PeterKroll
18-12-2013, 06:40 PM
One of the posts here reminded me of something fishing related that I shouldn't have done when I was a kid. So, for no good reason, apart from the thought that some of you guys might have a story yourselves to relate, here's my story:
When I was a kid, I used to stay on my uncle's dairy farm at Avondale in Queensland. It was great, getting up with frost and mist everywhere. Cold on the bare feet, but great. Fresh cream from the vat is one memory that sticks in my head. The feeling of warm cow poo squelching up between my toes is a less favourite memory, but a pretty ordinary and unavoidable experience on a dairy farm.
Like all kids, we used to run wild through the countryside. Pack a lunch and gone until nightfall or later. Running madly through the canefields, eating corn straight off the stalk and getting chased through the field by the farmer. All good fun.
And then there was the fishing. The Kolan River was down the bottom of the hill, and it fished pretty well, plenty of bream, lots of sand crabs as well. But there was something bigger to be caught.
There was a large, weed-choked dam about an hour away from the farm, through the hills and onto an adjacent property. A very big artificial dam, compared to what I've seen on other farms. It was created from the ground up, rather than dug up. It may well have also been carved out of the ground, but it had very high walls, and I never swam in there, so I don't know. And why didn't I swim there? Well, there was a bit of a legend about that, at least among the kids. No-one ever swam there, because there was something large inhabiting the dam. Something that could be hooked, but not landed. So we (I) had to do something about it.
Next Christmas, when I went up for the holidays again, I had some 80lb line I had taken from my father's stash. If you've been around for a while, you'll remember Tortue line, and this was Tortue. My father swore by it, and, at least according to me, when it came to fishing, he was the man. And I had a couple of big hooks. I don't know how big, but BIG! And, this being freshwater, we grabbed some steak from the fridge, and we were away.
When we arrived at the dam, I rigged up one of the BIG hooks, stuck a large chunk of steak on it, and threw it into the swampy water. The water was dark and still. A bit scary. You know, when you're in a place like that, and all you can hear are the sounds of the bush, civilization seem like someone else's dream. It sure seemed a long way away. So we took off to play for about a half-hour, and when we came back, the line was taut and something was waiting for us.
I hauled on the line, and it didn't move, well, it moved but not towards me, so my cousin (also Peter) gave a hand. All that happened was that the line broke, and we fell in a heap. It's true that I gave up easily on a lot of things in those days, but not this time. I was a bit scared (well, whatever it was, we knew it was BIG), but I wanted to be the boss man of this little tribe. So I doubled the line, put on another BIG hook, baited and threw it out again. And waited.
It didn't take long, and this creature inhaled the bait again. And stopped. After all, I suppose, where was it going to go? It was king of the dam, but there was no way out.
Again I pulled, and again, Peter helped. And slowly, very reluctantly, and with all kinds of writhings, the king gave up the ghost.
As you have probably guessed, it was an enormous eel, the largest I have seen before or since. And I clubbed it to death with a stick. It was like a scene out of 'Lord of the Flies'. There's no motivation for killing like the need to be the big man.
I don't know quite how big it was, but my memory says that, as I carried it home, draped across a large stick, it touched the ground on both sides. And I was a tall kid (but saying that, I'm willing to admit to the possibility that my memory may have used the perspective of years and wish fulfillment to increase the size of the catch).
What isn't up for debate, is the way my uncle reacted when I showed up at the farm. What I caught from the angry blue tirade that came my way was, that yes, it was an eel; yes, it was big; yes, they knew it was there because they put it there, and yes, it had a reason to be there and that was that it ate the bloody lobbies (freshwater crayfish) which would otherwise tunnel into the walls of the dam, and then there would be no bloody water in the dam, and was I some kind of idiot? (The answer was, at least in his eyes, YES!).
But it was really when I felt the lift from his barefoot kick to my young and unprotected arse as I disappeared around the corner of the farm house to head for the scrub again, followed by my wailing cousins (who knew that their time would come), I finally got the picture that really, oh really, I shouldn't have done it.
When I was a kid, I used to stay on my uncle's dairy farm at Avondale in Queensland. It was great, getting up with frost and mist everywhere. Cold on the bare feet, but great. Fresh cream from the vat is one memory that sticks in my head. The feeling of warm cow poo squelching up between my toes is a less favourite memory, but a pretty ordinary and unavoidable experience on a dairy farm.
Like all kids, we used to run wild through the countryside. Pack a lunch and gone until nightfall or later. Running madly through the canefields, eating corn straight off the stalk and getting chased through the field by the farmer. All good fun.
And then there was the fishing. The Kolan River was down the bottom of the hill, and it fished pretty well, plenty of bream, lots of sand crabs as well. But there was something bigger to be caught.
There was a large, weed-choked dam about an hour away from the farm, through the hills and onto an adjacent property. A very big artificial dam, compared to what I've seen on other farms. It was created from the ground up, rather than dug up. It may well have also been carved out of the ground, but it had very high walls, and I never swam in there, so I don't know. And why didn't I swim there? Well, there was a bit of a legend about that, at least among the kids. No-one ever swam there, because there was something large inhabiting the dam. Something that could be hooked, but not landed. So we (I) had to do something about it.
Next Christmas, when I went up for the holidays again, I had some 80lb line I had taken from my father's stash. If you've been around for a while, you'll remember Tortue line, and this was Tortue. My father swore by it, and, at least according to me, when it came to fishing, he was the man. And I had a couple of big hooks. I don't know how big, but BIG! And, this being freshwater, we grabbed some steak from the fridge, and we were away.
When we arrived at the dam, I rigged up one of the BIG hooks, stuck a large chunk of steak on it, and threw it into the swampy water. The water was dark and still. A bit scary. You know, when you're in a place like that, and all you can hear are the sounds of the bush, civilization seem like someone else's dream. It sure seemed a long way away. So we took off to play for about a half-hour, and when we came back, the line was taut and something was waiting for us.
I hauled on the line, and it didn't move, well, it moved but not towards me, so my cousin (also Peter) gave a hand. All that happened was that the line broke, and we fell in a heap. It's true that I gave up easily on a lot of things in those days, but not this time. I was a bit scared (well, whatever it was, we knew it was BIG), but I wanted to be the boss man of this little tribe. So I doubled the line, put on another BIG hook, baited and threw it out again. And waited.
It didn't take long, and this creature inhaled the bait again. And stopped. After all, I suppose, where was it going to go? It was king of the dam, but there was no way out.
Again I pulled, and again, Peter helped. And slowly, very reluctantly, and with all kinds of writhings, the king gave up the ghost.
As you have probably guessed, it was an enormous eel, the largest I have seen before or since. And I clubbed it to death with a stick. It was like a scene out of 'Lord of the Flies'. There's no motivation for killing like the need to be the big man.
I don't know quite how big it was, but my memory says that, as I carried it home, draped across a large stick, it touched the ground on both sides. And I was a tall kid (but saying that, I'm willing to admit to the possibility that my memory may have used the perspective of years and wish fulfillment to increase the size of the catch).
What isn't up for debate, is the way my uncle reacted when I showed up at the farm. What I caught from the angry blue tirade that came my way was, that yes, it was an eel; yes, it was big; yes, they knew it was there because they put it there, and yes, it had a reason to be there and that was that it ate the bloody lobbies (freshwater crayfish) which would otherwise tunnel into the walls of the dam, and then there would be no bloody water in the dam, and was I some kind of idiot? (The answer was, at least in his eyes, YES!).
But it was really when I felt the lift from his barefoot kick to my young and unprotected arse as I disappeared around the corner of the farm house to head for the scrub again, followed by my wailing cousins (who knew that their time would come), I finally got the picture that really, oh really, I shouldn't have done it.