I've always been fascinated with maps, and flowing water (among other things.) Drop a stick into a rain soaked creek after a spring rain...and follow it's journey downstream... growing up in a small midwestern town with it's relaxed pace left time for such contemplative activies.

Cabin Fever!

Sounds crazy, but I have very fond memories of shoveling snow for my great uncle. After the work was done, time for a few cups of hot coffee and some homemade cookies. And our conversations. Obviously, it was the coffee and conversation I enjoyed. And coffee and cookies are still a favorite snack anytime...

January is the time when thoughts begin to turn to outside activities - fresh air and good company. Whether we talked about an April outing in seach of Crappie in brush piles, or tales of trips before i was born fishing on the Mississippi river, where my father would sometimes stay and fish with them.

Their Mississippi exploits stories were legendary to us. They employed a number of "techniques" many of which were quite creative, and a few of which were just plain illegal. There would be substantial fines assessed after being caught were the cost of such activities, and there WERE fines! (But, I think he paid for everyones). I certainly don't condone any illegal means of taking fish, and decades later my uncle was always a responsible outdoorsman on all of our trips.

This reminds me of a joke...

Three guys regularly went out on the lake to return with the boat full of fish. they never failed. Word got around that they must have been doing something illegal to have such consistent "luck." So, one day their friendly game warden invited himself along.

"Sure, get in the boat. here's a cold one." "No thanks. Sounds good but I AM on duty ya know" "Suit yourself"... they cruise leisurly out to a nice bay off an inlet where they open a wooden box full of Dynamite sticks. "Fishing with explosives is again the law" spoke the game warden. the fisherman without saying a word pulled out a stick, then carefully lit it... handing it to the game warden, he offered the follwing instruction "Want to Fish ! "

Back to our coffee and conversation... I heard about the time they lost most of their gear when their canoe capsized on Lake Shelbyville...it wasn't a total loss: the whiskey bottle didn't sink! They also tubed and canoed the Kaskaskia river south of Shelbyville without incident. He told how they got his daughter up on water skis behind their fishing boat with a 22 hp motor!

By the end of the morning, we were psyched about the upcoming season. Discussion about readying gear would natually follow. Of course. Reels need to be cleaned and lubricated, old line stripped off and replaced, hooks sharpened, and tackle boxes organized. We'd discuss what to use in what situation: "cane poles for crappie fishing in the brush; and for bass and panfish those new ultra-light setups are sure fun!" I became the heir of some of his old fishing gear, like an old Pflueger Baitcasting reel with 'buggy whip' steel casting rod.

It all adds up to one thing: cabin fever. Every January, it sets in. He's been gone a number of years now...but his spirit of adventure, enthusiasm for fishing (and occasional mischief) are thriving!

...of course our experiences were similar to many friends from our neck of the woods. Many have their own tales and stories about their own about their fishing haunts. And exploits!

Around 13, a friend and I built a "hut", in an unclaimed, forested area on the edge of town. It was near where we rode our bicycles on hilly trails. Maybe it was 4 ft tall in the tallest part. Constructed from trees fell by my trusty hatchet.

It was around this time, I started getting more seriously interested in fishing and later, catfishing. I got my start bass fishing with my dad at the local Sportsmen's Club. Then my Great Uncle started taking me crappie fishing with cane poles on Lake Shelbyville...what fun that was! However, anytime he took me fishing, the car seemed to accelerate from the moment we left the driveway until we got there (he was known to exceed the speed limit!) I'd arrive white knuckled, and we would start fishing. We caught something like 40 crappie the first time out, and I ended up with a nice freezer full of fish.

I'll never forget the first river camping trip we had. My father's Aunt, and cousins (who were true river rats, in the best sense) had a place they used to stay at on the river "roughing it." Decades ago, before there was much talk about "selective harvest", they would bait trotlines (throw lines) and bank poles for channel catfish on the Kaskaskia river between Shelbyville and Vandalia Illinois. Ok, so we weren't roughing it too bad.. there was a refrigerator and a stove (run from a tank of LP gas) and we stayed in a trailer. Later a screened in porch was added on for additional sleeping room.

When they described the river to me, they said "there's a nice beach and swimming hole.. but don't go into the channel as it's deep and there's current there." Of course with my 11 year olds imagination, I pictured a wide, clear, shallow pool with a rope swing, and maybe an inlet and outlet on the far edge where the stream came in and went out in an opening of a dark forest...

Getting there was a trip.

Bang! We'd hit a pothole in the road while going up a hill, down a hill, back up again, around a curve, then finally, down into the river bottoms to the lane to the trailer. It was nothing like I imagined. It was on a rare straight section of the stream with a steady slow current and muddy water. I soon learned how much fun there was to be had. At first I didn't help bait lines or go in the boat much. But there was swimming, camp cooking, staying up late, spinning yarns. I brought home sand in my fishing reels, and left hooks and lines in the trees. There was a lot to learn about fishing...still is. I'm sure they wouldn't have needed to buy hooks for a while after I came.

I'll never forget some of the wild and strange stories we heard stories about some local "hoggers" (or noodlers as they're often called). There was a big hollow log anchored to the river bank on one end and open at the bottom of a deep hole in the river near where they stayed - Pee Wee's. They would put sandbags in front of the open end of the log and trap a fish using a long pole with a big hook on it. Then reach in there and grab the fish by the mouth and drag 'em out. Did I mention even in the lowest water the open end was about 6 feet below the surface. So they did this while holding their breath. It was said one old hogger could hold his breath so long you were sure he wasn't coming back up. But of course, he would. I guess their sons and grandsons are still doing this. The last I heard, they were.

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