a satisfied feeling. In spite of being worn out, we'd sit up late into the star studded night recalling and retelling the finer and more humorous details of past misadventures. 

The canoes would be pulled up on the gravel bank a few yards away...and that old paddle would be leaning against mine, it's handle extending toward the ebony of the night. With a bit of luck we'd see a shooting star silently rush across the night sky. Before long the days adventures would remind us of how tired we were. Even so, we were reluctant to crawl into our respective tents, but it felt good to stretch out a stiff back against something solid.

Best campsite on river: Skull Bluff

The next morning we'd stir into groggy activity, sipping and enjoying the flavor of that first cup of coffee around the morning fire. Often a light fog might be hovering over the waters. What a way to start the day. 

We'd purposefully move slowly on those mornings. To hurry was counter to the feeling. Not a great deal of talking took place. Instead we would simply absorb the sounds of the morning and the aroma of the fresh air. Those were some of the fondest moments when the sleepiness from the night before struggled to move out of the way. Not far off, the chatter of a Kingfisher might crack the calm of the morning stillness followed shortly by a splash when he dove to catch his breakfast. Although the water was moving, its surface was smooth and every small ripple and blip bubble from a rising fish would add a small measure of texture across its flat plain. Those are the sights blended within the sounds of nostalgic moments that simply cannot be forgotten.

Eventually, each morning on the river, we'd gather our gear, pack it away inside the canoes, shove off...and I'd take that old weathered paddle in hand...In spite of the cool morning air and the dampness dripping the length of its handle, the feel of that old wooden paddle possessed a warmth to it, but maybe not in the way you might figure.

Rocky taking a break

 

The warmth came from the moment when purpose and place converged to generate one of those special memories, the kind of memory that can only be stored deep within those harbored places of the heart, where they can best be kept...then, recalled...on a melancholy day.