Eel Fishing on the Patuxent in the late 1950’s
Eel Fishing on the Patuxent in the late 1950’s and 1960’s
By Thomas Terry
One of my favorite childhood pastimes was eel fishing on the Patuxent River on Mr. Vernon Arnold’s property. Mr. Arnold lived a couple of miles to the east of our farm along the road that went by the Entzian’s property and cousin Walter Stewart’s portion of Grandpop Poula’s (my grandfather) old home place.
Eel fishing was something that we did ritualistically in the spring when the river started rising after a spring rain. This was the time that the eels were "biting" the best. The excitement started when Grandpop agreed to take us down to the river. We then began getting our gear together and gathering bait in a couple tin cans… we usually dug earthworms from behind the old out-house near the chicken yard fence.
Grandpop Poula was a heavy-set man with noticeably bowed legs. He usually always had a smile but the smile was usually somewhat constrained due to the plug of Brown Mule chewing tobacco in his mouth. He also had a vice-grip hand shake from the years of farming chores.
I’ll never forget his story-telling and his feelings for friends, animals, and all things alive. He was a kind man who never hurt anyone or anything intentionally – unless they really deserved it. Even though he used to be an active sportsman he always respected his quarry and he never was one to take his limit just to say he limited out.
Since Grandpop was rather stout and aging it was difficult for him to walk very far, so we always drove the old Chevrolet ’49 coup as far down Mr. Arnold’s woods road as possible towards the river. Usually we had to stop at the top of the hill to check the road before we drove down the long steep grade through the woods. If the road was rutted out or too slick we parked at the top of the hill, otherwise we eased down the hill and stopped on the upper river terrace in a small pasture. From there we walked through the woods down an old logging road to get to the narrow first terrace of the river and the river bank. The wooded area was comprised of large oak and beech trees and many smaller ironwood trees.
Once we got half-way down the narrow logging road incline, about 50 yards from the river, we could begin to smell the damp earthy smell of the river bottom and hear the water wash under logs and trees that had fallen into the river. The excitement grew when we were only a few minutes away from throwing out our baited line.
"Wait up, wait up," Grandpop would shout as we ran ahead to get to the river, "don’t go near the bank until I get there!"
As soon as all of us reached the river bank we would put a two-ounce sinker on our lines, a piece of earthworm on the hook, and cast out to the center of the river, being careful to position the lines so they didn’t go near fallen trees and snags. Then we would cut a forked branch and push it in the ground so we could set the rods in the fork and watch the rod tip. Sudden twitches of the rod tip meant something was trying to take the bait. It usually was an eel but periodically it was a snapping turtle.
While we waited we enjoyed the smell of the river bottom, and the call of mourning doves cooing in the tall hardwood trees along the river as they rested in the shade after their morning feeding. We listened and watched the lines so the baited hook did not get swept under logs with the current. Then it would happen; the rod tip would dip sharply and we quickly picked it up and waited for the repeated tugs that indicated the eel was hooked and trying to get away. With one fast, hard upward sweep of the rod tip the hook was firmly set and the fight was on. A big eel could make your heart pound and imagination race as you quickly tried to get it to the surface to see how big it was. Once we got it to the surface we wanted to get it to the bank before it got entangled in underwater limbs or tree roots. Then we had to quickly lift it up the bank before it wrapped itself around the line to try to get off.
We always carried a burlap bag so we could drop the eel into the sack. Then we’d pull the line taunt, find the eel’s head, and squeeze the bag tight to hold it still. This prevented us from getting eel slime all over our hands and it kept the eel from tangling up the line as it tried to coil its body around the line to pull the hook out of its mouth. Once we had the head and writhing body in a tight grip we would partly open the top of the bag and use a pair of needle-nose pliers to extract the hook from its jaws or gut if the hook was swallowed.
If we caught 3-4 nice eels we were a happy lot. We rarely went home with an empty burlap sack. When we were home we would skin and gut them, cut them in 4 inch pieces and soak them in salt water. The next day Grandma Poula or Mom would fry them for supper.
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After I finished graduate school and years after Grandpop had passed away I made a sentimental walk back down to Mr. Arnold’s woods and down the woods road to the small wooded opening by the river bank. The smells were the same, new generations of mourning doves still cooed and rested in the trees, and the river still flowed and rushed through downed trees and logs.
I sat down on the bank and thought what it would be like to spend one more afternoon watching the rod tips dip, hearing the eels thrash in the water, and listening to the stories Grandpop had to tell. Then I walked back up the hill remembering the sound of the old Chevrolet straining, the tires spinning and throwing mud, and Grandpop saying, "Come on Maggie," Grandpop Poula’s nickname for the Chevy, "get up there," as we roared up the hill toward home.
Note: Thomas Terry is a fourth generation resident of the Patuxent watershed where his family acquired "Ample Grange Farm" in 1886. The Farm continues under Terry ownership today located just South East of Bowie, MD.
