By Ray Barkes

Class of 1956

  I speak for the fish that used to be in the river.  This river was a place to explore during my growing years.  The journey involved most of a day since it was six miles away.

My trip usually started if the day was clear and sunny, although a cloudy day didn’t stop me from this adventure.

Usually this six mile distance was completed by riding my new Schwinn bike, given to me as a birthday present from my father, although I did walk many times, sometimes accompanied by a cousin.

The trip meant navigating a number of hills and dodging loose gravel which could dislodge a person on a bike.

After arriving at the bridge which crossed the river, it was always good to see that I would be alone, since then I knew I had a good chance of bringing home something for dinner without having to compete with someone standing next to me also wanting the northern pike.  If this fish was to be found, it was usually on the downstream side of this river, usually in the weeds in the far end of the pond formed by the flowing Red Eye River.

If a number of casts did not produce a fish, I would cast on the other side.  This was a smaller area, plus it had a barbed wire fence crossing the river preventing long distance casting.

If this casting produced nothing, the most enjoyable part of the day was to begin.  I would walk downstream or upstream in the river, casting toward the opposite bank, enticing a waiting northern to chase my lure.  In the clear water, the sight of a fish chasing my lure, missing, but sometimes catching, made this six mile trip worthwhile.  Bringing home a northern or two to be cleaned for the pan was a great ending.

After being gone from this area for a number of years, I decided one day to try my luck again at the Red Eye River to relive the memory. This time, instead of a bicycle, I drove my car so the fishing spot showed up much faster.  The bridge, however, looked different.  Instead of an iron plate across the water, everything was cement…the iron railings were gone and replaced with new types of rails!

After casting both sides of the bridge produced nothing, I started walking the river and found the water flow was about half what it used to be.  Also, the water wasn’t clear and had cow manure floating in it.

My river as I knew it had disappeared.  With beaver dams upriver and cattle fouling the water, my vision of a northern pike chasing a daredevil lure was not to be.  

Maybe the old saying “You can’t go home again” rang true for this fisherman.