By the summer of 1946, WW II had ended the previous August and gas rationing had gone away. We celebrated these events by taking a trip to visit my Aunt Lenora and Uncle Pete and their two kids in Temple, Texas. I was excited to see the family, but really excited because Uncle Pete told me that he was going to take me fishing in his boat. Never having fished from a real boat I was wound up tight for the visit.

At the time, Uncle Pete, A.J. Peters, had a Texaco Service Station in Temple and I remember he had a trophy in the station for having the number one Texaco Station in the country. How could a station in Temple be number one? Easy, Ft Hood, with about 50,000 troops stationed there, was about thirty miles away and anyone leaving the post heading east would stop at his station and gas up for around $.15 per gallon, get their tires checked and their windshield washed, all for no charge. Everyone smiled and spoke English then.

The fishing day dawned, but then I learned that Uncle Pete had to work until noon and we would go fishing after that. Eating a quick lunch we, Uncle Pete, my Dad and I loaded up the car and headed out to, I thought, the Temple Country Club Lake, but before we went fishing, I was to encounter another first. We had to go seine some bait and Uncle Pete said the Leon River, southwest of town would be the best place.

Having never seined for bait, or anything else, I assumed I would get to watch, but as we unloaded the net, Uncle Pete told me to wade out into the water for about two feet and try to push the pole into the bottom of the river and hold it there and that he and my Dad would take the other end and make a sweep into the river and when they came even with me I should slide the net up onto the bank.

Following orders to the letter and sliding the net up on the bank, I looked down and the net was teaming with small fish and minnows. Drying off and putting a copious amount of bait into the bait can, we loaded into the car and headed to the Country Club Lake.

Uncle Pete’s boat was in a boathouse and the twelve foot wooden boat looked huge to me. I was assigned to the middle seat by the bait well and was delighted to be going fishing, but as we pushed out, my Dad said, “Boy, put those oars into the sockets and start rowing across the lake toward those trees down in the water.” Another first for me as Uncle Pete nodded his concurrence and I huffed across the lake.

We anchored just out from the trees down in the water and I was handed a five foot metal casting rod with a Shakespeare Criterion reel attached. I knew how to cast and bait up so I was soon fishing and my cork went straight down toward the bottom! Rearing back for all I was worth, while holding my thumb against the spool (no drag on this reel), the hook pulled out and went flying above us, and, hook, line and sinker, settled down on my shoulders.

“Boy, watch what you’re doing. Don’t horse these fish,” my Dad exclaimed and Uncle Pete said, “Here son, let me show you how to set the hook on these fish.” My Dad and Uncle Pete then explained to me that the White Perch, or “Crappie”, we were fishing for had “soft” mouths and just to exert a firm upward pressure on the rod and the fish would hook himself. A lesson learned for me that I have followed all my life!

We probably caught a dozen, nice Crappie and as we called it a day, I “got” to row back across the lake. We took the fish to a cleaning table and Uncle Pete handed me a de-scaling tool and said, “Son, get to scraping the fish and I will gut them.” Another first.

When we got home the grease was hot and the fish were quickly fried, some were done extra crisp for Uncle Pete and he made short order of them. My Dad asked him, “A.J. how can you eat bones, fins and all?” He answered, smiling at my Dad, “Fry ‘em crisp and they go down easy!”

Not a bad day for me, four firsts and a life long lesson learned.

World War II had ended in August, 1945 and by the summer of 1946, military surplus stores were thriving. Eliminating the middleman, one of my industrious Uncles, Austin Bryan, who was in the U. S. Navy Sea Bees had come across a two man, inflatable life raft. This one was “lost” from a Catalina flying boat. It had never been used so Uncle Austin made a plywood box for it and shipped it back to the ‘States, to his Brother, my Dad. We now had a “fishing boat” and me, being young, thought pumping it up was neat.

Our first trip was with our neighbor, Dave Miller, a WW II veteran and former student at Texas A & M College (now University) and his son Benny, to an oxbow lake off of the Brazos River, south of Richmond, Texas. This was a very “private” lake being on a large State Prison Farm.

Another Uncle of mine, A. C. Turner, Uncle Ace, had returned from the war and was back working for the Texas Prison System and had arranged for us to fish on this lake. He was Rehabilitation Director and, at that time, the Texas Prison System was self sufficient and even showed a profit. Drugs, illegal immigration and our Federal Courts fixed that! Uncle Ace went on to become Warden of The Walls unit in Huntsville, then to the State Parole Board, rising to its President.

This was my second trip to a Prison Farm. Here, on the Brazos River, the inmates seemed happy and waved and spoke to us. My first was to the German Concentration Camp in Temple, now the site of the V. A. Hospital. These were “hard” guys, Afrika Corps troopers. They were sullen and took immense glee that when a plane flew over them, they would raise their shovels and rakes and pretend to shoot at it, then congratulate themselves on a “hit”!

We drove to the lake, inflated the boat and then “took turns” fishing out of the life raft. Benny and I went first and learned quickly the art of paddling a life raft. Our first attempt resulted in an inglorious circle! Our fishing results were better, several small Bass, which we put on our communal stringer and we headed to the shore and turned the raft over to our Dads.

Left on the bank while our Dads were working on the Bass, Benny and I caught some grasshoppers and went to bait fishing for Bream and Perch. Not much wind, a real nice afternoon and we noticed a snag drifting near our spot. It drifted up and stopped and quit drifting. Being 9 and 11 years old we thought nothing of it and kept fishing.

Our Dads were headed back our way with a couple of more Bass on the communal stringer and Dave Miller yelled to us, “What’s that in the water out from you?” Being young we answered, “Where?” My Dad said, “Boys, watch where I cast,” as he cast a wooden, Lucky 13 plug, toward us and across our “snag”.

He twitched his rod tip and reeled one turn at a time, “Walking The Dog” back over the “snag” and the water exploded and a big, it seemed five or six foot long, Alligator, our “snag”, clears the water in a twisting, mouth open, teeth showing jump, makes a great splash as it returns and then takes off, at top speed, pulling the life raft behind it. My dad’s Calcutta rod is dangerously bent, he is yelling because the “Gator is stripping the line from his reel, and having no drag system, only his thumb, which is being blistered, to put pressure on the line and try and stop the run. The ‘Gator jumps again, the plug pulls loose and comes flying back toward my Dad and, a ducking Dave and settles on the water behind them. “Whoopee” exclaims Dave, followed by a “Damn” from my Dad, as both anglers paddle back toward us.

Laughingly, my Dad told us “ ‘Gators like to eat little boys if they can catch one and this one was sizing both you all up for a dinner.” Silently we packed up the raft in its plywood box and we did not enjoy his attempt at humor!

In a picture box display, in the main hall of my ranch house, are all of my Dad’s old fishing plugs, including the tooth scarred, wooden, Lucky 13 that he “Walked” over the ‘Gator.

The summer of 1964 found me still working multiple jobs with little spare time. My dad had made friends with a Telephone Co. contractor from Philadelphia, Miss. Looking back now I can see that he was a “redneck’s, redneck”. He was a market hunter for ducks in the fall, had absolutely no respect for game laws, but he was the man who had introduced us to The Trinity River bottom.

In past years he had spent time in north Louisiana and had made several successful float trips down the head waters of the Calcasieu River. Easy trips of four to six hours, floating and fishing about five miles of river. Put in and take out at State boat ramps. Easy, no problem. The object of these trips was to catch Smallmouth Bass not really the cold water variety but Spotted Bass, common to moving water in the south and southwest.

My Dad, who was nearing retirement, and I had arranged for a weekend off in mid September, so off we go to north Louisiana. Our “headquarters” was a motel in Alexandria and we arrived at the jumping off point at first light on a bright, clear, Indian Summer day. Four of us were going on the float trip, my Dad and I in one jon boat and his contractor friend and one of his relatives, who “knew the river” and would “guide” us, in the other boat. His relative saying “We got a few falls (fallen trees spanning or down in the river) to go over or under, but outside of that, it will be easy. I have since learned that if I hear the word, easy, prepare for the worst.

Where we put in, the Calcasieu River was slow moving, clear as tap water, about seventy-five feet wide and for our whole trip didn’t exceed that width. The banks were lined with tall pine and oak trees. Pretty. Pretty now, but we all would be cursing them by midnight!

We drift about fifty yards from the boat ramp, I put a hand full of Beechnut chewing tobacco in the side of my mouth, and my first cast with a yellow Piggy Boat and, bam, a solid strike from a one pound spotted bass, the fish is taking line, running, not jumping like a regular bass. My dad hooks up and soon we have two nice bass on our stringer. Looks like a good day starting. I’ll ask myself later “Why did we keep these bass?”

We ease under our first fall, a tree down from bank to bank, and up ahead we see one resting in the water. We drift up to it and, in the water we go, and pull the jon boat over it. The little “dip” was refreshing. This is repeated several times during the first half-mile of our “easy” float. We come to hundred yard stretch with no falls and casting right up to the bank, retrieving for two reel cranks, I have a savage strike. This fish is fighting hard, running and now jumping. What a pretty sight. I land him and onto the stringer he goes, a four-pound Spotted Bass! My dad takes another and we are amassing a really good stringer of fish.

More falls, it seems one every thirty or forty yards. It is now noon and I bet in the last four plus hours, we haven’t made two miles. I ask the relative and he says, “A few more falls than I remember, but we don’t have that far to go.” Later I think, “Who is this guy who supposedly knows the river?”

The fishing remains great! Whenever we can we make a cast, at least half of them are rewarded with a solid hit. However, it seems we are spending more time slipping under or pulling over trees, than fishing. We catch several more nice, three and four pound bass. Our stringer is getting heavy. We slip under a fall and blankety-blank, my dad lets out a line “blue streakers”, and slaps the top of his head, smushing a red wasp which has popped him. Over he goes into the water and I think, “Oh no, he’s had a heart attack,” but he comes up out of the water smiling and says, “Boy, when wasps get after you, it’s better to go into the water than run.” As if he could have run anywhere. He asks for my chew of tobacco and places it on the sting and soon the sting just a memory.

More falls! Over them, under them, drag the boat, we’re both soaked, so are our other fishing mates, it’s close to 5:00 PM and no relief in sight! The intrepid relative says, “There sure is a lot of these falls!” We echo his sentiments!

Here is something new, two trees down at the same place, a longer drag, almost a portage. My Dad jumps onto the logs pulling the boat sideways so I can also get out. We pull the bow of the boat up on the logs and he jumps into the water and the water explodes! He has jumped down on to an Alligator! Ride ‘em cowboy! “Alligator, look out!” the fearless relative shouts. A six foot ‘gator is airborne as my Dad scrambles back up onto the logs. The ‘gator is long gone but here come the “blue streakers”, blankety-blank-blank, from my Dad. He is soaking, again, really mad and ready to choke our “guide”, the relative. He says in a firm voice, “Get me out of this blankety-blank place. The relative says, “We still got a ways to go.”

He was right, it’s nearly dark and we seem no closer to the take out ramp than we were two hours ago. Something is wrong here. We pull over to the side and ask the relative, what’s the deal. He replies, “Best I can figure, the hurricane that came through here last year just tore up these woods and knocked all of these trees down. But don’t worry it’s an easy walk out’a here.” There’s that word, easy, again.

At near dark, probably 7:00 PM, we tie up the boats to a convenient (they are all convenient) fall. The “relative” can worry about his boats later. We start “out”, carrying our rods, luckily we didn’t bring any tackle boxes, fish on the stringers and water, today’s lunch being all gone. Our “guide”, the relative leads off. We guess we have to walk two to three miles to the road, then north on the road for another mile to the State ramp and our vehicles.

The darkening sky finds us walking somewhat north, through very thick underbrush and trees everywhere, carrying our rods, the stringer of fish and our water. Down and up through a dry creek bed and slipping down the “up side” of the bank I remark “This is more like a forced march than an easy walk.” No reply from our “guide”.

We trudge on for an hour and go down a creek bank and climb up the other side and I see my slide marks. We have walked in a circle! “Stop” I cry out and our weary procession slows to a halt. “We’ve walked in a circle”, showing them my slide marks. I say, “This deal stops right now and I’m walking in front and am going to get us out of this damn place!” I look to the sky and find the Big Dipper and follow its bottom two stars to the North Star. That will be my mark to keep us on line. Our “guide” is silent.

With me in the lead we head north. After about another hour we all decide to drop our stringers of fish and leave them for the varmints. Why did we keep those fish? We finish the water and drop the water bags to the ground. Pressing on, we hear the artillery at Ft. Polk, north of us, begin booming. I think, “The booming will be a good guide.”

As we head north we see a light ahead, six hundred yards later it turns out to be a Coleman Lantern hanging in a tree. We see three men sitting around a low fire. “Hello, the camp!” I exclaim. The three men jump up, startled, and look around. Seeing us, four apparitions coming out of the dark with no lamps or flashlights, out comes their guns!

“Stop right there, who are you.” We explain our plight, still standing outside of the circle of light and finally our “guide” remarks that he is the brother in law of “so-in-so” a deputy sheriff. The guns comes down and they ask, “What do you want.” I reply, “A drink of water and a ride to our cars parked at the State ramp.” Mumbled conversation and a reply, “Pay for the gas and we’ll take you to your car, but no water.” “Thanks” I say, then mumbling under my breath, “You sons of bitches!”

Back at our cars, my Dad’s contractor friend is quiet, not having said much for the last six or seven hours and his relative, our “guide, only says “It was a tougher float than I thought it would be.” Saying our good byes, Daddy and I got into his car. He looks at his watch and says, “It’s almost midnight. Quite a day!” I rolled down the window, and fished out a Pall Mall and lit up, blowing the smoke out of the window. My Dad had smoked for forty years but had quit smoking ten years past and hated for me to smoke. He said to me, “Boy give me one of those.” I never saw my Dad’s contractor friend again. And, I never saw my Dad smoke another cigarette.

The period of my life from 1959 to 1964 was spent finishing up my Army duty, working three jobs and welcoming my first child, Brad. All of this left precious little time for any outdoor activities.

Several times during this period I did have the opportunity to spend a day hunting and fishing in the Trinity River bottoms, between Dayton and Liberty, Texas. We would enter “The Bottoms”, as we called it, at a remote place near Dayton, at the Kennefic Fire Tower, then proceed down seven miles of probably the worst road in the United States. This road was always flooded, mud axel deep on a jeep, deceiving ruts that covered bogs and the home of the largest mosquitoes on the Gulf Coast.

The road was only part of the challenge. The leaseholder of the land, I never knew his name, would come by several times during the week to check on his cattle and hogs and to scare poachers out. He even chased us out one time mounted on a horse! When the river was up and out of its banks you couldn’t possibly get in. But if you could get to the river, the creeks and sloughs provided some of the best bass fishing and duck and squirrel hunting to be found.

My brother-in-law, Jim Buck, was desperate to get down to “The Bottoms”. He had heard my Dad and I talk of the fabulous hunting and fishing opportunities. Just a month before my Dad and I had a very enjoyable afternoon fishing there, in one of the many sloughs, catching one to two pound bass.

My Dad had an “employee” and friend, a telephone company contractor who worked for him and had first taken us to “The Bottoms”. The friend had a jeep with mud grip tires and a “new” Warn winch mounted on its front bumper. If we got stuck, hook up to a tree and let the winch pull us out. That was the way to conquer “The Bottoms”.

Well, Jim found, for $500.00, a 1947 Jeepster Station Wagon, four wheel drive, a rusted green color, but mechanically sound, which he promptly purchased “Bottom” here we come! “Jimmy, we need a winch. Did you get one for the front bumper?” I Asked him. He replied, “No, I have something better, a hand winch which we can use front or back.” At that time, I had a very elementary knowledge of mechanics and uses of a hand winch so I thought we were fine. “Bottom” here we come!

The new, old, Jeepster made the trip to the Kennific Fire Tower with no problems. It turned out it ran very well on a smooth road. Pulling up to the gate in the not light, early morning, it was unlocked, but we also knew where the key was hidden, and there was no sign of the leaseholder. Many times during the day to come I had wished for the evil leaseholder to show us up and “help” us out of this infernal place. “Bottom” here we come.

We navigated the first six hundred yards and came to the first boggy spot. The Jeepster, and its skinny road tires, we never thought about mud grips, plowed gamely through the muck and deposited us safely onto solid ground. “Piece of cake”, we thought. Another low spot, spinning tires, mud flying everywhere, stuck! No problem we have our hand winch. There is a tree close by in front of us, very convenient, and we hook on and begin cranking the winch and the vehicle moves, all of six inches. (My mind flashes back to a duck hunt that turned sour, where, in a boat, me and two of my friends had to scoot across the mud flats twelve to eighteen inches at a time to get back to our launch area.) Twenty minutes of cranking and we are out of the mud and sailing down the “road”.

Winching through three more bogs we notice the sun is up, its hot and humid and the mosquitoes are out in force. We missed the sunrise fishing we had planned on. No worry, so little fishing pressure where were going the bass will hit all day.

More bogs, more winching. We are both wet and covered head to toe in mud and its getting close to noon, we won’t have much time to fish. We gamely “soldier on”. We hit this one spot which I had worried about on the way in a fifty foot run through bog, mud and water and we splash in, four wheels spinning and making no progress. Stuck again. No tree close by, so I volunteer to push. Maybe that will help. It did for five feet. Still, no tree near, and we are really stuck! Finding small logs and branches to give our street tires some traction, we inch forward until we can reach a tree with our winch line. Crank, six inches. Crank, six inches. Crank, six inches. This ceases to be fun. Crank, six inches. Solid ground and we break for a late lunch.

We assess our situation. Over the past seven hours we estimate we have made about three miles. We are almost out of water. We have been stuck twelve times. If the Jeepster doesn’t break, at this rate we will get to our fishing spot about dark. Maybe we don’t have the right equipment. We can always blame the Jeepster no mud grip tires. We can blame the weather that last big rain really made a mess of the bad road? We can blame the leaseholder maybe he came in with a Dodge Power Wagon and deliberately ruined the road. Admitting a tactical defeat, we turned around and headed out. “Bottom” you won.

However, there were some good things to come out of this ill-fated trip. We only got stuck seven times coming out. We got out just before dark. I did not have to push. We “made” the leaseholder some new road. We had no fish to clean. And, best of all, we dried out before we got home!