BRAISED CARP Part 2~ ADD SALT TO TASTE. . .

In our courting days, Mike's fate was surely sealed when I learned that he liked to fish, as if as his hazel eyes and auburn hair were not enough to turn my head. Early in the month of June, he and I went on our first date, fishing below the dam at Keystone Lake near Tulsa.

I pulled several fish out of the water that day, including a nice 3-pound drum. I could tell Mike lacked confidence tossing a line, and his retrieval could use some finesse, but I could also tell how much he enjoyed fishing. Mike caught no fish that day, but he had me hooked.

A few summers after our first dream date, we were fishing off the banks of the Arkansas River near the town of Sand Springs. Fishing off a gentle bend of the river, going for catfish, we were using chicken livers and fishing the bottom. In late spring the water was low and clear and babbled gently as it rolled past us.

Mike and I were getting frustrated losing tackle in the rocks where the catfish were surely lying, just beyond the sandbar, though so far we had little luck proving the effort to be worth our time. The few scrawny catfish we caught were not really worth taking home, though we had placed two of the catfish on our stringer.

By our own tradition, we had to take home a few fish for good luck, but this day our luck had been so bad, we had kept fish we would have released any other day.

Mike pointed to something fairly large repeatedly breaking the water leaving a subtle wake of gentle rings all along the stained backwaters of the sandbar. 

We both knew this was a sign of fish feeding, a sign that could taunt the most seasoned fishermen. I just shook my head no, though Mike did not understand why. The fisherman's oath not to scare fish away, is silence, so I did not explain my lack of interest.

After a time, having lost all patience catching small-fry catfish, Mike changed his tactics for what he was certain would be for bigger and easier prey. I knew Mike well enough to know he was going for the fish showing a willful disregard of danger by dining right under his feet.  

Huffing and mumbling to himself he dug through the tackle box where he drew out a round, red and white bobber. Snapping the bright, round float to his line, he tossed his baited rig into the gently swirling backwater behind me and to my left.

As he pulled up his chair to face his new line of attack, I decided to break my oath. I asked what he thought he was doing.

"I'm tired of losing tackle.," he whispered. " I think I'll have better luck over here." I softly chuckled, "You ever caught a carp before?" He answered, "Caught what? Carp. . . ? Why?" "I didn't think so," I said. "No, I never caught a carp," he confessed.

"Well," I snickered under my breath, "You're about to."
To be continued. . .in my next blog post.

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Links I Like

Historical Tidbits about the Keystone Area

How did Keystone get its name? and Mannford? These questions are answered, and more. My only complaint is the writer might have included a bibliography, but I cannot dispute any part of this blog.

I caught a drum! Let's start a rock band!

I caught my drum in a river, and although it was not suitable for playing in a band, it is capable of making a drum-like noise, hence its name.

Keystone Lake Information

You will find here the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers' description of Keystone lake, everything a water sports lover may want to know about Keystone.  

What I like about the USACE lake information sites are the outstanding photographs of the dams. I interpret these photos as bragging to which I believe they are entitled. US Army Corps Engineers are the ones responsible for designs I consider among the marvels of our time.  

Knowing that nothing lasts forever leads one to wonder of what disasters might follow a break in the dam. As I stand casting a line along the river within sight of one of our massive dams, I take a deep breath realizing my own life would be one of the first to go. 

These photos from the USACE of our area dams shot from above, at a distance, can stir up more comforting thoughts than when seen from below, squatting near a river bank.

With more than 200 man made lakes in Oklahoma, I cannot say I fished below them all, but I have fished more than a few. I have spent a lifetime playing in the waters beneath dams. 

• Swimming in cool water and tanning on hot gravel bars in the scorching sun.
• Hearing my dad say "That! is a channel cat!" answering my question and holding it out for me to see in the dim evening light.
• Watching the women in my family cooking a campfire breakfast at dawn while I watched our sleeping youngsters. The men were off fishing a crappie run. 
• Turning toward the sound of a deep hollow hoot coming from Mike as he caught his first blue cat, 25-lbs.
• Glimpsing a bald eagle overhead and watching it dip down into the river to snatch a white bass in its talons.
• Shoving young fishermen half again the size of me, out of my way with no apologies. They were headed for the rod holder with my bobbing fishing pole. At the end of the line was a 13-lb. flathead. It was mine, not theirs.  

Their jealousy was evident as I struggled to bring the fish onto the bank. Later, a couple of the young men approached Mike, and they asked how to rig their line and bait their hook for the kind of fishing we seemed to have mastered.  

Mike just laughed and pointed at me. "I don't know anything about it. You need to talk to Grandma there," he said.  

He spoke the truth, but they never asked this old grandma a thing, and they did not get so much as a bite over the next hour as we stayed to watch them. 

A dam is more than just an engineering marvel. For me, dams release memories along with the water.