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We slowly
drove past each cabin reading the names above the doorways: "Liar's
Den", "Boar's Nest" to name a few. We never parked and
went inside, Dad just turned around and muttered something to the effect
of, "We need to bring the boat next time." Then, off we went
in a blaze of orange dust.
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A friend of mine and I were
talking after spending an incredible day on the water. An elderly
gentleman pulled his boat up to the dock and the scent of the oily, blue
smoke from his outboard wafted over us. My buddy seemed to go somewhere
else, and his conversation drifted. After he came back, he apologized
briefly and told me that his dad had passed away only a few years ago,
and the distinct smell of that oil smoke reminded him of fond memories
when they fished together. Often smells are just such a catalyst of
memories. Faint, just off in the distance…the white paste glue from
grammar school; the smell of freshly mowed grass, or the smoke from a
distant fire.
A few months ago, I was driving home when the beautiful
fragrance of an oak fire off in the far distance came through the
window, with memories of long ago as real as though I had digressed back
some forty-plus years. Times were simpler then, and the smell of the
burning oak remained bringing to mind a gathering on the banks of a
faraway river, and of a faraway time along the Kissimmee River at a
place called Camp Mack.
Years ago, Mom, Dad and I would just head off whichever way
the old Buick decided to take us. Usually this was after church on a
sunny Sunday afternoon. Winding, single-lane highways, or
metallic-colored sandy trails, or turn-offs down old dusty orange grove
clay roads,. The dust we kicked up matched the fruit that hung on the
dark green citrus trees as we whizzed by row after row. Perhaps Dad had
seen a homemade sign nailed to a telephone pole, or it may have been his
keen sense of sniffing places out. Places that always had to do with
water and fish camps, or an old and weathered boat ramp.
This particular day, it was as though we passed through
some fold in time. At the end of a dirt road in south Polk County,
Florida, time had stopped. Decades peeled away and a paradise had been
preserved. A sign hung haphazardly by an old, rusty nail telling us we
had arrived at yet another place where water met earth. "Welcome To
Camp Mack".
Ancient oaks draped their long, reaching branches over
light-gray, sandy patches; old yellow cur dogs laid in their shady,
favorite places; an ancient tin-roofed cook shed was tucked near the
bank of the Kissimmee River; several wooden boats waited for yet another
voyage to take their owners fishing on the river. Among its many hidden
coves where dark and tannin water slowly undulated around giant bald
cypress trees, trees perhaps hundreds of years old with their knobby
knees protruding above the surface. Cabbage palms, soldier-like, lined
the banks until the bluish haze of a hot summer's afternoon took wiped
from view. Old, blackened pilings stood sentry, leading out into the
river. Several colorful rental boats were tied to them. Nailed to the
pilings were boards of rough cypress planking, worn smooth by the
footsteps of many fishermen and decades of stormy weather and blistering
heat, but they still remained faithful and strong.
Just off the river were several small cabins across from
the boat ramp next to a rustic and interesting old office. We slowly
drove past each cabin reading the names above the doorways: "Liar's
Den", "Boar's Nest" to name a few. We never parked and
went inside, Dad just turned around and muttered something to the effect
of, "We need to bring the boat next time." Then, off we went
in a blaze of orange dust.
The following Saturday, Dad and I loaded up the little
wooden boat he had built long before I was born. Shellacked, shiny cane
poles, paper cartons of red wigglers with patches of white cloth
fastened with rubber bands to keep the worms from crawling out,
stringers, metal tackle boxes, a green, steel cooler that contained a
chuck of beautifully clear ice from Mr. Spivey's Ice House, and other
essentials were carefully loaded into the now cramped little wooden
skiff. Still dark, a hot cup of creamed and sugared coffee for the both
of us, and the adventure began. I was nine or ten.
Sleep never came on trips like these, too much excitement
for a young boy, and the same held true, I believe, for Daddy. We would
sit in silence as he drove. Occasionally he would point to glowing eyes
alongside the roads. And if by chance a black cat would cross in front
of us, he would quickly draw an imaginary "X" on the
windshield to protect us from some evil doings of the cat's hex. He was
superstitious, and I would giggle at his antics, and he would burst into
an old Hank Williams song, slapping on the huge steering wheel of the
car, beating out a rhythm I so miss now.
As the sky began to turn blue to the east, we arrived at
Camp Mack. The old dogs were still there, locked into the timeframe
where we had left them a week prior. The aroma of strong, camp coffee
filled the still air, unable to mask the smell of eggs frying and bacon
sizzling somewhere in one of the cabins. Old and young men alike busied
themselves unloading wooden boats at the ramp. But mostly, I remember
the smells. One in particular filled my young senses. Faint at first,
conjuring, lingering, reminding. Burning oak, seasoned with the vision
of barbecuing pork, gloriously seasoned with magical and secret rubs. My
head turned to it like a quivering birddog catching the fine scent of a
nervous quail. And there, just at the water's edge, the old tin-roofed
shed was bustling with activity. Several old men, dressed in thinning,
long-sleeve, light blue shirts, milled about tending the coals left
behind from the burning of huge oak logs.
One of the old men approached us as we waited in Dad's car.
It was though the men had known each other all their lives and
conversation led to the old man inviting us to come back later on that
evening to partake in the barbeque and party. But as bad as I wanted to
come back, I knew the rules of Southern etiquette. That being if one
hadn't brought something to share with the rest, it was just impolite to
show up "empty-handed". And Dad, knowing this, declined the
invitation. The old man then told us that the first Saturday of every
month the camp folk put on the same shindig and we were certainly
invited to the next one. Dad's reply, much to my elation, was, "If
the Lord's willin' and the creek don't rise, we'll be here." The
next few weeks stretched out foever, but the Friday afternoon finally
came when I knew we would be heading back to Camp Mack after Daddy got
off work.
Much was to be done while he was at work. Mom made a huge
pot of her potato salad; cane poles were readied and packed into the
little green boat. The green Army tent was pulled from our garage; even
the smell of the oiled canvas held special memories for me. Many, many
things to gather and get ready.
Our plan was to spend Friday night on a dry bank of
Southport Canal, fish a little after the tent was set up and a campfire
started. Maybe fry a few fish we had caught, then settle in for the
night and fish all day the next day. I slept very little, again kept me
awake with expectation.
Along about two in the morning, the sound of pure mayhem
filled our tent. It sounded as though a woman was being tormented just
outside. Blood-curdling screams. I was scared half to death. Dad just
rolled over in his cot and quietly said, "Painter". Made no
sense at all to me. Why would a painter be screaming? But soon it
stopped and I fell into a deep sleep. As morning came, I went out and
put a few pieces of wood on the smoldering fire and just across the
canal I caught a slight movement near an old fallen tree that led out
into the water. A large yellow cat was walking out on the log, eyeing
its surroundings. I froze and watched it as it drank, its huge, majestic
head reflecting in the dark water. From behind, I heard Dad ease open
the tent's flap, then whisper, "Painter," his word for
panther. It was a rare sighting back then, and even more so now. I've
only seen one in the wild; a sight I will never forget, and the scream
of the big cat still bristles deep within me.
That Saturday, I spent little time concentrating on
fishing. I kept thinking of the old cook shed as I imagined what was
going on there. Dad must have sensed my eagerness to return and watch
the old men prepare the pigs and build fires.
Along about two that afternoon, we puttered back to our
campsite, packed up our tent and other things, and made the short run
back to Camp Mack. After loading the boat on the trailer, several women
came out to greet Mom. They all wore dresses made from flour sacks. Back
then, flour came in different patterned, cotton sacks that were
collected, the stitching was removed and of the same pattern and colors
from the sacks were then made into shirts, dresses, and quilt tops were
crafted from the scraps. Nothing seemed to have been wasted in those
frugal times.
The smoke from the pits settled near the ground, and the
maddening smell of barbeque filled the still, warm air of a summer's
afternoon. Down the road, a trail of dust busily followed a light-blue
and white '58 or '59 Chevy pickup truck, and as the truck barreled to a
stop near the cook shed, several men met the driver and they began to
unload at least a half a dozen crates of fresh, sweet corn. And as fast
as they could drag it from the bed, three large washtubs were filled
with the corn and within each layer; a huge helping of rock salt was
poured over the light-green, shuck-covered ears. Each tub was then
filled with water to the rim, allowing the corn to soak up the
saltwater.
Leaving the corn to the men, I eased over to the barbeque
pits. One of the old men pulled back the corrugated tin exposing four
halves of whole pigs. It was apparent they had been bathing in oak smoke
for the better part of the day. Their skin was a deep, golden brown and
steam rose from the cooking meat. Gallons of mopping sauce stood ready
as another of the men applied the vinegary mixture to the pigs, causing
geysers of smoky steam to rise into the exposed rafters of the
tin-covered shed. The aroma was overwhelming.
Before too long, folks started showing up around the many
picnic tables scattered amongst huge, mossy oaks. Bare lights, strung
together with a continuous black, electric wire, were hung in the
outreaching branches and along the beams of the shed…and more folks
gathered. Soon after, three other men came up in an old black sedan and
unloaded a banjo, a guitar and a fiddle. The soaking corn was laid in
the pits between the smoldering meat and a few old, blue porcelain
percolators, with the guts removed, were filled with big chucks of
yellow butter and placed on top of the tin that covered the pork and
corn…more folks arrived by boat, from their cabins, and in cars and
trucks. Bluegrass music filled the late afternoon from a string trio as
they stamped out a rhythm with worn and dusty boots. More women came
carrying pots of collard greens with smoked meat for flavoring, more
potato salad joined the large pot that Mom had made, hoecakes of
cornbread wrapped in cloth covered baskets, coleslaw, hushpuppies, baked
beans, pies, banana pudding and gallons and gallons of iced tea that was
dumped in one gigantic container, more food than an army could possibly
eat, and more folks arrived, bringing even more covered dishes filled
with homemade delights. The steamed corn was shucked back forming a
handle and then dipped in the melted butter from the blue coffee pots
and handed out to all of the children.
But my favorite part was coming. The old men that had
dedicated their entire day to tending the meat soon lugged huge portions
of barbequed pork to several large pans. Each man had two garden hand
tools, the kind that look like three fingers coming out of the handles.
Using both, one to hold the meat in place, and the other to shred the
steaming meat, they piled mound after mound of "pulled" pork
into the pans as another gave the pork a good helping of a fine barbeque
sauce. The music played on and several of the folks danced around under
the strung lights while the food was served, but not before an offering
of thanks was sent to the Creator. The gathering lasted well into the
laughter-filled night.
I wrestled myself from the recollection of that gathering
and back my journey home, I remembered my friend who lost his dad, and
thought about the power of that smoke from a distant fire.
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About the Author:
 His
dad handed him the golden-bronze, shellacked cane pole, a tug at the
old, brown cork, and from underneath it, a small bluegill was raised
from the surface, perhaps all of four inches, dangling above Lake
Canon’s waters. His first. He was barely three then.
The man then pointed to the far side of the lake, not at
the distant shore, but pointed to an invisible path that could only be
seen by few; a path that had many branches, twists and turns. All
because of this, a journey began.
Gary continued this journey fishing the many lakes around
the central Florida area, later moving closer to the eastern side of the
state. His curiosity of saltwater led him to obtain his captain’s
license in 1990. Also, around that same time, his interest began a new
path in fly-fishing the shallow and beautiful flats on the Indian River
Lagoon in search of redfish, tarpon, sea trout and snook.
Captain Gary Henderson has now retired from professional
guiding and chartering, but still continues to follow the paths his
father pointed out to him long ago. His roots are still firmly embedded
from his past, and as a reminder, he still fly-fishes in “the lake
behind the house”. Here, he finds the spirit of his dad and the many
friends that have passed to the other side. Here, he also finds
inspiration for stories of back then, and now. |
