Baker's Branch

  It was noon, high noon, and Eddie Bostic of Sand Springs and Brian Johnson of Tulsa and I were fishing for sand bass in the back of a remote cove on the Arkansas River arm of Lake Keystone. Catching them, too, but slow and small. That started me fishing for Pam’s ham and cheese sandwich in my duffel. Where is it, where is it? It’s in here someplace. Ah, here it is; all zip-locked with chips and pear to boot. Good girl. Worth money, but not for sale. That first bite of sandwich directed my gaze upwards where automatically I began scanning a rock-ribbed bank with a nice six-point buck picking its way carefully, but quickly, down towards the water’s edge right in front of us maybe forty yards away from where we sat in Eddie’s boat, him working the trolling motor. “Look,” I said, mouthful of ham and cheese, “a buck. Right here at high noon. Jeeminy Christmas. I guarantee you the rut just started today. Right now, even. I have yet to see even the first bloody spot on the highway.” That la

  There really is an Indian Summer. It’s not on the calendar, but it exists just the same as all the other seasons. It’s a period of mild and hazy, dry, perfect weather sandwiched in between brutal summer and brutal winter. I used to know why it is called “Indian Summer,” but I couldn’t tell you now if you promised me a fistful of $20 bills. We’re in it right now, and I’ve been knocking the fish dead everywhere I go, making my hay while the Indian sun is shining. Nothing big, but lots of “pull harders”, line stretchers, that threaten to knock a rod out of your hands in spite of their size. I’ve been doing real well walking banks and wading windy points all over Keystone in the late afternoon for bass and sand bass, and fishing for “everything” when power is being generated below Keystone Dam into the Arkansas River, but the other day I talked Pam into putting the grandkids down long enough to take a four hour drive with me up I-44 to Lebanon, Missouri and Bennett Spring for the trout f

  I was up at Bennett Spring near Lebanon, Mo. a couple days back and saw the ugliest trout I have ever seen in my life. In fact, until then, I had never seen an ugly trout anytime, anywhere. Commonly, trout are beautiful fish caught in beautiful places. I would suggest it is the most important reason they are fished for. You will never catch a trout that matches crappie or catfish for flavor. Per pound they do fight harder than either of the last two mentioned, but so? So, held in the hand and taken from the places they commonly live, they are an experience that transcends the ordinary. I love my bass, crappie and sand bass, but I will go out of my way to fish for trout almost every time the opportunity presents itself and collect the memories of such like I might lose twenty-dollar bills found blowing by a gas pump. I was fishing the Niangua River where it boils up out of the ground at Bennett, standing waist deep in water cold enough to freeze cream when the ugly trout swam by me th