The stories I've heard from my Dad and my Uncle over the years would make Lake Harding sound like Guntersville on some hardcore narcotic. After four - twelve hour days of bass and crappie fishing I found the lake to be needing a fix. The nine-pounders and 80 crappie a day were less than active. However, we did find fishing and had a blast. One thing I realized, as much as I love to fish, 12 hours in a boat is a long time even for me and my aching back.
Lake Harding is a small lake by Alabama standards and sits along the Georgia/Alabama line. Clear green water in the main lake and heavy muddy up in the creek, which we affectionately call 'Snipper' Creek. The real name is something of a mystery to pronouce because everyone I heard say it, mummbled it into something foreign, not knowing how to say it as well (Osanippa Creek), Which is Indian language mean People of the Skunk (Creek).
We dabbled for crappie up in the creek pulling a few off the brush each day but nothing like the stories of days past. We cranked up some bass, but it wasn't until I got frustrated and pulled out a 3in swim bait and started in on the boat docks, did we have some real fun. My uncle had never caught a fish on a swim bait, and as I can remember neither had I. Let us just say its fun, a lot of fun. When they crush it and you see it, its like a gun goes off in your arm. You slam back the rod and power down on a one pound spot like its a twelve pound largey. Fun. A white or silver fluke worked good too.
Docks almost completely line every creek and cove on the lake, they are everywhere. Packed with Seadoos and Pontoons and speedboats. "This lake was a backwater heaven twenty years ago. Fallen trees covered all these coves before, now all these rich people keep cleaning the place up and putting in million dollar houses everywhere." My uncle grumbled. Evidently the cosmetic improvement of the land surrounding the lake was detrimental to the fishing, at least according to my uncle. What was funny, was that the million dollar houses were surrounded by little cabins and shanties that I was surprised were still standing. Rusted and rotted, and slanted just a little to far to one side. The cabin we stayed in was literally on the water, rusted and dilapidated. Looking under the side from the front, lake water lapped up inside the floor. I didn't get wet but the failing air mattress kept me at least a quarter inch off the floor. We can put a man on the moon but can't develope a portable mattress that can hold air for a single night.
This most entertaining part of the trip was the accumulation of names and designations that had developed over the years. This group of guys that had been annually venturing to Lake Harding for nearly 40 years had developed a system by which nearly every cove, creek, channel, bridge, and overpass had been described and labeled. Such a system had been created so that one fisherman could explain where the 10-lb bass had been caught or where the school of crappie had been seen. Years of careful thought and effort had been put into the creation of the labeling system and the five other fisherman each knew where each name was located and what lures had worked there, the depth of the water and what they had caught there in the past. I was completely lost in the conversation. The places I did learn were as follows: Rooster, Bad Dog, Blowed Out Duck Dam, Long Bridge, Train Wreck, Sail Boat, Rock Dock, Birdhouse, George's, Georgia and Pelican. Now while some of the names were evident such as Sail Boat (big group of sail boats tied up)and Long Bridge, which was the longest bridge on the lake, others seemed to be beyond me until I heard a few stories. George's was a cove next to a guy that lived in a shanty, his name was indeed George. George had since sold out and moved. Bad Dog was a point where this bad dog would come running out on the dock and not stop barking until you left the area. This seemed to be a common occerence on the lake however, I couldn't tell the difference between one bad dog and the next. Rooster was however my favorite. This area was related to an old man that had a bunch of chickens and of course a rooster. The rooster did not confine himself to the usual morning sunrise wake up call, he felt it necessary to sound his call let us say outside the boundaries of the extent of his duties and screamed all day. The man nor the rooster had been seen in twenty years, however the label remained.
We named an area or two that had yet been described in the Lake Harding book of fishin' holes, but no so as entertaining as above.
Overall, I did have a great time despite the slowness of the fishing. The weather didn't help and the constant lowering and raising of the water level I'm sure affected the activity of the fish. I'll be back. I know fisherman lie but no one can lie so much as to say 'I caught a nine pounder under that dock right there', even if the story is an exaggeration anything remotely close to nine pounds is a mammoth fish no matter the line, reel, or rod.
See you again next year Rooster.
No comments:
Post a Comment