There is a trio of ponds near my Calloway County home that I occasionally fish. I am not alone. Flanked by a well-traveled county road and being easily accessible, it’s a popular spot. The property is publicly owned, fenced and gated. The iron gate is a double-hinged affair wide enough for the passage of farm equipment. It is rarely closed.
The ponds fill about a half-acre each. There were originally four, but the northwest corner pond appears to have been dry for several years, having become overgrown and sprouting a couple of trees with trunks the size of softballs. The ponds are laid out in a rectangle and were probably dug as irrigation tanks for the adjoining farm. The three remaining ponds may still serve that purpose. The farm remains in operation, although it now serves as an educational agricultural field lab.
The pond area is regularly mowed—not manicured, but well maintained—and includes two barns, a large open-air pavilion and a portable toilet. The ponds lie in full sunshine, but a couple of large trees provide ample shade for parking.
They are odd fisheries, not overly productive but accessible and fun to fish. The one closest to the parking area is nearly as clear as a mountain lake with some bank grass. The adjacent pond is the color of creamed coffee, and the third is murky but not muddy. I first assumed this was due to rain or runoff but then noticed that the water color is nearly always consistent regardless of weather conditions. I tracked the ponds using Google Earth. The photo didn’t have a time stamp, but the color range was consistent with today.
Turtles, frogs and an occasional water snake are easily spotted.
These are warm-water fisheries, of course, and surrender bluegill, crappie, bass and catfish. While recently casting for bass with an 8-foot, 5-weight, I hooked and landed about a 2-pound channel catfish on a No. 12 bead head black wooly bugger with silver flash. In five decades of fishing, it was my first catfish on a fly.
The cream-colored pond might be the best bass water of the three, an assessment made after a brief encounter with a bassman. I stopped late one afternoon earlier this year and, while I was rigging up, was joined by a guy who, armed with a 7-foot baitcaster tipped with a Zara Spook, marched toward the southeast corner with purpose and made about a dozen laser-like casts, then left as abruptly as he had arrived. He worked the Spook with skill and expertise.
“Just wanted to see it they were hitting top water yet,” he announced with a flourish while climbing into his four-wheel-drive Chevy. “They’re not. Not yet.”
I counted this as a pretty good source, although pre-season bass passion can push anticipation to such a frenzy that it can become difficult to separate informative wheat from overly optimistic chaff.
I stopped late one afternoon recently searching for some solace in the days following the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. The country was aflame with an understandable rage that seemed to be seeping into every fiber of the nation. Justice, I hoped, would soon be at hand.
A family of four was at the south end of the clear-water pond. This is the area most readily accessible from the parking spot and is the favorite for fishing with youngsters. It’s easily accessible, near some shady cover, and can be depended upon to surrender fairly steady bluegill action. Few things keep kids entertained like a pod of friendly bluegill.
Just as I finished readying my tackle, I heard the squeals of a young fisherman. I walked around the front of my vehicle to enjoy the excitement. One of the kids—a boy about 5—had a small bluegill dangling from the tip of his rod. The youngster spotted me and swung his rod to show off his catch about the same time his dad was reaching for the fish to unhook it. I admired the catch and offered my congratulations. The dad, who was African American, acknowledged me with a nod but said nothing. I felt like Minneapolis hung in the air like humidity following an afternoon summer thunderstorm. Everyone had seen the video. While the kid bounced with delight at his catch, Dad used his fingers to work the hook from the fish’s mouth. They held the fish together for a moment then tossed it, underhand, back into the water.
I suddenly realized I was intruding.
“Good luck, men,” I said and headed toward the north end of the pond.
The dad stood and wiped his hands on a cloth stuck in his belt.
“Thanks,” he called out cheerfully. “Good luck to you, too.”