|The crappie of haunted lake / a ghost story|
|Wednesday, April 11, 2012|
I have not killed a turkey, only went for a few minutes one time. So, I will tell you this story.
Haunted? -- I guess just about anything can be haunted. Usually, when you think of haunted, you think of a house. But I know a lake that is haunted. I can’t tell you where it is, I am sworn to secrecy. However, it is haunted. I can tell you the story just way it came about. See, the thing is, for some reason, I seem to be attracted to places that have, I guess you say, strange occurrences-lakes, houses, canyons etc. Maybe I attract the unusual. This is about a lake, perhaps a haunted lake. Some call it Nock-e-nut. I have never known why.
It is full of crappie and bream and bass, this haunted lake stuck on an island in the middle of a swamp. It is hard to get to, as are most lakes with large fish populations. The island is several hundred acres in size, the lake in the middle, maybe 100-acres. I have fished the lake several times. It is a favorite spring lake for crappie or specs as they are called down there. I went some years ago, went just for the bass fishing. It was planned we would fish Mound Bayou, Saline and maybe Little Larto. Instead, we went to the haunted lake. Here is how it came about.
It was just good daylight when Uncle Lester and I got the boat in. The water was down and we saw could drive onto the island. That is what prompted us to fish the haunted lake. Since there is nothing resembling a boat ramp on this lake, launching was no small feat. We just picked the boat up and threw it in. Between us, Uncle Lester and I have about half of one arm. In addition, that one barley worked. But we got ‘er done, aye grannies!
My first cast while it was still cool enough for a good shirt, I stuck it to a fat bass. We caught some of them and I kept an eye on whatever it was that was following the boat and mentioned once or twice that was sure a strange noise I heard coming from back in the swamp. Lester, he didn’t say nuthin. Lester, he doesn’t really like to fish the lake. Says it gives him the grannie wobbles.
About good sunburn time, I shed my shirt and man ole Sol felt good on my bad shoulders. This was before I had them worked on. I tend to favor fishing with my shirt off anyway. Then I got busy catching crappie. About every fourth, one was a big bream and Lester; he was matching me fish for fish. Along about second sandwich time, that’s what we called Old Milwaukee, we had to go to the bank and put our fish in the big cooler, they was flopping out of the smaller one. Then Lester, he dranked him a cold beer and I had me a one, too. Then we went back fishing.
We were throwing little jigs and tiny crankbaits on 4-pound line and the mixed bag deal kept up. Bass-bream-spec-bream spec-bass and so on. Every now and then, something very strange would make a wake behind the boat and follow us for a while. I tried to get a picture but it never stayed up long enough for me to get the camera in time for a good one.
Reckon I’ll have to get me one of them fancy phones like Jeanne has. I can say it was well over five feet long and not an alligator. I know gators, me. I didn’t try to take a picture of whatever was wailin back in the palmetto and cypress. Mostly, I was just glad that is where it stayed.
See, so they say, keeping in mind, ‘they say’ is the biggest liar on the bayou it was a good-looking young woman got drownded in the lake.
Lester tells it that he knew her. I reckon he might have. He knew a bunch of them, aye grannies. Anyway, said her husband drownt her. Tied her legs to a 5-gallon bucket full of cement and just pitched them both in. Givin it some thought, I reckoned that would do it.
So, story goes, she haunts the lake. Said a couple of frog giggers seen her clear as vodka one night. They told it she was walkin the bank and wailin something awful. Made me think of the noise I was hearing from time to time. Worse than the time Curtis Dillard stuck the frog gig through my arm or when Harold Dotson ran over my toes right in the middle of Hendersonville. Sount a little like a chainsaw bad stuck in a bodoc tree.
Then Lester he stopped talking to pull in one of them Cajun bull bream and we commenced to talking about supper. I allowed it would be fresh fish fillets with green onions, fried taters and some sliced tomaters and I would not mind seeing some of the old friends from when I lived there. See, Lester, he has a hot house and his maters is ready early. Lester got on his cell phone that won’t take pictures and called a couple folks we both knew and we allowed we had best get home and start filleting fish.
So we did.
I wouldn’t want to be on that lake after dark but I wouldn’t mind another day of perch jerking. Just about that time here, too. Some medium minnows or small jigs around the brush piles on Old Hickory just might give you a good break from turkey hunting. Try it.