Catfish Noodling Invite Tests Fate

Growing up in south Atlanta, a southern summer would not be complete without doing some fishing and lots of it. Fishing has always been a passion of mine going back to my childhood when we would sneak slices of Mama’s white bread on those hot, summer days and go down to the community pond to catch some bream while eating wild muscadines right off the bush until we were green in the face.

Them things were dang good, and we would get busier than a cricket in the aforementioned bream bed chomping the afternoon away with only a Boy Scout canteen of warm tap water to wash them down with.

Some years ago, the newspaper business had me in Oklahoma and a pal there told me about a new craze to catch great big ol’ catfish without a gold Eagle Claw hook and something stinky hanging from it. He said they called it noodling. Wait now. Noodles won’t stay on a hook. No, no, no, he laughed.

The procedure, as he meticulously explained, was to wade into a lake and look for a dark hole, a big rock, log or brushpile, squat down and feel around until you touched a big cat and just snatch it by hand out of the water. Wait, say what?

I have caught hundreds of catfish, but I don’t ever recall even one being so docile and willing to just be airlifted out of the water by hand. It gets better. Find the mouth, he said, and wait for the big cat to bite down on your hand and just jerk it out of its calm, underwater abyss.

For me, there were more important matters to consider. Like reaching into said hole and finding something a tad bit more ornery than a sleepy catfish. Like a big angry snake or a misguided beaver or muskrat.

Let me understand. I can go noodling, come away with some very sore fingers if everything goes to plan and we catch the target catfish, but I also have a possibility of an encounter with a water reptile, and for the grand prize, there is the possibility of a missing finger or three from the bite of an annoyed lake critter.

Hmm? Let me think. I love the outdoors and camping and fishing, but I don’t quite grasp the concept of voluntarily testing fate.

Reminds me of a rattlesnake event I covered years ago. Ever poked a singing rattler with a stick? A man showed me a photo of one of his prized “catches.” Said he just reached in, ready for it, a dark hole, and just pulled it out.

Funny thing. That same fella told me rattlesnake meat is “sum go-o-od eatin’!” Especially with “sum grevvie.” Tastes like chicken, he said. Why does everything taste like chicken? Sorry, er, I’m not going to do battle with an inspired rattler because I have a taste for some of the Colonel’s famous yard bird. I passed on his sampling offer. I was chicken.

Don’t get me wrong. I respect thrill outdoor seekers and adrenaline junkies, even those who hunt catfish and pick up rattlers. I truly appreciate the adventurous spirit in people, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just take my stick and fishing pole and mosey on back up to higher ground and not poke anything slithery or reach into any dark holes today.

I’ll have the chicken please. With a Diet Coke.