Earlier this summer, I made a three-day sojourn to northwest Tennessee’s Reelfoot Lake, an earthquake-born, cypress-studded natural waterway that hugs the Mississippi River. Unique in its origins and for two centuries a lodestone for rod and gun pursuits, today Reelfoot floods around 15,000 acres but is only, on average, about 5½ feet deep. Tennessee claims most of the waters, but a small slice of this historic lake spills into Kentucky. The two states also share the 10,428-acre Reelfoot National Wildlife Refuge.
I’d planned to meet Alan Clemons, a longtime friend and editorial colleague. We were in pursuit of some of the lake’s famed saucer-size bluegill, which, with veteran guide Billy Blakley, we found in abundance (photographic evidence of which can be seen at theoutdoornotebook.net).
On our first morning on the water, however, we teamed with crappie specialist Jeff Riddle, who—under a cloudless sky and on a windless, hot morning—gave us a PhD-level lesson in using forward-facing sonar. The electronics took some getting used to and reminded me somewhat of fishing via video game, but it was impressive in its accuracy and efficiency, evidenced by the double-digit crappie that regularly popped up on the screen and usually took a bait that was dropped near them.
We joined Billy the next day, which dawned overcast and surprisingly cool. The challenge of Reelfoot never changes: Every spot looks fishy. Billy guided us past a lone cypress crowned by an osprey nest and through a patch of lily pads larger than a football field to the edge of a stand of flooded cypress. For bluegill, Billy is a cricket-under-a-bobber man. It’s Fishing 101. Simple and pure fun. I had brought along a fly rod and a box of poppers but soon abandoned it for a bait and bobber rig, my fly-casting skills not being equal to the challenge of fishing in and around stands of century-old cypress trees.
By the time a late-morning thunderstorm chased us back to the dock, we had filled a cooler with tasty, hard-fighting, hand-size (and bigger) bluegill for which the lake is known.
It was a comfortable, relaxed morning. Alan, Billy and I have been fishing together since we all had dark hair. We worked out of Blue Bank Resort (bluebankresort.com), a fifth-generation fishing and hunting camp that has evolved into a full-service facility tooled equally for sportsmen, sportswomen and non-consumptive visitors alike. It’s a business model that might be useful to other outfitters.
Due to a recent wave of storms and flooding, the outer section of the dock was under repair. A couple of guys stood in chest-deep water driving posts into the mud. Billy idled past them and nosed his War Eagle boat gently against the dock. A deckhand appeared, secured a bow line and offered a hand to the departing fishermen, which Alan and I both ignored, and which I almost immediately regretted after the boat rocked, and I clumsily caught a toe on the dock and stumbled, resulting, fortunately, in no damaged tackle.
This is a silly thing men do—declining a helping hand when one is graciously offered—a result, I suspect, of the ugly combination of stubbornness, pride and ego.
That evening, during dinner with the resort owners—brothers Michael and Drew Hayes—Alan and I reviewed the morning and our respective media visits to Reelfoot.
“When I first came here on assignment, I was younger than you are now,” I said to the 31-year-old Drew. “Nearly 40 years ago, I guess.”
The confession resulted in raised eyebrows.
“How old are you?” Michael asked. “If you don’t mind.”
“Don’t mind at all,” I said. “I’ll be 70 in a few weeks.”
On the walk back to the cabin, we stopped to chat with a guy fishing from the dock. Within a couple of minutes, he landed one fish and lost another.
“Drew and Michael seemed surprised that you’re so old,” Alan, who sometimes confesses to being “semi-retired,” said with a smile. “Ever think about quitting?”
I glanced out at the lake, which appeared flat as a fitted sheet under the bright moon. I’ve spent most of my working life in places like Reelfoot, some so far off the beaten path they were reachable only by paddle or horseback. I am thankful for this. I’ve never given much thought about age, although its effects, annoying though they might be, are undeniable.
“No. Not really,” I said. “We’re aging outdoors. I can’t stop one and don’t want to stop the other. Do you?”
“Never.”
Readers may contact Gary Garth at editor@kentuckymonthly.com