Even the smallest stream, skinny enough to step across, carries unsolved mysteries on the water’s edge, drawing adventurous young’uns.
I grew up in the heart of South Carolina. Halfway between the Upcountry and the Lowcountry. Right on the fall line, where the southeastern sandhill scrub oaks meet the tall mixed forests of the northwestern foothills.
Back in the early 1960s, it was an idyllic place for outdoors-loving boys like Mike, Tommy, Walter and me to grow up. On Saturdays in the fall and spring, and all throughout the summer when the school bell rang for the last time for a few months, we would disappear from our homes in search of adventure.
We put the time to good use, fishing the ponds, exploring the woods and fields, and diligently digging through every dirt and clay bank searching for signs of ancient civilization. Or, better yet, we’d unearth a not-so-ancient penny good for a Tootsie Pop at E&J’s.
Our favorite destination of them all though, was “the creek;” its given name was inconsequential to us. To be sure, there were plenty of named creeks in the area; Little Jackson, Long Branch, Mack, Goose Branch, Moccasin, Dry Branch, Gills, Nipper, Pigeon Roost…. I imagine ours had an official name as well, but we never bothered to ask someone more knowledgeable about such things. We just called it the creek.
“Meetcha at the creek.” “Wanna go to the creek?” “I’m in trouble. Can’t go to the creek for a week.”
The creek wound through a hollow surrounded by a mix of forest and thickets. We didn’t know too much about the fine points of plant taxonomy. We just called it “the woods.”
To reach the creek, we followed a well-worn trail of a mile or so through the woods. When we arrived at our destination, we never knew whether the creek was going to be pouring over its banks in a red/brown torrent, or just trickling along, like water from a garden hose somebody forgot to turn off.
The best conditions were somewhere in between, when the creek moved along strong and clear, a foot deep at most. In the more tranquil shallows along the banks, minnows, turtles and bullfrogs were plentiful.
The frogs were way too quick to catch, and if you did manage to get your hands on one, it would usually jettison out of your hand like a slimy little rocket. On the other hand, the minnows were another story. Walter was the most proficient of our gang with the dip net. He would slip along the bank and scoop them up like Mama pulling hushpuppies from the deep fryer.
Tadpoles, too, were a blast to catch, especially those fat, green bullfrog babes. Sometimes pushing two inches with a couple of tiny back legs protruding, these were trophy tadpoles for sure.
Regardless of what we were in pursuit of, there was no such thing as catch-and-release. All critters went into a quart-sized Duke’s Mayonnaise jar, eventually to be forgotten on somebody’s back porch.
The occasional snake, be it large or small, was a deadly serpent, bent on striking anyone who dared to encroach on its territory. Mike said his cousin in Alabama was bitten on the end of his pecker and it rotted off. Well, that didn’t calm our ophidiophobia.
Of course, the snakes were way more freaked out than we were and slipped quickly away at the first glimpse of us.
A rare sighting: young’uns patrolling a creek for minnows, the Duke’s mayonnaise jar close by.
My cousin Jimmy from Watkinsville, Georgia, would often spend a week in the summer with me. Of course, the creek was our number one destination.
One morning, Jimmy spotted a little brown snake zipping across the beach. We decided it was too little to be dangerous, not exactly a hard and fast rule, and he grabbed it, and into the jar it went. We had punched holes in the lid, just in case we entrapped a non-marine species. Perfect!
He and I made the 30-minute walk to my house, proudly carrying our Duke’s jar with the 9-inch-long beast inside. I’m sure the little guy was wondering, “What the hell did I do to deserve this?”
When we arrived home, Mama and my brother were off somewhere, so we decided we’d bring our prize inside and play with him. It was fun while it lasted. He crawled here and there on the linoleum kitchen floor, no doubt looking for a way back to the woods.
That turned out to be a bad idea for all involved. When Jimmy and I lost sight of him in the kitchen, we lost interest in our newfound pet and decided it was time to grab the jar and head back to the creek. Out of sight, out of mind.
Mama came home shortly after our departure. We were a mile away, so were unable to hear her scream. She grabbed the Hoover, and we never learned the fate of the little snake. Our fate was a “talking to.” Not too bad for scaring the bejesus out of my mother. Glad my cousin was visiting.
The next summer at the creek brought “the day of the really big fish.”
We were used to seeing small minnows and tadpoles swimming at our feet, so I was thrilled one Saturday morning to see a full-sized fish come tailing by. Easily a foot in length, I shouted for reinforcements and the four of us formed a human cast net around the critter.
After lots of grabbing and splashing I finally got a grip on the scaly monster. It was coppery and reddish with a small underslung mouth. I would learn a few years later that it was a redhorse sucker. It was way too big for the jar, so we turned it loose. Maybe that was the first catch-and-release!
What I did bring home from every journey to the creek was a pile of muddy laundry. Mama would warn me to come to the side door in the garage whenever I arrived. She locked the door, so I would have to knock. She could then inspect my mud coverage and decide whether I could enter as-is or leave everything on the step. Most times, I ran in the door wearing nothing but my whitey-tighties, headed for the shower.
To an inquisitive young boy, the magic of any creek lies in its ability to carry downstream unexpected mysteries on the water’s edge.
I’ve forgotten most of the highlights. My old friends are out of touch. Some might be on “the big creek in the sky.” I know Cousin Jimmy is. He died a year after his last visit to the creek.
Some 60 years later, I live near another creek. It probably has a given name, but I’ve never heard it or bothered to track it down. Like the creek of my childhood, it is guarded on each side by trees and thickets, though houses and apartments loom uncomfortably close.
Duke following the scents.
I like to walk my dog, Duke, along the trail that parallels the stream. He climbs down the bank and grabs a drink, sniffs a deer or ’coon track, then bounds back up to me to continue his exploration.
While I no longer have the urge to grab a jar and splash around chasing minnows, I still feel refreshed after a stroll along the bank. Whether it’s a steady gurgle of low water, or a gentle roar after a good rain, I’m certain it could lull me to sleep if I laid nearby and closed my eyes, dreaming of all the mysteries on the water’s edge.
One thing that is missing at the new creek is the sight and sound of curious young boys—such as Walter, Mike, Tommy and me—shouting, splashing, laughing and making a mess of themselves. I look for little tracks of barefoot urchins along the sandy banks but see very few.
These days, there are more civilized ways to entertain oneself. Staying inside with a smart phone, laptop or electronic video game keeps you safe from chiggers, mosquitos and pecker-chomping cottonmouths.
And, of course, your shoes, socks and blue jeans remain mud-free.
Mama would have liked that.
In this collection of stories, John takes us along the creeks and rivers of his native Laurens Country, South Carolina to shoot mallards and wood ducks. He also tells of unusual yet successful methods of taking white-tailed bucks on his farm in Union County, South Carolina. We’ll Do It Tomorrow is more than a book of tales about hunting and fishing, these stories are about the joys and sorrows of life. They will linger in your heart and leave you wishing for more. Filled with 15 stories and 30 illustrations We’ll Do It Tomorrow is definitely a keeper. Reviewed & endorsed by Jim Casada of Sporting Classics who said, “This is relaxed literature on the outdoors in the vein of Babcock, Rutledge and Ruark in his ‘Old Man’ pieces.” Buy Now
