Old man Jackson was an awnry, mean old son-of-a-bitch.  We spent two weeks that summer helping him harvest his crop of sweet, white corn.  Our intentions were pure at first.  I grew up in the town where ‘ol man Jackson had his farm.  His reputation preceded him.  However, word was spread that he was in need of help, something to do with bank dues and his regular staff jumping ship.   I still don’t know the facts surrounding the whole thing.  Anyway, a group of volunteers, including myself and  Mallocca, got together to give him a hand.  We always knew of the lake on his farm.  Well, it was more of a small lake or a large pond, roughly 35 acres.  We knew it was there, but we never tried to fish it.  Mainly because of the stories we heard as kids about how ‘ol man Jackson would shoot you or let his killer dogs loose if he caught you on his property.  Plus, there was the incident with Billy Crappinasser on the lake when he and his partners in crime were caught drinking beer by a bon fire in the summer of ‘83.  After that… the cops were involved, the posted signs went up and nobody ever went near the lake.

            During the first day of sweating our asses off in the corn fields the purity of the work began to rapidly change from aiding our fellow man during a time of need to the ulterior motive of fishing an unpressured haven for the finest bass.  The wheels began to turn and the entire plan was conceived, communicated and put into action by lunch.  It was a simple plan.  We, me and Mallocca, would seek out ‘ol man Jackson each day and work at his side.  We would offer him help when help was not needed.  We would fetch him water when he was thirsty.  We would compliment him, pamper him, and slave for him.  In other words we would brown nose like a corporate rat kisses the ass of his superiors. In the end he could not refuse our harmless request to fish his angler’s gold mine.  So, that is exactly what we did. 

We spent two weeks at his beck and call.  “Where’s my G’damn pitch fork!” ‘Ol man Jackson would yell. And I was there to say “Here, use mine.”.  He would look me in the eye and grunt.  I took this as not necessarily a thank you but a definite acknowledgment of the deed.  “Someone needs to run up to the house get my G’damn pick up truck!” he’d demand.  “I’ll do it.” Mallocca would yell, grab the keys and run like hell through the fields up to the farmhouse a half mile away.  The whole plan began to show promise as ‘ol man Jackson started taking a liking to us.  He recognized us each day and began to depend on us until ultimately the whole crop was harvested.  We busted our asses.  I was convinced that he would not only allow us to fish his lake but he would be overjoyed like a grandfather with his grandchildren having us over for a visit.

The time came when ‘ol man Jackson gathered all the volunteers at the barn to thank us.  It was not a very momentous showing of gratitude.  He took off his hat, stared down at his feet for a second then raised his head to us and said something to the effect that he was very pleased that the townspeople came to his aid during his time of need.  He waved his hand at us and said thank you one last time then turned and walked away.  The crowd dispersed.  I caught up to him before he disappeared into his farm house and popped the question.  “Excuse me Mr. Jackson.  Would it be alright if me and my friend could come her fishing from time to time?”  Ol man Jackson stopped midway up the steps of his front porch, turned, looked down at me and said, “Get the hell off my property!”  I could not believe my ears.  “What!” I exclaimed.  “After busting our asses for you this is what we get?”. 

“I thanked you for your help.  As far as your work ethic...did you do that for me or for your selves.  I wasn’t sure what you were after at the time but now it is evident.  Get off my property, boy!”  ‘Ol man Jackson’s words hit home with a vengeance.  He was on to us from day one.  He turned and walked into his house.

            I looked at Mallocca who was shaking his head in disgust and said, “I told you it wouldn’t work asshole!  I ran my ass off through those damn cornfields for nothin’.”

“Shut up!”  I answered.  “Now it’s time for plan B!”

“What plan B?” asked Mallocca.

“Do you still have those kayaks your brother left behind when he moved to the city?” I asked.

“Yah, I think so...in my dad’s shed I think.” He replied.

“Good.  Meet me here tonight and bring the kayaks.  We are going to fish this place regardless.”

The moon was full that night.  The sky was clear and vast.  All the constellations were visible.  I was comparing the Big Dipper to the Little Dipper when Mallocca drove up with the kayaks in tow.  “Ol man Jackson’s house is situated at the north end of the lake right on the shoreline.  We met at the south end of the lake.  He got out of the truck wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a white Yankees hat with the blue NY. 

I whispered loudly,  “Hey…!  Have you figured out why we are meeting at ‘ol man Jackson’s lake at 11pm with kayaks?”

“Of course, we are goin’ fishin’ dude.  We are gonna catch some nice fish tonight, boy!”

“And, this explains why you are wearing glow-in-the-dark clothing.”

“This ain’t glow in the dark, man.”

“It is when headlights or a flash light hits you.”

“Oh yah, that’s right.  I didn’t think of that.  Son of a…”.

 “Whatever, I have a dark sweatshirt in my bag.  Your gonna have to lose the hat though.”

There is a small island in a cove at the south end of the lake about 30 yards in diameter. The island is home to three very tall evergreens.  Between the island and the shoreline there is about 20 feet of water.  It was the ideal spot to launch the kayaks.  The island was the perfect cover.  We could even use small flashlights to maneuver in the dark without being detected. Once in the water we doused our flashlights, paddled from the cover of the island and began working the shoreline.  I was using a 6 foot medium action rod with 12 lb test.  Mallocca opted for a 5 ˝ foot light action rod with 8 lb test.  I went for a top water popper right from the start.  Mallocca used a 7 inch black worm rigged solo.  I worked the edge of a fallen tree with my first cast.  Upon the third pop of my retrieve I heard and felt a large hit.  The fish took the bait so ferociously it startled me.  I hadn’t been in the water for 5 minutes and I was sitting under a starlit night in the dim light of a full moon fighting a nice fish.  I was happy.

I fought the fish for a few minutes but because of the darkness could not determine its size.  By the fight I knew it was five pounds or better.  I got the fish closer and was getting ready to lip it when I suddenly turned into a spaz.  I was not use to fishing from a kayak.  In fact it was the first time I had ever been in a kayak.  I was trying to do too many things at once.  As I was fighting the fish the paddles kept sliding of my lap so I was constantly grabbing for them before they fell into the water.  At the same time I was trying to control the fish.  These two actions caused the kayak to rock vigorously from left to right.  Before I knew it my head smacked the surface of the water and I was totally submerged for a few seconds.  By the time I gained my balance and recovered the paddles my fish was gone!  You can imagine my anger at the realization of this fact.  I could not believe it.  I stared up at the night’s sky wanting to scream and curse but gained my composure and laughed at myself instead.  I looked over my shoulder to see if Mallocca had witnessed any of what had happened.  He was casting to a point roughly 20 yards from me and seemed oblivious to the event.  I took another cast towards the fallen tree.  Upon my second retrieve I hooked another fish.  The lake was a gold mine.  I was confident even if I lost this one I would catch a fish on every cast.  I fought the fish up to the kayak and concentrated on keeping my balance as I reached down and lipped it.  It was three pounds or better.  I looked around towards Mallocca again, this time hoping to get his attention.  Just as I focused in on him his voice broke the silence of the night and echoed across the lake. 

“Woo Hoo!! Look at the size of this bass, man!!  Woo Hoo!”

“Shut up!” I tried to communicate in a loud whisper.  I dropped my fish and paddled as quickly as I could over to him.  I managed to reach him before he could scream again. 

“Shut up, man you’re gonna get us caught.”  I said.

“Sorry.” He didn’t seem too worried.  All that he could focus on at the time was the trophy he was  holding.  He was smiling and out of breath.

“Look at this fish!” he exclaimed.  I was speechless.  The only words I could get out where,

“Holy shit!”.  He held the fattest bass I had ever seen caught in our area.  It had a head on it like a bulldog and a gut like a sow.  It was indeed a “hog”. 

“That fish must go at a minimum of ten/eleven pounds.”  I said.  Mallocca reached down in his kayak and pulled out a scale.

“I may not have dressed appropriately, but I came prepared for this moment.” he said.  He put the mammoth fish on the hook of the scale, put a flashlight in his mouth and waited for the measurement.  I pulled up as close as I could to see the actual weight myself.  He mumbled something and moved the scale closer to me so I could see the measurement.

“Wow!!” I said.  “I can’t see the scale, but that truly is a trophy bass.”

Just then a flash of light caught our eyes.  We looked up simultaneously to see a patrol car driving along the southwest shoreline scanning the lake with it’s flood light.

“Aw, shit!” Mallocca said.

“Alright, relax, there is no way he can see us.  We’ll just slowly paddle to the bushes on the shore and sit tight.”  I reassured. 

“Great, but you are forgetting one thing.” Mallocca informed.  I looked at him blankly.  “The truck.”

“Aw, shit!” I said.  We could see that the patrol car had stopped in the vicinity of where we left the car.

“It’s only a matter of minutes before he runs my plate.  We are done!” and as Mallocca finished that sentence the patrol car drove to an open area on the southwest shore line, stopped the car, put the floodlight out towards the middle of the lake and called us off.

“Games over.  We have your car Mr. Wilson.  Please come off the lake.” the officer said over the patrol car megaphone. 

So, we did just what he asked.  As we were paddling towards our demise it dawned on me that  Mallocca obviously didn’t have his trophy any longer.

“Hey, what did you do with your fish?” I asked feeling a bit of suspicion that maybe he tucked it into his kayak.

“I released it.” he answered. 

We came to the shoreline where the silhouette of the officer stood watching as we struggled to free ourselves from the kayaks.  When we got to our feet the cop was smiling and shaking his head up and down.

 “Looks like you guys are in a little bit of trouble.” he said.  Behind the cop we could see ‘ol man Jackson’s pick up truck driving down towards us.

“Do you have permission to be out here in the middle of the night gentlemen?” the cop asked.

Mallocca and I looked at each other.  He gave me a nod of his head as if to oblige me with the courtesy of giving the explanation to the officer.

“Well,” I began to shovel the shit, “we were helping Mr. Jackson harvest his crop and then we went fishing and it got late but the fish were biting and we didn’t want to leave because the fishing was so good and we were catching a lot of fish and we lost track of the time and...”

“O.K. shut up!  That’s enough.” the policeman interrupted.  “How are you tonight Mr. Jackson?” he asked as the ‘ol man walked over to where we all were standing.  “Do you know these young men?”

We were finished.  No doubt about it.  ‘Ol man Jackson was going to prosecute and we were going to spend the night in jail, end of story.  Another good idea gone to hell!

“Yes, sir officer.  There’s no problem here.  It’s alright.” I could not believe my ears.  Was I hearing this correctly?  Was ‘ol man Jackson saying what I thought I heard? I looked at Mallocca.  He just shrugged his shoulders.

“Did you know these guys were here fishing Mr. Jackson?” the cop asked.

“Aw, yes.  They come around from time to time.  They are good boys.  They help me with the farm and I let them fish the lake.  It’s alright.” ‘Ol man Jackson responded.

‘Ol man Jackson and the cop walked over to the patrol car and spoke for a moment before the policeman drove away.  Mallocca leaned over and whispered,

“I figured it out.  He’s going to wait for the cop to get far enough away then he’s going to shoot us himself and throw our bodies in the lake.”

The cop drove away and ‘ol man Jackson walked over to us.  “Nice to see you again boys. How are you doing this evening?” he asked.

“Are you going to kill us.” I asked.

“No.” he said.

“Oh, then you’re drunk!” I said. ‘Ol man Jackson laughed. I didn’t know he was capable.

“No, not drunk either.  How did you guys do before you got interrupted? Catch anything?” he asked.

I answered ‘ol man Jackson “I got a couple and my buddy here caught a lunker.  It must have been ten pounds.”

“Twelve and a half.” Mallocca added.  I just looked at him in amazement of the enormity of the fish he had landed only minutes before.

“Wow.  It sounds like you guys were doing alright.  You better get back out there before the fish stop biting.” ‘Ol man Jackson said, again to my disbelief. “Now you don’t have to sneak around in the night anymore when you want to throw a line.  I have come to the realization that although your work was not entirely selfless, it was not entirely selfish either.  Have a good night, boys.  See you around.”

So, we did just that.  We had a good night.  Mallocca and I went back out on ‘ol man Jackson’s lake and fished.  We must have caught 15 more bass a piece averaging five pounds each.  We did not see another twelve and a half pounder but a few big fish in the 5-6 pound range, not unlike us, were caught and released. 

We go back to the lake now and again from time to time, in the morning, in the evening and in the middle of the night.  We also help ‘ol man Jackson harvest his corn every year.  He really doesn’t need our help anymore now that he has his full time staff back, but it has become some what of a tradition.  Plus, it has come to our attention that ‘ol man Jackson has a brother who has a cabin on Montana’s Bighorn River.  We thought we might be able to butter him up for an invitation out west.