Sunshine burning into placid brown water, so strong evaporation was almost visible, marked the term of trotline time with the Old Men. It left lessons in stillness that will never go away.
The Old Men never really got started fishing every year until the weather was thoroughly hot. That is, as it turns out, one of the best times to catch catfish reasonably shallow in any river-fed scenario, but that’s not why they did it. They had gardens to tend first. Once those were well underway and the first catalpa worms began to hatch and gnaw their leaves down to the spine, the season of stretching trotlines across open, brown water would once again be at hand. Other than a week or two in March or April spent snatching crappie from flooded honeysuckle vines and cypress knees, springtime was for plowing, tilling and planting. Once the tomato plants were well underway and had, at least once, been tied to stakes, we’d be free to trotline for catfish for as long as our bodily juices could withstand.
One of nature’s favorite lessons is on how to be still. It comes up in scenarios of every sort and kind. Whether you’re hunting squirrels, doves or deer, the need to be stock still for long periods is indispensable. Even rabbits being run by beagles will shy away from someone shuffling their feet. That was a key lesson I figured out for myself. You’d think a rabbit being pursued by dogs wouldn’t be too wary of which way he ran, and you’d be wrong. Partly because the dogs were usually 50 to 75 yards behind, and partly because virtually all of the rabbits we ran had been pursued before, a hunter in position to make a cutoff shot, but who was shuffling around as he waited, almost never saw the game come his way. No matter what the situation, though, whether you’re apt to be seen or simply sensed, the best camo in the world won’t hide you if you can’t freeze in place.
Pond fishing, whether for finicky trout out West or catfish close to home, calls for some stealth too. Fish are instinctively spooked by shadows cast on the water. Plenty of shore birds stand by to eat them from their first days out of the egg on, so knowing where the sun is and doing your best not to advertise your presence can be key.
Nature teaches its lessons in two primary ways. While punishment may seem to be her preference, withholding fish and game from the incautious, lessons taught by demonstration can be even more poignant. That’s why, come height of summer, air often finds a way to stand painfully still.
Grenada Lake is technically a reservoir, and the main thing it reserves is winter and spring flood water from routinely washing much of the downstream Delta off the map. The Yalobusha and Skuna Rivers flow into it, and a dam regulates their passage from that point on. It and its three sister reservoirs, at Sardis, Enid and Arkabutla, help keep the Yazoo River basin routinely habitable. As a byproduct, it’s also an ideal place to catch catfish. That activity was the primary basis of my association with the characters and mentors I call my Old Men. When summer temperatures and humidity both flirted with triple digits every day, it was time for that association to resume.
Cotton clothes straight off the line or out of the dryer have a distinct scent: a combination of fabric softener, scorched carbon and sunshine. When the sun alone, on its angle, can reproduce that from what you’re wearing by 8 a.m., you know it’s going to be a toasty day. Sweat dripped from our noses and our foreheads, from our elbows, the backs of our hands and everywhere else. The deep summer stillness did make running the lines easier – with no wind to combat, the boat could be moved along by the line-runner, gently pulling its nylon cord hand over hand. Still, a bit of compromise for a breeze was always welcome.
By early afternoon, anytime the wind did stir it was apt to be cast from the daily thunderheads passing by. Sometimes they went to our north, other times to our south. A thunderhead that didn’t appear to move other than to grow wider was one to dodge. Lightning licked the lake’s button willows and smoked its standing dead snags somewhere every day, and we were never careless about it. Nature’s electricity, just like fireworks and stupidity, is best appreciated from a distance.
The stillness of a Grenada Lake summer’s day, though, is a lesson that’s never faded. It’s a tangible thing, a room whose corners are filled with experiences and its furniture with favorite people. In the still places, it’s easier to hear God’s voice, and quiet our own. It’s a scenario that, once experienced, can be replicated with some care. Whether it needs to be a hundred degrees or not, though, is up to you.
Kevin Tate is the outdoors writer for the Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal.
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