Fishing back in Dad's day

So what is this setting out lines, or limb lines, or bank poles, or what ever?

My father learned it from his father. Dad fished this way with his dad and his two brothers back in what must have been 1930s at least. In those days, so I'm told, it consisted of first cutting an arm load of willow branches and tying line, weight and hook to the end of each branch. That done, you went to a creek and seined a bucket or two of minnows and crawfish (crawdads) for bait. The bait and the poles all got carried by wagon down to the river. For my dad's family this was the Spoon River in Stark County central Illinois. The Spoon is a relatively small and slow running river with tree lined banks where corn fields haven't encroached all the way to the edge.

The fishing consisted wading into the river and then pushing the willow branches into the bank with the line dangling in the deepest, usually fastest flowing part of the stream. Finding a spot near brushpiles that had accumulated in the current or other "structure" was an added benefit. In the Spoon, deepest usually wasn't much over chest deep and often not even that deep in the dry spells of summer. With the branch firmly seated, you'd bait the hook from the bucket then wade on downstream with the bundle of remaining willow poles floating next to you. Once all the poles were in place, there was nothing for it except to wait.

Waiting usually involved changing out of wet clothes, gathering some wood for a campfire, and having a beer or two. In a few hours, you'd "run the lines", meaning wading out to each pole, checking whether there was a fish on, and if not, as was usually the case, re-baiting the hook. The thrill was, of course, when you'd see the end of a willow pole being pulled down below the water as a fish tugged on it. It was almost always a catfish. In that case you'd pull the hook from its mouth, put the fish on a cord stringer clippled to your belt, and rebait the hook to try again.

This went on through the long, usually hot and humid, Illinois summer afternoon. At some point sandwiches would be broken out. As the sun began to set, a campfire would be started. Then when it was fully dark it was time to run the lines again. This time everyone donned miners' headlamps. In Dad's day these were some sort of oil flame lights that put out hardly enough light to matter. Each time Dad told his stories the lamps got dimmer, the walks got longer, and the fish got bigger.

A one or two more runs of the lines and it was well past midnight and time to go home. Sleep was always easy after all the walking through waist deep water or better for a mile or more several times that day.

After daybreak the next day, it was back down to the river for a final run of the lines. This time there was no re-baiting -- just removing the fish if there were any, slapping the bait off the hooks, taking the lines off the willow poles and coiling the line for use the next time. The willow branches were tossed away.

That was in my dad's day. Not a lot changed when it was time for me to set out lines. But that's for the next post.