WIWAB - Where's the Pole?

Dad came toward me with the fish in the net. I was grinning too. He lay the pole on the sand, and pulled the catfish from the net by the stout fishing line.

"What'd I tell you? Hooked 'im right through the eye. I've never figured out why, but that's the way it always is."

In the shine of our lights, I saw it was true: the point of the hook poked out just under the left eye of the fish. I winced. He reached in the fish's mouth and worked the hook out with a twist of his hand.

"Not great, but OK. Maybe the big ones are further downstream. Where's the stringer?"

I fished in my jeans pocket and pulled it out, handing it to him. He pushed the sharp end through the center of the fish's lower jaw where it was weakest and then pushed that end though the metal ring on the other end of the line, securing the fish in the loop. He handed the stringer back to me.

"Don't lose him. Keep him in the water if you can."

He opened the minnow bucket and pulled out a crawfish. "Big ones like crawdads."

He closed the lid of the bucket, and handed it to me. He then walked back across the current, replacing the pole. I followed him across until the water reached my crotch. Far enough. He was right: the water felt warmer -- up to that point. The fish trailed on the stringer behind me, tied to my belt loop. I turned right and followed Dad with my light downstream.

He checked several more poles. Some needed bait, some not. We crossed the shallow part where the river turned. He headed back to deep water again, to our right this time.

"Hey. Look at that. We got another one." Bing ... Bing ... Bing. The red, this time, reflector on the pole jerked up and down in our light.

"I think that's your set. Why don't you go get him? Here's the net."

My set. A fish. I couldn't believe it.

"How do I do it?"

"Just go on out. I'll show you." So I headed toward the red bungee-jumping firefly across the stream. The water was pretty shallow. Over my crotch, but I didn't notice.

"Loop the dip net over your head. Don't want to lose it."

I put the loop of cord over my head so the dip net hung under my right arm like a briefcase.

"Quiet now. Don't spook him, otherwise he could pull the hook out."

Bing. I saw the pole move. I was within arms length.

"Take the net in your right hand and reach for the line with your left. He doesn't look that big. Pull up on the line until you feel him."

I took the handle of the net in one hand and pulled up on the line with the other. The line lifted easily then got heavier.

"Move him to the net; don't move the net to him. Don't scoop him. Don't hurry. We've got all night."

I pushed the net deep in the water and tried to pull the line over it.

"When he's over it, just lift up the net."

And I did. Flopping in our lights: my first catfish caught on a bank pole.

"How big is he?" Dad asked. "Oh, maybe not quite a pound." as the light shone on the greenish-silver side of the fish.

He was right. This was a baby. Hardly bigger than some of the minnows in our bucket. Just then the line went slack in my hand. The fish dropped to the bottom of the net.

"Wow. We hardly hooked him at all. Didn't get him in the eye, did we? What do you say we let him go? Be darn careful getting him out. The barbs on these little ones are like needles. Keeps the big ones from eating them."

I dropped the line back in the water and changed the net to my left hand. The fish lay quietly in the bottom.

"Grab him so so your thumb and second finger go in front of his barbs on the side. That'll put his top fin between your fingers."

I eyed the fish. I reached in putting my fingers where he'd told me. Sure enough the dorsal fin fit right between by first two fingers. I pulled him out, twisting my hand when his barbs caught on the netting. I held him up in my light.

"Go back and get your grand-daddy." Dad said to the fish as I lowered my prize into the water and opened my hand. For a brief instant, the catfish stayed there in my palm -- unsure what was happening. Then with a burst from his tail, he disappeared downward. As I turned, Dad was holding out the minnow bucket. I baited my pole and dropped the line back in the water. Grand-daddy, I thought.

"OK. Where's the next one?" And we started walking downstream.

"Wasn't there one right here?" he asked, scanning the water ahead of us with his light. "Hoops. There it is." as his light found the white reflection. But as we watched, the reflected light slowly, inexorably disappeared below the water. I blinked. Had we seen a pole or not? We stopped. Slowly, first under the water and then fighting its way above it, the white tape appeared again in our lights.

"Better give me the net, boy. This one's a monster. The little ones just jerk up and down. The big ones pull it down and keep it down. They even try to pull pole and all out of the bank."

I unlooped the net from around my neck and passed it to him. He handed me the minnow bucket, and tightened the suspenders holding up his waders. He eyed the pole a few feet from us and started walking toward it. The whole pole, except the 12" or so nearest the bank, slowly disappeared again under the water. Dad stopped. In a few seconds the pole reluctantly reappeared, though the tip still stayed an inch or two under. We could make out the reflecting tape shining weakly up through the river water in our lights. He reached for the center of the pole, found it, and twisted the pole free from the bank. He held it like a real fishing rod now, using both hands. Just then the pole bent in his hands. "Whoa, nellie," he said. The stout bamboo bent further.

"I can't do a thing with him. Got to get this ol' boy on the bank. Let's walk toward the shallows."

But instead he walked downstream staying in the current. The fish was pulling him along. Eventually though he gained the upper hand and slowly shuffled toward the sandbar on our left. When the fish began to pull again, Dad just stopped and let him fight the bend in the pole. We finally got to knee-deep water.

"OK. You take the net, boy. Hold it right on the bottom and let me see if I can maneuver this old beggar over it. When I tell you just lift straight up. Got it?"

I carefully took the net from him, pulling the cord over his head and off, then I bent over, kneeling in the water flowing past us. I pushed the rim of the net right onto the rocky bottom. Dad took the pole by the middle with one hand and held the line near the tip with the other. The fish strained toward deep water. Time stopped. Then, as if by magic, the fish swam right over the net.

"Now, boy. Up!"

I stood nearly straight and then had to stop. I couldn't lift the fish that lay in the net. Or at least partially in the net. He was so big his tail hung over the top.

"Sweet, Jesus. Bobby. Look at that lunker!" my dad shouted. I just stared.