A Beanpole Story by Jim Mize
Beanpole had left me a message saying I should stop by his house after work to see his new project. A bit apprehensive, I decided to go anyway. I mean, this is the same guy who opened a vending-machine business with equipment that dispensed live crickets.
He was sitting at his kitchen table smiling across a pile of animal hides. Possum fur, fox tails, and deer hair were stacked in abundance. In front of Beanpole stood a tabletop vise with a jig hook in its grasp and thread hung underneath on a bobbin.
“Wow, Beanpole, that’s quite a deal you have going. What exactly are you doing?”
Beanpole beamed with pride as he explained.
“I am starting a business tying jigs and flies,” he said. “Most people struggle to make money but I have a cheap supply of materials that is the secret to turning a profit.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Roadkill. Anytime I see a critter on the shoulder of the road, I just pull over and trim off the useful parts. Then I bring them home, skin them out, and preserve them. All my competitors spend thousands buying this stuff that I find for nothing.”
I stood looking over the assortment of wild furs and feathers Beanpole had accumulated. His plan seemed logical which set me back for a moment. Logic and Beanpole generally didn’t travel together.
“Who buys these jigs and flies?” I asked.
“Tackle shops,” replied Beanpole. “Until people hear about them and start calling me up direct. I have orders for dozens already.”
“So is this legal, picking up all this stuff?” I asked, still not sure why this made sense.
“I don’t know, but to me, it’s a little like picking up litter,” said Beanpole. “It’s just going to waste.”
“True enough,” I said. So I gave up trying to find a flaw in Beanpole’s business plan and just watched him tie crappie jigs for a while. Then I congratulated him on his business venture and went home.
Over the next few weeks, I started noticing Beanpole’s flies and jigs in the local tackle shops. Called “Beanpole’s Bugs,” these concoctions were mostly in natural fur colors with some of the bucktails dyed red or green. Even the marina had displays in their shop and by all appearances sales were good.
So I was a little surprised the day Beanpole opened my door and proceeded on in without knocking. In his arms was a box overflowing with animal hides. And Beanpole himself looked like he had been dragged through blackberry brambles by wild hogs. He sat down and let out a sigh like a balloon coming untied.
“What’s up?” I asked, knowing a story would follow.
“Nell said to get rid of all this fly-tying stuff. So I thought you might want it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“It’s a long story,” said Beanpole, as if I might let him leave without hearing it. For some reason, he always tried this approach even though he knew it wasn’t going to happen.
“I’ve got the time,” I said.
“Well, Nell and I were coming back from church in her car on Sunday. It was a nice day, sunny and not too warm, when I noticed some roadkill up ahead. It’s like I have a radar for that stuff now.”
“So I pulled over slowly, let another car pass, and got out to see what it was. To my surprise, it was a bobcat.”
“Don’t see those too often,” I added.
“No, I was excited. Maybe a little too much as I picked up the whole critter and laid it on the back seat of Nell’s car.”
“What did she say about that?”
“Not much at first,” said Beanpole. “Then quite a bit. As it turns out, the bobcat wasn’t dead.”
“You mean it woke up?”
“Exactly,” said Beanpole. “It must have been stunned. Have you ever been driving down the road when a bobcat wakes up in your backseat?”
I paused as if I needed to think about it, but answered, “No, can’t say I have.”
“Well, this one wasn’t too thrilled about the free ride. It started doing laps around the car.”
“That must have been something to see,” I offered.
“Worse than that. Nell started smacking at it with her purse. I was trying to drive and grab the cat with my free hand. Every time it latched onto my arm I screamed, which scared Nell, and got the bobcat going faster. It attacked her Sunday hat, clawed up the upholstery, and then lit into me.”
Beanpole took a breath as if seeing it all happen again.
“Then, the bobcat jumped into the front seat and started attacking us both. By now, Nell had worn out her purse flogging the cat and had pulled up a floor mat to defend herself. I was trying to pull off on the side of the road but was weaving all over from the cat jumping on me. Finally, I thought to roll down the windows and the bobcat went sailing out the back window and ran off into the woods.”
Looking Beanpole over it appeared he might have escaped stitches but had enough scrapes that he’d probably be moving gingerly for a while.
“So I wanted to give you all this stuff,” he said, pushing the box across the table.
“Why won’t Nell let you tie flies anymore?”
“She says we can’t afford it.”
“I thought you were making money.”
“Not when you add in the damage to the car. The bobcat did over $2,000 damage to the interior and the insurance only covers roadkill from outside the car.”
“Besides,” said Beanpole with a wistful look in his eye, “Nell is afraid I might come across a bear.”
“Making Jigs and Flies” is an excerpt from Jim’s award-winning book, Fishing With Beanpole. You can order copies from Amazon or get autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.