I had no idea as to the memorable series of events that were about to unfold when I left the safety of dry land and walked the huge fallen log out to the middle of the Big Black River. My dad was already standing on the log fishing a section of the stream he could not reach from the river bank. Like most boys, I enjoyed fishing with my father. Thus my reckless act was prompted by a youngster’s desire to be as close as possible to his dad. In looking back on the incident, I’m surprised he permitted me to join him in such a precarious position since the river was deep, and the log was several feet above the water.
Aside from the Yockanooany River, Besa Chitto Creek, and Tilby Creek, the Big Black was one of the few fishing options then available to our family. The first named streams, all near our home, provided good fishing for bluegill and sun perch. (Bream and Redbellies to us) Only occasionally, did they yield up a catfish of any great size. So, the Big Black was our “go to” water for channel cat. The river was some twenty miles from home down a graveled section of Highway 413. The road was so winding I often parted from my breakfast during the drive, and at best usually had to recover from a debilitating bout of motion sickness before I began fishing. The angling, however, was usually worth the ride.
Often an expedition to the Big Black included a number of relatives. Uncle L. D. my cousin William, my Uncle Somer, and others of varying degrees of kinship would board our home built school bus for what was then the equivalent of today’s road trip. A roll of cane poles almost as big around as a ten galleon bucket were loaded into the bus through its rear most window. These protruded out several feet from the rear of the truck.
Needless to say, the canes arranged as described, created a possible hazard for traffic approaching us from the rear. In fact, getting near the back of our vehicle was roughly the equivalent of tailgating an eighteen wheeler loaded with logs. However, a school bus laden with anglers and fishing poles, some with lines and hooks dangling in the wind, apparently proved somewhat intimidating to the average motorist. Invariably vehicles coming up from behind kept their distance, and we were never involved in an accident.
On the trip that’s the subject of our story, we deviated from the norm in that only my dad, yours truly, and Uncle D, were present on the expedition. Possibly the other fisherman among of our kin, very much out of character for us, were on that particular day, less concerned with fishing than with making a living. Anyway, the rest of the clan unfortunately missed seeing what uncle D later described as being the “funniest thing I ever saw in my life.”
I do not now recall the exact spot on the Big Black where the great combobulation took place. It probably was somewhere on the Kilmichael crossing of the river. At any rate, the area around the big log appeared to be a good spot. Dad and Uncle D, both experts at reading water, agreed that we should fish there. Uncle D, who was quite a few years older than dad, and something of a traditionalist, chose a spot on the river bank from which to do his angling. Dad, ever the innovative fisherman, walked out over the water. I soon joined him on the log, and all the players were now in place for the mayhem that would shortly ensue.
It began when Dad’s goose quill float vanished as though by magic. However, in less than a second, it became apparent no magician was involved. Rather, the disappearance of the strike indicator was the result of a bragging sized fish having grabbed his hook. The big cat took off like a Missouri mule fleeing a hornet’s nest, and Dad’s line snapped as tight as a violin string. The stress on the nylon made the line sing through the water with that particular zzzzzzzzzz it produced when an angler hooked a sizeable fish. I watched enthralled as dad struggled to maintain his balance on the log and at the same time subdue the cat. To everyone but me, it soon became clear the monster could be landed only from the river bank. Dad would have to walk the log back there or lose his fish. Obviously, there was one minor obstacle to his doing so. I was between him and the bank.
Uncle D, quickly grasping the situation, said to me, “Son, you better come back to the bank and get out of your daddy’s way.” My father heartily seconded his motion. So, I turned around and scrambled back toward land. In my excitement I forgot to secure my hook. It was trailing along several feet behind me when dad began yelling like a Mississippi State fan at the egg bowl. I interpreted that to mean I was to redouble my efforts in getting out of his way. So, I went to full speed ahead and was just before setting an Olympic record for log running when I became aware of an increasing resistance on my fishing line. In the same instant my dad’s yelling dramatically increased in both volume and pitch. Finally, I realized he was telling me to stop. So, I came to a halt several feet from the riverbank.
Then, looking back, I saw my father gripping his pole with his left hand, standing on his tiptoes like a ballerina, and holding his right hand above his head as high as he could reach. I immediately saw why. My number six, Eagle Claw hook was imbedded in the tip of the index finger of his right hand. To further complicate matters, I had somehow thrown my line over the limb of a nearby ironwood tree in precisely the way a rope was done when they lynched folks in the old west. Inadvertently, I was about to hang my dad by his finger tip! Yet, somehow he managed to stay on the log. Indeed, HIS performance could not have been equaled by a member of Great Brittan’s Royal School of Ballet.
In the end we both made it to the bank, the fish was landed, and the hook was removed from Dad’s finger. I only wish the episode had been videoed so the whole world could see it!
Editor’s note: Roy Hawkins is an avid outdoorsman and author. His book, Horizon’s East, may be found on Amazon.
