Fishing at the Creek

Almost every day in the summer, my neighbor and best friend, Steve and I would meet at the bridge over the Long Lake Creek on Fox Street to fish for sunfish. The creek, or as we pronounced it, "crick", ran between Long Lake and Lake Minnetonka with a stop over in what was then called "Mud Lake"...now Tanager Lake...its' name changed after a resident felt the previous name was somewhat inelegant.

The creek actually crossed under Fox Street and then made a 90 degree turn and went under the other bridge on Brown Road. North of the Fox Street bridge, it wound behind homes along Brown Road. One of those homes belonged to a gentleman who ran a garbage dump. He dumped the garbage in his back yard...pushing the creek farther to the west each year. I wonder if the powers that be knew this little fact and cleaned it up. We chose to fish on the Fox Street bridge because there was little to no traffic and it was a wooden bridge with a wide board on the top rail on which we sat as we fished. We never had fishing licenses...I don't even know that they were required for young kids...but we constantly talked about how we would evade the game warden should he come to catch us. He never did.

Our fishing equipment consisted of a cane pole with a length of 30 lb. test braided black cotton line...certainly strong enough for the small sunfish we caught... tied to a leader and small hook with a bobber attached. One or two split shot sinkers were attached just above the leader, fixed in place by biting them with our eye teeth. (We also removed them in the same manner...the memory of which makes me wince today). Measurement of the line and leader was critical because it had to hook into the concave bottom of the pole with just a little bit of tension when it was being carried over our shoulders. The empty can of Folgers contained lots of worms with enough dirt to keep them happy prior to their eventual demise.

Cane poles usually lasted 2 years before they got broken. Mostly they got broken because we would use them for something a cane pole was not intended for. Dad would drive me up to Naab's hardware store in Crystal Bay, (on the right side in this old photo), to buy a new one when the time came. All the cane poles were leaned against the front of the store and the buyer could pick out just the right one. Some were too long and heavy for a 7 year old boy...and some were too stiff to flex much with a small sunfish on. The pole that I picked cost between 10 and 20 cents...the price depending on the mood of Mr. Naab. Between Steve and I, we had enough 30 lb. test line to last until we were 12.

More times than not, I'd simply walk down the hill to the bridge to fish...a bike would merely get in the way for it would have to be laid on its' side in the ditch on the side of the road. I'd yell for Steve across his family's garden, a very large vegetable garden that filled the northwest corner of Brown Road and Fox Street and was bordered on the west by the creek. It seems funny today that we yelled across relatively long distances to each other. In the evening when it was time for us to go to our respective homes, our mothers would call us in by yelling our names in the direction which we were last seen. We would yell back that we were coming. If something interesting was going on, this might last through two or three calls. Humorously, Mrs. Helms, who lived between Steve and I would occasionally chime in...passing the message along in case she thought we hadn't heard. Of course, there was really no background noise other than the birds, especially red-winged blackbirds around the creek, and the wind, so it was actually quite effective.

Occasionally, Steve would say he couldn't come until he finished weeding the garden or some other chore. I'd leave my pole and cut across the garden to help get the job done quicker. Steve would help me if the situation was reversed. It made sense to get the work done in half the time so the fun stuff could start.

Steve and I would sit at that old bridge all afternoon...catching sunfish...putting them on a stringer which we sometimes made from the pussywillows growing on the side of the road. The conversation covered all we knew...or imagined we knew...about fishing, cars, school, and all the amazing and wonderful adventures we would someday have. If we got hungry, we'd cut over to Steve's garden and snatch a tomato...or a green apple, and munch it. Usually, one or both of us had a salt shaker...seems funny now...in our back pocket. We both used salt on the tomatoes...Steve used salt on his green apples...a taste I never developed. If it was a hot day, we'd climb up into the old apple tree outside his house, prop ourselves into a comfortable crotch, and relish the shade and any breeze. Occasionally, Steve's older brothers would join us at the bridge.

The only time we fished from the other bridge, the steel bridge on Brown Road, was when we got together with Steve's brothers in the evening after supper, and fished with nightcrawlers for bullheads. There seemed to be more of them on the east side of Brown Road than at the other bridge. This was a special treat for both Steve and I because we were quite young to stay up so late...the sun not setting until 8:30 or 9 during the summer months. Sometimes we'd start a small fire next to the bridge...more for fun than for warmth. Steve's brothers would clean the bullheads by nailing their heads to a stump and pulling off the skin...with a pair of pliers...accompanied by the bones, cartilage, and insides...leaving only white meat. Steve's Mom would fry them and they were delicious.

When I'd get home from fishing in the evening, Dad would clean my fish and Mom would dip them in egg and milk, then flour, and fry them for supper. Little sunfish from the creek, fresh vegetables from the garden...I was 7 years old. I was contributing, and I was very proud.