Buddy Threadgoode Fished Here
I promised myself I wouldn’t do trip reports this time around. Maybe this trip is worth reporting because we didn’t catch any fish.
I have this friend Jeremy. He was living in Idaho when we got acquainted through the usual social media connections. He registered on my radar because he got into a major dispute with his California busybody neighbors over his dog. It was quite the internet drama, with the Californians (I always picture those ridiculous people from the SNL sketch) trying to get his dog locked up. The first time I met Jeremy, his dog bit me on the knee because I wouldn’t throw a rope for her, so maybe there was some blame to go round. Sadie has passed on and I don’t believe in spitting on anyone’s grave. She was a sweet dog who loved to play. When Sadie brings you a rope, you throw the damn rope.
I moved to northeast Georgia nine years ago, about the time this internet dog drama was going on (my sage internet advice was ‘your neighbors need to mind their own goddamned business’). Jeremy just so happens to be a native son of the very place I was moving to and proceeded to download a massive amount of data on the local fishing, a trove I have barely scratched the surface of. I have that DM thread bookmarked.
Then, through the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune Jeremy moved back to the family farm about an hour from where I live. We got out and fished several times with varying success until Covid hit. We haven’t fished together since, until the other day.
Summer fishing in central Georgia is bass fishing as far as I’m concerned. We’re fishing the rivers and it’s a lot like fishing smallmouth in Michigan, except there’s half a dozen species to choose from, more if you count stripers and hybrids. If you fish the mountain streams for redeyes with big spiders and foam hoppers you could swear you’re fishing for brook trout.
The great thing about central Georgia is it’s pretty empty. It’s about as southern and country as you can get. It actually reminds me of rural Michigan- lots of pines, rolling countryside, wild rivers, wilder people.
I rolled up to Jeremy’s place mid-morning after a visit to the tag office. Jeremy drives an old Subaru with a ball hitch on the back- the perfect fish car. I jumped in with him since he had mentioned half a dozen locations, none of which sounded familiar. Jeremy’s dog Charlie insisted on riding on Jeremy’s lap under the steering wheel. Charlie is a pretty smart mutt, but he’s young and insecure.
After an hour drive we came to Juliette, the home of the Whistle Stop Cafe from the Fried Green Tomatoes movie. The cafe is still open and we wanted to grab a bite, but they didn’t appear to be open. I may have to go back and order the barbecue.
Across the train tracks where I assume Buddy Threadgoode got hit by that train, is a mill and an old low-head dam. Jeremy says the best way to find good fishing in the south is to look for a gravel road with the word “mill” in the name. Mills were built near shoals, and bass in southern rivers gather at shoals. Follow any old mill road to the old mill, and there’s your fishing spot. Anyway, we crossed the dam and went to the local “park” to fish the shoals below the dam
The park appears to be the local pot and meth hangout- horrendous road in, red clay parking area strewn with trash and paraphernalia, clay artfully thrown about by kids doing donuts and raising hell. For some reason there’s a shitter tent down by the river with a Home Depot bucket in it.
We rigged up in the lot. Jeremy decided to rig his spey rod and swing the runs and holes for stripers. Charlie didn’t quite get the program and kept wandering off, so Jeremy picked him up and walked to the river, spey rod under one arm and the dog under the other, about the most southern thing I’ve ever seen.
Nothing was happening at these shoals this day. Nada. We waded around and cast to all the likely spots without moving a fish. The Ocmulgee is a big system with lots of fish, but here they weren’t.
We waded all over that place without success. Charlie wandered off. When we got out to find him we decided to go look for another access to try. I had intel on another launch about twenty miles away. We were both hungry so we stopped and had a lunch of gas station pizza, then headed north.
We drove down a long Forest Service road to an empty parking. As I rigged up, a beat up old car with the bumper smashed off and the hood held on by a ratchet strap pulled in. The young woman inside shut the engine off, took a drag off a one-hitter and got out. We said hello and she was friendly enough. I’m sure the weed helped. It always feels awkward in these situations- I get to an access and there’s a woman there by herself, no one else around. I’m at an age I try to act unassuming and friendly, but feel like the harder I try, the more I come off like a creep, so usually after a friendly hello, I just go about my business. The fact that the biggest danger most women face in life is men, is the surest sign to me that we’re still just monkeys.
We followed this gal down to the river. She got in and sat down, cooling off from the gathering heat, and what I can only assume was a lack of air conditioning in her car. To our dismay they were generating power at whatever dam lay upstream and the water was dirty and high. The shoals looked inviting, but we wouldn’t be wading out to them. We were far enough south that Jeremy was worried about alligators, though the real danger was swift current and slippery rocks. If gators were around, that young woman wasn’t concerned about them, sitting in the dirty water up to her neck in a bikini.
After walking around a bit we went back by the launch to leave. The girl told us there was another access downstream with shoals that were easy to access and fish. We thanked her and followed her directions. This spot was a natural swimming hole complete with swimmers- two old men drinking lite beers, and two young girls chatting amiably with them, everyone up to their necks to keep cool. Just outside the calm pool the water was a raging torrent. There were people camped out on the sandbar up the creek.
You don’t always have to catch fish to have fun. This day reminded me of being a teenager, driving around the Pigeon River Country with my friends, stopping off at campgrounds, skipping stones on the lakes, cooling off in the rivers, climbing the old fire tower to take in the view. I had a great time this day just taking in the somnolent antique southern towns adorned by crepe myrtle, sweltering in the summer heat. The air conditioner in the old Subaru leaked tepid air, the Grateful Dead played on the radio, and Charlie in the driver’s seat stared out the window at the passing scenery.
The world is a better place when fishing reports involve friends and food.