I will have to say that in all likelihood there is a small amount of green creek water pulsing through my veins. The slow moving waters of Fishing Creek and the Ohio River have always held a special place for me. I guess that is why I have always enjoyed catfishing.

Late last summer I took my pole and found a warm sandy shore next to the green water to try my luck. With my pole set into the fork of a willow stick, I laid back to watch the clouds as I was waiting for “Old Whiskers” to visit my bait. After a while I lost track of time when I heard, “son, are you fishin’ or counting the birds?” Looking up I could see the silhouette of a man against the sun.

I sat up to better see who my unannounced guest may be. He looked familiar, but I just could not quite place him. Before I could speculate any further, the man extended his hand and said, “the name is Sam, mind if I set a spell?” “No, please join me”, as I shook his extended hand.

We talked about growing up and our love of rivers. For me it was Ohio, and its small creeks and streams. For Sam it was about the Mississippi and the towns along its shores.

After a while he asked if I had ever heard of the story of three toed Jake and the giant catfish? I wiggled my toes into the cool depths of the sand and removed the slack line from my pole as I told him, “no, I can’t say I have.”

Sam leaned back and began to tell his story. It was early August, much like today, the beginning of dog days. The meandering waters still carried patches of CottonWood flotsam from the Missouri River. The white fluff was the only way a person could see the current move the water.

It was the time of year the big cats came out from under rocks to feed and fatten up for winter. Big fish don’t chase their prey; they hide inside of old logs, or under a flat rock. They wait in ambush for a fish to pass too close. With a big slurp of water pulled into their gaping mouth, the fish is sent down the catfish’s gullet.

For the biggest part of his life Jake Littlefield earned his living catching catfish from the river. He sold or traded his catch to many of the local markets in town. Most days’ fresh caught fish were in demand at local merchants’ stores. The only way to keep anything fresh was to salt it down or keep it in the market’s icehouse. Jake’s daily catch meant fresh catfish for many homes in the community.

After trading and selling his catch, he often stopped by an establishment that sold warm beer to the men of the river. As often happens, many fish stories are told by men when they gather in the day’s fading light.

That night the air was heavy with smells of fish, sweat, warm beer, and tales of giant catfish. Old Rob, as often was the case, was doing’ most of the talking’ and his bloody hands were shown’ the size of the cat that got away.