Crick Fishin, second installment
had an urge to do some writing today....
Here is the rough draft.
One summer, a tree that grew at the base of the ridge gave in to the strain on its roots and fell across the crick. A large beech tree, it made for the perfect fishing platform for farm boys.
The process began with worm digging in the rhubarb patch. A green bean can served as a worm pail. My cousin and I would then gather some crickets under boards stacked near the barn. These went into a Tang jar whose lid had been perforated by a nail and hammer found in the tractor shop. A final selection to entice the finned inhabitants required a short stop in the riffles above our fishin’ hole. A few crawdads were gathered and stuffed in with the worms.
Shimmying out onto the tree trunk required skill, patience, balance, and luck.
The process involved a push up with arms, followed by a scoot of the back side, followed by a push of the fishing rod and bait can. Once a few feet of distance were won, the process began again. The process seemed to take eternity. Adding to the task was the excitement that we never mentioned the fallen beech to our parents. So the thrill of our new-found skills was heightened that much more.
A balancing act was required to pivot to fishing position. A left leg raised high with the flexibility of a pre-teen and a tight twist that any Olympic hopeful from Belarus would be proud of accomplished the task. Once sitting, we could pick a worm or cricket to get the fish interested in feeding. We never knew if we’d hook a bluegill, long-eared sunfish, the occasional catfish, or a huge chub minnow. We always hoped for, but never expected a bass. Many a large chub minnow was mistaken for a bass as it was reeled to us. The small jump, the roll, the torpedo shape all said largemouth. That is until the fish was raised from the water. Where a black stripe was expected, too often a rainbow of pinks and blues was seen. Instead of whoops and hollers, a chorus of, “oh’s” and “Dang-its” would be heard.
If we could see a bass cruising to investigate the chaos we had created, out would come a crawdad. A twist of the tail and a quick peel of the shell would make for an easy meal. The trick was to cast the meaty morsel close enough to the Bass so it could eat it before a bluegill could attack. To add to the challenge, if the cast was too close, the bass would turn in fear and not be seen for the rest of the afternoon.
A bobber would float a bait downstream with finesse but gave the fish a hint that a feel meal was not all that it suggested. A spilt shot and no bobber offered a clandestine delivery but suffered in distance. We would constantly switch back and forth with our offerings to see what would work best. That is until my brother’s bobber dropped from his back pocket and into the crick. He quickly flopped over onto his stomach, and reached for it with his pole tip.
An intricate dance began. The float led, the fishing pole followed. A spin to the left allowed the bobber to get farther away. In a last chance effort to rescue a 17cent bobber which held tremendous more value to us, Todd stretched out. We held his legs as he reached for the 3 inch piece of balsa wood. Then, the fishing trip ended suddenly.
Memory does not serve me well when estimating the distance he fell. By all recollection, the fall was at least 5 feet and ended in a resounding splash. He stood, reached down for his fishing pole; half waded half swam to his bobber, and waded to the bank. The red Southern Indiana Clay that formed the confines of the crick became slightly muddy as Todd climbed over rock and root. His shoes squished and squeaked as he walked, cried, and yelled at us to stop laughing. A few mud clods were thrown, and then the walk back to Grandma and Grandpa’s house to announce yet again, “Todd fell in”.
Our next trip to Grandpa’s found the fallen tree replaced by open air and a pile of saw dust. I blame my Grandpa. Not in an accusative, angry way, but in a manner of acceptance and knowing that nothing is permanent even in a child’s world.
If only life could always be as simple as crick fishin: Fish eager to please, a little adventure thrown in, and a good laugh. And there is a place where a 17 cent bobber is all that matters in the world.
