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Fishin’ for Crappie

Jordan Lake is a North Carolina State Park about a 15-minute drive from my house in Chapel Hill. The lake was created by a dam built by the Army Corps of Engineers in 1963, primarily for flood control and water supply, but also for wildlife conservation and recreation. I went camping there this weekend and the place is (begin British accent) quite beau’-i-ful, really (end British accent). It’s a big lake, 13,900 acres, with a Peter North-load of fish in it, some nice, clean campgrounds and beaches surrounding it, tall trees, and even bald eagles. I didn’t get to see any Endangered National Symbols flying around or devouring mice or babies, but I did went and git me some fishin’ in, y’all.

There was never any park this nice around Pittsburgh, that I knew of. We used to have to drive a-ways to go fishing in North or South Park, but we never caught anything. You were more likely to catch an old boot or an old Iron City Beer can with a team photo of the 1978 Steelers on it. The most fun-filled thing to do as a kid in North and South Park was to feed the diseased ducks. "Don’t feed ‘em ducks, ‘ey gawt dis-ayse," one would often hear Yinzer parents warn their Yinzer children (as documented in the sketch "North and South Park" on 102.5 WDVE Radio’s Morning Show). They also had 2 or 3 buffalo in South Park caged in a 2-acre area, where I’m sure they existed naturally back in the olden days. They sometimes ram their head into the fence and you can feed them grass. But you gotta watch, ‘cos ‘em buffalos gawt dis-ayse too. ‘N noll bite yer heend awf.

If you didn’t wanna drive that far, and you thought you had the balls, you could always go fishing in one of our three rivers. I heard stories of guys hooking some catfish out of the Mon – yumm-Y!! Eat a Mon catfish with some cole slaw and warsh it down with an Ir’n and you got yourself some genuine Pittsburgh cuisine … and a third nut within the next 15-20 years.

When I was junior high age my friends and I went fishing at our local waterway, officially known as Chartier’s Creek (AKA "Chartier’s Crick", "Butt Creek", "Whatseh Nameh dat Sohwer Run Off Dahn ‘Ner" and "Butt Run"). The Chartier’s Creek embodies the natural beauty of urban life, running through such fine wildlife preserves as Carnegie, Broadhead Projects and McKees Rocks, where it dumps into the Ohio. We used to fish at a spot where it flowed into Crafton: off of a cement block underneath the Thornburg Bridge. It wasn’t the best place to fish the crick (if a ‘best’ place even exists). It was next to a sewage run-off and you had to reel your line from the actual rusty-colored water through a muddy shitswamp filled with piles of beer cans and plastic bags and old tires. But we didn’t care, we just wanted to kill some fish. As developing children, the pollution probably built up our immune systems, anyway. The most abundant fish in Chartier's Creek are the Floating Brown Bass, as my grandpap called them. Talk about crappie! I once hooked a carp that was swimming upstream which had to have been about 10 pounds, but my friend had to cut the line because it was snagged on an old shopping cart.

Jordan Lake’s quite a different fishing experience to what I’m used to. They actually have bass fishing tourneys there. And it’s common for experienced anglers to catch a 5-10 lb. lunker. The only thing I caught was a small 10-inch largemouth, which I threw back. He swallowed a bright green salt-impregnated lizard lure I was using and the hook was caught halfway down his throat. Blood was pouring out of his gills and I couldn’t get the hook out for the life of me, even with my pliers. I was debating whether to slice the poor bastard’s head off right there, to put him out of his misery, but I just cut the line and threw him back. Fifteen minutes later he was belly up floatin’ in fishy heaven. And that’s all I caught last weekend.

Gimmie a break, I hadn’t been fishin’ in years. Fathers and their sons were catching bass left and right, as I sat and drank Budweisers out of my bookbag, waiting for a bite. (Joann and I had to sneak the beer in, since alcohol is not permitted in state parks. I got 3 words for that: Ppph. Chyeah, right!) Some smart-assed 13-year-old kid showed me how to properly rig up my bobber. Boy was my face red! Then he threw dirt at me. I’d like to see that little bastard pull a catfish through 20 yards of broken glass, rusty brown water and old shopping carts! Little shit would puke before he even got to the cement block.

Speaking of being out in nature, I want all you kids to read that Sandfly who’ll be doing the WHOLE Appalachian Trail. What a feat. Me, I’m no stranger to hiking: I once had to walk from the Southside all the way to Crafton because I missed the last bus and didn’t have cabfare. And drunk at that! Actually, I’m lying. Some nice lady picked me up in the West End and drove me the rest of the way…