I remember the morning well; it was October first, the opening day of squirrel season in Fannin County, Texas. After spending the night camped on Red River fishing, I planned to be in a pecan grove when the sun peeked over the river bluff.
I crawled out of my sleeping bag at five a.m. sharp and pulled on my camoflague. When I stepped out of my tent I stood face to face with my bowed double fishing rod. The reel squalled for help!
I knew I had a big flathead cat on. He dug his nose into the bottom and steadily pulled line from my reel. Every few feet he stopped and shook his head violently. That is the way flatheads react. As I fought, my side of the battle, I remembered a song dad used to sing to us boys, The Preacher and the Bear, only I sang my version. I cast my eyes to the Lord in the skies and said; Oh Lord … if you don’t help me … for goodness sake don’t help that cat.
By the time I wore the big catfish into the bank, the sun was up. I hadn’t had my morning coffee — not to mention breakfast — and I had completely forgotten Mr. Bushy-tail.
My big flathead weighed in at fifty two pounds. It was short of dad’s record. Disappointed — no I wasn’t disappointed, I was determined. Until this day I am still determined to catch a flathead catfish that breaks dad’s record of fifty four pounds.
