The bass is the most popular game fish in Ozark waters. There are white bass, locally called “stripers,” largemouth, smallmouth, and the rock bass or goggle-eye. According to Robert Page Lincoln, the last three are not bass at all but belong to the sunfish family. The white bass, however, is a true bass and a member of the sea bass family, Serranidae. Natives frequently apply the name “trout” to all members of the bass family.
Other game fish found in Ozark lakes and streams are: perch, channel cat, jack salmon,4 and the rainbow trout that live in the cold-spring branches. Buffalo, redhorse, and yellow and blue cat are called rough fish and do not get the legal protection given the game varieties. Natives gig them in winter and “noodle” for them in summer.
Ozarkland, with its thousands of springs supplying more than five hundred fishing streams with crystal-clear water, is a popular region with sportsmen. Floating may be combined with fishing in any one of forty of the larger streams. Outfitters, located along shore at convenient points, supply boats, guides, food, and camping equipment. Let us focus our fancy upon a recent James–White River float from Galena to Branson, Missouri, with Walt Guilliams as guide.
Guilliams knows Ozark streams and the fish that inhabit them. For twenty years he was a market fisherman and has learned all the tricks of the trade.
“I have handled every species of fish that live in Ozark waters,” said Walt as he pushed the boat from the pier and, with swift strokes of the paddle, shot it into the current. “But my favorite is the smallmouth black bass. This fish differs from the largemouth in several ways. Both of these fish have oblong-shaped bodies, shaded with dark green over black and with broad tails slightly forked. The largemouth species shows dark stripes along the sides and we sometimes call them ‘lineside bass.’ The smallmouth has vertical bands over its sides, and the mouth does not extend beyond the eye. Bass average two or three pounds in weight but occasionally run to five or six pounds. They are good fighters and show plenty of action in fast water.”
“What are some of the questions fishermen ask you on these float trips?” I inquired.
The guide rested his paddle, as we idled along in an eddy, took a chew of tobacco, and gave answer.
“Usually the first thing they want to know is what the fish are hitting. By that they mean what kind of artificial bait. I tell them which baits have been successful on recent trips. Tackle has lots to do with fishing but it isn’t everything.”
I had seated myself on a campstool near the front end of the boat and was casting, right and left, into the swift water. Walt knew how to handle the boat to put me in range of the best spots for fishing. He shot around huge boulders and skirted beds of water lilies, guiding the boat with expert stroke. I had been casting for an hour without a strike and was beginning to get discouraged. Walt offered advice but it was of no avail.
“Couple of years ago,” said the guide, “I guided a man and his wife from Kansas down this same stream. They were dead game sports and the bass soon realized that fact. I was on an eight-day trip with this couple. Neither of them had ever tried to cast before. Imagine two people in one boat learning to cast at the same time and you will sympathize with me. But they had good tackle and learned rapidly. By the third day they were catching bass right along and I never had to tell them where or when. All that I did was to loosen up the bearings on their reels so they could cast farther with ease. With the beginner, I always fix the reel so it won’t run too fast as he naturally casts too hard at the start.”
This was said to encourage me, no doubt, but my luck didn’t change. I tried almost everything in my tackle box without success. I began to think I was about the sorriest fisherman that ever wet a line. But Guilliams liked to talk and I enjoyed his patter.
“Some fishing parties are hard to please. I have guided men who thought because they could throw a bait forty feet they were good fishermen. They are the ones a guide finds hard to please. One such man I remember quite well. He was just as apt to throw his plug into a treetop as anywhere else. Once we were passing through a stretch of fine water with big rocks sticking up, and plenty of submerged ones, and a nice current twisting through them. He made two or three wild throws and then wound up his line, looking sarcastic at me, as if to say, ‘No bass here. Your river is a fake.’ Just at that time I let the boat bump a rock and a bass weighing around three pounds jumped into the boat. I picked it up and threw it back into the river. The man asked me what I did that for. I said, ‘Figure it out. That bass is a particular friend of mine.’ In fact, all fish are my friends and I will not allow them to be abused by heartless fishermen.
“Bass frequently jump in muddy water and some fishermen are poor enough sports to take them in this manner. Two men usually pole a boat upstream close to the bank. The bass seem blind in muddy water and as they jump for deep water they sometimes land in the boat. Both Missouri and Arkansas have laws prohibiting the taking of fish in this manner.
“I was a guide in a three-boat party a few years ago that carried a Negro servant. He was permitted to paddle one of the boats. On the first day out the Negro sank the boat that carried his boss. On the next day the Negro was placed in a boat with two boys who wore bathing suits. One of the boys carried a shotgun. I told them that since the river was muddy a bass might jump into their boat. Sure enough, it happened. The Negro let the boat get near a weedy bank and a big fellow jumped in. The boy with the gun took a shot at the bass, and the colored man took to the water. Of course, the kid shot a hole in the bottom of the boat and I had to patch it before we could go on. Next day I carried the gun with me.”
I learned many things about fish and the ways of catching them while on this float trip. The bass in southern Missouri streams begin nesting around April 20 if the weather is normal. They move to water about two and a half feet deep, and in a sheltered place away from the current. They do not all nest at the same time but most of them are through by the first of June. The Ozark states have a closed season on bass during the nesting season.
Bass will not always take the lure even when they are breaking water on both sides of the boat. Guilliams made a statement in this connection that puzzled me but I did not doubt the truth of it. “Not more than two percent of the bass in a stream are in a mood to strike at the same time,” said Walt. “In other words, out of every one hundred bass that see the lure, one will strike and possibly one will follow for a short distance. But at this ratio, the expert angler will make a good catch in any of the bass streams of the Ozarks.”
By this time we had reached the landing near the yawning mouth of Gentry Cave and stopped for lunch. We filled our canteens at the spring which gushed from the rocks near the entrance of the cavern and then lounged in the deep shade with a basket of eatables between us. Walt continued his harangue as we ate.
“The smallmouth bass is an active fellow and good at playing pranks. One of his favorite tricks is to keep minnows away from a trap. Last summer, I fished for yellow cat for the market, using three or four trotlines. It took a lot of minnows to supply these lines and I kept two minnow traps set and baited all the time. Bass bothered my traps so much that I had to wade from one to the other continually to drive them away. Finally, I tired of doing this, so I caught a few soft-shelled crawfish for bait and, taking my rod and reel, changed the tune of these playful bass. I caught five within a few minutes. After I had secured my supply of minnows, I turned them loose.
“Another way in which bass have given me much trouble is by killing the minnows on my trotline. Sometimes if the water is clear they will bite at night. I have caught a number of smallmouth on trotlines at night. They seem to bite best just at the time the moon is rising. Last spring we caught a bass on our line that weighed four and one-half pounds. We had our scales with us and after weighing it, threw it back. We were fishing for cat for the market at that time.”
The mention of soft-shelled crawfish gave me an idea and I suggested that we catch a few of them to use for bait. We turned over a few rocks
at the water’s edge and soon had a sufficient supply of them. I tied a hook on my line and baited it with one of the soft-tails. About one hundred yards below the cave I tossed the bait near a partially submerged log. Whang! The battle was on! The reel sang a siren’s song as the fish headed for deeper water. I let out plenty of line but it looked like all of it would be taken from my reel. Walt kept the boat in position to give me the best possible advantage. I fought that fish for several minutes, up and down the stream, and at last landed it in the boat. It was a channel cat and weighed six pounds.
CHAPTER VIII
Boy Meets Girl
Pride of Posey
I do not ordinarily believe in signs, but when a pretty red-haired girl riding a white horse crossed my path on the Woodville–Posey road, I instinctively interpreted it as an omen of good luck, even though she was whistling as she rode by. Everyone knows that “a whistling woman and a crowing hen always come to the same bad end,” but I could not conceive of such an attractive girl ending her career ingloriously.
My search for beauty and adventure had led me to the Posey settlement in the shadow of Breadtray Mountain. I wanted to fish, and to exercise my soul. I sought an isolated haven where one might drink from the bowl of the gods unmolested. It was June, the month of wild roses, and I felt a thrill of vagabondish ecstasy as I followed the old trail down James River. I had resolved to capture every bit of inspiration I could. Lem Logan of Woodville had told me there was good fishing in Posey Creek, and that I would enjoy the hospitality of the people who cropped the ridges for a livelihood. But he warned me of Breadtray Mountain. Tradition had put a mark on this flat-topped peak and it was whispered that ghosts made it a favorite rendezvous. But that is another story.
I had crossed White River and was approaching the general store at Posey when Joyce Delmar crossed my path on her white charger. She lifted the veil of conventionality to smile a pleasant greeting and then, like a dream girl of the sunshine, disappeared down the trail. Ten minutes later I inquired at the store for a boarding place in the neighborhood. The merchant directed me to Nate Delmar’s farm at the foot of Saddleback Mountain.
Joyce Delmar was the will-o’-the-wisp of the community in which she lived. No one understood her; everybody liked her. She was sixteen and so winsome in appearance that men invariably turned to take a second look at her. She was the loveliest hill girl I had seen, a child of the forest as Venus was a child of the sea. She had that tricky beauty of Andromeda which lures men on but leads them to be respectful and protective. Naturally, she had many admirers. Nate tolerated them with customary White River hospitality when they called on Sundays. But his eyes were ever open in thoughtfulness of Joyce. Her mother was dead and she was all that he had in the world.
I secured board and lodging at Nate Delmar’s home and settled down for a week of angling in Posey Creek. I like to fish little streams that have quiet pools frequented by perch, goggle-eye, and bass. I like to rummage in the liquid pockets of these crystal spring branches that go tumbling and singing toward the river. Posey Creek is such a mountain stream and my excuse for loitering along its winding course was to wet my fishing lines and air my sentiments.
One Sunday morning, shortly after my arrival in the settlement, I arose at dawn to test my skill with some white bass that were chasing minnows in a neighboring pool. Morning announced a day full of promise and a few minutes after sunup, I had six beauties on my string. I was about ready to pull my line and call it a day when I heard hoofbeats on the trail below. From my place of concealment I saw a young man riding a bay horse. It was Charlie Griggs from Bull Creek going courting.
Charlie was a gay young Lochinvar of the White River hills. He had just turned nineteen, was brown as a nut and stalwart as an oak. A thrill of expectancy lighted his face as he guided his mare into the churning water at the ford. As the animal drank from the clear stream, the young man’s voice rose in song. Young Griggs had the voice of a bird—a mockingbird. It was an experience to hear him yodel the weird White River yell while choring in early morning or riding from a dance late at night.
Who-ah, who-ee, who-ee, who-ee!
Who-ah, who-ee, who-ah, whoo!
Only such veterans as Tobe Mullins and Dan Freeman could do this yodel with a greater turn of artistry.
On this occasion it was an old English ballad he sang—an Elizabethan romance taught to him by his mother. Tragedy lurked in the shadows of Charlie’s mind, it seemed to me, as he shaped his baritone voice to the words of “Gypsy Davy.”
Oh, would you leave your house and home,
Oh, would you leave your honey?
Oh, would you leave your babies three
To go with Gypsy Davy?
Raddle-um-a-ding, a-ding, ding, ding,
Raddle-um-a-ding-a-dary,
Raddle-um-a-ding, a-ding, ding, ding,
She’s gone with Gypsy Davy.
Oh, yes, I’d leave my house and home,
Oh, yes, I’d leave my honey,
Oh, yes, I’d leave my babies three,
To go with Gypsy Davy.
The old man came home that night
Inquiring for his honey.
The maid came tripping along the hall;
“She’s gone with Gypsy Davy.”
Go saddle for me my milk-white steed,
Go saddle for me my brownie;
I’ll ride all night and I’ll ride all day
Till I overtake my honey.
Oh, come go back with me, my love,
Go back with me, my honey;
I’ll lock you up in a chamber so high
Where the Gypsy can’t get to you.
I won’t go back with you, my love,
I won’t go back, my honey.
I’d rather have one kiss from Davy’s lips
Than all your land and money.
The song ended, the boy paused thoughtfully for a moment as if deciding his next move. He looked in the direction of the Delmar house, half hidden by a hill. Squinting one eye at the sun to get the time of day, he climbed from the saddle and tethered his mare to a sapling. It was a bit early in the day to start courting. Sitting down on a rock near the water’s edge, he removed his shoes and bathed his tortured feet in the soothing water. Sunday shoes did not fit his plebeian feet.
Without making my presence known, I slipped through a crevice of rock and up the path to the house. I found Nate sitting in his favorite hickory-bottom chair in the living room of the cabin smoking his clay pipe and enjoying the Sabbath quiet. Joyce flitted about the house, setting things in order. Her expression told me that she intuitively knew of Charlie’s coming. Perhaps he had said nothing about it. Social custom in the Ozarks does not require advance dating. But in the heart of youth, dreams border closely upon realism. The Fates had whispered into the girl’s ear that this day would not pass uneventful. Nate smoked his pipe thoughtfully, and apparently without suspicion. I wondered how he would accept the young swain’s visit.
An hour passed and Charlie had not made his appearance. Joyce began preparing dinner. She took antique silver that her mother and grandmother had used before her and set three places at the table. She sang as she worked. It is the way of youth in love. Surging emotions are quieted or aroused by song. Joyce sang an old, old song, one that the hillfolks use at play parties for their swinging games in the absence of the fiddle. Perhaps it was only a coincidence that her song was “Handsome Charlie.” Perhaps it wasn’t. No one will ever know. The words of the song were centuries old, written to ridicule a foppish English monarch. The girl half hummed them as she worked.
Charlie’s neat and Charlie’s sweet,
And Charlie he’s a dandy;
Every time he goes to town,
He brings the girls some candy.
The higher up the cherry tree,
The riper grows the berry;
The more you hug and kiss the girls,
The sooner they will marry.
Over the hill to feed my sheep,
> And over the river to Charlie;
Over the hill to feed my sheep
On . . .
She stopped the song suddenly and listened. The flock of sheep never got “the buckwheat cakes and barley” that were intended for them. Something of greater importance was about to happen. Charlie Griggs was approaching.
Nate’s bulky frame almost filled the doorway. Joyce peeped shyly over his shoulder.
“Light an’ look at yer saddle,” greeted the host. Charlie needed no second invitation. He dismounted and tied his horse to a young hickory. Awkwardly he ambled up to the cabin.
“Joyce, bring them cheers out in front. Hit’s gettin’ hot inside.” The girl did as her father commanded and I was invited to join them. We occupied ourselves with talk about the weather and crops and local happenings. The race for county sheriff and the hog-stealing case on Blair Creek were prime topics. Nate reported that some fishermen had heard a “hant” while camping near Breadtray Mountain a few days before. The girl seldom joined in the conversation but listened attentively to what was said. She appeared to be undisturbed, carrying herself with dignity, but I thought I could detect a sudden pouring of pink into her cheeks when she brushed Charlie’s arm in passing. The strange thing about it was that Joyce gave no special attention to her guest. From all appearances, he might have been visiting her father. I had much to learn on the subject of backhill courtship. Charlie conducted himself as all well-bred hillsmen do on such occasions. He knew it would never do to portray eagerness.
Joyce soon had dinner on the table and politely invited us inside to eat. She stood aside, according to the custom of the hills, to wait on the table. Later, she would eat a few bites in the kitchen. She kept an eye on our plates and what Charlie might have missed through bashfulness, she supplied generously. Silently but joyously he ate the fluffy biscuits baked by fairy hands and dipped his knife deep into preserves sweet as the lips of the one who had prepared them. The sage-flavored sausage, baked potatoes, greens wilted in grease, and fried pie made it a feast fit for an epicure. Romance danced in the coffee as we poured the hot liquid into saucers for cooling.
Ozark Country Page 17