When I was a boy. Fishing and swimming were chief summer pastimes. The word. “pastime” might give a wrong connotation; farm boys of that day did not usually have a lot of time to “pass.” Especially was this so in our case as Pa devoted most of his time to blacksmith work and preaching, leaving the farm work largely to us. In all fairness, I should say the girls also helped in certain areas, but we boys, under the supervision of our grown brother. Eli carried much of the responsibility for the field work, fencing and sprout cutting. It was sheer “luxury” for us when we caught up on our work enough that we could take an afternoon off for our own pleasure. However, one way or another, we managed to squeeze in a little fishing and swimming fairly often. In the case of fishing, a point could always be made by the reminder that fish provided food for the table. A long time before the days of game wardens and licenses, all we had to do was ask Pa. and if he said “go.” then off we went, exulting in our freedom and in the treasures which nature had so abundantly supplied to us.
The Camp Creek Shut-ins, between Firebaugh and Bear mountains, provided our best fishing, as well as many good swimming holes. Nature had done a splendid job in this little canyon; boulders and waterfalls and deep holes of water that “held” the summer through, no matter how droughty. Since fish always travel upstream during, high rises, the deep holes were abundantly supplied with fish. We had a number of ways we fished; with- jig, with bow and arrows, and after a big rain, with line and hook, as so often done in cloudy water. However, most of the time the water was too clear for this kind of fishing. Another way, which may not be well known, we called “hogging.” To hog a fish, one quietly watches the water until he sees a fish go under a rock; then he slips into the water, going down on his back until he can reach into the hole under the rock and pull the fish out. We boys persuaded ourselves that a fish would not go under a rock if a snake was there. But this theory proved to be false, at least one time that I now of.
One afternoon, when we were hogging fish, I spotted a nice bass, which went under a certain big rock. So I went down, put my hand and arm back under the rock and got my fingers around him. I thought he put up quite a battle, for a fish, but it had been a big fish that I had seen. When I finally, succeeded in bringing him out, he turned out to be a cotton-mouth snake! Of course, I lost no time in begging his pardon with every possible gesture of surrender and retreat! After this experience, hogging lost its appeal for a while. The bow and arrow and the jig gained favor with us the jig for big fish, the bow and arrow for small fish, such as perch and goggle-eye.
Why that snake did not bite me, only my guardian angel knows. A cotton mouth can certainly bite under water! I know this for a fact, because it happened to my playmate. John Wilson, in my presence. Several of us had gone up to the Shut-ins one Sunday afternoon to swim. John dived in first.
When he came up. He made for the shore, telling us he had snagged his foot. As he heaved himself out, we were horrified to see a cotton-mouth hanging to his foot. It turned loose as soon as it was brought out into the air. Fortunately, one of the boys had his horse. We loaded John on the horse and he was taken home with all speed where he was first given a little drink of whiskey and then one or the other of two old-time remedies applied. Either remedy will save the life of a snake-bite victim if it can be used in time. I doubt the advisability of the whiskey, as it would increase circulation, but the old timers had a theory, that being a poison, whiskey would kill a poison. Most people kept a little whiskey for medicine, even if they would never touch it as a beverage. In those days, the doctor was not the first thing thought of.
I am sure the fact that John lived can be credited to the soaking of his foot in kerosene, or else to a chicken being split open and bound about his foot, entrails and all, and perhaps in spite of the whiskey. I cannot recall which remedy they used in this instance, but I have known both remedies to have been successfully used. It takes a good amount of kerosene, because it quickly, becomes green and must be emptied. Fresh kerosene must be poured into the pan over and over until the poison is drawn out and the kerosene shows not even a tinge of green. Likewise, the inside of the chicken, as the venom flows into it, becomes very green. Nevertheless, John got terribly sick, almost to death, as invariably happens if much time elapses before treatment.
Although we liked to think of Camp Creek as our own special possession, we did not have undisputed “rights” to it. Always we had to contend with those cotton-mouths! One time, when Millard and I were fishing in the shut-ins, we had a snake battle, which the snakes very nearly won! I went a few paces up the creek to check on a large bass, which lived in a certain water hole. We had had our eye on this bass for some time, but had not been able to catch him. The creek was low, and the boulders, which held the water in the various deep holes, cut off all means of escape for their “resident” fish. This might be our chance to get that bass!
When I got there, I found that a big cotton-mouth had already staked his claim to that particular water hole. I certainly should have respected his “rights,” but over-estimating my skill, I threw my jig, expecting to do away him at one stroke. But unfortunately, the jig only glanced his head, making him very mad. Out he came, followed by another cotton-mouth fully as big and menacing as he. I made for the steep, rocky path, which led up the mountain-side to the road above. Within seconds, it became evident that, however scared I got, my adrenalin was going to be insufficient to outrun those snakes! My frantic yells brought Millard on the double. With his longer legs, he managed to circle the snakes, in a few fast leaps. Picking up a rock, he hurled it at the lead snake, not over six feet from me and gaining fast. Miraculously, he scored a direct hit, sending the first snake rolling over the other snake and they both rolled back down the hill. I then joined Millard in “rocking” them until they took refuge under a boulder.
But this snake battle ruined our day. As soon as we regained our normal breathing. we got our jigs and went home. Happenings of this kind seldom found their way to Ma’s ear. We must have kept our guardian angels busy! I have little doubt but that Millard’s crucial and surprisingly accurate first “throw” saved my life. We were quite a distance from home and on foot. Another time. I saved Fred from a cotton-mouth. Fred and I were on our way to the Smith farm to fish in one of our regular places; not so far from home. At this point, the creek, bordered by timber on each side, ran between broad fields, very different from the shut-ins. Fred was walking along about twenty feet ahead of me, going past a log, when suddenly I saw a very large cotton-mouth on the log, coiled and ready to strike. Fred did not see the snake. Just as it jumped, I raised my gun, only about halfway up and fired without taking aim. I shot the snake in mid-air, ripping its middle open! In another instant, it would have struck Fred on the face, very likely proving fatal.
No credit is due me as a marksman. As I said, I had no time to take aim. I was probably no more than 10 or 12 years old at this time, not a good marksman at that age, had I taken aim. I really do not know why I had a gun. Usually we did not take a gun when we went fishing. Guns were for hunting, and that we did in the fall and winter, and at our age, with the older boys. Here again, is ample evidence that Fred’s guardian angel was on the job!
Cotton-mouth snakes were not the only varmints that claimed residence in the valley. We needed to be ever alert for creatures of all kinds. Most of them posed no threat. I would not want to scare anyone away from the woods. One should have some experience in woods lore before trusting themselves in the woods, especially alone. But compared to a modern highway-well, I would rather trust myself in the woods! The woods “animal” that bothered me most was the chigger!
Returning one day from a fishing trip, Fred and I saw a black bear sitting on a limb, which grew out of an enormous black oak. A grown black bear will seldom climb a tree, but in this case the limb grew so low to the ground that about all he had to do was walk up. We passed very near this tree before we saw the bear. Fred took off like greased lightning, but I stopped to get a better look. I established his identity beyond doubt. But one growl sent me after Fred with all expediency, Eli’s over-sized (for me) jig hitting the ground first behind and then in front of me. Our recital of this exciting tale brought disappointment. The family would not believe us. They thought we had seen a panther or some other such animal, and that we had been too scared to know what we saw. But a day or so later some “reliable” witness saw the same bear; and his huge footprints were also noted in different places. This made us feel better, for a boy, there is no frustration like seeing a big bear and having no one believe you!
On Sunday afternoons Ed and Ralph Newlan, the Wilson boys, Jess and John, and we Brooks boys always spent our time together. Whatever else we did, no Sunday afternoon seemed complete without a visit to the shut-ins, especially in summer. At times others joined us: Bill Arnold, Gus and Charlie Ellis and other boys from Lower Camp Creek, as well as more distant friends and relatives who sometimes visited in one or another of our homes. It was not unusual on those summer afternoons for twenty or more boys to make up our group.
We were allowed to go swimming on Sunday, but fishing was forbidden. However, we soon devised a way of getting around this prohibition. We would not have dared to take our jigs or the bows and arrows, but hogging seemed to be a different matter, even though it yielded the same results. I think the tales we told our parents must have made it appear that fish practically swam into our hands, bringing to mind Aaron’s golden calf, which made itself! Remember, when Aaron was called to account, he explained to Moses how he had taken the gold the children of Israel gave him- “Then I cast it into the fire, and there came out this calf.” No effort at all! Frequently we managed to catch a number of fine fish in this effortless way! People have not changed much in all their history.
Preachers” sons are sometimes credited with being the worst boys in the country. We were probably no worse, nor any better than the average. I do not believe we led the gang in mischief, neither did we always set the best example. Pa spent most of his weekends away from home, meeting his Saturday night. Sunday and Sunday night appointments, but Ma must have known about our Sunday fishing. At that time Ma’s health was not so good; she could not take those weekends away from home anymore as a regular thing. I never cared much for fish except to catch them, and I do not clearly remember what happened after we got home with the fish. But there was no refrigeration, so I am quite sure the girl’s, probably Ruth cooked them for supper.
Mr. Wilson was very strict about his Sunday keeping. Jess and John were afraid to take their part of the fish home which left more for the rest of us. This went on for some time, but it must have gotten out around the valley that the Brookses and the Newlans were having Sunday night fish suppers. One Sunday afternoon when we went by to pick up the Wilson boys to go “swimming.” Mr. Wilson came out and gave us a little lecture on the “sin” of fishing on Sunday. He ended by saying: “Jess, you and John better not go fishing this afternoon: now remember that!” He paused for a moment seeming reluctant to leave it at that. Suddenly turning, just as he started to leave, we were surprised to hear him say: “But if you do go fishing. Be sure and bring the fish home!”
