----- "Hey, Kansas!" the old fisherman said after taking the pipe out of his
mouth and tapping out some of the ash. "If your goina' do much good in this
lake, you better throw away that stringer and get one of these buckets."
----- "Not with what I caught," I laughed. "What are you fishing for?"
----- My license plate had given away my 500 mile trek from Northern Kansas to
Western Oklahoma, back to my Caddo County roots. An avid fisherman, it
didn't take me long to discover the lakes. Both Chickasha Lake and Fort
Cobb Lake were just fifteen minutes from my driveway. The lakes were
beautiful; filled with lots of blue, clear water that almost begged to be
fished.
----- It must of been the last of September or early October when I first met
him; I can remember the nippishness in the air and the wind out of the
north. My dog and I had fought the Fort Cobb Dam for nearly three hours and
had come up with only a half dozen or so small bass and a few perch, none
of them keepers. Frustrated, I was calling it a day.
----- "Sandbass, Kansas. Sandbass."
----- Sandbass. A fish biologist in Kansas had warned me about the regional
name for white bass here in Oklahoma, and I had heard that Fort Cobb Lake
teamed with "sandies" - an angler's delight.
----- I kind of smiled and moved on down closer. A good fisherman will heed the
advice of the old timers that line the banks of their favorite fishing holes.
Another old codger was fishing a little farther down, oblivious to anyone
around, as I approached. He, too, had a 5 gallon bucket at his side.
----- "What's wrong with this stringer?" I asked as I held it up.
----- "Sandbass don't usually bite until about sundown... . If you really get into
them, you don't want to waste time puttin' 'em on a stringer. Just throw
'em in the bucket and get your jig out again. Wait around. We might get into
a few."
----- "Naw," I said. "I think I'll call it a day." The old man reached out his hand,
and I took it. Shaking my hand 'vigorously', he introduced himself.
----- "Don Jones," he said. "Most folks 'round here call me 'Jones'. I live down
there at the Ski Boy Drive-In. I own the place. You ought to stop in
sometime; the food is good."
----- I introduced myself and bid both fishermen adieu.
----- Friendships are great, but there is something about a fisherman's
friendship ... . Jones's friendship was special. He taught me all about
fishing the Fort Cobb Dam - how to catch them, when to get out there,
when to give up. Mr. Jones even taught me about life.
----- "Can you think of a better place to be than here, Kansas?" he would ask
after an hour of less than productive fishing. "Best place in the world to
unwind. Draws you close to God."
----- Of course he was correct, and almost any day when the weather was bad, I
could be assured that ol' man Jones was out there fighting the wind off
the riprap near the east end of the dam, fishing for sandies. It was an
unannounced meeting place for us - a place where we could relax and jaw
a little. Jones came from Rocky, once the basketball capitol of Western
Oklahoma, but now he bid his time operating a small ice cream shop and
fishing Fort Cobb Lake.
----- "Kansas," he would say. "If you ever want to get a reputation as a
good fisherman, never tell anybody about the times you were skunked!"
----- Good advice for fishermen and non-fishermen alike. But that's not all he
taught me. With ole' man Jones, fishing wasn't competitive, though often
he would act like it was.
"When you caught that first bass," he would say. "It didn't make me mad
- just made me want to fish a little harder. But when you caught that
second one, now that hacked me off!"
----- Fishing the Fort Cobb Dam had a halcyonic affect on troubled minds,
especially when the fish were biting. One evening I took a fifth grader,
who was going through a particularly difficult divorce, out to the dam to
catch a few sandies and forget about the trials of familial turmoil. The
fish were biting. Jones was catching them one after the other, and I was
humping it to keep up with him.
----- "I keep getting bites, but I can't catch any," the lad complained urgently
after 15 minutes without a fish.
----- "Just keep your jig out there and you'll catch one pretty soon," I yelled
excitedly, not wanting to loose any fishing time by checking the boy's line
and lettin' the ol' master fisherman put it on my head.
----- Quickly Jones laid his rod down and took the youngster's out of the
water as I kept on fishing.
----- "Hoss," the old fisherman said loudly as he examined the boy's jig. "You
need to go home and tell your momma on Mr. Hill. This jig doesn't have a
hook on it. Mr. Hill sure didn't want you to catch many fish when he gave
you this reel!" Then he stopped examining the jig and looked at me. "Mr.
Hill, you should be ashamed!" I was.
----- Embarrassed and humbled, I took time out to put an artificial bait on my
friend's line and waited meekly for him to catch his first fish. Mr. Jones
always took a little time out for others, no matter how good the going
was or how bad.
----- One late winter day, when the wind was just right, I stopped by to pick
him up. Ol' Jones kind of blocked the door and didn't invite me in. I knew
something was wrong.
----- "Ah," he said with a quiver in his voice that was uncharacteristic of his
nearly 70 years of fishing. "I just haven't felt like fishing too much since
the woman died." He swallowed deeply and bravely fought back the tears.
----- I was crushed and speechless. I tried to offer him an apology. Stunned, I
drove down to the lake and stared at the water lapping against the rocks.
It was useless. I had lost any mood to fish. I found myself driving back
home without wetting a hook. It just wasn't the same.
----- Oh, I did see him out there a few times after that and even fished with
him some, but things were different. His smile wasn't as ready, and the
loss of his mate seemed to have robbed the ol' fisherman of his wisdom
and humor. No, he just wasn't the same.
----- One Spring day, nearly a year later, I was doing the school crosswalk
when I spotted ol' man Jones's son.
----- "I gotta' get over there and go fishin' with Mr. Jones," I said.
----- "Well, it'll be awhile," his son broke the news to me. "Jones had a stroke.
Bad one. It's not likely he'll ever go fishing again."
----- I was dazed. The cars blurred as my head spun, and I fought back tears. I
felt like going home - a semi-state of depression set in. Was my 10 years
of fisherman friendship over? Could I ever fish Fort Cobb again?
----- I was honored by serving as a pallbearer at his funeral not long after that.
The preacher talked about fishing and being a part of nature as I wiped the
tears away. My mind flashed back to bygone fishing experiences; those
times were over for good.
----- But now, when I'm found fishing along the Fort Cobb Dam, most assuredly
my thoughts go back to a better time - a time when ol' man Jones and I
shared a fisherman's tale and a fisherman's friendship. Yes, those times
are gone. But I'm sure as long as that dam beckons fishermen, it will
spawn new friendships. After all, fisherman friendships are eternal.
}