by Gary Barnes
In the powerful beam of the searchlight the men watched as the frog raced for the bottom. Before going more than a few feet there was a massive swirling motion in the water, agitating the still surface, making it difficult for the men to see clearly. A large mouth, several times the size of the previous one, opened, revealing what appeared to be a mouth full of teeth. The granddaddy frog seemed minuscule as it was ingested and the mouth closed. But the forward motion of the un-discernible predator continued as it swam toward the boat. The surface water swirled again. Then there was a loud thump as something huge hit the bottom of the boat, rocking it so severely that the boat almost swamped. As quickly as it appeared, the object disappeared.
“Do bass get that big?” asked Larry incredulously.
“Uuuuuh . . . No!” responded Clayton in bewilderment.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Current River Fishing
“You got a bite, Grampa, you got a bite!” yelled the excited young boy. The bobber danced around on the surface of the water then dove out of sight.
It was mid-morning and pockets of mist were just beginning to rise from the surface of the deep slough across the Current River from Blue Spring and several miles downstream from where Clayton and Larry had been working the previous night.
Jake Fears set down his can of root beer and leaned forward as he sat in his aluminum lawn chair. He grabbed his fishing pole from the rod holder staked into the gravel bar. The tip of the rod was bending and twitching from the tugging of the fish on the other end. He gave a slight jerk to set the hook then began reeling in his catch. “You want to reel this one in?” he asked his grandson.
“Yeah!” the eight-year-old replied as he eagerly took the rod from his grandfather’s hand and began to crank the reel. As he brought the catch closer to shore, the fish jumped twice. The boy laughed with excitement, barely able to contain himself.
Jake knelt down beside the water at the edge of the slough, and when his grandson, Bobby, had reeled the fish up next to the bank, he reached out with his left hand and grabbed the line to steady the fish. Then with his right hand he grabbed the fish by the mouth, using his thumb and index finger, and gently lifted it from the water.
“It’s a monster of a fish!” Bobby exclaimed, though in reality the smallmouth bass was barely a foot in length.
Jake chuckled at the boy’s excitement while he removed the hook and added the fish to the stringer which already contained two other captives of nearly the same size. These were the precious moments of bonding that all grandfathers looked forward to sharing with their grandchildren. Spending time alone with grandchildren, out in nature, and lazily fishing on a warm summer morning – It just doesn’t get any better than this, thought Jake.
Carefully, Jake re-baited the hook then handed the rod to Bobby. The boy swung the rod, attempting to cast. The bobber, along with the bait, landed with a loud splash barely ten feet from shore. “You do it for me, Grandpa,” he said, handing the rod to his grandfather.
“No, you’ve got to learn how to do this yourself. Go ahead and reel it back in, then I’ll help you.”
Obediently Bobby reeled in his line, turning the crank with his right hand while being careful to maintain a slight, yet constant tension on the line as it passed between his thumb and index finger of his left hand. Then his grandfather stood behind him and helped him position his hands properly for the next cast.
“Now try to pretend that you are a giant clock and the rod is one of the clock’s hands. Bring the rod behind you to about the ten o’clock position then swing it forward to the two o’clock position and release the button on the reel.”
Again Bobby tried to cast, following his grandfather’s instruction as well as he could. This time, the bait and bobber sailed in a smooth arch and gently landed in the water about sixty feet from the shore.
“I did it Grandpa. I did it just like you said.”
Jake smiled as he helped Bobby set the line and reattach the rod to the rod holder. Then they both settled back into their lawn chairs and picked up their cans of root beer. “That rod holder will keep the tip of the rod high so that a fish has something to fight against, but it holds the rod secure enough that the fish can’t pull it into the water in case you were to catch a really big one.”
“You know everything, Grandpa,” Bobby said admiringly. “Did you come fishing here when you were a little boy?”
“Of course. This is the perfect place to fish. The big trees behind us keep us in the shade, the water in the slough is deep, and lots of fish like to feed here. It’s a lot safer for kids to fish here than in the river over there,” he said as he pointed to the Current River a short distance away. The Blue Spring tributary entered the Current River just upstream and on the opposite side of the river from the slough where they were fishing. “You don’t have to worry about falling in and being whisked downstream by the fast current. My grandmother used to bring me here to fish when I was about your age.”
“Your grandmother? She liked to fish?”
“Oh yes! She loved to fish. And this was her favorite fishin’ hole. Of course in those days they didn’t have such fancy fishing equipment. Grandma just used a bamboo cane pole with a string tied to the end. She’d stick one end of the pole in the gravel here and then toss out her line by hand. But the fishin’ was just as good back then as it is now. Their cabin wasn’t too far from here - just up the hill behind us.” He paused for a moment as if reflecting on something. “Let’s see, near as I can tell you’re the sixth generation of Fears’ to fish this very spot.”
“Really?” Bobby said with wonder.
Jake remained silent for a moment, thinking. Then he slowly and reverently spoke to his grandson. “I guess you’re old enough to understand this. My grandmother, she’d be your great-great-grandmother, really loved fishing in this slough. The last day of her life was spent here. She and her sister came down here that evening and fished until well past dark. They had a kerosene lantern with them and about midnight they headed back to her cabin. When they got to the base of the hill over there, she had a massive stroke and died,” he paused again. “I loved my grandmother very much. I guess that when I’m out here fishing, I feel close to her.”
At that moment the tip of Bobby’s rod began to dance and the bobber dove out of sight. Then to their surprise a smallmouth bass, about the size of the previous catches, jumped high out of the water, dragging the bobber behind it. The fish landed in the water and dove for the bottom, dragging the line taut.
Bobby bolted from his chair and grabbed his pole. “I’ve got another one Grandpa!” He started to reel in his line but it wouldn’t budge. “I think I’m snagged,” he said, discouraged, and handed the rod to his grandfather.
Jake took the rod and began to walk up and down the bank of the slough. He whipped the line back and forth and let it go limp several times. He repeated this process from different angles trying to dislodge the snagged line.
“Sometimes the fish swim under a log and wrap the line around it several times. All we can do now is cut it.” He replaced the rod into the rod holder, cranked in the slack line and began fishing in the tackle box for his knife.
Bobby watched his rod when suddenly the taut line began to move toward the center of the slough and the tip of the rod bent downward. “Grandpa, come quick! It’s not a snag.”
Jake looked up and sure enough the line was moving toward the center of the slough, leaving a V-shaped ripple in its wake. The rod holder was being pulled out of the ground and the rod, bent at a sharp angle, was about to be dragged into the water.
Quickly Jake sprang to his feet and grabbed the pole just before it hit the water. Grasping it tightly with both hands he tried to start reeling in the line, but whatever was on the other end started picking up momentum and the reel’s drag began to sing – “Zzzzzzzzzzing.” Fishing line began to peel off the reel faster and faster.
“We must have a whale!” exclaimed Bobby.
It was all Jake could do to manhandle the rod as the line continued to pay out faster and faster. Whatever they had hooked into was headed for the open water of the Current River about fifty yards away and was about to leave the slough to enter the river’s main channel. Just then the fishing line reached its end. There was a momentary hard tug while the tip of the rod, which Jake was trying to hold high, bent almost totally horizontal. Then there was a loud snap as the taut line broke. Jake almost lost his balance and had to take a step backwards to prevent a fall.
At that moment something very large broke the surface of the water where the slough and the river met. Frothing white water churned over a fifteen-foot wide swath for several seconds. Then the non-distinct object quickly submerged and the frothy, churning water dissipated with the currents of the river.
“What was that, Grandpa?”
“I . . . I don’t know.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chitwood Home
It had now become tradition. Clayton and Larry were headed to the Chitwood home for Sunday dinner. Clayton was carrying a large, brightly wrapped box under his arm. The front yard was deserted as they approached the home, but a homemade banner which hung from the porch eves announced “HAPPY BIRTHDAY JOHNNY.” A half-dozen helium-filled balloons were tied to the porch railing. The sounds of laughter and fun came drifting from inside the home.
The entire family, along with Clayton and Larry, were seated around the dining room table. Johnny was the center of attention and had the seat of honor with Austin and Frankie sitting on either side.
Opal came out of the kitchen carrying a large, three-tiered, German Chocolate cake smothered with coconut and black walnut icing and topped with burning candles. She came up behind Johnny, reached over him and placed the cake on the table right in front of him. Everyone spontaneously burst into singing “Happy Birthday.” Clayton was seated across from Johnny and smiled. He was extremely happy to be included in the gaiety of the celebration. But as he watched, his eyes glazed over and his thoughts drifted to a distant memory . . .
*
All the homes in the neighborhood of Clayton’s youth were extravagantly opulent. His own home, one of the more beautiful and luxurious homes in this exclusive gated community, stood on the corner. Strains of “Happy Birthday” came from inside.
Tommy Clayton and his Little League team were seated at the dining room table. Even with the entire team present the room was still spacious. The room had been artfully decorated with balloons and streamers. A stack of opened gifts were piled at one end of the massive table. There was a huge, cut, birthday cake in the center of the table. Though it should have been a joyous occasion, Tommy was quite sullen because, as usual, his parents were missing. The maid walked past Tommy’s chair and placed her hand upon his shoulder. Leaning down she spoke softly into his ear.
“I’m sure they would have been here if they could’ve. But they got you this wonderful tie,” she said reassuringly as she gestured to the opened gift on the table in front of him.
“But it’s just not the same,” blurted Tommy, as he abruptly pushed back his chair and stormed out.
*
Clayton’s mind was jarred back to the present by the whoosh of Johnny blowing out the candles. Johnny enthusiastically attacked the presents heaped upon the table. When most of the excitement had died down, Clayton approached Johnny and handed him the large box he had brought.
“I heard you like spelunking,” Clayton said, as he rubbed Johnny’s head, mussing up his hair.
Johnny ripped off the paper, opened the box, and took out a miner’s hard hat, complete with headlamp. “JOHNNY EXPLORER,” was emblazoned across the front in bright yellow lettering.
“Wow, cool! This is neat! Thanks,” said Johnny. He placed it upon his head and turned on the lamp. “Now when we go cave exploring I won’t hit my head.”
*
Later that night, after Opal and Clayton had finished washing the dishes, Clayton invited Opal out onto the front porch to ask her a question. He didn’t want to appear foolish in front of the whole family, but he needed to satisfy his curiosity about the experience he and Larry had a few nights earlier in the slough. He motioned for Opal to sit on the rocking chair as he leaned against the porch railing.
“So, what did ya want to chew the fat about?” Opal asked, somewhat suspiciously.
“Well, I uuuuh, I understand you're quite a fisherman . . . er . . . fisherwoman, uuuuh . . . I mean, you like to fish,” he said, falling over his words.
“I do my share, and then some,” Opal replied.
“How big do the really big fish get around here?”
“Oh, I’d say that most of the game fish seldom get bigger than five or six pounds, but the carp and channel cats‘ll get up to fifteen to twenty pounds or so. Why?
“Well, a couple of nights ago we were collecting samples up in one of the backwater sloughs. Something really big swam under our boat and rocked it.”
“There's nothin' in these waters big enough to rock a boat. You probably just got excited and shifted your weight, causing it to start pitching without realizing it.”
“Yeah, possibly,” reflected Clayton contemplatively.
“That was real nice what you did for my grandson. Knowing him, I ‘spect he’ll sleep with that helmet on tonight.”
“I just thought he’d like that more than he would a tie.”
Opal looked puzzled but did not ask.
After an awkward moment of silence, Clayton continued.
“Thank you for including me in your family these past few weeks. The family I grew up with wasn’t exactly ideal,” he offered.
“Some things’r best left unspoken. I understand the pain of past mistakes better than most,” she commented.
Clayton took a deep breath and slowly exhaled as if releasing long-term, pent-up emotions. “Yeah. . . . There’s no need to dwell on such things . . . but spending time with your family has been quite therapeutic. . . . If only things could’ve been different.”
Opal was deep in thought as well, with a far-away expression, “Yup . . . if only,” she mused.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Blair Creek
Ozark nights can be very peaceful, though the constant barrage from the frogs, crickets, cicadas, and incessant whistling of the whippoorwills may at first seem overwhelming to the unaccustomed. As night-fall deepens, even those unsettling noises fade into the smothering heaviness of silence, and then, even the slightest sound may be distinctly heard more than a mile away as it bounces off the bluffs and cliffs, reverberating through the valley floor.
Blair Creek, which was more of a small river, flowed past the south pasture at Hank Dobb’s ranch. The lapping of the ripples against the rocks and trees lining its banks accompanied by the gentle gurgling of water passing around branches protruding from submerged limbs produced a lulling effect upon anyone who happened to be nearby.
Hank had followed the Sheriff’s counsel about keeping his cattle closer to the barn for two weeks, but then he returned his cattle to their pasture. The herd had settled down for the night not far from the fence near the river. Cows, unlike horses, are very light sleepers and are easily disturbed. Typical of herd prey animals, they take only short naps at regular intervals throughout a twenty-four hour period; which means that at any given time, some members of the herd are awake and alert while others are sleeping. A cow’s field of vision is very wide, and they have an acute sense of both hearing and smell. It is very difficult to sneak up on a cow undetected. If startled, they quickly communicate to the rest of the herd that something is amiss. When imminent danger threatens, cattle herds are prone to stampeding. Thus, contrary to the claims of abundant urban legends, the alleged sport of cow-tipping is simply not possible – not to mention the insurmountability of the physics involved.
Several
of the cows in Hank’s herd wore bells around their necks. As they chewed their cuds or clomped grass from the meadow, the clanking bells marked their position. The soft clanging mingled with the gurgling of the river to enhance the tranquility of the pastoral setting under the blanket of a dark moonless night.
Suddenly, the cow closest to the river stopped chewing its cud and stood motionless. Something had alerted its internal alarm system. There was no sound out of the ordinary, so the wary cow tested the air for hints of potential peril – but no scent indicated danger. The cow stood upwind from the river and studied the area in that direction, instinctively realizing that danger would probably come from there. After several minutes without further distraction, it slowly yet cautiously resumed chewing its cud.
Then came the faint sound of something hurtling through the air, followed by the splat of a thick liquid striking a solid object. Seconds later there was a resounding thud and a final clank of the bell. The cow lay on its side breathing in slow, shallow breaths.
During the next hour this process was repeated over and over. Yet nothing alarmed the herd. To them, there was no indication of danger, even though, one by one, their numbers were dropping.
*
The next afternoon Hank Dobbs burst through the door of Sheriff Aker’s office accompanied by both of his sons. Jane Chilton could see that he was clearly agitated about something, so before he could cross the room she buzzed the Sheriff on the intercom.
Hank strode up to the dispatcher’s desk then leaned over and placed a heavy hand on the edge. He stood there, leaning on the desk for a couple of seconds as if trying to decide what to say. Then he blurted out, “Jane, I need to see the Sheriff, now!”