Changes

CHANGES

By Clifford Neal

Having spent a large portion of my life in East Texas and being an admirer of the great outdoors, I often reflect upon the changes that have taken place in the world of nature, commerce and local lifestyles during the course of my life. One change in particular has been disturbing to me and I wonder how many other native East Texans share my feelings on the subject.

By way of getting into the subject, let me say that I was first introduced to Creek Fishing by my brother-in-law, Joseph Howell when I found myself living with he and my sister back in the summer of 1953. My parents had gone through a divorce and as our family split up in the aftermath, I came to live in my sister's home for an indefinite period of time when I was between the eighth and ninth year of my education in the public school system.

My sister's home was located in a very rural setting to the south of Highway 190, which ran through Holly Springs, Texas, several miles down a sandy and poorly maintained dirt road. This road would eventually lead you to Roganville, Texas and beyond if you could navigate the sand beds and a couple of severely rutted clay hills that discouraged most folks from the effort.

Our nearest neighbors were Westly and Pearl Coker and their family who lived about one and a half miles north of our place toward Holly Springs. Their family was made up of four boys and two girls whose names were Robert, James, Carl, Roy, Ima Jean, and Betty.  To the south about 2 miles lived a black couple by the name of Eddie and Odessa Rogers. The Rogers were childless. Both of these families would exert considerable influence on my future. 

Actually my new home was located in the Kirbyville, Texas School District with its nearest school about 18-20 miles from where I now lived.  For some reason that I am not certain about, my niece and I would be boarding a school bus at the end of its route, which would carry us to another destination. This fact alone often causes me to reflect upon how the forces and changing circumstances around us wind up molding so much of our lives. If we had attended the Kirbyville Schools, for instance, I have no doubt that the whole course of my life would have been drastically altered and different from what it has turned out to be.

Almost certainly, I would never have experienced the deep influences of the people who made up the community of Holly Springs. They were such a wonderfully diverse bunch of folks and almost everyone there came to be a part of life for me in the ensuing years. My school chums and closest friends would come from this small and probably, typical, East Texas crossroad metropolis whose commercial enterprises consisted of a little grocery store that also sold gasoline and was at that time the livelihood of Opal Dean and her husband.

Mr. Dean was an extremely handsome fellow whom, as I recollect, was ex-military and medically disabled with a bad heart. (I say that he was handsome because I defer to my sister's judgment and the fact that, on more than one occasion, I heard her pass that bit of information on to others when she spoke of him. I think it had something to do with that smartly trimmed mustache which seemed to set him apart from other men in the community).  Anyway, this heart condition was not readily apparent but I remember that he could not get involved in the normal physical activities that most folks surrounded themselves with on a daily basis.

The store was a white wooden structure that housed not only the commercial establishment but served as the living quarters for its owners. This always struck me as being a very sensible arrangement for some reason or other and was, as I soon learned, not unusual in rural East Texas. This building was later renovated and expanded and a brick veneer was added, I think.

As a matter of fact, if one could navigate the road south, all the way to Roganville, there was a very similar couple living in a store/residence next to the railroad crossing there by the name of Nig and Mildred Ferguson, whom, I am told still live in the Roganville area. By the way I think that "Nig" is a nickname but it is the only one I ever knew.  These two also would have an influence on my teenage years. But that will have to wait for another day's discussion.

Getting back to Holly Springs; there was the Baptist Church, which had its worship facilities and Parsonage located across the road from the store on the Southwest corner of the crossroads. At the time that I became acquainted with this powerful element of life in Holly Springs, Rev. Winfield Scott Stoker was serving as pastor to the flock. He also was destined to become a treasured force that implanted itself deep in the framework of my constitution and still, to this very day, springs forth unbidden in almost every decision I am called upon to make. Here too, is a wealthy reservoir that deserves to be tapped for a story somewhere down the line. Bro. Stoker's unique ministry taught me, perhaps more powerfully than any other source, to have compassion on all people and to know that all we humans are dependent upon each other in some way or another. Therefore, to damage another individual is to damage one's own personage. Life has taught me that this is a good standard for judging my conduct and I am still pursuing the development of the finer points of its practice.

Having said all that, when Fall came slipping up on me that year, I would find myself attending classes in the ninth grade at Jasper High School in Jasper, Texas and knowing almost none of the kids from the area. But, I am getting ahead of myself already. Let me back up to my arrival at the Howell homestead.

Arrival meant that I had left something, and as my mind is drawn back to the day that my sister came to pick me up for the trip from Rosenberg, Texas to her home, I must admit that some very confusing emotional forces were at work in my heart. I was leaving willingly but with some very profound misgivings swirling round and round within me. Leaving behind some strongly bonded friendships with schoolmates, neighbors and one particularly beautiful blonde, blue eyed young lady who had captured the affection of my heart and soul and whom I could not bear to think of being separated from permanently, was causing considerable struggle and embarrassment for me. I told myself that I was too old to cry but I would find out later that this was a very poor assessment of who and what I was. There would prove to be many hidden tears in the days and weeks ahead.

My brother-in-law Joseph, who was about 18 years older than me, was held in wonder and awe by the awkward, misplaced and pitifully small little boy that I was upon arrival. He was a powerfully built giant according to my appraisal capabilities but, in reality, about 6 feet 2 inches tall with jet-black hair and a manner about him that exuded confidence and courage. He was an army veteran of World War II who had survived terrible conflict and circumstances of hand-to-hand combat in the jungles of the Philippine Islands just a few short years ago. Whatever he had to say was accepted by me as law and with undisputed authority.

He made his living in the timber industry of East Texas as a pulpwood and logging contractor allied with the Champion Paper and Fiber Company under the local direction of a man whose family would soon become a powerful influence in my life also, one Carl Hilton. The offices for this organization were located on a tract of land on the eastern edge of the city of Jasper and it was there, in the administrative office, that my sister was employed as well.

I found life drastically different in my sister's home than anything I had ever experienced. My sister's daughter, Gloria, was several years younger than I was and since I had grown up thus far in a family with only boys, I did not understand the subtleties necessary to appreciate the female outlook on life. I say this because my sister was married while I was still a baby and I had no recollection of ever having lived in the same home with her. I did have a whole houseful of brothers however, among whom I was third from the youngest, and adjusting to the new standard of conduct caused me no small confusion. If you have never noticed, girls are radically different from boys in multitudes of ways. In the schoolhouse of family relations, I had a lot of catching up to do and my sister did not grade on the curve.

I now realize that my brother-in-law recognized my inadequacies and set himself a course that would bring about my redirection in a manner that could have been a model for a reformatory. It took a while for this to begin to make a difference in my attitude toward life but I slowly began to appreciate the value of hard work, honesty, harmonious human relations and particularly the vast chasm separating male and female behavior. He worked very hard at his business and involved me in the manual labor of harvesting trees, working with livestock that ran wild in the forest and in the raising of gardens and feed-grains for the stock.

He was also a man who enjoyed hunting and fishing and took the time to involve himself in the pursuit of both. He owned and raised dogs that were trained in working the stock and in sport hunting for deer, squirrel, birds and fox. A part of my education included learning the various elements and skills necessary to become an active participant in these activities in addition to the other requirements placed upon me. Needless to say, my calendar was always filled.

I soon gained a very fine appreciation for the arts of hunting and fishing and this also finally brings me to the subject that I started to share with you in the beginning, Creek Fishing.

In those days, there were several beautiful, clear, cold-water streams that were to be found in any direction one cared to travel from our home. All of them were uncontaminated and one could freely drink the water directly from them with no concern for health consequences and we often did just that. Gushing springs were to be found almost everywhere which fed these streams and kept them pristine as they wandered their way through the beautiful forests of well-mixed hardwood, pine and evergreen timber.

Fish of several species were to be found in all of these streams in abundance and my education in catching them was begun within a few short weeks of my arrival in my new home. I can close my eyes and go back to the sights and sounds and odors of those lessons and experience anew and afresh the feel, the wonder, the exhilaration and also the fears that were a part of the school of the great outdoors.

I recall my first overnight campout on a creek-bank several miles distant from home in the deep woods where we cut small, carefully chosen and limber saplings and fashioned them into poles to be used in setting out bank hooks to catch catfish.

Now I realize that most of our younger generation will have absolutely no concept of the artistic talent that was applied to this whole enterprise. First and foremost was the preparation for the outing. The special choice of clothing, bedding, food stuffs, cooking supplies, tools, fishing tackle and bait choices to be collected and prepared were given great effort and prioritized for several days in advance.

I was given a short lesson in digging worms and catching small perch from a spring branch that had its beginning on our property. It was my responsibility to see that a good supply was stored up in a specially built holding apparatus that was permanently built into a small, spring fed pool that had been dug and formed for that express purpose a short distance from our home. This collection of small fishes would be transported to our chosen campsite in a small water tank with a lid on it and then placed in the creek inside a portable live-box fashioned from hardware cloth. Each and every one of them had been carefully chosen according to predetermined size that had been made very clear to me in my short lesson.

But let me pause here to differentiate between worms that were dug from the ground to be used for catfish bait and the grubs that I used as bait to catch the small perch we were going to use for catfish bait as well. The grubs were a very special type of white ones that we called "pine sawyers". These could be easily harvested by knowing where to find some pine timber that had been fairly recently cut or had fallen over from some natural calamity and in a state of decay.

There is a natural happening that takes place beneath the bark of such fallen pine timber where small larvae is produced that will begin to feed upon the underside of the bark. The larvae grows quickly to lengths as long as one to two inches and can easily be detected by standing quietly near the fallen timber and listening for the sounds they make in chewing on the fiber of the inner lining of the bark. The process of their eating this lining causes the bark to become loose and easily pulled free from the trunk of the tree, which reveals the larvae that have now become large white grubs. These are easily collected into a convenient container, (a Prince Albert tobacco can was the ideal with its size and shape and hinged lid made to fit inside a pocket) and thus become the perfect bait to be threaded on a small perch hook as an appetizing lure for small perch.

Of course, this collection was a part of my education as well as the particular expertise needed to leisurely move along the banks of the spring branch and fish for the small perch while avoiding the water moccasins, copperheads and rattlesnakes that might claim the same territory.

As I said, there was the job also of digging up a good supply of the large, brownish pink earthworms that were a favorite food of certain species of creek catfish as well. The locating of the best place to find these worms in good supply and of the preferred size, (a good one would be between eight and twelve inches long and as big around as my finger), was another lesson in my education.

A city boy would never be aware that it was possible to find these worms by knowing what kind of soil they liked best and then looking for the special traces left by them on the surface of the ground in their feeding process.

Otherwise, one could dig around for days and never collect these particular worms in any quantity worth the effort. But, once the proper sign was found on the surface of that especially moist section of chosen ground, a person could unearth a large volume of the critters in a short time and with small effort employing a good shovel. I mastered this technique in an amazingly short period of time and could garner a sufficient volume to meet our needs. These would be placed in a syrup can (with nail holes punched in its lid for proper ventilation) along with an adequate supply of soil mixed with sawdust to maintain them alive and well and ready to face the best of all fates for a worm.

Well, the day finally arrived and Joseph and I cheerfully loaded all the necessities into the back of his green, 1950 model, GMC pick-up truck and made our way over several miles of small logging roads that wandered through the forest till we came upon what he told me was an old abandoned railroad tramway. This had been used back in the day of virgin forest harvesting and turpentine mills in an era long defunct. Now grown over by large trees, the raised embankment was still easily discerned and we made our way alongside it for about a half of a mile to where it met a bend in the creek that was our targeted goal. We were able to do this in the pick-up truck by picking our way through the trees till we came to a place where there had once been a railroad bridge that crossed a rather large spring branch just short of its intersection with the creek of our choice. Here we would stop and unload our supplies and pitch a loosely arranged camp under the huge cover of several massive oak and beech trees.

This encampment was situated on an embankment of the stream that ran across the old railroad tram and overlooking a large pool of water that seemed to have been the result of the bridge having washed out over a period of time by occasional high flooding of the waters. At least that was what I deducted from my considerable experience with such matters.

After having arranged our camp to an acceptable order we proceeded to make our way down the embankment and across the stream on a log that had fallen in exactly the right place to form a footbridge at the lower end of the large pool below our camp. We moved downstream to the intersection of this stream with the creek in which we were planning to fish and began to follow the course of the creek. As we moved along we were observing the best sites to locate our bank hook settings. This was a matter in which the expertise of Joseph showed itself and which he explained as we progressed from one deep pool of water to another while keeping a count of how many places had been selected.

Considerable time had been consumed, before we had left home on our trip, for a predetermined number of lines to have been prepared with hooks and weights attached and wound up on a piece of  corkboard. These lines were then packed with the other gear that made up our outfitting for the excursion. They were taken along on this particular exploratory excursion in a backpack and would soon be put to use.

When we had found the needed sites, we then turned around and began to retrace our steps and searched now for those special types of saplings from which we would form our fishing poles. As a selection was made, we would proceed to attach a length of the prepared fishing line and move down to the pool of water where Joseph would study the current and decide the proper placement of the pole. He then proceeded to drive the pole into the side of the bank overlooking the "hole" of water and we would leave it there with no bait attached and move to the next chosen site. Here we would repeat the process and move on back toward our campsite to the next chosen pool as the afternoon sun sank lower into the forest and began to cause a deepening of the shadows.

It was a very busy afternoon but we would often pause and sit on the creek bank over a tranquil pool or near the rushing of a small rapids and enjoy the quiet and peace and coolness of the air near the creek and listen to the sounds of the squirrels and birds all around us. It seemed that the whole world of mankind had slipped away to some far off place and we had drifted back in time to live as pilgrims in this serene place. Joseph would take great pains to identify the sights and sounds for me and instruct me as to the types of trees that we encountered and their particular usage potential. He would point out the occasional resting place of this or that type of animal or snake and even noted the particular and peculiar odors that could be a clue of their presence for the truly experienced woodsman.

It was here that I came to know that a deer carried a very pungent body odor that could easily be recognized if you found yourself downwind and within a hundred yards of one or more of the beautiful creatures. We had encountered several of them and on more than one occasion, he paused and asked me if I could detect the odor. When I had assured him that I could and had described it to him in a satisfactory manner, he would then move forward carefully and silently to a place that would allow him to point out the animals for me.

The forest was home to many forms of insects that I was learning to deal with under the able and experienced tutelage of my companion. Principal among them were several species of ticks.  The major ones went by the term "seed ticks" and were so dubbed because of their very small size.  They had to be dealt with in abundance along the creek and in the bushes as we moved about and I was shown methods of avoiding large exposure to them by watching for little balls of amassed seed ticks that clung together on the end of some of the branches of the bushes we passed. It is my thought that the critters were recently hatched from a cluster of eggs and clung together in a tight little wad just waiting for someone or something to brush against them. The encounter would result in hundreds of the little varmints being transferred to an unsuspecting host to which they could attach themselves. They would then burrow into the flesh of the host and dine on a life sustaining supply of blood.

One could avoid many of them if a sharp watch was maintained and thus save considerable time and effort in removing them later. I missed spotting and avoiding an awful lot of them however and on several occasions was so covered with these tiny insects that I pulled off my clothes and waded out into the creek and proceeded to rid myself of the infestation in the cold clear water before brushing off my clothing, redressing and moving onward. I was amazed to see that Joseph seldom ran into the problem. It was an end-of-the-day task for him that he took care of when we arrived back at the camp.

One of the changes that have taken place in East Texas in my lifetime has been the seeming eradication of this pestilence. I am told that the arrival of fire ants in our country is responsible for the demise of the ticks that used to plague us here. I have been told that the ants have destroyed them by eating the eggs of the ticks and thus wiping them out. Now, if we could find something to eat the eggs of the fire ants and fleas.  It is hard to quantify and qualify some change.

Anyway, it seems difficult to believe but we now have a whole generation of adults living in East Texas who have never seen a "seed tick".

But, getting back to my story: Arriving back at camp an hour or so before dark, we set about preparing a meal from some canned goods and a loaf of bread we had brought along. We sat down on the ground, having not brought any chairs of any kind, and wolfed down our meal like a couple of hungry hound dogs.

Joseph had explained to me that we would wait until after full darkness had fallen before returning to the creek and retracing our steps to each line that we had set in place where we would put bait on the hooks. Our purpose in doing so was to take advantage of the fact that the things we did not want to catch were far less likely to try to eat the perch and worms which we were going to use to bait the lines with after dark. This included turtles, garfish, bass, bream, and water moccasins along with possible water mammals.

So after building up our fire nicely and resting an hour or two while stretched out on a blanket which had been spread out over a pile of leaves that we had earlier raked into a cushion against the ground, we began to prepare to return to the creek.

I was sent down to the pool below our camp to dip a given number of our perch from the hardware container in which we had placed them upon arrival earlier in the day. I carried a bucket with me to place them in after dipping up fresh water from the pool so they could be conveyed alive to the waiting hooks at the creek. I had been given the responsibility to see that not only our bait perch were maintained alive but the container of worms as well.

While I was fetching the perch, Joseph was sifting through the metal bucket that contained our worms and selecting a measure of them to be placed in a smaller vessel that could be hung from one's shoulder by a piece of cordage for easy conveyance to the creek. It was agreed that I would carry the bait while Joseph would carry our kerosene lantern, extra line, hooks and weights that might be needed, a machete for cutting whatever might need to be cleared away in traveling through the wooded area to the creek in the dark, and a metal fish stringer for use in conveying the catch back to camp.

By this time it was completely dark and there was no moon to give any light. The stars were out in all their brilliance and did shed some small light through the canopy of the forest if one would move away some distance from the fire or lantern.

Our plan was to cross the log at the edge of our pool below the camp, cut through the woods on a direct course to the fishing line that was set in the creek closest to camp. Arriving there, we would place either a perch or a worm on the hook attached to the pole set firmly in the bank. From there we would follow the creek as it wound its way through the forest baiting each line in turn until we reached the last one farthermost from our campsite. At that point we would settle down under a huge beech tree that we had scouted out earlier in the day and take ourselves a nap while seated on the ground and leaning against the tree or just enjoy the sounds of the night while admiring the beauty of the stars that were visible to us. We intended to wait there for about three hours and then make our way back to the lines set in the creek bank, checking each one in turn as we made our way back toward the campsite.

If there were fish caught on the lines or the bait was gone, we would remove the fish and place new bait on the hook and reset the pole in the bank. Any fish caught that were keepers would be placed on the metal stringer and carried along with us to the camp where they would be switched over to a longer and heavier type of stringer and staked out in the pool below our campsite. This would keep them alive and fresh until we had finished our outing and were ready to return home.

At this point, we would make a decision as to how often we would repeat our trip and the process all over again. The decision would be based upon the number of fish we had collected on the first trip and how much bait had to be replaced. If there were many fish, we would "run the lines" more frequently than if there was little activity with the lines.

Before I get too far along in the story however, let me recount one of the events that took place on the outbound portion of our first trip down the lines. It still haunts me on occasion to this day.

We had covered the portion of the journey between camp and the first pole and line to be baited, where, upon being asked to produce a worm for the hook, I realized that I had forgotten to pick up the container and place the cord over my shoulder. I had gotten the perch bucket but left the worms. It was here that my first lesson came due concerning personal responsibility and overcoming fear.

Joseph turned to look squarely at me in the light of the single kerosene lantern that sat on the ground between us. He said, "It was your job to bring the bait was it not?" Of course there was no excuse to be made other than that I had simply forgotten to pick up both containers. He then said, "Well there is certainly no reason for both of us to make the trip back to get it and I brought everything I was supposed to. So you will just have to go back and get it by yourself."

I tried to think of some alternative but my mind would not come up with anything to say except that I was not sure that I could find my way because I had followed along behind him as he was carrying the lantern and therefore had not marked the path in my mind. I was especially worried about the part of the journey that had to take me through the woods and away from the creek. Joseph replied, "It should not be a difficult thing, you have made the trip three times already so just set yourself a course and you will be fine."

Being resigned that I had to do it, I reached for the lantern and was about to say that I would go right away and return as quickly as possible when he stretched out his hand and lifted it away before I could touch it.

"I will need this while you are gone," he said, "I am going to continue down the creek and keep baiting up the lines." A wave of fear rushed over me and I objected that I would certainly get lost in the darkness if I did not at least have the lantern's guiding light. "Oh, you will find that there is plenty of light once you get a few paces away from the lantern and if you will pick yourself out a star to use as a walking point, you will find that you can go in a very straight line. Just head in that direction", (he pointed in a general direction with a sweep of his hand behind me) "and you will come out by the pool where the log crosses the branch. By the time you get there you will find that you can see pretty well in the dark. Just be sure that you do not cross that old railroad tram."

"But there are snakes out there and I won't be able to see them", I reminded him, "and we saw several between here and there."

To which he said, "Just remember what I told you earlier today, they are more afraid of you than you are of them. Make a good bit of noise as you move along and they will stay out of your way and remember also that you can smell a water moccasin if you are very close to him."

To that I had to reply, "Well what if I smell one and can't see him, then what will I do?"

"Simple enough", he replied, "just make a lot of noise until you can't smell him anymore and you will know he had moved away from you." With that said, he stood up and walked a step or two into the brushy area near us and swung his machete to cut a small sapling which he trimmed the branches from and handed it to me saying, " Carry this with you and if you think there is anything in your path, just beat the ground in front of you as you move forward. A snake will move out of your path." That said, he turned away from me and took a perch from the bucket and began to bait up the first line. With his back to me, he said, "when you get back to this spot, just continue to follow the creek till you catch up with me". It was obvious that any further objection was out of the question.

With my heart beating in my throat, I turned and began to move away in the direction he had indicated. After a few halting steps I stopped long enough to find a bright star that I thought I could keep before me and set out with a determination to get the job done and show him I could do it.

After traveling what seemed like ten times as far as I thought the distance should be, and having beaten the bushes and ground ahead of me as constantly as I could without losing sight of my guiding star, I found myself at the edge of the pool below our campsite. I was amazed that I was able to make out the form of the log that lay across the pool providing my way up to the place where the worms were waiting. I managed to force myself across the log and after climbing the embankment was encouraged to see that the place where our fire had been made was still glowing a beautiful shade of red and orange. I immediately took some pine kindling and stirred up the coals and got a blaze to flare up that pushed the fearsome darkness away for several yards in a beautiful circle.

I considered the return trip and terror began to well up within me in the most unreasonable way one could imagine. I had forgotten to pick out a star to guide me on the way back and as I stood by the fire and tried to pick one out, I realized that I was not sure exactly which angle to take to get me back to the spot from which I had begun. The distance was not more than half a mile and probably less, but at that moment it seemed to stretch on endlessly.

For the life of me, I could not force myself to start down the embankment toward the pool and the crossing log. My courage had completely failed. I began to cry and after a time, found myself growing angry with myself for being afraid. I looked back at the fire and an idea sprang into my head. Fire equals light!!!!! I could select a "pine knot" and light it to be used as a torch and make my way back in safety. Relief swept over me and I quickly found one large piece of pine and three others to use in case the first one did not last long enough. I could light one from the other as each burned out. This was just what I needed and would be a handy means of guiding my steps back through the forest.

For those people who may not be familiar with "pine knots" an explanation may be in order here. East Texas is covered with pine timber and has been from the beginning of time I suppose. As pine trees grow, they produce a sap that can be evaporated into a highly volatile substance. Turpentine is distilled from this sap and, at one time, the process was a thriving industry in East Texas. As Pine trees age, or for whatever reason that may cause them to fall to the earth, such as harvesting or from storm damage, this sap dehydrates inside the wood forming into a heavy resin that preserves a portion of the tree and prevents it from rotting. Various portions of the tree are more likely to retain a heavier concentration of this resin than others but the knotty portions of the tree and the roots are generally where the highest concentration exists along with the heart of the tree.

The remains of these old fallen trees are scattered everywhere throughout the forest and the preserved portions are called "pine knots" by the local residents. They are used by almost everyone as a kindling in starting fires and we, of course, had collected a large pile of them for use in building a campfire and in quickly restoring a fire that might be nearly burned out.

So, lighting the first of my crudely fashioned torches, I picked up the worms and made my way into the darkness. I crossed the log easily and came to the other side of the branch and pool but there my courage began to falter because I was very uncertain as to the exact direction I should set to get back to Joseph.

Once more an idea sprang to the forefront of my thoughts and I knew immediately what I would do. I would travel down the side of the branch to where it met the creek as we had done earlier in the day and then take a right turn along the creek bank and easily follow it to the spot where I had left Joseph. I did not need to set a course across the forest. It might take a little longer but I would not get lost in using the two streams as my guide. I set off.

The going was not easy as there were briars and thickets along the course of the two streams that made travel very difficult but my resolve held firm. My confidence was just beginning to restore itself when I came to the intersection of the two streams and confidently turned to the right along the creek's bank. I had gone perhaps a hundred yards when suddenly a loud whirring sound grabbed my attention emanating from just ahead and to the right of where I wanted to go. I immediately recognized this as the sound of a rattlesnake being disturbed and froze in my tracks. I could not make my body move but my brain was saying, "Run! You are about to be bitten". Try as I might, I could not move.

After what seemed to be forever, the snake stopped its rattling and when it did, it moved its body and I saw it. It was a huge timber rattler. These snakes are the largest species of rattlesnakes in America and it is not unusual to find them at lengths of five to six plus feet. I have killed some whose body was larger around than my leg and even once found a full-grown fox squirrel inside one. The head of this particular snake was much larger than my doubled up fist.  Somehow the fact that I could now see it loosened my muscles and I backed away several steps and found myself shaking uncontrollably. I almost dropped my torch before regaining enough composure to decide what I must do. I had to go around the area where the snake was.

With my stick beating the pathway before me, I circled the area and proceeded along the creek bank but had gone only a short way when I detected the foul odor of a water moccasin. It brought me up short in a frozen position again. Searching the ground ahead of me the best I could, I began to beat the ground and bushes with the stick and slowly moved forward. I never caught sight of the snake but after a short distance, I could no longer smell it. As sweat poured from my face in steady streams, I crept forward along the creek and eventually found my way to the first pole and line anchored in the creek bank where I had begun my trek. Relief like I had never known in my life swept over me and my confidence rose up within me. I was determined not to let Joseph know how frightened I had been so I made myself begin to whistle over the rest of the distance to where I found him three pole sets farther down the creek.

"Well, you were beginning to worry me a little", he said, "I was having some second thoughts about making you go back that way alone. Have any trouble?" "Shoot no!!! Nothing to it", I lied. It would be in excess of thirty years before I would ever tell him how I really felt and the terror I had overcome.

Looking back on that experience today, I have a lot of mixed feelings about it but I do believe that some very positive results grew from it. For one, I have never been afraid of the dark since and have no difficulty walking in the forest at night. Another benefit is that I generally try to consider what effect my actions will have on others before setting a course for myself in matters involving other people.

This story does not end here though because I have not told you that as we made our way back toward our campsite about three hours later, every line that we had placed in the water now had a fish on it. All but one of them was keeper sized and four of them were over ten pounds in weight each. We had caught three different species of catfish. Blues, Channel and Appaloosa (flathead) catfish were all well represented. Needless to say, it was quite a job to carry them all back to the camp.

The rest of the night was spent making trips up and down the lines and when morning came, we had caught so many fine catfish that we loaded them in the bed of the pick-up truck and took them home to prepare them for the freezer. After having cleaned the fish, we consumed a fine meal consisting of fresh caught fish and all that goes with such, took a short nap and returned to our campsite for another night of fishing with similar results.

All in all, there was instilled within me a love for that type of fishing that still lingers today. The problem is that creeks in East Texas have changed over the years.

Before I get too far along I must share that it was not long after this initial experience that Joseph introduced me to another form of creek fishing that I came to relish with much greater enthusiasm.

It was on a Saturday morning, as I recall, that we were sitting at the breakfast table when Joseph announced that we were going to try our hand at bass fishing that afternoon. So, shortly after lunch, we found ourselves in the pick-up truck and headed through the forest to a place on a different creek that he said he had been fishing in since he was a child.

I suppose this would be a good place to let you know that he had been born and reared in the area where he lived. His family had been settlers here and had been extensive landholders who operated a thriving plantation until his father had died. Joseph was the only son and was a teenager but he took over responsibility for running the farm till World War II took him away. Not long after his return from the war, his mother decided to sell the land and move to the city. She sold one half of the place, including the house, and the other half was divided between Joseph and his sisters. It was on a portion of that land that he had built the home in which we now resided. He knew every nook and cranny of the forest for miles in any direction and could always orient himself with absolute ease and confidence. This ability always astounded me and caused him to grow to greater statue in my sight.

Well, the stream we arrived at turned out to be a smaller stream than the one we had caught the catfish in but was just as beautiful and pristine. The water was very cold and clear and moved down its course with the effect of having washed out pools of various sizes with stretches of very shallow water between the pools.

The outfitting we employed here was very simple and easily transported. Joseph carried a small bait casting rod approximately 42 inches long and made of steel to which was attached an open faced casting reel constructed of shining metal that I think was stainless steel. In his pockets he carried a couple of small metal boxes containing various types of artificial casting lures fashioned to resemble several critters that could be found living naturally in and around the creek. Some were of solid wood construction with treble hooks of various arrangements attached that would resemble minnows or perch or frogs. Some had rubber skirting attached that gave them the needed motion to make them appear alive when pulled through the water utilizing the casting rod and reel. Some were constructed of cast metal in various shapes and sizes.

I remember one in particular that was called a "Hawaiian Wiggler" which had a rainbow colored, heart shaped, metal head and a rubber skirt that covered the hook on the back end. Attached to the lure on the leading end was a blade of polished metal that formed a spinning device, which flashed brightly while being pulled through the water.

The process of casting the chosen bait into the various pools of deeper water required a certain degree of practice and expertise that was amazing. The method of fishing employed here was completely different than our previous excursion. In this method, Joseph and I waded out into the flow of the creek and made our way upstream. Sometimes the water would be only ankle deep and other times as deep as two or three feet. Occasionally we came upon a pool of water that was too deep to wade through so we would have to exit the creek and make our way around that pool on land.

To begin with, only Joseph fished. I merely followed behind him and carried the fish that he caught and placed on a stringer which I pulled behind me in the water. This kept the fish alive and freed his range of motion to allow for best action. We would approach, with as much stealth as possible, each and every spot in the creek that contained an area of water deep enough to hide the presence of fish. Joseph would cast the bait into the pool and begin to retrieve it by cranking the reel and moving the rod tip in various ways, depending upon the type of bait he was employing at that moment. To my amazement, fish would rush from the deep recesses of the pool and grab the "plug" with ruthless abandon in an attempt to eat it.

Most often, the fish would be of a Small Mouth variety of Bass that we called a Red Eye and occasionally of the Largemouth type. Other species were occasionally hooked and caught as well, such as Jackfish, (a smaller variety of Pike than is found in the Northern part of our country) or Crappie, Rock bass, (called Goggle Eye Perch locally) Bream and Gar fish along with an occasional catfish. Generally we kept and placed on the stringer only the largest of the bass and Jackfish, releasing the rest back into the stream.

As he fished, Joseph would explain to me what he was doing and demonstrate the various methods of tossing the bait where he wanted it to land in each pool that we approached. He would explain the various actions to be expected from different bait "plugs" and how to obtain the most lifelike response while retrieving it through the water.

After a while of instruction, he changed places with me and handed me the rod and reel and took several minutes to allow me to get the hang of casting and retrieving the plugs. After this he began observing from behind me and coached me as to technique of retrieval and the best place to aim in casting into each pool and the reasoning for the choice. It was obvious that he had studied the characteristics of these fish and knew how to entice them from their places of concealment.

What a rush of excitement would grip me as a fish would explode from its hiding place and attempt to jerk the rod from my grasp. What a challenge to fight with it in reeling it from its lodging to where I could reach down and grasp it by its lower lip and lift it into captivity. What wonderful shared, excited discussion followed each and every catch. There was joyful teasing at letting one get away and shared counsel as to the best approach to each separate pool. I look back and now know that he was enjoying the teaching process as much or more than I was the learning.

Those delightful streams of water became a part of my day dreams and captured a part of my being that has resulted in a life sentence of never crossing one of them along the highways without feeling a certain longing for, and remembrance of, days spent in the cold, invigorating and challenging grasp of rapidly moving water.

As I grew to manhood and began to rear a family, one of my greatest sources of satisfaction and sense of accomplishment has been the reproduction of those days in the life of my children. First, my sons who quickly learned to love such outings as much as I did and who are avid fishermen today. Secondly my daughter has also mastered and loves the sport. One of my failures has been my inability to entice my wife to share this wonderful experience. Not that she never attempted it. She gave it her best shot but the presence of the water moccasins quickly convinced her that there were better ways to catch fish. We are however a family of sport fishermen.

What has saddened me is the destruction of the environment that has forced this glorious pastime to slip away to an existence in dreamland only. Today's East Texas streams have become polluted and are incapable of producing and maintaining the quality of water for the reproduction and maintenance of the various species of fish that once could be found there in abundance. The wholesale harvesting and clear-cutting of the forests have caused land erosion to fill the wonderful streams of the past with sediment and slush where once there were hard sandy bottoms and clean flowing, life sustaining freshness.

Attempts at managing some species of water fowl and mammals have allowed whatever populations of fish that might have adapted to be almost completely wiped out as otter have taken over the streams. If one should decide to attempt to wade most of our streams today, an obstacle course of discarded trash, automobile tires and broken glass and plastic will guard the way and the water could cause bodily harm with its collection of chemicals and parasites.

When I think on it, a deep abiding hurt and sense of loss fills me.