MIFFLIN TOWNSHIP — In late spring the Lilacs bloom and the Dogwood flowers blossom white and pink on the branch.
The days warm toward summer and the nights begin losing their chill. The spring thaw is over and the cold winter run-off has receded from the rivers and reservoirs. The rains that followed have gone by. With water temperatures rising, it’s a good time to catch channel catfish on the Black Fork above Charles Mill Reservoir.
Public boating access to the Black Fork of the Mohican River is through Charles Mill Reservoir, where there are two public boat ramps.
Of the two ramps, the closest for us is located just outside of Mifflin on the north side of State Route 430 seven-tenths-of-a-mile west of State Route 603. The ramp is just east of the river channel in the north end of the lake. From there, following the channel, a small boat can travel north through wide mud-flats and up the river itself for a distance of approximately two miles.
Pam and I prefer to hit the water a couple hours before sundown. Leaving the boat ramp, we swing past a small island and travel toward the river mouth. Along the way we pass dead trees on the shoreline where cormorants roost by the dozens. Some watch us as we pass, others pay us no mind. The surface of the lake is dark and rippled as we follow the river channel into the mud-flats.
Blue Herons stalk through the flats. There are Cranes in the trees at the water’s edge and Killdeer run along the shore. In the channel, fish jump and swirl. We follow the river’s course, pass beneath a bridge under U.S. 30 and leave the reservoir behind. Pam points toward shore from her seat in the bow and I look where directed. There is a spotted fawn at the river’s edge, its forelegs in the water as it drinks. Further upriver Pam points again and I throttle down and kill the motor, switching over to the electric trolling motor.
Swimming near the bank is a decent-sized beaver. With its flat tail skimming the water behind it there is no misidentifying this critter. Pam and I both reach for our phones. She takes photographs and I do my best to get a video while steering the boat. The beaver obliges us for a minute or so then slips beneath the water without a noise and barely a ripple. Excited by the rare encounter, we move on.
Another 20 minutes of traveling at low speed on the electric motor brings us as far as we can travel. Here, the river has split around an island and each channel is blocked by a large logjam. Just below the island, the river bends, creating a deep undercut beneath the bank on the outside of the bend, the type of place an actively feeding catfish patrols for an easy meal during the morning and evening.
I run the boat up to the tip of the island and drop anchor.
Pam and I begin setting up. We are using two types of rigs on medium-action Ugly Sticks with spinning reels. The first rig is a simplified Carolina Rig. This consists of passing my 17-pound test monofilament through a half-ounce egg sinker and tying off to a 3/0 baitholder hook.
I attach a small split-shot sinker about two inches behind my hook. This prevents the egg sinker from sliding forward and knocking the bait off my hook when I cast.
The other rig we prefer is called a Santee Cooper Rig. This also consists of passing my 17-pound test monofilament through a half-ounce egg sinker. After the sinker, I pass the line through a slip bobber and tie on a 3/0 baitholder with a small split shot buffering the bobber and hook. This allows me to fish an elevated bait without being at the mercy of the river’s current. The sinker holds the line in place while the bobber elevates the bait off the bottom. I can adjust my depth simply by letting out more line or taking in slack.
We bait with cut shad, an abundant bait fish that is easily caught with a cast net. I prefer to catch my bait fish local to the water where I am going to use them and I caught these shad near the boat ramp before we headed out. There are also small bluegill and green sunfish that we caught with rod and reel throughout the week. These will be the live bait for later, after the sun goes down.
Being a gentleman of profound good breeding, I bait Pam’s first hook and watch her cast. She places her bait expertly near the undercut on the outside of the bend below us. I bait her next hook and she places this one near the log jam blocking the main channel. She places each rod in its holder and watches as I put my first bait near the logjam on the shallow channel and my next as far as I can cast downstream right in the middle of the river’s main channel.
Now, we wait.
We break out dinner, a chicken gumbo Pam cooked before we left home. It’s carried in individual travel dishes and I place it beside me while I dig in the cooler for an iced tea. Pam is blowing on her fork when the pole next to her seems to bounce. She puts her fork down and reaches for the pole as the fish strikes again, this time bending the pole almost double. Taking the rod from the holder she drops her elbows to her hips, bends toward the water, then jerks back to set the hook.
By now I’m on my feet with the net in my hands watching Pam fight her first fish of the night.
The boat swings as the fish runs and I know the anchor is dragging through the silt beneath us. Pam turns the fish and it runs for the boat. She cranks the reel, trying not to let the fish create slack in the line. Suddenly it’s at the side of the boat and I dip the net in the water. Pam runs it into the net and I lift her fish into the boat.
It’s a male channel with an engorged head. His belly is swollen with food and he looks as big around as a football. We measure and weigh him. He’s 25.25 inches and over 6 pounds. Pam writes a note in her journal and we snap a few pictures before letting him go.
I put fresh bait on her hook and she sends it back to the same spot.
We finish dinner with no more interruptions and enjoy our spot for a while longer. There are insects and spring peepers trilling, birds calling and singing from the woods that border the river.
As remote as we feel in this place, we can still hear the sound of traffic, low and steady, as it emanates from the interstate two miles north of us.
The rest of the evening we fish and visit, moving downstream from likely spot to likely spot every half hour. We catch a few unremarkable fish and have some bait stolen. Pam notes in her journal when we pass a large, brown, water snake resting on a log.
When the sun goes down we switch to live bluegills and fish near logs and stumps on the mud-flats adjacent to the deep river bends. We have decent luck at these spots and net several worthy fighters. We save some for tomorrow’s dinner and let most of them go after measuring, weighing, and photographing them. Releasing all those tasty filets cuts against the grain of Pam’s cajun upbringing, but she prefers not to keep more than a few this close to spawn.
With our night’s fishing over, we head in under a starlit sky over smooth and glassy water.
The sound of our motor startles a Great Blue Heron that launches from its perch with a great rustling of wings beating through foliage as it voices a shrill sinister cackling call. We watch it fly low overhead, its legs trailing behind it until it is out of sight. It is the last memory I will bring home from the water tonight.
