Return to the Land

Early on Stafford learned to fish with this hands. Kimberling Creek was blessed with red eyes or rockfish and small mouth bass. He quickly learned the habits of the fish. While wading in the clear mountain stream he would chase the fish beneath rocks where they would seek shelter. He used a little common sense and some childhood ingenuity, as he would slip one hand beneath the rock to gain the fishes attention and slowly bring the other hand from the opposite direction to capture and pin the fish against the rock. Once secured he would work his index finger into the fish’s mouth and gill thus complete the catch. The fish were so plentiful that he would take a burlap sack to carry all the fish home. Once he had enough for the family off he’d run to the house where his mother would have a fish fry with corn meal cakes. The mountain stream offered another delicacy that gave sport as well as food. During the hot summer nights while laying in bed upstairs on a feather mattress the frogs could be heard croaking in the stream and along the banks. The moon would rise over the mountain and the lure of croaking and groaning would bring the youngsters from their repose to the chilly night waters. With a light, usually a lantern fueled by coal oil or kerosene, the frogs would be spotted and gigged. The frogs on Kimberling were unusually large so several pair of legs would make a meal. The fishing and frog gigging carried over into their adult lives even after marriage. Their spouses often accompanied them on this annual ritual. There was another type of fishing that captivated Dad’s sporting side. To the north of the farm was a valley called North Fork. In the secluded area ran a cold mountain stream that eventually emptied into Kimberling Creek. This was perfect habitat for native mountain brook trout. During the spring and summer days when the farm chores were finished, off he would go, with his homemade fishing pole, across the mountain to fish this mysterious stream. These trout were skittish and it took some skill in knowing how to catch them. Dad often told me of his adventures in the wilderness- like area. He’d let his hook float down the stream to the riffles where these beauties would hole up waiting for food. If these natives gained a glimpse of the fisherman then fishing was over for the day and one would take his chances at another time. Can you imagine the solitude and excitement a young boy in this pristine setting would feel testing his wits against those native wild fish? One cold April morning Dad took me down to the creek on Nobusiness. Being a youngster no more than five years old I had no comprehension what enjoyment could be had from fishing. He baited my hook with a spring earthworm carefully making sure I didn’t hook myself. I found a spot near the bank under a small ironwood tree. Dad watched me from a few feet away between two large white oaks as I fumbled with the line and pole. Becoming disinterested after a few minutes, I sat down, gathered myself together to ward off the cold, and gradually slipped off to sleep. Suddenly, there came a jerking and wiggling of the line and the pole dipped near the water’s surface. Dad yelled, “jerk it out, son”, and so I did with absolute amazement as to what was on the end of the line. It was the most beautifully colored fish I’d ever seen splashing furiously in the water and onto the bank. “Daddy, what is it?” I excite dly blurted jumping to catch the fish with my hands. He carefully unhooked the fish and said “son, this is a native brook trout”. This fish’s ancestry had inhabited this mountain stream for thousands of years and what a wonder that I had caught something that nature had produced

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