| Catfishing Articles |
John N. Felsher's Catfishing Adventures
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Before I was old enough to drive, my friends and I had already scouted
several fishing holes around our hometown of Slidell, La.
We bicycled to these piscatorial pleasure pits between times when our
dads could take us “real fishing” and when we should have been studying
or in class. Most people call their favorite places “fishing holes.” These
literally were holes.
Although we found a few ponds within bicycling range, most of our
spots were merely wide stretches in local canals or drainage ditches. We
could jump across some. Most reached depths of only one or two feet
deep, but to us, each represented a heavenly oasis of freedom from
chores, nagging mothers, cleanliness, homework, responsibility, girls and
everything else preteen boys despised.
During the school week, probably when we should have been paying
more attention to our studies, we planned our adventures down to the last
details with more intricate machinations than Eisenhower used to land in
Normandy. We probably all could have received academic scholarships to
college if we had put forth as much effort into our studies or listened to our
teachers drone on about math, grammar and other things that didn’t matter
to fifth graders.
As Saturday or another chosen day approached, we scoured our
freezers for bait -- frozen shrimp, chicken livers, gizzards, old hot dogs,
bread, cheese, or whatever our mothers wouldn’t terribly miss. Sometimes,
we pooled our allowances to buy real worms or night crawlers. On rare
occasions, we actually had shiners or crickets.
When we couldn’t find sufficient bait, we caught our own. We scooped
crawfish and grass shrimp from roadside ditches. We snatched
grasshoppers and crickets from vacant lots. We overturned pine straw to
capture succulent worms. We kept some smaller fish from previous
expeditions to use as cut bait.
With tempting bait secured, we stuffed stringers into our pockets,
grabbed the bait in one hand and pedaled our bicycles to our chosen
honey hole of the day. One hand clutched a rod and a handlebar, while
our other hand gripped a tackle box. Fortunately, we didn’t carry the
amount of tackle then that we find so necessary now.
Steering our bicycles and holding our equipment as best we could, we
set off on our adventures. During many times, it turned into an all-day
safari.
Often, we headed to our favorite honey hole, “Ol’ Five Pound Canal,”
also known as “Fishing Hole No. 3,” one of about a dozen holes we claimed
for our own around Slidell. This muddy drainage ditch flowing through our
section of town widened briefly as it crossed under a four-lane road. Under
the bridge, it deepened to about five feet deep in places. We could barely
cast across it when our reels weren’t clogged with sand and mud.
Away from the road, the canal narrowed and became shallow again.
Except under the bridge, it averaged one to two feet deep on most days,
but became a raging torrent after a severe downpour. The canal
eventually connected with the Pearl River system so periodic floods
dumped new catfish into our honey hole. During low water, the fish became
trapped in the relative depths under the bridge. Occasionally, we spotted
one wary old whiskered giant, at least for those waters. We dubbed him
“Ol’ Five Pound.”
For years, we and other kids chased “Ol’ Five Pound.” He tormented
us with his infrequent appearances. Sometimes, he surfaced just a few feet
from us, daunting us and refusing all offerings. We tried everything we
could to nab that cagey critter. Nothing worked. He stripped off bait cleanly
from our hooks.
Occasionally someone hooked him. Inevitably, he broke the line,
straightened or spit the hook and rolled back into the gray-green waters.
Sometimes, he tore the guts out of our ill-maintained cheap reels.
Each year, as we grew older, the legend of "Ol' Five Pound" grew even
more -- as did his real and imagined size. Always, he seemed bigger than
the last time we spotted him.
Eventually, we grew into our late teen years and drifted away from
Fishing Hole No. 3 and all the other holes we loved so much. Some
disappeared under new construction in the area or fell to fill and concrete.
Some remained, but with new driver's licenses in our pockets and vehicles
to haul boats at our disposal, we headed for more "grown-up" places to fish.
Years later, we heard that someone did catch a 10-pound blue catfish
from that shallow old canal. Same fish? Perhaps, but I prefer to think that
Ol’ Five Pound died at a ripe old age after many years of ruling his muddy
kingdom and daunting new generations of kids with bicycles.
several fishing holes around our hometown of Slidell, La.
We bicycled to these piscatorial pleasure pits between times when our
dads could take us “real fishing” and when we should have been studying
or in class. Most people call their favorite places “fishing holes.” These
literally were holes.
Although we found a few ponds within bicycling range, most of our
spots were merely wide stretches in local canals or drainage ditches. We
could jump across some. Most reached depths of only one or two feet
deep, but to us, each represented a heavenly oasis of freedom from
chores, nagging mothers, cleanliness, homework, responsibility, girls and
everything else preteen boys despised.
During the school week, probably when we should have been paying
more attention to our studies, we planned our adventures down to the last
details with more intricate machinations than Eisenhower used to land in
Normandy. We probably all could have received academic scholarships to
college if we had put forth as much effort into our studies or listened to our
teachers drone on about math, grammar and other things that didn’t matter
to fifth graders.
As Saturday or another chosen day approached, we scoured our
freezers for bait -- frozen shrimp, chicken livers, gizzards, old hot dogs,
bread, cheese, or whatever our mothers wouldn’t terribly miss. Sometimes,
we pooled our allowances to buy real worms or night crawlers. On rare
occasions, we actually had shiners or crickets.
When we couldn’t find sufficient bait, we caught our own. We scooped
crawfish and grass shrimp from roadside ditches. We snatched
grasshoppers and crickets from vacant lots. We overturned pine straw to
capture succulent worms. We kept some smaller fish from previous
expeditions to use as cut bait.
With tempting bait secured, we stuffed stringers into our pockets,
grabbed the bait in one hand and pedaled our bicycles to our chosen
honey hole of the day. One hand clutched a rod and a handlebar, while
our other hand gripped a tackle box. Fortunately, we didn’t carry the
amount of tackle then that we find so necessary now.
Steering our bicycles and holding our equipment as best we could, we
set off on our adventures. During many times, it turned into an all-day
safari.
Often, we headed to our favorite honey hole, “Ol’ Five Pound Canal,”
also known as “Fishing Hole No. 3,” one of about a dozen holes we claimed
for our own around Slidell. This muddy drainage ditch flowing through our
section of town widened briefly as it crossed under a four-lane road. Under
the bridge, it deepened to about five feet deep in places. We could barely
cast across it when our reels weren’t clogged with sand and mud.
Away from the road, the canal narrowed and became shallow again.
Except under the bridge, it averaged one to two feet deep on most days,
but became a raging torrent after a severe downpour. The canal
eventually connected with the Pearl River system so periodic floods
dumped new catfish into our honey hole. During low water, the fish became
trapped in the relative depths under the bridge. Occasionally, we spotted
one wary old whiskered giant, at least for those waters. We dubbed him
“Ol’ Five Pound.”
For years, we and other kids chased “Ol’ Five Pound.” He tormented
us with his infrequent appearances. Sometimes, he surfaced just a few feet
from us, daunting us and refusing all offerings. We tried everything we
could to nab that cagey critter. Nothing worked. He stripped off bait cleanly
from our hooks.
Occasionally someone hooked him. Inevitably, he broke the line,
straightened or spit the hook and rolled back into the gray-green waters.
Sometimes, he tore the guts out of our ill-maintained cheap reels.
Each year, as we grew older, the legend of "Ol' Five Pound" grew even
more -- as did his real and imagined size. Always, he seemed bigger than
the last time we spotted him.
Eventually, we grew into our late teen years and drifted away from
Fishing Hole No. 3 and all the other holes we loved so much. Some
disappeared under new construction in the area or fell to fill and concrete.
Some remained, but with new driver's licenses in our pockets and vehicles
to haul boats at our disposal, we headed for more "grown-up" places to fish.
Years later, we heard that someone did catch a 10-pound blue catfish
from that shallow old canal. Same fish? Perhaps, but I prefer to think that
Ol’ Five Pound died at a ripe old age after many years of ruling his muddy
kingdom and daunting new generations of kids with bicycles.
Illusive
catfish
teases
youthful
fishermen
catfish
teases
youthful
fishermen
Daniel Felsher shows off
some catfish he caught.
some catfish he caught.
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