Last weekend, my good friend Richard Biever brought his 9-year-old twins, Nick and Acadia, down for a little fishing.

Richard’s dilemma, like that of many anglers, was finding a location where he could hone his skills and introduce his children to the thrill of fishing. He had tried several state-owned locations, but had little luck actually catching fish.

Not wanting his children to become bored with repeated experiences of nonproductive fishing, he was looking for a place, “where we can catch some fish.” Luckily, I knew a landowner willing to grant temporary access to a fishing hole possibly fitting the bill. The pond owner wanted some help thinning out the hoard of yellow-belly catfish taking over his pond.

A couple of telephone calls set up the outing, and Richard and the twins arrived Sunday afternoon for a shot at catching some fish.
The pond has limited access, so we decided on the strategy of letting the kids take turns. I was fairly certain the fish would cooperate, and Richard and I wanted to limit the possibilities of line tangles or one of the twins taking a tumble into the pond.
Our rules of engagement were: One rod at a time, and you fish until you lose your bait or catch a fish.

I baited the hook, and it was “ladies first” as Acadia stepped up to the pond. Richard began baiting the second pole for Nick.

Flipping the bait close to shore, I told Acadia to watch for the bobber to go under, then to give the line a sharp tug and reel in the fish. I noticed both Nick and Acadia had looks of doubt and disbelief of actually catching a fish, but that was to change in about 10 seconds.

No more had the tiny rings of waves around the bobber settled, than the bright red and white orb suddenly was yanked under and disappeared. Apparently, Acadia had picked that precise moment to glance back at her father, and didn’t see the bobber disappear.
“Acadia, where’s your bobber?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you have a fish.”

Rearing back on the rod while squealing at the top of her lungs, she began winching in a fat yellow-belly out of the pond.

Once the fish was on the bank, I carefully picked it up, unhooked it and showed the kids the three horns on the fish. “The horns are needle sharp, and catfish can stick you with them if you aren’t extremely careful,” I explained.

Next up was Nick – with the same results, as another fat catfish went into the bucket. Swapping back and forth, the race was on for who could catch the biggest fish.

After studying my hook release technique, Richard began unhooking the catfish too. At about the same time, I decided the kids should see close-up how to hold the catfish, avoid the horn and take out the hook.

Picking up the wriggling fish, I called the kids over for a tutorial of what to do and what not to do when handling catfish. “Keep your eyes on the fish. If you aren’t careful ...” was all I got out of my mouth as I glanced up at Nick and Acadia, momentarily looking away from the catfish.

As the twins focused on the fish, the slimy, slick little son-of-a-gun twisted in my hand, arched to the side and plunged a spine almost completely through the meat of my middle finger between my palm and the second knuckle. I immediately jumped to my feet, and performed a short shuffling dance.

This pondside gyration was accompanied by a loud, detailed review of the catfish’s heritage as I pulled its horn out of my finger and threw the fish on the ground: “YOOOWEEE ... YOU DIMWITTED SNARGEL BLIPPIAN!”

As I danced in pain, gritting my teeth and holding my throbbing finger, I heard Nick say, “Dad what are those words?”

As I continued to hop, I heard Richard reply, “Those are words you might want to forget; they are not really good words.”

The kids were now properly educated and showed great concern for my well-being. Little did they know I had just been horned worse than in all my years of fishing for catfish – but, believe me, I knew.
“I bet that really hurt, Mr. Spaulding. Is all that blood yours?”
Unfortunately, the answers to the two inquiries were “yes” and “yes.”

I picked up the catfish and began to rub the fish’s belly directly on the throbbing wound. I could see its fin was torn away from the spike for almost three quarters of an inch. The needle sharp horn didn’t miss exiting the other side of my finger by much.

An old wives’ tale says the slime from the fish’s belly will stop the pain and reduce the swelling … and it does. Within minutes, the pain was gone and the finger only swelled to twice its normal size by day’s end.

All in all, it was a good day on the pond. Our total catch was 17 catfish and three bluegills. Richard got to retune his fishing skills, the kids had a ball catching fish and I was reminded to do as I say, and not to do as I did.

 K-9 busts ginseng poachers

On July 19, Indiana Conservation Officer Jeff Milner and K-9 Officer Journey tracked down Illegal ginseng harvesters in southern Orange County.

Responding to a complaint from a landowner, Milner and Journey located Jamie M. Brouton, 25, and Dennis E. Saltsgaver, 26, both of Marengo, Ind., after a half-mile track through a wooded area. Brouton and Saltsgaver were found in possession of ginseng during closed season.

The two will be facing charges of Illegal Harvesting and Possession of Ginseng during Closed Season and Searching for Plant Material without Landowner Consent. Both charges are Class B misdemeanors.

And, for those ready to head out to dig ginseng, officers would like to remind harvesters that the season for the digging and possession begins on Sept. 1.

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments can contact Jack Spaulding by e-mail at jackspaulding@hughes.net or by writing to him in care of this publication.