Reflections: Night Fishing Under Bridges

No doubt Dad’s inclination to fish in any weather was influenced by his time in the service during World War II. After sleeping on frozen ground in France and Belgium, or burrowing into a foxhole surrounded by snow piles at the Battle of the Bulge, nothing dished out by Mother Nature in the Blue Ridge Mountains would seem worse.

He worked in a machine shop rewinding motors to keep the furniture factories running. That meant he was often called in at all hours when one had gone down abruptly. These motors looked huge to me as a child, some standing shoulder high, and I could only imagine the machinery one of these monsters would drive.

So, his time off was special to him and when it arrived we went to the lake. In cold weather we usually fished in daylight, but during the warmer summer months we often launched just after supper.

The lake we fished offered an assortment of warm- and coldwater fish. In the lower half where depths reached 200 feet, we might spend the night drifting for trout with nightcrawlers. Occasionally, we would tie up to the cable near the dam that marked the “No Entry” point for boaters. On a Saturday night, boats would be strung across the cable as no one brought enough anchor rope to reach bottom that close to the dam.

But on nights that came with foul weather, we usually sought the shelter of bridges. One bridge in particular came in handy, as it spanned the main channel on the upper end of the lake and could be reached in minutes from a nearby boat ramp. Like the cable near the dam, it was a popular place to fish, though when the weather was bad we typically had little company.

Our boat was rigged for bad weather. The windshield and deck provided some protection when rain was blowing, but we had also outfitted the boat with a canvas top that folded out of the way when not needed and we even had plastic windows that snapped up on the sides. In a pinch, we could close up like sardines climbing back into their can and weather most anything.

We used a pair of Coleman lanterns to attract the minnows that brought in the fish. Each one hung over the side on a metal rod that fit in a socket bolted to the side of the boat. That gentle hum of the lanterns was as mesmerizing as the call of cicadas on a still night.

I became Dad’s regular fishing partner at about the age of six. I quickly discovered that I got to come along more if I complained less, so I became a stoic fisherman at an early age.

When the rain came in a steady downpour without wind, we usually tied up under the bridge and folded the top down. A little mist might drift under the bridge but not so much that it drenched us.

One night, I noticed the water fell in a steady sheet upon the lake where it ran off the lower side of the bridge. Moving my rod over a couple feet so my line fell where the runoff hit, I soon had a bite and boated a crappie. Repeating the process, it happened again. We discovered that the crappies were lined up under this runoff to find whatever edibles might wash in.

On that particular night, we quickly put a good mess in the cooler and decided when a lull in the rain came at midnight, it might be a good time to head for home. Our limit was always set below the state regulations based on the number of fish Dad felt like cleaning. Since I was delegated to scale the fish that he would finish cleaning, I never complained.

Odd things happen on a lake at night. Wild animals that don’t roam so much during the day will be about and the imagination takes advantage of that knowledge. Calling from nearby ridges, they always seem closer than they are. I sometimes stared into the darkness expecting eyes to reflect the lantern light back to me.

Bats often swooped into the edge of our light, feeding on insects attracted to the light or just hatching from the lake. When the large, cream-colored mayflies came off the water, the bats seemed to come in packs. Bluegills would sip on the surface around the light as if smacking their lips on the bugs.

And people do things in the darkness in public places that they won’t in the daytime. Passengers in the cars driving on the bridge overhead often called out as they passed, enjoying the echo on a summer night. Sometimes, they would honk their horns just to shatter the stillness in their passing, something that seemed to take a few minutes to return.

One night, as we sat tied up under the bridge, a car passed above us and someone tossed something heavy out the window that splashed in front of our boat. The object sank immediately. In the darkness, neither of us could tell what had landed but the consensus was it had to be a murder weapon. Imaginations work like that. In hindsight, it was probably a rock.

Still, we planned our investigation for the next day, how we would scour the Sunday paper looking for murders, or at least robberies. I don’t recall finding either, but in our minds, that just meant they got away with their bad deeds.

I was reading a lot of Hardy Boys mysteries back in those days, so sleuthing was on my mind. I just needed a good crime to solve and night fishing gave me plenty of time to work on it.

On nights when the weather was a bit more inviting, we might explore other coves looking for crappies. Sometimes, we would strike gold and find a new spot to add to our regular stops. When we struck out, we often packed up early and headed back to the bridge to fish until we were ready to quit.

That bridge became a refuge of sorts from weather, from slow fishing, and perhaps, from having to grow up too soon. Dad and I sat and talked for hours, or just sat, not needing to say much as we both fished, comfortable in the relative silence of a humming lantern.

I figured Dad was sometimes lost in memories of where he had spent other nights and being underneath this bridge seemed good by comparison. At times, he might just start talking about those other nights, almost as if he were talking to himself. Most of what I learned about his years in the war I learned under that bridge.

After hearing some of those stories, I found it remarkable that he had made it home at all. I learned about an incoming artillery shell that hit an apple tree beside his foxhole and didn’t explode. Or about the night another soldier jumped into his foxhole during the Battle of the Bulge, but wouldn’t say a word in response to questions. Dad was convinced he was the enemy in a friendly uniform and didn’t sleep all night. At first light, the other soldier was gone.

On nights such as that, when the conversation was serious but matter of fact, when the boat hardly rocked while rain ran off the pavement above like sheets on either side of us, sitting under a bridge by a lantern seemed like just the right place to be. The fishing may have brought us there, but it wasn’t the most important thing.

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Jim Mize has taken shelter under many bridges. You can purchase his new book, The Jon Boat Years, at uscpress.com or buy autographed copies at acreektricklesthroughit.com.

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