Savannah's TN River Museum

My son and I were recently on a fishing trip in the Pickwick area, and when we left the water, we traveled north to Savannah, Tenn., for a stop at the Tennessee River Museum, 495 Main St.
This is truly one of those hidden gems, not unlike a freshwater pearls, that the museum tells about and showcases inside.
I had been there before and wrote a story about it, many years ago for a daily newspaper; at the time the museum opened its doors.

But each time I visit I am impressed and learn something new, which is what museums are supposed to do.
The “company” line is the museum includes info and artifacts about: dinosaurs, T.V.A., history the prehistoric Mississippi Mound Builders, the tragic story of the “Trail of Tears,” the Civil War on the River, the Golden Age of Steamboats, and the Tennessee River today and much more.
But this description sells short what there is to learn and appreciate here, especially when you see it through the eyes of a child.
For example, a child might learn:
“Wow! This general had 30 horses shot out from underneath him in the War, and still survived!”
Or, “I never thought a cannon ball this small, would be this heavy.”
And maybe a kid can pick up a dose of reality about the difference between video games, action movies and a real war.
He can learn that bayonets were used not only to kill people, but also to drag countless dead bodies from the field; that the “Bloody Pond” really was just that; and that the “Hornets’ Nest” must have been hell on earth.

Yep, there are a lot of lessons and amazing things to learn here. Check it out, should you ever be in the area. Take your kids.
Museum hours are Monday-Saturday 9 a.m. until 5 p.m.; and Sunday, 1 p.m. to 5 p.m. Admission is $3 for adults and free to those age 18 and under. Orange admission tickets to nearby Shiloh National Military Park allows for free admission to museum, as well.
For more information, call 800-552-FUNN.

Two Thumbs (Hooked) Up/My Life As A Pin Cushion

The Trials & Tribulations Of A Good Hook-Set
By Taylor Wilson

Ever read the, “this happened to me!” columns in the old outdoor magazines?
You know the stories I’m talking about. It’s the ones where some guy spent hours on a life raft and thwarted sharks, or where another guy climbed a tree, chased by a grizzly bear and survived only because he raked the bear’s snout with a piece of his arrow.
I was once at an outdoor writers’ meeting where the aged and grizzled scribes began telling about their “near-death experiences in the outdoors.”
One by one they told of the horrors they had somehow managed to survive and be present, there that day, to make laps around the free food bar.
When it came my turn, I of course, told ’em the truth of my most dangerous outdoor adventure:
“Well, WAY back in the day, I was hunting duck hunting off somewhere, and the night before we were hanging out in a honky tonk, and I made the BIG mistake of asking an even BIGGER guy’s girlfriend to dance.
“Have you fellas ever heard the Skynyrd song, ‘Gimme Three Steps?’ Well, I lived it! No wait, better make that, I SURVIVED it, way back in a 1980-something duck season!”
Now, my fellow scribes were not impressed. Especially not the one that had been washed down white-water rapids while trout fishing, nor the guy that had battled a Russian boar (in Russia) with a penknife!
Oh well, I survived, nonetheless. And just maybe it was such experience that got me through my latest mishap. But meanwhile in the spirit of the old magazine columns:

So there I was betwixt hook and crook…more so than rock and a hard place.

My tackle box lid was broken and would not stay closed, but I strapped it across my back, anyway.
Took it off my shoulder, put it in the bed of my truck.
Unbeknownst to me two bass plugs with (as it turns out) several very sharp treble hooks decided to hitchhike on my hind quarters, clinging to the backside of my Sunday pants.
I realized this when I sat down in the truck.
Ouch.
Of course, it wasn’t just one hook, but judging from the pain in my butt (literally), there were treble hooks aplenty.
So, I did what most folks would do when sitting on something sharp: I tried to fly.
Not unlike those folks that sat on tacks placed in chairs back when we were kids.
(An argument for what goes around, comes around, I tell ya.)
But, as it turned out, I was also now hooked to the seat covers, and the bass plugs, which were also hooked to my Sunday pants as well as some padding I had accumulated on a diet of high carbs.
Rising upward with my feet, I used a free hand to reach around and flank the problem.
And guess what?
It went from bad to worse.
One of the darn things snagged a thumb. The more I moved it, the deeper the barb went into my thumb.
So, again, there I was—contorted kind of limbo-like.
I remained this way for a few seconds that seemed like hours, realizing I couldn’t drive like this. And if I could, what would I do when I got there?
So I finally lifted upward and ripped free, from the seat covers. I was still wearing treble hooks in/on the hiney as I stood on the side rails and drove the pickup from a storage building to my house.
While driving, I had this image of me, falling out, being run over and found dead with bass baits attached to my butt.
Nope, it wouldn’t exactly be going out in a blaze of glory. But I’d be an obituary writer’s dream: “ANGLER DIES OF PAIN IN THE BASS,” “END OF LINE IN MORE WAYS THAN ONE FOR FISHERMAN,” “THOSE HE LEFT BEHIND,” “ANGLER’S DENIED HIS LAST FISHES,” “ANGLER KICKS (MINNOW) BUCKET;” and “LAST CAST,” etc., etc., etc.
But fortunately, as noted, I survived and made it into the house…though bleeding moderately, and got the pants off. And sure, I said several un-Sunday like things, but then again, these pants were never again be labeled “Sunday pants,” either.
After much pained delay, I finally got to leave for fishing trip.
Of course, it promptly rained it out, basically while en route to the water.
And as I retrieved my fishing rods from a friend’s vehicle to return home, they slipped and I felt the not-so old and familiar pain, again, but this time the hooks was in my other thumb.
My buddy helped cut it out with needle-nosed pliers. And after threatening to sue him for malpractice, I went home—bleeding yet again, and thankful again to BE the one that got away!

No Trash Fish, No GARbage, Just Great Fishing

By Taylor Wilson

LOWER SARDIS, Miss. — Mark Beason is the editor of Mississippi Department of Wildlife, Fisheries and Parks’ Mississippi Outdoors magazine.
Among his many other claims to fame, he is also the self-proclaimed title of “No. 2 Gar Man” in all of the Magnolia State.
“Sure, it might not be your typical title (gar being labeled a ‘trash fish’ and all), or it might not even be a title most will claim with pride, but I will take it,” said Beason, a Jackson, Miss. resident.
“And last year, for a while, I was actually No. 1, because the top gar man was out of commission after an ATV accident,” Beason told me.
But these days, the No. 1 Gar Man is reportedly back to health, and Beason is still happy being No. 2.
And as most know, being No. 2 is not all bad because the claim is that “No. 2’s try harder”—’cause they have to.
Such extra effort might be what sparked Beason to have us meet him on this particular shoe-sole-melting day in late June.
The thermometer in my truck said it was 100 degrees when my 9-year-old son, Landon, and I waded through the parking lot’s heat waves to get to the boat.
“Only a fool, or, of course, the No. 2 Gar Man, would go fishing on a day like today. Surely, all the other gar gurus are at home soaking up freon,” I thought out loud.
“Oh, it is going to be top-notch gar weather,” Beason said. “The hotter the better!”



Beason has been chasing gar for a long time. He likes it for reasons other than the fishing is hot, though. He also likes it because the fish are big and follow suit with their fight. He claims gar battles are the closest thing to saltwater fishing that most Mid-South anglers can find.
“And it is probably not a good gar trip, if somebody doesn’t go home bleeding,” he told me.
Something that proved prophetic, at last count No. 2 was bleeding from more than one locale at day’s end. We battled many a bruiser (as well as a couple that were more into lacerations than blunt trauma, evidently.)
Beason makes his own gar lures out of white nylon rope. He frays the rope really well with a wire brush so that it resembles pieces of white beard from a Santa suit.



“These baits last forever, are inexpensive to make and the more you use ’em, the better I think they work,” he said.
He douses the wooly pieces of rope with various attractants (crawfish-, shad-scented, etc.), and believes this helps draw more strikes than rope baits not sprayed with smell-um.
Before the rope is frayed it is run therough a swivel and secured with mono-filament wraps. Above the bait, Beason places a bullet weight which gives cast-ability and added drop.
“I really fish it like you would a Texas-rigged worm, letting it sink, and maybe swimming it from time to time. I think the gar hit it most often on the fall.”
As one might imagine the frayed rope flares in the water, much as a hair- or feathered jig does.
“You don’t set the hook (there is no hook), when a gar strikes the bait,” Beason said. “You just keep the line tight and add pressure as their teeth get caught in that nylon rope. Once they shake their head, you have got ’em; though for a while there, you might think he has you,” he laughed.
Of course, getting a gar “unhooked” from a nylon fray can be a feat in itself.
We had the most success doing this by lifting them up out of the water with channel-lock pliers gripping the gar baits, and letting the weight of the fish rip the nylon tangles from their rows of teeth.



Thick gloves are recommended (see earlier mention of gar fishing trips and bleeding) when handling gar.
Beason admits to eating gar, and actually says they can be pretty good, though he also notes the best way to clean ’em is to use tin shears.
As with my previous trip with the No. 2 Gar Man, we caught lots of fish and most averaged in the 12- to 15-pound range, and some were near or over 20 pounds.
“I bet there is no one else anywhere on Sardis today that caught this many pounds of fish,” he said.
I bet he was right.
Of course, my son had a great trip. And though I worried he might not make it well in the extreme heat, by halftime he was already asking when he could come back with Gar Man, No. 2. (Having a cooler full of drinks certainly helped fight the heat.)



As it turns out most folks nearly always have a chance of catching their biggest-fish-ever on a gar trip. And Landon did this with his the first gar he caught.
“That’s the fun-est fishing trip I have ever been on,” my youngster said later at the ramp. On the way home, he covered up with a gar-scented beach towel and drifted in and out with dizzy conversation about when we would return for gar and questions about how long until duck season. (There is something to be said for a sportsman that has his priorities set at an early age!)
Admittedly, on this trip, Landon had the best of both worlds. When not landing his own fish, Beason and I would often hand over fish we had on line, so the kid could battle ’em to boat. And the battle is the reason people fish for gar, of course.
Prior to the adventure, Beason told me that no one had ever officially set the Mississippi record for longnose gar on a fly rod. (FYI, though, the all-tackle record is 40 pounds, set at Grenada spillway, according to MDWFP). So I carried a fly rod with me on this trip, for no other purpose than to catch a state record. After all, it would only take one longnose gar (any longnose gar) on the fly rod, no matter the size, to be in the sate record books, what with it being the first entry and all.
So later in the afternoon, with our game for gars about to be called due to darkness, I put down the bait-caster, took out the fly rod and caught one that weighed 8 pounds or so.
But despite a wonderful battle, and well-played fish on my end, if I do say so myself, I was denied.
“Oh no, I am not going to let you take a record with that, ” said Beason. “That’s a pup, if you are going to kick off the category, you ought to at least catch one around 15 pounds.”
So the day ended. And just as unofficially as Beason is No. 2 Gar Man in Mississippi, well, in my (record) book, anyway, I am the unofficial Mississippi record holder for longnose gar on a fly rod — for now, at least.

Sight(s) Set For Fall

By Taylor Wilson

I am seeing things a different way—in a whole new light.
I broke down, or went for broke (literally) a month or so ago and had LASIK eye surgery.
My buddy Chester “Grumpy” Dixon volunteered to drive me home after the procedure.
So he was the one I handed my keys, my knives and all spare shotgun shells in my pocket over to, before I went back to be prepped for procedure.
Needless to say this gathered some attention in the waiting room. But a pocket full of ammo and knives did not stand out as much as when I accidentally showed up with a handful of waterfowl loads (post morning duck hunt) at the Capitol in Nashville for some sort of conservation meeting.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just steel shot, won’t hurt much and politicians are supposed to have thick skin,” I laughed as I handed over the ammo to the State Trooper.
(Hindsight, indicates I am lucky I am not still in the state pen.)
But back to eye surgery… So there I was, sitting in the back waiting for my turn under the laser, in a recliner at full-tilt, wearing a hair net, listening to Muzak and enjoying a happy pill, when they came to check on me.
“How’s Grumpy doing up front in the main waiting room? Is he behaving himself?” I asked.
“Yes, and thank goodness, because thanks to you, he now has ammo,” an employee told me.
“Well, yeah, but at least he doesn’t have a gun,” I replied and offered a relaxed-and-getting-more-so chuckle.
Several minutes later, really, my vision was corrected. Even so, I didn’t open my eyes because Grumpy was soon driving us home, and it was near 5 p.m.—on I-240.
And despite his urgent pleas to do so, I told Grumpy it was best to go home and sleep as the doctor ordered, and not stop and test my new vision at Hooters.
The next day, when I told the doctor, “it’s good to see you, and I mean really good to see you,” it was reported that I was seeing 20/15!
Amazing!
Of course, the goal for me, anyway, in regards to LASIK, was to be less dependent on contacts and glasses. I got that and maybe a little more.
Heck, I wasn’t that far away from Ted Williams, veteran and Hall of Fame angler and ballplayer. (Yeah, I am dreaming now, well that, and me being much minus his cat-like reflexes.)
Williams, they say, saw 20/10. And did you know doctors reported he could see at 20 feet what people with normal eyesight see at 10 feet? Armed forces ophthalmologists said his eyesight was so keen it was a one-in-100,000 proposition.
So, really, I am nowhere near that. But again, I am just happy to be less dependent on corrective lenses.
Want to know another certainty that’s come out of this? I have an increased self-obligation to protect my eyes. If I am shooting, fishing or mowing the yard (OK, at least two out of three are fun), I am wearing protective glasses. Ironic? Sure, but at such times I wear ’em because I want to, not have to.
And to top all this off, a friend has sworn to me, “You are going to really LOVE it when hunting season comes around!”
I hope so. Though I really doubt my accuracy (with bow, shotgun or rifle) will be that much better (note earlier mention of less-than-lightning reflexes; as of yet, they can’t correct that with a laser). And I will goof-up most days, anyway, due primarily to my known and accepted Charlie Brown approach or lot in life.
Still, I can’t wait to see fall this year.
(Who knows what I may get a glimpse of that I might have previously been missing?)
But until then I can only turn the thermostat down (for simulation purposes), and sit here and imagine what the Hatchie Bottom foliage will look like with new-and-improved vision.
Talk about wait and see…

Taylor Wilson is managing editor at Bill Dance Publishing. He has been writing for newspapers, magazines and websites for more than 20 years.

If I Had A Say, I'd Borrow It

All day I have been pondering what I would tell graduates this spring, in the season of graduation.

And the best I could come up with is this, a favorite quote from loose-wire Edward Abbey. Boy, can I see the looks on faces of the moms and dads. LOL!


"One final paragraph of advice: Do not burn yourself out. Be as I am-a reluctant enthusiast... a part time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it is still there. So get out there and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to your body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much: I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those deskbound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: you will outlive the bastards." — Edward Abbey

Some Friends Are Extra Special

Special friends.
Who doesn’t need a special friend?
I am fortunate to have one such friend through a program in my home county of Haywood (Tenn.). The program originates through the University of Tennessee Extension Service and it is simply called the Special Friends Program.
A mentoring program, the way it works is we lucky adults are paired with some really special kids that might need some added attention and direction.
We go to lunch with them at school (Haywood County School System) from time to time. We talk about grades. We read books. We work on things they might be having problems with.
We become special friends.
My special friend and I have been meeting since he was in kindergarten. He is about to go in the sixth grade now.
The first time I met him. He told me, “my daddy is in jail.”
I told him I knew that. I had read about it in the paper, and then I went on to stretch the truth a bit, perhaps, about the unknown. “It will be alright,” I said.
What else could I say?
Then I told him a truth that I believed with all my heart to be true: “Life is about choices. We have always got to try and make good ones.”
We have gotten along rather well in the years that have followed. We laugh a lot, but the best times we have had together have been when we have gone fishing.
Such was the case when he and I recently took part in the Special Friends annual group-fishing trip to the home of Nan and Steve Darnaby. About 30 or so folks gathered together, baited hooks, caught fish, ate hot dogs and laughed—a lot.
Some kids caught their first fish and that is a treat in itself.
(I think those that don’t believe in magic have simply never seen a kid catch their first fish, but that is for another column.)
Now, I don’t mean to brag, but my special friend caught the biggest catfish of the day! (So what if it was the only catfish?) We secretly celebrated that, just me and him.
I know I am supposed to be teaching my special friend something, but sometimes I wonder if I have taught him anything other than to be goofy; which he probably has picked up mostly by association with me (bless his heart).
But I do know he has taught me a lot, my special friend.
And I am grateful.
We should all be so lucky as to have a special friend to go fishing with, to read a book or to share a life lesson now and then.

To learn more about the Special Friends in Haywood County contact Peggy Jackson at The Haywood County Family Resource Center (731) 772-2861.

Ode To Pickup Trucks

By Taylor Wilson

There have been times in my life when I have been caught without a pickup truck and, looking back on it, I kind of remember feeling naked.
Well, heck, I might have very well been naked, for that matter; after all, that was during a couple of my wild and crazy college years (that everyone should be legally allotted, by the way).
It was when commuting and gas mileage were much more important than hauling boats and dead critters around. Thank goodness, I got my priorities straight.

Sure, there is no doubt the possibly-waning SUV craze changed some folks' way of thinking about vehicles with cargo beds and tailgates … but just maybe they weren't brought up like me.
Man, when I was a kid and an aspiring outdoorsman, a pickup truck could be something like a treasure chest. See a group of men standing around looking in the bed of a pickup truck and who knew what wonders were likely to held within?
Depending on the season, there could be all kinds of outdoor objects of desire in the back of trucks — things like big bucks, coolers of fish or perhaps even a timber rattler that had the misfortune of receiving death by skid marks.
Why, I couldn't wait till I got old enough to haul fish and game around in a pickup truck of my very own.
And then there was the social aspect.
Back in the good, old days, you could carry a lot more people in a pickup (and that was even before crew cabs became the rage). Why after the Dixie Youth ballgame, the coach would let everybody pile in for a trip to the Dairy Queen — whether we won or not.
I never worried about a pickup not having an air conditioner back then. I always rode in the back. And I am talking about in the cargo area, not some fancy seat, like pickups have today.
And if I had a dollar for every time my parents said, "You kids can ride in the back, but you have to sit down," I'd probably be driving a much more expensive truck than the one I have today.
(All that riding in the back. Shame. Shame. Shame. By today's safety standards, it's a wonder any of us survived long enough to get driver's licenses of our own. And by the time we did, we figured out that letting kids ride in the back might not be such a good idea.)
But as kids, we didn't know any better. Even while facing dire and unknown risks, we'd all fight over the seats.
Seats?
Yep, seats. I am not going to admit to you how old I was before I realized the raised wheel wells/fenders in the bed of a pickup truck were designed for anything other than seats, but I will say this realization did come later in life. (I never made it to engineering school, by the way. Good thing, I wouldn't have been there long.)
Another unique and incredible design feature of pickups is the space left between the cab and the bed. How many hours did those designers spend trying to figure out just how wide that space needed to be to hold a pair of rubber boots?
Surely, you've seen such boots stored upside down between the cab and bed? A truck and a boot holder. Can there be a better example of US of A ingenuity? I think not.
Regardless, a pickup is a good thing — for outdoorsmen and everyone else involved.
But I will tell you this: Beware the outdoorsman who drives a clean one. It's like the person at work who has the really clean desk; sooner or later you've got to wonder if they actually use it.
No problem with my desk or my pickup, and particularly with the latter in the middle of hunting season.
Covered with mud, dust or both, strange drawings or words are apt to appear on my truck. Say during turkey season, for example, there is likely to be semblances of all kinds of things drawn with a finger in the dust — things like turkey tracks; a rough map of the whereabouts of a roosted tom; or even simply the words, "Gobble! Gobble!"
And if artistic fun on the outside isn't enough reason to own a pickup truck, you ought to look inside. Who knows the wonders (and organisms) that are likely held within?
To go through an outdoorsman's pickup, late in whatever season he happens to be taking part, has to be akin to an archeological dig. All kinds of wild and wondrous (and a few not-so wondrous things) abound.
We have to store a lot of stuff in there, right? This is simply because we never know when we are likely to need it.
Pickups, they haul it all … outdoor fun and then some.
Don't have one? Ride in the truck of a hunting or fishing buddy. Heck, rekindle some memories and ride in the back. But if you do, do so off-road and for goodness sake, "You kids sit down!"