Illustration by Spencer Shepherd
Published in May 2006 edition of Ultimate Outdoors Magazine
My father used to make jokes about my uncle Forrest and the size of his tackle box. "That thing is as big as the hood of a ‘57 Cadillac," Dad would say every time Uncle Forrest came up from Tennessee to see my Mom and to fish.
"It’s just tackle box envy," Forrest would exclaim as he inventoried the dozens of lures, jigs, worms and baits he stored in his tackle box. "I’ll bet Johnny Morris is glad to see you coming," Dad would retort, referring to the owner of Bass Pro Shops, which at the time was in it’s infancy and not the mega-mart fishing superstore empire it is today!
"At least if the boat sunk you could use it as a floating hotel until help arrived," Dad would continue teasing. This banter went on and on making anyone within earshot convinced that the two men hated each other when in reality not only were they in-laws but very good friends. This was just the way they demonstrated their fondness for each other, as did many men of my father’s generation.
"How ‘bout putting your tackle box where your mouth is," my father challenged hoping to get a rise from his brother-in-law and of course uncle Forrest didn’t disappoint. The bet was that both men would start out at Bear Creek Bridge with one man going up stream and the other down and they would meet back at the bridge in two hours to see who caught the most fish. To make winning the bet even more coveted, the looser would have to clean all the fish both men would catch in time for supper.
Both men shook hands and set off for Bear Creek Bridge. A flip of a coin determined which direction each man would go and standing back to back like two dueling gentlemen at dawn, they headed off. Uncle Forrest headed downstream attired in the very latest in angling technology including rubber hip waders, landing net, $200 graphite rod and reel combo, camouflage back country boonie hat and that enormous tackle box rattling and clanging as he lugged it downstream. All Dad took was a cheap Zebco rod and reel combo, a few extra hooks lodged into his beat up old Allis-Chalmers hat and a bucket of minnows. This of course was the subject of a great deal of friendly ridicule on the part of my uncle as both men parted ways. Names like, "Redneck Goober" and "Local Yokel" was yelled out and soon faded away as he rounded the bend and out of sight!
As the two hour deadline approached my father was the first one back and was quietly kicked back enjoying the shade of a sycamore tree and chewing on a wheat stalk he had picked up somewhere up stream. Before long the outline of an obvious tired and tuckered man could be seen rounding the bend of the familiar stream. His once proud demeanor now shattered under the weight of his heavy shackles. As he struggled to hoist the heavy load up onto the bridge a huge sigh of relief washed over his face as he methodically placed each item of his expensive gear onto the hard dusty cement.
"So, how’s it going?" Dad said smugly, intentionally not lifting one finger to help as Uncle Forrest struggled to haul up his gear from the gravel bank below the bridge.
After catching his breath, he reached into the stream and proudly raised four small mouth bass ranging in size from two pounds and down. "And how did you do?" uncle Forrest replied as he proudly held his modest but respectable catch aloft.
This was, of course, the moment my father had been waiting on and he had thoughtfully chosen that particular shady spot where he rested to pre-position his catch in a pool next to the bridge spillway carefully hidden just out of sight. My uncle’s jaw practically hit the dust covered country road they were standing on as my father slowly and methodically lifted the huge stringer of bass from the shady pool below. The wet squirming mass of fish seems to stretch on and on forever. As he hoisted the stringer to shoulder height the last fish tale still drug the cement as they flopped and squirmed. The biggest bass was a large mouth that would later top the scales at just over five pounds.
In a desperate attempt to save face my uncle quickly snapped back, "Is that all you caught?" To which my father replied, "No, I still have three more stringers upstream, I just couldn’t carry ‘em all?"
Back at the house Uncle Forrest, being a man of his word, cleaned every fish until he was sick of seeing fish with the last stringer being finished by lantern light way into the night. After supper the two men started talking with my Uncle accusing my Father of pre catching the fish and staging them on stringers along the stream. All logic went out the window, as Dad tried to reassure him that was not the case, even pointing out the coin toss making sure the bet was legal, but with no avail. Uncle Forrest was positive Dad must had cheated somehow and he just hadn’t figured how yet. So to prove his point my Father took him back to the bridge the very next morning and, fishing the very same holes uncle Forrest fished the day before, Dad caught another two full stringers of bass right before his eyes.
Uncle Forrest came back many times over the years to fish with my Dad until his advanced age made it physically impossible to fish their beloved Bear Creek, but funny thing though, we never saw that tackle box ever again!
