It’s All About That Bait

 

Bait. We need bait. Have you got any? Well, then, if you don’t, then you need some, too. 

It’s all about bait. Everything. Not just fishing. 

I do not know how much bait I have gathered in my life, starting at about age five. In weight? Time spent? All wasted? It is incalculable. I am still doing it. 

The other day when my grandson Lane Webster, and his cousin Ethan Sartin, of Sand Springs, came out to our place to spend the night on the Branch, I promised to take them fishing. That was my end of the deal. Pam’s end of the deal was to feed them better than they deserved. 

“I’ve never eaten curry before,” Ethan said. 

“Wow!”, Lane said, “It’s my favorite!” 

“I thought meatballs were,” Pam said. 

“Yes!” Lane said, “Them, too!” 

I told them if we were going to go fishing, then they were going to have to gather bait, that was their end of the deal; that I was not going to pay for bait with today’s dollars. 

I didn’t care: I told them they could gather grasshoppers (few and far between with all the rain), catalpa worms (not here ‘til August), or worms, currently all over the place just because of all the recent rains. Dealer’s choice. Go get ‘em, boys. Pick up one of those cans in the garage, and fill it full. 

Lane has become a worm gathering expert in the last two months. He has learned, at least, the value of turning over rocks, boards, and leaves in wet places. He knows where the “money” is. Math is another issue; turning over numbers not near as much fun. 

At some point, one of those two things, school and fishing, becomes more important than the other. It’s just hard, really, to determine when. I’m seventy years old, and I haven’t figured it out yet. I still gather bait like a madman, and use a calculator for the rest.

“We’ll gather worms, Papa. Come on, Ethan. I know where to go.” 

They began turning over boards, logs (watch out for the copperheads), and rocks all around the edges of our property, picking up a few worms all along the way. Then, as I followed along behind, I thought I saw an idea flash across Lane’s face. 

“Over here, Ethan. Follow me,” and he headed straight for a piled windrow of last fall’s leaves I never did get around to raking and burning. It was, as we used to say, “working alive” with fat, juicy, worms upwards of ten inches long, strong battlers that fought like small snakes their lowering into the can. Squirming on a hook, they would draw fish from at least ten miles away, right? 

“Watch out for copperheads” I said again, “they’re in there, and all around here.” 

Lane and Ethan didn’t just pick up worms individually, they scooped them by the handful, and in a little less than two minutes we had maybe five pounds of worms. Lane said ten. Ethan said he had never seen so many worms in one spot in his whole life. He’s twelve. Gettin’ up there, maybe. Old Man Ethan. 

“All we need’s rods and reels,” Ethan said, “and we’re ready.” 

“We got cane poles,” I said. 

Ethan looked at me seriously, uncertainty in his face. First the curry, and now this: cane poles. 

“I’ve never used a cane pole,” he said. Could it be so? 

Ethan is an excellent young fisherman with modern tackle; lots of kids are. He handles well a baitcasting outfit for bass all the time with his dad Michael. But a cane pole? 

I keep a bundle of old-fashioned cane poles, bamboo, stashed in the garage for quick kid fishing, bobbers and small perch hooks already attached. You can still buy the blamed things (I said “bamboo”), and are they fun. The poles, not the kids. Kids, left alone to wither in front of cartoons and video games, can turn into real summertime headaches. Lest you misunderstand, I only take them fishing in self-defense. 

No fuss, no muss: Grab a couple and let’s go fishing. The poles, not the kids. If the kids have to run to keep up with the poles, it’s as it should be. The adults should be leading the kids, and not the other way around. Don’t forget the worms over there. Gather bait, gather kids. 

Our cane poles have line cut to only two-thirds of the ten to twelve foot length of the poles. Of course there is no reel involved. The short (relatively) line allows the user to merely lift the long pole to reposition the hook and bobber to a new location in the spot he is fishing. In another age (mine), this lift and move operation of the cane pole was called “dapping”. It is a deadly method, really, once the bait and the bobber are adjusted to the proper depth, that will catch many species of fish; the better the bait (and worms are choice), the deadlier it is. 

We got to the water down on Baker’s Branch in front of the house with about two hours of daylight left. Absolutely immediately the boys were into the fish, or was it the other way around? 

I knew right where to go. I used to take my son and daughter there at the same age about .... well, a long time ago. There are some rocks intertwined about some thin brush in about five feet of water. God put who-knows-how-many perch, bluegills, green sunfish, and pumpkinseeds, there when time began.

Some are big enough to fillet. Most are no longer than one of your fingers. And then there is the occasional small bass and catfish. Nothing draws forth quiet giggles and small laughter better than a perch lifted into the air and dancing at the end of a twelve year old’s cane pole. 

I have evidence that small Indian children, probably Caddoan, played and laughed at this very place we fished. Somebody else’s kids, and another long time ago, right? 

I think I’ve heard them down there in front of the house laughing, playing, just at dark when the bats come out and the whippoorwills open up on the other side of the Branch. It’s well known I believe in ghosts. Call the cops. 

I had to make the boys quit fishing the other evening. It was nearly dark and perch were still being bounced into the air when I reminded them of Nanna’s hot curry and rice. 

Bait, right?

Copyright © 2015 Conrad M. Vollertsen