WIWAB - Runnin' the Lines

Our fish were now safely stuffed in a wire live-net suspended by a strong cord from a convenient branch and hanging down into the water. I couldn't stop pulling up the net and looking at my fish laying in the bottom - so big it had to curl in a half-circle to fit in the net.

I heard from the sandbar behind me, "Let's see if we've got anything. Let's go run the lines, then we'll go eat. How many minnows are in that bucket we used?"

Dropping the live-net back in the water, I ran to the buckets sitting in the river, lifted out one of the liners, and snapped open the top. Silvery minnows wriggled and jumped in the bottom. I tried to count. "I dunno. Looks like maybe 15 or 20. There's a few crawdads too."

"Great. That's plenty. Put some water in the bucket, push the liner in, and let's go. I've got the dip net and stringer."

We could see some of the poles just across the river. "Give me the bucket. I'll go check the lines. Doesn't look like anything's on here."

He waded out to the poles, lifting the line on each one to see if the bait was still on. "They're not even taking the bait. Well, it's early yet. And, these aren't the best sets: not much cover."

"Can I help?"

"Not right now. Just walk along the shore." He moved downstream easily with the current, lifting the lines on the poles as he went.

After checking several of the poles: "Hey, bait's gone here. That's a good sign. I'm going to try a crawdad. Come on out here and I'll show you how to do it." I rushed to wade out to him. The water was nearly to my chest when I reached him. I fought the current that wanted to take my feet from under me.

"I took the claws off before we put them in the bucket so you don't have to worry about getting pinched -- and the minnows in the bucket don't have to worry either. Hold the crawdad like this, hook him in the mouth, through the body, out the back, and let the tail curl around the bend of the hook. See? Holds 'em really well and they look natural in the water."

He let the baited hook plop back in the water. We waded to the next pole. "This is really good. Bait's gone here too. You try hooking up one."

I gulped, felt around in the bottom of the bucket while he held it and found the hard shell of a crawfish. I pulled him out, his eight legs beating against my hand, and Dad handed me the hook. In the mouth, through the body, out the back, curl of the tail -- done. "Perfect. Should get one here tonight." I grinned.

And so it went. I helped when the water was shallow enough. Mostly the baits were still on. We didn't have any fish.

"No problem. They usually don't start biting until after sundown. And these poles haven't really been out that long." We'd reached the tall bank he'd scouted earlier. "Let me go up first then you come," he said. Up the bank like a mountain goat he went, his waders making a slapping sound and the thick soled boots digging steps into the dark, dry soil.

From above I heard, "OK. It's steep, but you can make it, I think. Come on up."

I started up the near vertical dirt bank, trying to use the steps he'd dug. They were farther apart than my legs could reach easily, but I managed to get half way then my food slipped and I slid all the way back to the bottom.

"You OK there, boy?"

"Yeah."

"Take your time. Just get near the top and I'll give you a boost the last little bit."

I started up again. Got past where I'd slipped before but then realized the bank actually had an overhang at the top. I didn't know how I was going to make it past that to the top. Then a hand and arm appeared.

"Make your hand a hook and link it to mine." His fingers were tight together and curled toward his palms. I made mine the same and linked our two hooks together. In an instant I was airborne then standing with him at the top of the bank.

"Good job. Any idea which way to the road?"

We were standing at the edge of a patch of nettles. Each plant was at least 7-feet tall. I rubbed my cheek where I'd been stung earlier and looked around.

"This way, I think. Let me go first," he said. "I'll knock a way through. I've got the waders. Just don't let any of the leaves slap you." He started away from the river using his boots to press down the stalks of the nettle plants at their base -- forming a path. I followed putting my feet on the stalks that wanted to rise back up. He'd missed some and I tried to push those down too, but often they were so thick I couldn't bend them. I just tried to avoid the leaves. I could hear him crunching through the plants ahead of me. "This'll get easier every time we do it. Don't worry. How yah doin'?"

"OK."

"Almost out, I think."

And the next thing I knew we were standing on the dirt track that we had driven in on. The river was hidden by the nettles to our right. Corn stretched away down both sides of the track to our left -- leaves rustling in the light breeze. Everything was in shadow now. I had goosebumps on my arms.

"Good timing. It'll be dark soon. Let's get cleaned up and go eat."

He set off down the road toward our camp, kicking up little puffs of dust with each step. I looked at my muddy shirt, jeans and shoes. I'd surely need some cleaning up. But it had been a good day. I decided I'd look at my fish once more before we left. I hurried down the track after him.