Fishin’ Holes

Oases in a parched land

Fishin’ Holes

Growing up with precious water

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

             New Mexicans are used to being ranked 48^th or 50^th.

            It just seems to be natural. Whether it is average income, test scores, or starters in the national football league per 100,000 residents of the state’s population, the Land of Enchantment seems to be willing and even compelled to compete for last in line. It should be little wonder then that it is also dead last in the nation in surface water acreage to total area.

            Numero 50 … even Arizona and Nevada leave us in the dust.

            Drought is reduced

            Until a month ago, much of the state was still under the horror of what was touted as the worst drought in modern history. Horrifying is the correct word describing what we faced. Anybody who has dealt with prolonged drought with livestock knows what the definition of that word actually is. We are still so much on edge we continue to see dogied calves in our sleep.

            It is with profound thankfulness, therefore, that we awakened from this nightmare to see green pastures. Rains have come and they have come in some places in abundance. There are areas of southwestern New Mexico that are now as good as any recent memory. We are blessed, and we don’t take that lightly.

            Several days ago, Leonard and I stood atop Magdalena Peak in green grass. In all directions the morning sun was reflecting off sparkling gems of water caught in earthen reservoirs … tanks in our vernacular. There was a sense of overwhelming relief that came from that grass and the view of that water. We couldn’t help but hope our drought had been relieved and desperately needed healing could begin.

            That epiphany of enthusiasm was reminiscent of summers long ago when the same emotion burst forth when scarce impoundments of water were experienced. Those waters were so few and far between that any person who was similarly impacted by their presence can, without hesitation, relate the first half dozen or so encountered in his youth.

            I can.

            They are in order of memory the ‘fish tank’ on the rim of Sacaton, the tanks at Uncle Hap and Aunt Mary’s at the mouth of the Mangus, the trout pond in the head of Ashe Creek, a trio of tanks between Cliff and Gila, and, most precious, the sloughs on the west side of the Gila levee over the fence from Ma Rice’s. Heaven on parched New Mexico earth those impoundments were.

They were not only permanent waters … they had fish in them!

            Gone fishin’

            The Clark tank and the sloughs were probably the first experiences in catching fish, but the fish tank ‘at the ranch’ is the best place to start. Any trip there was not a spur of the moment venture. First, permission was always sought from Blue Rice, my maternal great uncle. You just didn’t show up and go fishing. You ask for and got permission or you didn’t go.

            Any trip would start by checking in at the headquarters in the bottom of Sacaton. It was like walking back into history. Blue and Minnie would be there waiting for our arrival. Anticipating company or not, Minnie would always have something baked to eat. Her house, spotless and gleaming white inside, would smell like the cake or piece of pie she would cut or still have in the oven.

            The climb out of the creek to the mesa to the west would take us by the original Rice house that was built sometime after 1888. A Texas ‘dog trot’, it originally had a third room on its west side, but all that remained in my life were the opposing rooms with a covered porch between.

We’d watch for deer the whole way out to the tank. Invariably, we’d see them in numbers.

The tank was built in a cut in a drainage that fed into Sacaton Creek. I look back now and think there must have been a seep there because the water was so clear and the level of the tank was consistent in all but the most severe droughts.

The tank was stocked with bluegill and bass. The bluegill were there in abundance and the occasional bass was a sweet memento of victory. Several four pounders out of that place made bass fisherman out of us.

The tanks at the mouth of the Mangus were filled from water diverted from the creek itself. The original tank was north from the house and it was stocked with bass and channel catfish. The number of catfish in that place at one time was phenomenal. The vision of Grandma’ Wilmeth fishing there is a happy memory. She’d have her big bonnet on and a gunny sack tied to a rope was her stringer.

The newer tank was adjacent to the orchard. That impoundment had bluegill and big bass in it and those bass would, more often than not, leave us reeling in frayed lines. The other memories of it were the smell of ripe peaches across the fence and the sound of redwing blackbirds around the water’s edge. Both remain so vividly attached to a lazy fascination of life that only youthful summers can render. They epitomize the sharpness of unblemished senses before the time innocence started giving way to complexity and change. 

The trout pond at the head of Ashe Creek came when I was teenager. I was with Hap McCauley hunting deer and saw the reflection of the water through the trees from the ridge above much like the recent day reflections from the top of Magdalena. Uncle Hap told me it had been stocked with trout. He related how Marie McCauley had packed those trout in there and released them in that spring and runoff fed impoundment.

That was so typical of Tom and Marie McCauley. I never knew them to seek leisure in any way. They worked, and …they worked every day.

The simple joys of their lives came from that work and the occasional flourish of something that could exist only by their hands. Those trout were an example as was a solitary lilac bush at their Ashe Creek Camp. Every time Marie went by there she would pack water to that bush, and, in respect to her, we did the same thing.

The trio of tanks at Cliff and Gila including the Clark tank, the Coffee tank and the Chapin tank were simply grand adventures. They were always part of a big day or unplanned departure with my maternal grandfather. He enjoyed fishing in them as much as I did. Each was different.

The Clark tank was stocked with the same warm water species in addition to crappie. An added bonus was the trout which were often planted in winter months. There was a little cadre of poker buddies who pitched in and finagled a load of trout. They’d go to great ends tallying the trout taken. I can remember one time the last trout on the rolls was caught, and we kept catching more … somebody had distracted the hatchery attendant!

The Coffee tank was the least productive of all the tanks, but it was always purported to have ten pound catfish in it. I never saw one and never caught anything to suggest such a rumor, but we quietly approached it with the expectation that something big was lurking. That alone kept our interest.

The Chapin tank had the biggest bluegill. They’d put the bend in those little South Bend composite rods and reels of our first generation gear. When they took those bobbers down, our hearts would race. The monofilament would sing through the water on the first of two runs that always followed. What sport!

Heaven on Earth … the main event

Nothing, though, compared to the sloughs. By the time we were fishing those waters, we were pretty much on our own. At age 10, Jim would have been 11 and Hugh was 12. We were independent and we didn’t want supervision. We’d stay down there until we starved out and then head across the field to the house to take the inevitable tongue lashing for being useless and unsavory. Given the chance, we’d sneak off again the next morning.

And mornings were best. Alone or together, we’d normally come in from the river side of the levee. We’d stalk in as quietly as if we were hunting deer. We’d assess where the schools of bass were cruising and then carefully cast dropping a hula popper or minnow bait just right. Invariably a bass would run at it.

What a thrill, and … what precious places those scarce New Mexico waters remain.

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “The memory of sitting in the shade at the slough with a can of sardines, some crackers, a pod of green chile, and chunk of cheese still makes me salivate.”

Water, water.  This reminds me of the summer my cousin Rand and I had to haul water.  I was in the 6th grade, or maybe I had just started junior high.  All we had was a trailer with a big old tank of some kind we had borrowed...and two five gallon buckets.  I don't remember where we filled up, but we hauled it to the Cottonwood place.  Handing a five gallon bucket full of water up to Rand was a chore, especially over and over again.  Unloading at the Cottonwood tank was much easier.

Several years later I learned the value of all this.  You see, it was at the Cottonwood where several different ladies and I would skinny dip in the Cottonwood tank  And just like Wilmeth, the thought of it "still makes me salivate."