If you removed a blindfold while standing on Bill Steward’s boat dock, you might believe you were on a pond in the woods of Maine.
Of course, the cypress trees would reveal you’re in the heart of Dixie. In this case, it was a delightful little place called Ferguson Lake. It’s in eastern Saline County, near Maple Creek Farms.
Those of us who watched KLRT-TV, Channel 16, late at night in the 1980s remember that community because of Susan McDougal. Clad in tight little shorts and a halter-top, she beckoned us on horseback to buy lots in the fledgling development.
About a mile down the road is another little community back in the woods called Ferguson Lake Country Club. It has no golf course or tennis courts, just a beautiful, cypress and tupelo dotted lake surrounded by mature pine, oak and hickory trees.
Steward, 71, has been fishing here since age 9. His father was a founding member, and his cabin has been in the family since the beginning. The dock is a central feature, stretching far into the water with ample area for chairs. A green Dagger canoe and a dainty aluminum flatbottom boat with a 7.5-horsepower Mercury outboard tugged gently against their lines in the soft breeze.
“Kids always end up here on the dock,” Steward said. “I usually keep a couple of 5-gallon buckets full of rocks down here. They always come down here and throw rocks and discuss issues. It’s always been that way.”
Our mission Friday between thunderstorms was to catch a mess of crappie. I came well-prepared, or so I thought, with a new 12-foot Berkley crappie pole and a Lew’s Wally Marshall crappie reel. The rod is gray with black mottles to represent a crappie, so it had to be good.
“This lake used to look the way Lake Conway used to look,” Steward said. “There were trees everywhere.”
In the distant past, Steward continued, the lake was drained about 5 feet. At that time, Steward’s father consulted with the club president to lop off the treetops to facilitate easier boating and recreation. A highly skilled chain saw crew was brought in, and the stumps were removed while nobody else was around.
“The fishermen were furious,” Steward said. “Dad said the stumps are still there underwater, you’ve just got to look for them.”
We sculled around the bank near Steward’s cabin, fishing rosy red minnows under bobbers in depths of about 2 feet. We got no takers.
“The water isn’t all that cold, but I have a feeling the crappie are still out deep,” I said. “Without knowing where some tops are, though, trying to find them out there would be like throwing darts in the dark.”
We motored farther down the lake and fished another bank of cypress trees that jutted farther into the water. It was deeper there and appeared to be a likely staging area, but still we got no bites.
That 12-foot crappie rod proved to be a liability. Cypress limbs hung low over the water, and I constantly tangled my line. I had to retie several times.
We motored to the far end to a tupelo forest. Even though the area is really quite small, it looks vast. Even though the trees are still gray and bare, it looked gorgeous.
“I’ll bet this is a great place to catch some big shellcrackers and bluegill,” I said.
We floated minnows around there for a while, but we didn’t get a bite.
“There’s one more place I want to take you,” Steward said.
He fired up the Mercury, crossed an expanse of cypress water and entered a small, narrow creek. We snaked slowly up the channel until it opened into a wide, tupelo-studded bay. The water looked like strong tea, dark but clear.
“This is my secret spot,” Steward said. “It’s not really a secret of course, but every major decision I’ve ever made in my life, I made it here.”
I understood why. It feels like a chapel.
The only evidence of humanity was a dilapidated duck blind and a few stakes in the water.
“It looks like a place ducks would like, doesn’t it?” Steward asked.
The water was only a couple of feet deep, with some lily pads. Bass busted shad among the pads, and by some of the stumps.
We sculled from one tree to the other, dropping minnows on all sides and against every piece of cover.
“I think you’ve finally found the niche for that rod,” said Steward, who greatly enjoyed my earlier travails.
Finally, my cork plunged. I lifted the rod and hoisted a small but feisty largemouth bass aboard. It was dark green and silver, without the distinctive black lateral line. That’s typical for tannin-stained water.
Mission accomplished.
We continued fishing, but mainly Steward and I spent the rest of the afternoon hours talking of important things. The secret spot seems to bring that out in people.
Sports, Pages 28 on 03/30/2014