Crappies and Bees Tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity. Sleep just didn’t happen the night before the long anticipated trip. My mind raced faster than Dale’s #3 Goodwrench Chevy at Talladega. Did I pack my rain suit? Are three Crappie poles enough? What about my fillet knife? Take the electric or the trusty old Rapala? Better take both just in case there is no electrical outlet at the fish cleaning station. The new jigs I bought are in my tackle box, right? By now I realize that sleep was a figment of my imagination. As I roll out of bed the blur of the light from the clock on the dresser convinced me that I’d not slept a wink. If I were a betting man, I would have placed a couple of bucks on it being well past six, but the digital numbers didn’t lie when it showed 3:45. To think I’d gone to bed early so I’d be rested for the trip was bizarre. I was wide-awake and pooped! Coffee, yeah, that’s what I need, as if I wasn’t wired enough. The guys would be here to pick me up in just two hours. Can’t sleep and gotta wait two hours. What a bummer. Better have some more coffee. Then sun was muted behind a sheet of hazy clouds over Reelfoot Lake.
Conditions were perfect. I unloaded my gear at the Eagle’s Talon Dock where a guy named Wesley, (at least that was the name on his uniform shirt) appeared to be the boat attendant. He looked to be about 137 years old. I said, “Hi Wesley, fish biting? He just said, “be in by dark, Sonny.” I replied, “Yes sir, Wesley.” I’d say he was a fixture at the resort and a man of few words.  Never before had I seen or had the opportunity to fish a lake with Cypress trees right out in the middle.  I spied an abandoned duck blind where most of the vegetation had been removed. After maneuvering cautiously, so I would not disturb the structure around the blind, I lightly tied up to one of the corner posts. I knew that this was going to be a great spot for slab crappies because the vegetation that was on the blind was now in the water under my boat. One thing I know about crappie is the size of the fish is directly proportional to how gnarly the brush pile is stacked.  Just seconds after the small ⅛ oz. chartreuse and white jig settled at about seven feet I felt the tug that only a slab crappie pulling on my line can give. Time after time the same scenario occurred. This came to a screeching halt when our fishing buddies came roaring up and hit the opposite pole of the blind. They’d just finished tying up when I heard one of them yell, “BEES.” They’d shaken the blind and the quake caused the bees to react in the only way they knew how. My partner and I quickly untied and backed away from the firestorm of stinging bees. While we were unscathed, our blundering buddies were getting the wrath of their bad boatmanship. As we pulled away we couldn’t help but laugh at our buddies trying to swat and untie at the same time.  By late afternoon we’d filled our live wells and were ready to clean and eat the trophies of our catch. With the sun at our backs and coolness filling the air I figured it was about time to head back to the dock. From hundred yards away I spied a figure at the Eagle’s Talon Dock that resembled a cigar store Indian. Closer and closer the figure didn’t move but I knew it was Wesley. As we nudged the dock I said. “Hey Wes.” To which he replied. “Somebody’s gotta be last.” Usually fishing trips are over and done.  |
