Jimmy's Great Copper Hopper Harness

A Story by cleankitchen

A short story about some young boys and a big fish. It's meant to be slightly humorous, fun and light.

Jimmy collapsed into the grass with a woosh. “ It’s too hot to think, boys. Jake, does yer old man have any Cokes in the fridge?”

We always called them Cokes, whether they were Cherry Cokes or Pepsi Cokes or Dr. Pepper Cokes, well you get the picture. And the Jake to which Jimmy was referring would be me, sixty or seventy years ago give or take a few presidents. Now, why don’t you grab a Coke and I’ll tell you the story of Jimmy’s Great Copper Hopper Harness.

Sixty odd years ago men worked and women did not. When summer came girls stayed home with mother and baked Strawberry Rhubarb pies. Boys did not. Small packs of boys assembled in various woodlots and behind drugstores with the main goal of having no goal; they roved around town like wild dogs, pilfering scraps of food, lounging in dirty alleys and chasing the local girls with no clear idea of what to do if one were to be caught. For our particular group (myself and Jimmy, Charles, Ben Hoffman and a freckled boy whom we all called Dutch) our focus was three things: science fiction movies, fishing and girls; In no particular order.

When we felt the particular urge for some cinematic excellence there was a gnarly old Burr Oak tree just outside the six foot fence that surrounded the ‘Siversun Drive-In’; armed with a small transistor radio we spent many late nights watching out of focus double-features while perched precariously amongst the limbs like roosted Chickens. The Ape Man, Frankenstein Meets Wolfman and other such high art were our preferred style, the 1940s weren’t an exceptionally great time for quality science fiction, but we held out and devoured every bit of the genre that we could.

Fishing, we were working on, and we mainly had to figure things out for ourselves because most of our fathers were off fighting, and the ones that remained were often busy helping out with chores for men who were overseas . We caught the occasional Brook trout, Sunfish or Bass on steel rods loaded with thick, black braided line. Some of us used cane poles and sometimes we simply whacked a willow or dogwood stick from the bank of the pond we were fishing on, nothing was elaborate in those days. Bait was usually squirming red garden worms, crickets collected from abandonded barns or on rare occasion minnows were bought from the local vendor, a hunchbacked and withered old black man who we all called the Badger because Jimmy said he was mean as hell and just looking for trouble.

Girls were a separate and complicated issue altogether.

“Naw, my dad don’t have any Cokes Jimmy. Besides, they’re still pretty mad about last week.” I said, trying to deflect Jimmy. “Come on Jake, that cow had it coming! The damn thing snarled at me, I swear it.” Jake said without a trace of comedy in his eight year old voice.

We’d been out in the pasture between our property and the Joffrees place trying to extricate an eight inch Brook trout from the worm hole as it was known to us. The neighbors cow had wandered a little too close to Jimmy and he threw a couple of small stones at it to show it who was boss. When the cow refused to heed the warning Jimmy’s eyes got a kind of glazed look and before long he was pelting the poor thing with creek stones and jumping up and down in the mud in a strangely wild and pagan way. The whole affair only lasted a minute, the cow seems unfazed; even when my mother, who’d been hanging laundry and keeping one eye on us, was suddenly high stepping through the cow pasture in her house dress screaming at the top of her lungs. I won’t tell you all she said that day, but let’s say that Jimmy was not in her favor. I was told not to repeat any of the adjectives she’d used.

The rest, as they say, is history; what I had not told Jimmy is that the cow that he chose to wage battle with visits my mother every morning when she is feeding our chickens Rosie and Carlita. Every day my mother gives the cow some scraps from the kitchen: some potato peels, carrot tops, half a head of cabbage; treats of the highest culinary delight to a bovine and she was rightfully gratefull and returned the favor by allowing my mother to scratch her forehead and coo over her from time to time. Let me tell you, the Jofrees have exceptionally clean farm and it’s a testament to that fact that my mother would even be within a ten foot range of that cow; they surely had a bond and no boy comes between a woman and her cow.

“We can’t go to my house, let’s ride out to the big river. We can swim, I guess. That’ll cool us off eh Dutch?” I said, while looking at the ground.

Off we rode to the big river as we called it back then and those of us who’ve stayed around the area still do so. The road was dusty and dry, small rocks pelted my bare feet as we veered onto the grassy lane that ran out to the river. Jimmy was, as usual, riding point and literally pedaled his bicycle straight into the river, he dove off it and surfaced a few feet away, tossing his soaking pants up onto the bank. I peeled off my shirt and ran out into the river sailing briefly before smacking belly first into the water. The bank had a fairly moderate slope here and the bottom was a rough mix of sand and mud that made for a nice place to swim as compared to the choppy rapids and rocky sections the river was typically known for. The water was instant relief, chilly and invigorating. The five of us paddled around, skipped rocks and chased minnows in the shallow cuts for most of the afternoon. Finally pulling ourselves out of the water and resting on the bank like seals in the sun.

Jimmy sat on the bank collecting himself for a very short time and soon was dressed and wandering down the bank through the switch grass and nettles. We lost sight of him and were paying very little attention as we lounged and dozed on the bank when suddenly he returned at a dead run. His arms flying wildly he gestured back down river but was so winded he could not squeak out a word. My friends and I traded sly grins as we silently marked our internal calendars. It was a rare day indeed when James Delveaux was speechless.

Once he regained his composure Jimmy told us the story of what he’d seen down river. He’d been walking along scanning the ground for grass snakes to sneak into our shoes or pants pockets if they were small ones when he’d heard a slurp from the river. Walking quietly up to the bank he’d kicked up a number of large rusty colored grasshoppers one of which landed in the river a few feet from the bank. Jimmy watched it float silently downstream kicking its legs futilely when suddenly there was a violent explosion and the hopper disappeared in a swirl of black water. Scratching his head Jimmy carefully snuck a little further down river and peered back over the bank, he noticed a dark shaded area underneath a tangle of bleached tree roots and laid down on the bank to watch the water swirl in among the flotsam deposited there by the spring floods. A few minutes passed and Jimmy was about to continue exploring when he heard a small splat and looked up river to see another large grasshopper struggling in the current, as the hopper neared the snag Jimmy could not believe what happened next. A trout easily as long as his leg rushed out from under the snag, opened up its massive hooked jaw and engulfed the hopper; half of it clearing the water and returning with a hefty splash. Once the ripples settled there was no evidence that the fish was still under the snag and Jimmy, assuming it was gone, slowly crept to his feet only to dislodge another volley of grasshoppers followed by another violent splash, which confirmed that the fish was indeed still in the tangle of tree roots.

“I gotta get that fish men, I’m making it my mission.” Jimmy quietly breathed out later, as we sat under a hickory in the schoolyard passing an ice cold Cherry Coke back and forth like a chalice.

I didn’t see much of the other boys for the next week; I was kept busy all day harvesting and bailing hay with my family. Being of an unfortunately scrawny and small stature my job was generally to drive the tractor that pulled the hay wagon around the field for hours and hours. When the last bail of hay was stacked in the barn on Thursday afternoon I could hardly wait to get off that tractor and meet up with the boys. I had heard very little from them in the past week and when we finally caught up they were all jittery and nervous, I had apparently missed quite a few adventures. I was eager to get caught up on all the details. Jimmy had been intently focused on catching that big river trout which had assumed the nickname of old slewmouth; and please don’t ask me to explain where it came from as I told you earlier I was parked on the seat of a rusty John Deer for most of the good action.

As was told to me, many fumbling attempts were made on this trout’s life over the last week using the usual woven black line and cane pole affair. Crickets, worms, hoppers, leaches and even crawfish and thunderbugs were soaked in the river yielding nothing but an occasional wayward and I would say lucky (considering the size of old slewmouth) Rock Bass. I think they only succeeded in driving that old hermit trout further into the root system of that ancient Cottonwood.

I felt my council was required, I being a bit of an expert on fishing among my circle; I had been fishing quite a few times with my Grandfather before he died the year before. An old car packed with a musty canvas tent, cast iron pans of all sizes and other various fascinating gear would pull up to the door with grandpas pipe smoke drifting through the window. We’d wind our way up through the pastures to hidden cold flowing trout streams while grandpa (if he was in a talking mood) would pontificate on all things fishing which to him revolved around fly-fishing which he had long since decided was the only pure and clean method of fishing. And presumably being of pure and clean heart my Grandpa implored me to follow suit and take up the affliction, but I had never fully learned what he had to teach me when he became sick with pneumonia and was shortly after taken from us. One statement I will never forget: Jesus had fished with a gillnet because it was effective and because it was his job, but it was a dirty shame to trick those fish that way, had he a choice he would have surely chosen to fly fish.

When I was able to catch Jimmy still enough to listen I began by asking him for firsthand accounts of the various attempts to capture old slewmouth. Jimmy was looking a little wild that day, he’d been swimming up in the reservoir and after drying in the wind his curled hair flew out from his head like wings, he wore ratty blue jeans rolled up to about mid-calf and no shirt, exposing wiry arms tanned from the August sun. The expression on his face wasn’t helping matters any either, he looked like a mad man from one of our films. I attempted to pry some truthful nuggets of information from him regarding the past week or so. As I had been told there were all sorts of baits thrown into the river in the vicinity of the old stump and none of them had worked. “You guys tried hoppers? And nothing huh, well that’s what he was eating that day we were swimming so I think that is what we’ll catch him on.” I said this as Jimmy leaned back in the grass pretend smoking a blade of Bluestem.

Jimmy suddenly leaned up on his elbows regarding me with a look like I’d just stumbled on to something big.

“ Yup, we tried Grass Hopper, Crickets , you name it…but you know what Jake? Them damn things was always dying when we put the hook through them; then they won’t wiggle their little legs and stuff. I bet if we could keep a big one alive long enough to float down in front of that stump old slewmouth wouldn’t be able to resist it, I watched him inhale 3 or four of them things without hardly flinching.” Jimmy laid back down in the grass and we began to hatch a plan to give old slewmouth a weeks break while we gathered our wits and got the necessary gear together for a stealth attack.

Between you and me I was grateful they hadn’t caught that big fish without me around, there is just something about a big fish that stirs a man’s blood like a fever. The week went by slowly and every night I would go to sleep dreaming of that old maw opening up and sucking in a black whirlpool of water with a wriggling grass hopper in the center of it. Sometimes it would be me holding the rod, sometimes Jimmy, but always the big fish of a boys dream was on the other end dancing in the sun.

The days went by and finally Tuesday dawned calm and clear. The day I had been waiting for had arrived and I was giddy with anticipation, I felt like I had one hand on an electric fence. Ma had breakfast on the table and I wheeled down there as fast as I cold grabbing a glass of Orange juice and a slice of thick cut toast as I blew through the kitchen. “Jake, you need to gather eggs today and mind you Carlitas been nesting behind the granary.” My mother hollered as the screen door slammed. I gathered those eggs so fast it would make your head spin, I only dropped one too. After chores were done I was normally given free reign to go about town and generally raise hell, this was the moment I had been waiting for. I cautiously descended the basement stairs and pulled the chain to turn on the light, there in the corner behind some canning jars was Granpas old fishing gear. I started to walk towards it and stopped short, just staring at it for a long time. It seemed like I could suddenly smell wood smoke and hear grease sizzling in a cast iron pan, I could almost feel the cool October rain on my skin. I held the old rod in my hands for a long time, running my hands over its smooth joints, feeling the silk line in my fingers.

I met Jimmy down by the church yard at the end of the old grave road. We rode out towards the river in silence as the dew burned from the fields around us and the sun came up fully. Pulling up to the river we broke our silence and began to go over the finalities of our assault. I sat in the dirt as Jimmy showed me his invention, it was a copper harness weaved out of single strands of old lamp cord, it looked like a bunch of loops to me with the main trunk bound tightly to a large aberdeen hook. Jimmy assured me that it did indeed work, that he’d tried various designs before settling on this one. I showed him what I had brought, the cane rod slid out of its’ case with a soft sound. I gingerly screwed the rings down onto the reel to secure it to the rod and threaded the line through the eyelets.

Jimmy questioned me as to whether I could even cast a fly rod.

“I can cast this thing Jimmy, trust me, and I don’t think it’s important so much that I can cast it far as it is that old slewmouth doesn’t know we are up on the bank.” I spoke as if I really knew what I was talking about.

Down river we waded through the wet grass flushing hoppers as we went, Jimmy produced an old coffee can and began to nab hoppers and push them into the can as he walked, things were errily quiet on the river that morning with the dew still rising.

Thirty feet back from the bank we kneeled in the grass and Jimmy fitted a fat hopper into the copper harness. I was astonished but that harness really seemed to work well, small loops were put over the rear legs and a larger loop held the hoppers body to the hook. Jimmy reached into his pocket and produced a loop of single strand wire which he used to further bind the hoppers body to the shank of the hook with gentle loops and knots. The time came for me to carefully tie the hopper and harness to the end of the leader, my hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn’t get the line through the eye of the hook. I was again amazed at the hopper harness, it really held the hopper tight but would allow his legs to wiggle and churn as he tried to fight his way back to shore.

We looked at each other one last time before I slowly crawled towards the bank of the river, I knew Jimmy was just as crazy (or crazier) about catching this fish as I was and the tension of the moment was almost unbearable. Ten feet from the bank we stopped and I knelt while Jimmy changed course and crept downriver. I mentally prepared for the inevitable cast and when Jimmy gave me the nod the rod went back once then forward, again back then forward and as I released my grip on the line it silently slid through the guides. The hopper landed about ten feet from shore and maybe fifteen feet from the stump of that old Cottonwood tree. From the kneeling position I could not actually see the hopper but Jimmy could because he was downstream aways. I glanced at him and could see his eyes were large and saucery, his mouth hung open. I took this to mean something was going to happen soon.

Suddenly I heard a loud splash in the vicinity of the hopper and instinctively lifted the rod to the twelve o’ clock position. My god, I can still feel this fish shaking his head at the end of the line sixty years later. I could feel old slew mouth on the other end of the line, I could feel his pulsing thrum as we deadlocked for one or two seconds while we both took in the levity of the situation. Line peeled from the old silver reel as the fish made for mid river, I let him run out into the main current and instantly regretted it as his power suddenly seemed to double. I fought to gain a few yards of line and succeeded in getting him back into the slack water, again he ran to the center of the river and again I put every ounce of my 66 pounds behind the rod and eased him out of the current. This went on for what seemed like hours but may in reality have been ten minutes maybe twenty minutes. Jimmy pulled up beside me looking crazier than ever and I gladly handed him the rod. I sat in the grass massaging my forearms as the same story played out with Jimmy at the helm, after another ten minutes or so we were in the same position and wondering if old slewmouth had us licked.

“ Jimmy I think we need to get this fish into some shallower water.” I said as I started to walk down the river.

“I agree” Jimmy said, and the next thing I heard was a large splash as Jimmy launched himself from the river bank into the black water. He came up choking and spitting and reeling frantically to keep the line tight. He held the rod above his head as he treaded out into the main river current, he was reeling as he went and it occurred to me that he was in the water with a fish that was big enough to take his hand if he’d wanted to.

Splashing and coughing Jimmy coasted downriver. He somehow appeared to be gaining line and pretty soon he had the big fish under ten feet from him, and before my very eyes Jimmy reached down and grabbed the fish by the gills and pulled it up so their faces were maybe a foot apart. “Jimmy, the shallows are coming up so I think you should be able to stand pretty soon.” I screamed at him from the bank.

Standing in the middle of the big river Jimmy held the big fish the only way he could, by bear hugging it. The fish was nearly as long as Jimmy was tall and I don’t know who was wetter or looked more worn out. “Now what, Jake?” Jimmy hollered from mid river, not knowing what to do next. Neither of us, for as much thought we’d put into it, had a plan for after the catch.

Jimmy looked at the big fish, carefully reaching up and prying the hook from the large hooked jaw. He looked at the colorful spots felt the muscles of the large fish pulse in his arms. I knew what was going to happen even before I saw Jimmy release his grip on the gigantic trout and watch the fish slide back into the river and slowly swim downstream. I couldn’t believe it, even though I had seen it with both eyes

Later as we pedaled away from the river I dared to break the silence and ask Jimmy why he’d let the fish go. “Let him go! Let him go! Are you serious Jake? Let him go? That old slewmouth tricked me…let me relax my grip thinking he was licked and then he made his move. It was probably for the best, trout that big aint that good of eating anyway.” Jimmy spoke without a bit of humor in his eight year old voice.

“Jake, does yer old man have any Cokes in the fridge?” Jimmy said, as we came into town. “I sure could go for one.”