The Tuckasegee River is designated Delayed Harvest water. This is a special label meaning a fisherman can only use artificial lures with a single hook and all fish must be released for most of the year. Over thirty thousand trout are discharged into the Tuck each year by the North Carolina Department of Fisheries. It transitions to General Water on the first Saturday in June, meaning fishermen can keep a daily limit of seven trout. I make it a point NOT to fish on that weekend because I can’t stand ‘combat’ fishing. My dad used to say, “On opening day you have to carry your own rock to stand on.” People who know nothing of fishing etiquette take to the water. Ernest Hemingway said, “Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.”
The one and only time I fished the opening day of General Water was with my friend Bill. We arrived at the river while it was still dark-thirty and were the first to reach the sacred turn. We caught several fish in the first few minutes gently caressing the water with our dry-fly presentations. Those first few moments were serene. But a deep voice soon pierced our tranquility with a veritable yell of, “Y’all catching anything?” A gigantic mountain man spouted these words mid-stride as he splashed through our fishing hole. He was armed with a spinning rod as thick as a broomstick. Dangling on the end was a spinner that looked like a big Christmas tree ornament. He zinged a cast between Bill and me like he owned the river. Now Bill is slight in stature and this mountaineer was well…mountainous. Bill trudged to the bank, threw aside his fly rod, and picked up a rock the size of a basketball. He sloshed back through the water and launched it into the river in front of the giant hillbilly making a massive splash. He said, “Their not biting here now you toothless diddywick!” I knew these would be the last words of Bill C. But the big man stood there, mouth agape, as Bill trudged off, grabbing up his fly rod and muttering, “toothless diddywick” under his breath.
I didn’t waste any time following Bill to the truck. I asked with a smile, “What the heck is a toothless diddywick?” He explained that where he grew up, there was a family by the name of Diddywick. They were forever following him around while he was fishing. They waited for him to hook a fish and promptly barged into his space to dunk an impaled night crawler. The Diddywicks were hillbillies in the truest form and not given to dental hygiene. Therefore, to Bill, anyone who invaded his fishing space was forever referred to as a toothless diddywick.
No comments :
Post a Comment