Fishing at the George Stock Tank

When I was a boy living on the Callahan County side of the Scranton community, my grandfather, John Shrader, used to take me and some of his other grandchildren with him to fish in one of the local stock tanks.

Granddad was the elementary school principal at Baird, the county seat, and usually had plenty of time in the summer for one of his favorite leisure activities. As a longtime fixture in this sparsely-settled area, he knew most people who lived there, and he made it a point to make friends with the ranchers with watering holes for cattle, known as stock tanks. These ponds were usually stocked with fish – bass, crappie, bream (sunfish), perch and/or channel catfish.

One summer afternoon during the drought of the 1950s, my grandfather took us to “Mr. George’s tank” to fish. Grandmother, who was often better at fishing than Granddad, went along with us, and there may have been a couple of my cousins, too. My grandfather explained to us Mr. George had been reluctant to grant him permission to fish there, but did so with the stipulation that any catfish caught must be returned to the water. I recall the George ranch being very large, flat, barren of any green vegetation and seemingly inhospitable to any animal except prairie dogs. Going through the gates – it was my job to open and close the gates – we would see prairie dogs in the distance, sitting up and alert in the distance. As we drove closer to the rodents, they would scamper to safety down their burrows.

Arriving at the stock tank, we found the drought had diminished the water level to a point where there now were two tanks – one large and one very tiny – separated by a narrow isthmus. Granddad went about the process of setting up his fishing stations, three or four cane poles baited with minnows and stuck into the muddy banks of the tank. Each of the rest of us had a single cane pole, and we sat down, watching for the float to indicate a “bite.” With his cane poles set, Granddad broke out his rod and reel, casting with a lure. (I never saw him catch a fish this way).

Early in the afternoon, my grandfather was rebaiting one of his old cane poles when it broke. Frustrated, he threw the two parts of the rebaited pole into the smaller stock pond, hoping the discarded parts would sink to the bottom, I suppose.

About an hour later, someone in our party spotted one of the poles circling on the surface of the tiny tank. Granddad grabbed his rod-and-reel gear, casting to snag the cane pole. Landing the resisting catch took some time, because at the end of that line was a channel catfish weighing at least five pounds.

For a man whose stock-tank catch rarely exceeded fish weighing more than one pound, this was a real prize. Here was a five-pounder, something he could brag about, and fish that would produce several boneless filets in the frying pan. He was ready to take home this baby.

“Now, John, my grandmother reminded him. “Don’t forget the promise you made to Mr. George!”

So, honest-John reluctantly threw the channel cat back – into the big tank this time. We packed up and went home, and grandmother caught the most fish – again.