Barefoot Buffalo Fishin’
The year was 1960 and the Ohio river was on the rise. My buddy Lester and I had never witnessed the river swelling like this before. We rode our bicycles through the back roads not knowing what to expect. As we neared the river’s banks we saw a place where the water was flowing into a neighbor’s field and we could see fish moving up a small depression. The river was higher than it usually got, and was still rising. We took off our shoes and waded into the mud to get a closer look. We stood there shoulder to shoulder in total amazement at the sight of huge carp, and buffalo fish swimming up into the field. After a few minutes we decided to try to catch some with our hands. Lester grabbed a big buffalo and for a split second I thought that he had him caught. The fish made a big splash and the next thing I saw were the soles of Lester’s feet as his head went under and the escaping fish scooting away in the shallow water. He came up covered with mud from head to toe. He looked like a mud man arising from his underworld interment. I laughed. He didn’t see the humor in it. We tried several more times with no luck. About the only thing we did accomplish was to get covered with mud. So we tried to wash off the best we could, got on our bicycles and headed for home. Dad was standing outside and after asking what had happened to us he just smiled and said, “Don’t move.” He went to the barn and brought back two stout gigs with a nylon line strung through the handles. He said, “Now, let’s go get those fish.”
We got into the truck and headed back toward the rising river. As we approached the place of our previous failed attempts he asked, ”Have you talked to Bud for permission to go into his field?” Lester and I looked at each other, “Uh, no sir.” So dad went to see the land owner. A few minutes later they both returned and gave us the green light. In 1960 it was perfectly legal to catch fish with a gig in the field. Lester threw his gig and it struck home. It was like an instant replay of before. Lester was upside down in the mud with the fish splashing and fighting to get away from him. He finally dragged it over to me, and I guess it weighed 25 or 30 pounds. Within an hour or so the water had risen even more, and fish were scattered all over the field. We wised up pretty quickly. Instead of trying to outrun the fish, we would wait until one came close, then pounced on him.
After we had about 20 fish or so, dad said it was time to go. When we got home dad said, “You caught ‘em, you clean ‘em.” So we did. We gave most of them to our neighbors who would buy fish from the markets in town, so they were glad to get the fresh, cleaned fish free of charge.
Now older and wiser, I feel sorrow for the people and farmers along the river banks who have struggled and fought the river for decades. In my lifetime, I have fished from Alaska to Key West, and have caught many species of fish. But buffalo ribs are still in my top three cuisines of any fish in America. And even now, when the river rises, I still think of that time more than 50 years ago when dad took Lester and me fishing in the fields.
