Catfishstravaganza III

You may remember my post last year where my niece, Daisy, was sprawled out sleeping amongst the catfish. Well, regrettably, Daisy wasn't around for this year's excursion, but we went to my uncle's pond again for the third annual catfish catch and fry. The first year we caught around thirty fish in three hours and once we started to fillet them, we realized we had our hands full, but I was impressed more that we cleaned so many catfish while drinking without at least someone slicing a finger off. Last year we ended up with eighteen, and still had our hands full. This year we only scraped by with eight, but that didn't mean it was uneventful-quite the contrary!

The first year, after Daisy had been worn out by numerous catfish, she hooked into General Sherman, a Leviathan of a fish, but as she reeled him close to shore he gave one last lunge and thrash and snapped her line. I saw his head come out of the water, and it looked to me about two fists wide, grizzled and mottled--a true beast. She nearly cried. Last year, Brian hooked into the hogger, we suspect, and battled him until it broke his line. He nearly cried.

This year, was Andy's turn. The day started with Andy creating a song for Brian's fourteen-foot Chinese cane pole he got as a gift on a business trip to China that came in a giant carrying case with a built-in stand: "Brian's Chinese cane pole; it comes in a golf bag and looks so very fine..." It turns out the ancient Chinese secret was how to string the thing, and the directions did not help much, since they were all in Chinese. But I digress. Not long into the morning, after a couple average catches, good eating size, Andy hooked into a whale. It was another battle; we all had our fingers crossed, and fortunately for Andy, the fancy golf/cane pole bag had a retractable landing net that Brian used to bring the monster ashore. I swear I had seen that mottled face two years before...General Sherman! He weighed 5lbs 2oz and measured at 26.5 inches. Now whether this is The General or not remained to be seen, but he definitely fit the bill.

Brian, still reeling from last years disappointing loss, cast his lot in the same deep hole as last year's battle royale. I had sent him off for more bait because he had shoes on, and I didn't, so he left his pole and jogged to the other side of the pond while I watched his pole leaned against a giant rock, a pretty safe spot to leave your pole, unless General Sherman is actually still in the pond. I saw the pole bend violently, but by the time I ran the eight feet back to it, it had lifted of the ground, bounced off the top of the rock, and shot into the pond. Before I could get my phone out of my pocket and dive in (which I was poised to do by the time Brian sprinted back in a panic) the pole disappeared like a shot into the deep. Brian stood in disbelief, both hands pasted to the top of his head, staring into the abyss.

Maybe The General had not been caught. Maybe our arrogance had made us feel comfortable and safe. Maybe something greater than all of us decided we needed a slice of humble pie. Regardless, I felt responsible. I had sent Brian for more bait, and I had been on watch when the pole was ripped from the shore. The only chance I had was to drag the pond with my catfish rig in the hopes I could snag the pole. Brian was disheartened and pessimistic, and Andy just watched shaking his head at my pathetic attempt to redeem myself. What were the chances?

It turns out, they were pretty good! On the fourth cast and drag, I felt my hook snag something. Everyone held their breath, and when my hook came out of the water, it was attached to fishing line, and right behind it emerged Brian's pole, tip first like Excalibur from the murky depths, but the fish was not there. Directly after, on the same rod, we suspect that Brian caught the very same fish who had just taken his pole.

Overall, I only caught one catfish, but we had a great time and plenty of fish for a successful cookout over an open fire. Whether or not Andy actually did catch General Sherman or not remains to be seen until next year, but there were enough close calls and snapped lines to lead us to believe he may still be out there waiting and laughing at our pathetic attempt to tame the creatures that lurk fifteen feet below the surface of my aunt and uncle's pond.