It started March 26 and kicked off a continuation.
We that being the Judge and I, on 3-26, were fishing for bass in our secret hole that less than 1,915 people know about.
At that same time, some high-dollar crappie tournament was taking place out of Flipper's store/dock. Since we were not crappie fishing, we didn't care.
Caught a crappie-a keeper. Then Dave caught one and a small light bulb went off.
Since I am the original keeper of the "Camp of the Dimly Lit", I suggested we try and catch some crappie. And we did. And they were good size fish.
So, being sharp as couple Oscar Meyer hot dogs, we made a plan. We would make an assault on the speckled dell-i-cassies.
The date was set for March 30, just after breakfast . . . give or take
On that day, rods at the ready, with four dozen minnows and looks great of determination on our weather-worn faces and clothes that could be shed or added depending on the need, we hied, (I have no idea what that werd really meens), to our secret spot.
(I know, run on sentence. Who cares?)
I could almost smell the grease heating.
Yes, a true son of the bayou such as I, would use nothing but pure hog lard, lard he rendered himself and ate the cracklins, too -- I know that.
But I don't have any. Therefore, as I said, I could almost smell the Crisco.
So away we went and to our surprise, not one other boat on our secret spot.
A turkey was gobulating up on the bluff. A hen clucking or something on the field edge. Great morning, just beginning.
Five minutes and we had the first fish. We also realized we had a problem.
Either Dave's trolling motor battery was no good or his trolling motor was no good. Or, another possibility-both.
We made do, albeit slowly and we caught fish, good size fish.
Then, the Corps of Angina, in their infinite wisdom, began to pull the bottom out of the lake in preparation for the forecast flood, due the next day.
This served to slam the crappie's mouth shut like the door on an encyclopedia salesman.
And it seems the wind was picking up a little . . . to about 43.7 mph. No worries, we were in a secret cove.
We were using flyrods with spinning reels and found them to be just about perfect for what we were doing.
The fish were on wood in about three to four feet of water and we were just drowning minnows next to it.
Fishing minnows under a slip cork is a relaxing way to fish.
Unless, that is, you have the Judge David Durham problem of hanging on every piece of wood that comes by.
We caught both black nose and white crappie. I don't know exactly how many. It was several and that is just an estimate.
And, we caught about as many keepers as we did those under 10-inches. We even caught a few too small bass which we threw back, of course. (Perfect eating-size bass.)
And that's the way it really happened . . . give or take, a lie or two.
Birth of Plan B
The assault must continue and so a date was selected. April 4, seeing as how the forecast was perfect and neither of our wives had us scheduled for other duties was it.
But that is another story and I shall tell it later . . . maybe.
Just about right now, the crappie should be prime for catching and they might be bunched up a little better.
The fish we caught were scattered and not yet ready to spawn. So, right now "should" be red hot.
Anyway, what do you have to lose? It's a crazy spring, might as well go fishing.
Or, if you prefer, turkey hunting. I have been hearing a few gobulate but so far, have not been bitten by the desire to go kill one.
It is your call. I know "The Reflector" got his "Little Buddy" on one.
Contact the author - firstname.lastname@example.org