If my Uncle Dale were still alive, I would be out there swapping lies with him right now. He’s not, so it’s on me to tell this one. And as much as I wish it was a lie, it ain’t.

From 2002-2009, when the weather permitted, and TVA was running “big water” (two turbines) at Norris, we’d go fishin’ for rainbow trout on my day off. We’d set off early, before school traffic, and be humming down interstate 75 as the fog lifted off the limestone mountains. I’d be nodding, hopeful that the fishing yield would be worth sacrificing one of my only days to sleep in. Fords get one thing right- they’ve got a heater that blows hotter than the hubs of hell. Combine that with Newstalk radio, the hum of the throaty diesel, the smell of coffee, and you’ve got a recipe to lull Amy right on to Dreamland.
We’d put in at the canoe ramp right below the dam, and walk the trailer through the bollards. I’d load our life vests and pop the seats up, readying for embarkment.
Uncle Dale would climb in, get the trolling motor cranked, and let it warm up while he tied on his first plug of the day. I’d stand there holding the rope, yawning and shivering in the mist the Clinch is always shrouded in.
“Alright Pilgrim, load up. I wouldn’t be you for apple butter.”
And so the trash talking would begin.
I’d climb aboard and we’d motor over to the opposite shore.
We’d cast.
That instant thrum you felt up your arm when the plug struck water and you let the line run out some.
“Woooo!!! Gonna need some Flexall 4-5-4!!” He’d say before he ever got a bite.
I’d roll my eyes and crack open my first Mountain Dew of the day.
Sometimes I caught the first one, but usually he did. We would always toss them back after admiring how beautiful all rainbow trout are.
And then we’d know what we needed to be fishing with, whether it was silver and black, or chartreuse, or maybe some blaze orange. We modified all plugs with an upgrade on treble hooks (them little dinky ones are no match for the big mouth, hard hitting trout). Some got a tacky paint job, which as bad as it looked, made all the difference.
One day we weren’t having a bit of luck. I hadn’t even caught the first “elusive yellow perch” as I liked to call them. (They’re not elusive at all, I just tried to make whatever I was catching sound better than what he was catching).
He did something I’d never seen him do before.
He flipped open the lid of the Big Gray Duct Taped Tackle Box.
I looked over, alarmed. I had never witnessed this occurrence. “What’re you doing?”
He emitted a sigh. “Gonna hafta get in my Go-To Box. This ain’t cuttin’ it today.”
I peered into the jumbled up mess of plugs. “I don’t know how you find anything in there,” I mumbled, looking at my lovingly sorted and stored collection of lures, arranged by size, running depth, and color.
He rummaged through a section or two, not the least bit mindful of barbs.
He emerged with the single ugliest plug I had ever seen in my life.
A white crawdad.
And to make things worse, he’d livened it up with blaze orange spots.
“You are NOT gonna fish with that ugly thing,” I said, horrified.
“Ralph, you better hold on. The next one I reel in is liable to turn the boat over.”
I laughed so hard I almost turned the boat over. “Ain’t no way no self respecting trout is gonna hit that hideous lure. I’d be ashamed to have that ugly thing in my tackle box. Rapala–”
The crawdad, newly tied on, sang through the air and hit the water twenty yards out. He tripped the reel.
And literally one second later he jerked, pretending to set the hook.
I laughed my hind end off. “Yeah right, we ain’t caught nothin’ all day, and here you are pretending to catch on your first cast with that ugly ol’–”
As I’m trash talking, he’s reeling in. “Pilgrim, you better get the net, this is a fish.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for the minner net.
“I’m serious!”
I got the big net.
The trout fought.
“Prolly just a big ol’ piece of moss,” I drawled, knowing better.
“Better get the Flexall 4-5-4!” was his gleeful reply.
More eye rolling on my part. “Prolly hung up on a log.”
The fish made it to the boat. It WAS a nice fish.
“It had just never seen anything so ugly and had to investigate,” I told him, licking my wounds.
He was laughing manically as he retied his knot.
I twitched my line.
He cast.
I swear to you, I don’t think that vile crawdad smacked the water before a trout hit it.
At this point, I got mad.
He’s laughing, reeling another monster in. And danged if his extra pole didn’t get a hit and I had to reel THAT one in for him.
After all that excitement, I sulled up and ate my peanut butter and crackers and made squinty eyes at him and his ugly lure, as he went on about how sore his arm was gonna be the next day.
The pearl white crawdad got a place of honor in the top box after that.
I would always hold my breath on subsequent fishing trips, hoping he wouldn’t break it out. He really wore me out with it that one summer day. Of course I said I didn’t want to be seen fishing in the same boat with such a horrific looking plug, but we both knew the truth. And he never let anyone forget it. Seems like he even took me to Bob’s that night to gloat and lord the thumping I took over me.

I learned about five years later that he had tried and tried to buy me my own white crawdad. I guess he was afraid not to, following the kite incident from my youth. He went so far as to call Rebel, who told him they’d be glad to help him, but he had to buy 250 of them in order to run that paint lot again. That was a little over budget.
I have the prized “pearl” crawdad now, of course. The only problem is, I will never use it in fear of losing it.
Dang ol’ ugly thang sittin’ here in my collection of classical, curated objects.
I’m only crying ’cause the big’n got away.