Fishing with Bubba
© 2004 Gary L. Benton
Camping during spring or early summer is always a lot of fun. There is just something about springtime, camping, and fishing that fills me with excitement. I have to be honest; I have camped all over the world, but always return to Missouri for my finest out of doors experiences. I have countless memories of long past camping trips. I really enjoy the feeling of contentment I get as I watch a sunrise. Usually I am sitting by an open fire, sipping on a cup of hot coffee, and smelling the bacon sizzle in the old cast iron skillet beside me. I remember on trip not too long ago with my cousin Bubba.
The false dawn was slowly filling the sky. I could just make out the outlines of the nearby hills and trees against the skyline. I had added a few pieces of kindling to the still red coals, left over from the previous night campfire, and watched as the flames flared up. A small shiver ran through my body. I could feel the night chill still in the air, and smell the dawn of a new day. After a few minutes I added coffee to the old pot and placed it on the coals next to the flames. It just doesn't get much better than this, I thought to myself. Peace and quiet, at least for a little while each morning.
“Heck fire, cold as the dickens out heah! Hain't it Mule? Wooeeeee!!!” A loud southern voice broke my serenity.
I turned toward the unexpected voice to see Bubba. He was exiting his tent in his long johns, boots, and a ball cap on his head at a strange angle. First thing Bubba did when he woke up was to put his cap on.
“Bubba, why do you have to yell?” I asked, not just a little upset with him for interrupting my thoughts. Now, Bubba is my cousin and I guess I love him (a bitter sweet love at best), but why could he never enjoy the finer things when experiencing nature? He never seemed to enjoy just being alive.
“I wasn't yellin', just getting yer attention is all. I thought you was asleep.” He replied as he scratched his backside and looked at me with those big dumb sad looking eyes of his. See, Bubba has beagle eyes, yep, eyes just like the dog.
I turned, picked up the largest skillet next to the fire, looked back at Bubba and asked him, “How many eggs you want and how do you want them cooked.”
“Six and done.” Was his response as he turned and made his way to the outhouse.
As I watched him walk away to take care of his business, I was amazed. Bubba was a very educated man. Believe it or not, he was college educated, ran his own business, and was kind of financially successful. Nonetheless, he always looked like he needed a bath, haircut, and new clothes. You know the type. You can dress them in gold and lace, but they still look like hogs. Life never ceases to amaze me.
I took out six eggs, cracked them open, dropping them into the skillet. I moved some hot coals to my cooking area, which had three rocks, positioned like a triangle, and placed the skillet on three rocks. The rocks acted like a platform for the skillet and the coals made cooking easier than flames did. It is hard to regulate the heat from a flame. I did the same for a pan of bacon. As I was scrambling the eggs in the skillet I heard Bubba return.
“Dang. I wanted my eggs fried, not scrambled.” He said as he leaned over the campfire and let loose a string of tobacco juice.
“Bubba, ya spit near the food again and I will scramble you instead of the eggs. I don't care if you chew, just not near the food or drinks.” I felt anger rising in me.
“You are as touchy as my little lady in her kitchen on a Sunday morning a-fore church.” He spoke as he took a comfortable position on the ice chest.
As soon as he had spoken, he got a far away look in his eyes and seemed to be contemplating something. Now, as I have said before, when Bubba starts to thinking I get scared. I don't believe he has ever had an original idea in his whole life. Nope, not even one. Like my grand daddy used to say about Bubba, he could argue with a fence post all day...and lose the argument.
I kept turning the eggs and watched the coffee start to perk in the old coffee pot. I remembered buying that pot about twenty years before. It was now covered with small dents and bottom was stained a permanent black from many campfires. Each dent was a memory of a camping trip past. That old pot was full memory of fun and excitement. Sort of like a diary of my trips, I thought to myself. Once again Bubba disturbed my thoughts.
“Ya know what I'd really like to do today? I thank a good hike down the river, fishing the banks, would be great fun. What ya thank Mule?”
“Bubba. I don't really care. I figured we could take some sandwiches, fish all day, and have a nice thick steak for dinner. Sure, walking the banks could be fun.”
“Or, do you thank wading and fishing the banks would be better?”
“FISH BUBBA! I don't care if we walk the banks, wade the streams, float on tire tubes, or just fish from the low water bridge. I just want to FISH!” Dang, he could sure get me upset with the simplest words. Then I thought to myself, I am being unreasonable. I flew off the handle for no reason at the man. He is just making conversation to determine what my goals are for the day.
I looked over at Bubba and watched as he released another stream of tobacco juice in the weeds at his feet. He turned, looked at me, blinked a few times and said, “Them eggs is on far and I didn't brang no tubes to float on.”
Well, the eggs weren't on fire, but they were a bit on the done side. It was the bacon that was on fire. I placed a lid on the skillet, removed it very cautiously from the fire, placed it on the grass, and left it for a few minutes. When I removed the lid and looked in, the bacon was in sad shape. About half of it was black and the other half was a very dark brown. I picked up the skillet to throw the bacon out when I heard Bubba say, “Don't even think about it. I like me bacon crisp. That will do me fine.”
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and burned bacon, well I skipped the bacon; we started gathering our gear to do a little fishing. Or, I thought we were. Bubba had his coveralls on, his many patched chest waders, his floatation vest, his fishing vest, his creel, his net, his knife, his lucky Vietnam tiger stripped boony hat, and his fishing pole when he suddenly said, “I gotta go potty.” As I watched him meander off to the outhouse, I sat on my log, poured me another cup of coffee, opened a book, and relaxed. I had lots of time.
I must have dozed off because the next thing I remember was Bubba tapping me on the shoulder and saying, “You gonna sleep all day or are we still a-goin' fishin'? Don't know why I fish with you. All you ever want to do is sleep.”
I slowly got up, put my vest on and my hip waders, picked up my rod and reel, and followed Bubba down the trail that led to the river. Now, we call it a river, but the Little Piney is hardly more than a good size stream. It is swift in parts and cold as all get out. As a matter of fact, Bubba and I often took a pillowcase, filled it with soft drinks or beer, tied a rope to it, and lowered it in the river to keep our drinks cold. The only problem was that Bubba often forgot to tie the other end of the rope to a tree or rock. More than once we lost all our drinks.
Now, there are three things sure as the sunrises that you will see when camping in the south. I assure you, you will see ticks, chiggers, and snakes. Before we even got to the water I had seen three out of three. I pulled a big tick off of my boot and saw the red spot of a chigger on my left hand. Near the bend in the trail I watched Bubba step over a big Copperhead snake and he just kept on walking. Not me! I took the tip of my rod and motivated the snake to move. No, I didn't hit it. I sort of flipped it. Once the trail was clear I continued on my way.
“Bubba, didn't you see that snake?” I asked surprised that he had not seen it. Bubba was scared to death of snakes. Seems when he was a youngster he got bit on the backside and since that day he stays clear of 'em.
“Weren't no snakes on the trail or I would have seen 'em. You trying to scare me Mule?” He spoke as he walked. He didn't even glance back at me or really look at the pathway. I suspect he was daydreaming and never saw the snake.
When I was a kid growing up in the country, all you had to do to scare a child was talk about snakes. Copperheads, Cottonmouths, or Rattlesnakes would do the job. While city folks had Count Dracula and Jack the Ripper, we had snakes. Think of them as the bogeyman without arms and legs and you got the picture.
Soon we were in the water fishing the banks. I had made a few casts and nothing was hitting at all. Bubba was not having any luck either. We continued to fish until noon. We then quit and ate our sandwiches on the bank, washing them down with a can of warm soda pop. Then, back we went into the water.
After about an hour we were still empty handed. I made a final cast and decided if I didn't catch anything within an hour I was done for the day. As I played my lure I was relaxed, just waiting for the fish to hit. My mind was at peace, thinking of nothing, when I heard a blood-curdling scream come from Bubba. I turned just in time to see him slip, fall in the water, get up, fall again, get up, and start running toward the bank. I was startled, but confused. What had caused all of this?
“Snakes, thousands of snakes! Mule! Snakes!” Bubba yelled as the water ran off of his clothes onto the bank making it more slippery.
If there is one thing I hate in this world, it is a person who yells snake and doesn't tell me where the critter is! There I was, calf deep in the river, Bubba climbing up the muddy riverbank, him yelling snake, and me having no idea where the snake was.
“Where is the snake, Bubba?” My head was turning 360 degrees in an attempt to see a snake.
“In the water, you idjet!” He yelled as he reached the top of the bank on his hands and knees.
“Where in the water Bubba? Where is it? Where!” I was becoming concerned now. I had heard that snakes could not bite if they were underwater, but I didn't want to check the accuracy of that statement right then. Well, my cousin Bubba never said another word. Last I saw of him he was heading full steam down the trail toward our campsite. Oh, by the way, I never saw the snake either.
I never saw a single snake, much less the thousands I had heard about. I decided the days fishing was finished so I climbed the bank and walked back to camp. On the way back to camp I picked up Bubbas rod and reel, his creel box, his left wader and his knife. About an hour later, when I got to camp Bubba was stretched out beside the campfire sleeping. I was disgusted. Here he was, a big man, scared of a little snake. I wasn't even sure he had seen a snake. He had been terrified actually. It was then the idea hit me. It was pay back time.
I took a small twig and ran it along the side of Bubba's left leg as he slept. Well, he may be a lot of things, but a heavy sleeper right then and there he was not. Before I could react, his right hand, full of cast iron skillet, swung and struck my right hand. Cold bacon grease splashed all over my shirt and pants.
Later that night as Bubba nursed his coffee, I nursed my sore and swollen hand. Nothing was broken, but it hurt. Bubba leaned back against the log and turned to look at me as he said, “Now, tomorrow I got me an idee to put out some limb lines mayhap. You want to hep me some?”
“Naw, my hand hurts too much.” I answered hoping I sounded in pain. I wanted nothing to do with Bubba or limb lines in the morning. If I could end up like this from wading, I would be lucky to survive a limb line. Then, it struck me. “Sure Bubba. Lets get a good nights sleep, hope the snakes leave us alone tonight, and I think will hep ya in the mornin'”
“Snakes? You think they will come into our campsite?” His eyes were suddenly very big.
“Well, they was in the water and we are near the water, right?”
I knew right then that Bubba would be up all night on snake guard. He would not sleep until daylight, when his energy would be gone and fatigue would claim him. I, of course, would sleep all night and fish on my own by the bridge in the morning. Yep, life can be sweet at times, even when you camp and fish with Bubba.
