Bear's Den: "The Great Crockery Creek Caper"

The other day, I was thinking about spring and its right of passage. There are hundreds of spring events, signifying this or that, that happen every year. But, I´ll always remember one that signified a couple of boys´ passage into teenagerdom. Yep, and that case in point… is The Great Crockery Creek Caper.

Now, when I say capers here, I´m not referring to those unripened flower buds of the Capparis spinosa plant – nope. Their use dates back to more than 3000 B.C. and they were supposedly eaten during the great flood – maybe even in the Ark´s galley. So, nah, the caper I´m talking about refers to the 20th century meaning, slang for an illegal plot or enterprise especially one involving a theft, aka:… ´heist´.

Here in Michigan, sucker fishing has always been good in the spring; that´s when the fish do their annual spawning run up area streams. They´re fun to catch and good enough eating. Some 40 years ago, it was no different. And so it was that my buddy Dave Cole and I were hanging out at my house one Saturday spring morning. My older brother happened to mention that he was headed in a direction that would take him right past Crockery Creek, a good sucker stream. So, he agreed to drop Dave and I off there but he added that when he was ready we had to GO THEN. Older brothers don´t dink around when they say stuff like this – you had to be ready to go or you would get left – period. So, we moved fast. Dave quickly secured a pick-up ride for late afternoon and, after we threw the poles, tackle box and a shovel into the ´65 GTO´s trunk, we were off.

We got dropped off at the end of a dirt road. The bridge crossing the creek had been out for years, and the road, either side of it, was effectively a dead-end, back in the boonies. The stream was about 40 yards wide there; a deep hole existed in a fairly tree-clear area on one side. So, suckers were aplenty. Now, sucker fishing for us was a day-long affair. We´d get to the stream, stick the shovel in the ground and wiggle it until you had enough worms to start, then bait and cast our pole lines. We then perched them in the notches of forked sticks, stuck into the ground, and built a fire on the bank. Keeping half an eye for a jerking rod tip, we´d explore the surrounding woods, shoot the bull, and cook food over the open fire, all while catching fish every now in then in the process. The food usually included such things as hotdogs to roast and a loaf of bread and, if lucky, a soda or two – all vital – to survive the grueling fishing day for freshly turned 13-year-olds. Unfortunately, we´d left too quickly to secure rations of any kind. So, it was going to be a long and hungry day. But, we´d try to make the best of it and catch more fish than usual.

This was the scene when the hooligans showed up. They arrived in a 1964 Buick station wagon, shortly after we´d caught two fish. They were on the other side of the creek and there were six of them, all a few years older than us. One was probably at least eighteen because he seemed to be in charge and handled the beer. At that time, an 18-year-old could buy alcohol in Michigan. They built a huge fire, unpacked their car, and cast a couple of lines that they never paid attention to again. They were noisy as all get-out, drinking beer and throwing logs and stuff in the water, scaring the fish. The fish quit biting, and Dave and I both knew that these guys hadn´t come to fish – they´d come to party. We yelled across, asking them to quiet down and this garnered us insults in return. One of the guys, apparently named Larry, was especially rude and threatened to beat our little punk behinds. He really didn´t like us. Their overall behavior got worse over several hours as their 12-pack disappeared. The fish had disappeared, too, but what could we do? Then, they ran out of beer. The leader said he was going for more, and the others all went with him, except for Larry who had fallen asleep on the bank. They woke him and he agreed to stay and keep an eye on their stuff until they returned. After the car drove away, Larry laid back down with his jacket for a pillow and went to sleep again in the warm afternoon sun. He slept soundly, too. A little inebriation and the fresh air of the warm spring sunshine will do that to you.

We knew that they had rations because we saw them off-load them. I had an idea and told Dave to follow me. I´d seen an old, broken-down dip net – a contraption used to dip-net suckers from the creek – just down the bank a ways. When we got there, I explained the plan. I was bigger than Dave and, while raising the lengthy pole, I'd put my back under the badly leaning 4x4 to support his weight. This would hold it up to a heavy branch, coming over from the other side, where he could cross over. He agreed. and that´s what we did. After he was across, I raced back to watch the sleeping Larry. I saw Dave creep out of the woods and survey the area across the creek. He looked in a large paper grocery sack then held up his hand to wave and grin. Larry… never moved a muscle. Dave grabbed the bag and headed back toward the cross-over while and I ran back to meet him. A few minutes later, we were back at our spot and investigating the take. We now had polish sausage, actual hotdog buns, three orange sodas, a bag of potato chips and candy bars galore. These guys ate in style, eh?

We were roasting sausage over the fire when the hooligans arrived again. They got out and, shortly, began asking what had happened to their food. A groggy Larry didn´t have an answer. Several looked across at us, eating our roasted sausage and chips, while washing it down with orange sodas and wondered aloud… if we didn´t have their stuff. But their searches up and down the bank found no way for them to come and check. They began accusing Larry of a misdeed regarding their chow and he swore he didn´t know what had happened to it. But, he highly suspected us… from across the current. We just smiled and held up our sausage dogs in answer. This made Larry very unhappy with us, but… what could he do? Finally their leader said that he was hungry and was leaving to go find some food. Shortly, they´d packed and were gone.

By the time Dave´s mom rolled up in her ´68 Javelin, several hours later, we had another four fish. His mom looked at us with concern and said, "Did you boys bring anything to eat? I´ll bet you´re starving if you didn´t." Dave looked at me and I looked at him. I dug into the grocery sack and withdrew a Baby Ruth and said… as only a kid entering teenagerdom could at that point… "Sure, we had plenty, Mrs. Cole. Would you like a candy bar?" We didn't tell her but... The Great Crockery Creek Caper had provided.

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David Walks-As-Bear is an Inter-Tribal Elder and Kispoko Shawnee Indian. He works as a private game warden and detective and is a novelist and syndicated newspaper columnist living in Northwest Michigan. Contact him at The White Lake Beacon: 231-894-5356 or visit his website at: www.Walks-As-Bear.com