By Jim Mize
Excerpt from The Jon Boat Years
Farm ponds often provide outstanding areas for fishing since they are remote and fished less than public waters. So when an invitation to fish a private pond came my way, I pounced on it. Three friends who overheard the conversation followed suit. The pond reportedly had bass and bluegill populations so thick that fishermen lined up to bring their kids here fishing. Therefore, four experienced fishermen should have no trouble at all, or so we thought.
âYou probably wonât be able to find it,â said our host on the phone. âIâll have my husband meet you at the Dairy Queen at eight tomorrow morning.â Later that night, I located the Dairy Queen address and calculated the travel time to be a few minutes early. The spare time quickly dissolved the next morning as we gathered gear, found breakfast, and needled each other as fishermen tend to do. Visions of largemouth danced in our heads.
We pulled into the Dairy Queen parking lot five minutes early. Being the only vehicle in the lot, it was evident our host had not arrived. Weâre not too sharp at eight in the morning but we figured out this much. A cat with a passel of kittens roamed just outside the dog exercise fence, apparently there to taunt them. Or maybe the cats were there to make the dogs run around frantically so they tired more quickly, and travelers could put them back in their cars and be on their way sooner. Some people think of everything.
About 8:15, no one had shown up yet, so we surmised they were late. Remember my earlier comments on our powers of deduction. I called our host and she apologized profusely, recommending that it might move us along more quickly if we met someone else who knew the pondâs location. They were supposed to be at her cabin and she gave us directions to get there. The pond, we were assured, was close by.
About twenty minutes later, we pulled into the driveway by the cabin and noticed someone outside. Figuring that must be our contact, I walked over and introduced myself. As our luck or lack of it would indicate, this wasnât who we were supposed to meet. It was, however, another fisherman who had gone to the public lake nearby and had an outstanding day crappie fishing. Unable to pull away without insulting someone who might be able to point me to my contact, I politely listened to his fishing report on a banner crappie trip. After what seemed a long time, I cut in and asked if he could tell me where to find the fellow I was looking for. âOh, heâs not here,â replied the fisherman and went straight back to his fishing story.
I got back on the phone with my host, and she again apologized profusely. âIâm almost there,â she added. âJust get in your truck and drive back the way you came. Weâll meet on the road.â
So we again loaded into the truck and started driving back the way we had come.
It seemed we had driven too far so we pulled off into a church parking lot to wait for our host to pass by. At this point, my passengers were making snide remarks and I began to think it might be easier to manage those feral cats back at the Dairy Queen. Our host didnât drive by during the next few minutes, so I called again. As it turned out, she had also pulled over to wait for us to drive by her. While we talked, I looked down the road and saw her wave.
Now able to follow her, we made it down a dirt road to one of the fishiest ponds Iâve ever seen. A broad, shallow body of water, it was splotched with brush, small islands, and a few standing trees. We listened as our host provided a background on when the pond was built and stocked, as well as a few pointers on where we might bump into a snake or two. We all shuffled our feet and discretely checked our watches while trying to be polite and attentive, antsy to finally fish. After what seemed like eternity but was in fact five minutes, she left us to our fishing. We quickly split up and headed to what looked to each of us as the fishiest water.
The shadows receded from the corners and soon the bright sunlight fell on the entire pond. I looked at my watch and guessed our trip had taken two hours of the best fishing time. With each of us taking a different side of the pond, we quickly covered the water and converged back at the truck to compare notes.
I had thrown popping bugs on a fly rod, another had tossed artificial worms, while the other two had cast hard baits. We had driven two hours in all directions, cast and covered water in a pond that regularly produced for young fishermen, and luckily managed to avoid the snakes. For all our efforts, we had not one bite.
At this point, we decided to eat lunch. That is, if we could still find the Dairy Queen.
âFishing Directionsâ is an excerpt from Jimâs new book, The Jon Boat Years. You can order copies from the University of South Carolina Press at https://uscpress.com/The-Jon-Boat-Years