A CAT’S LURE!

Lafourche bayou boy was a man after God’s own heart
July 14, 2015
A page torn from history: Bayou area’s hidden past emerging from the shadows
July 15, 2015
Lafourche bayou boy was a man after God’s own heart
July 14, 2015
A page torn from history: Bayou area’s hidden past emerging from the shadows
July 15, 2015

Summer always meant three months of freedom from classes, indoor confinement and responsibility for many young sportsmen living through that magical age between too young to be left alone and old enough to really assume any major responsibility

Growing up in the age before video games and so many other time-robbing electronic recreational devices, we made our own summer entertainment by roaming the fields, forests, swamps and bayous near our homes in Slidell, La., from sunrise to sunset. Nobody really cared where we went or what we did, as long as nobody called to complain and we returned home for supper uninjured.

Frequently, we explored every ditch, canal and bayou we could find to see what lurked there or to discover new fishing holes. Most anglers call their favorite places “fishing holes,” but many of our piscatorial pleasure pits really were holes! Occasionally, we found a real pond before someone put a fence around it, but most were merely wide spots in local canals or drainage ditches. We could jump across some. Most reached depths of only one or two feet deep, but to us, each represented a heavenly oasis of freedom from chores, nagging mothers, cleanliness, homework, responsibility, girls and everything else we despised.


Dad had this nagging freedom-robbing thing call a “job” that often kept him out of our fishing boat. That really cut into our summer enjoyment. Not to worry, those of us too young to drive frequently bicycled to our secret fishing holes between times when our dads could take us “real fishing.”

Sometimes, we just jumped on our bikes and spontaneously headed to a nearby fishing hole – usually when the grass needed cutting or some other onerous chores awaited us. At other times, we planned our angling adventures down to the last details with more intricate machinations than Eisenhower used to land in Normandy.

As the chosen day of blissful freedom approached, we scoured our freezers and refrigerators for bait – frozen shrimp, chicken livers, leftover meats, old hot dogs, bread, cheese – whatever our mothers wouldn’t terribly miss. Sometimes, we pooled our allowances to buy real worms or night crawlers.


(Side note, many mothers don’t like to discover a paper bag full of squirming night crawlers in their refrigerators!) On rare occasions, we actually had shiners or store-bought crickets left over from some “adult” fishing trip.

When we couldn’t find or buy sufficient bait, we caught our own. We scooped minnows, crawfish and grass shrimp from roadside ditches. We snatched grasshoppers and crickets from weedy vacant lots. We overturned pine straw to capture succulent worms. We tore apart rotten logs in wooded lots for grubs or kept some smaller fish from previous expeditions for cut bait.

With tempting bait secured, we grabbed our gear, stuffed the bait into our pockets – much to the chagrin of our mothers who usually discovered “leftovers” on washday – and pedaled our bicycles to our chosen honey hole. Fortunately, we didn’t carry the amount of gear then that we find so essential now. With one hand clutching our rod and a handlebar and the other hand gripping a tackle box, we steering our bicycles and held our equipment as best we could to set


off on our adventures. Most days turned into all-day exploring and fishing safaris.

Often, we headed to our favorite honey hole: “01′

Five Pound Canal,” also known as “Fishing Hole No. 3.” Neither name will show up on any maps. We never knew the official name of this waterway, nor did we care. We did care that this muddy drainage ditch flowed through our section of town, widened briefly as it crossed under a four-lane road and had fish in it. Where it widened, we could barely cast across it even when our reels weren’t clogged with sand and mud. Near the bridge, it dropped to about five feet deep during wet weather.


Away from the road, the canal narrowed and became shallow again. Most days, it averaged one to two feet deep, but became a raging torrent after a severe downpour. The canal eventually dumped into the Pearl River system on the border of Louisiana and Mississippi. Periodic floods brought new fish into our honey hole. Pearl River flows out of central Mississippi and meanders 490 miles to the marshes north of Lake Borgne, really a bay off the Gulf of Mexico between Louisiana and Mississippi. Along the way, the river creates 119 miles of the Louisiana-Mississippi boundary.

During low water conditions, fish became trapped in the relative depths near the bridge. Occasionally, we spotted one wary old giant catfish, at least for those waters. We dubbed him “01′ Five Pound.”

For years, neighborhood boys – and an occasional girl – futilely chased “01′


Five Pound.” He tormented us with his infrequent and unpredictable appearances. Sometimes, he surfaced just a few feet from us, daunting us and refusing all our offerings. We tried everything to nab, net or hook that cagey whiskered critter, including grabbing him with our hands. Nothing worked. With ease, he stripped off our best baits cleanly from our hooks.

Occasionally someone actually hooked a big fish, possibly 01′ Five Pound. Inevitably, he broke the line, straightened or spit the hook and rolled back into the gray-green waters. Sometimes, he tore the guts out of our cheap and ill-maintained reels. Each year, as we grew his legend grew also – as did his real and imagined size. Always, he seemed bigger than the last time we spotted him.

Years later, I heard that someone actually did catch a 10-pound blue catfish from that hole. Same fish? Perhaps, but I prefer to think that 01′ Five Pound died at a ripe old age after many years of ruling his muddy kingdom and daunting generations of young anglers. E3


A young angler smiles with pride after she snagged a catfish in Louisiana’s waters during some summer fishing. The fish are a joy to catch for most young anglers – especially in summer.

JOHN FELSHER | THE TIMES