BOB KORNEGAY: Time again for ‘crappie’ thoughts

It’s getting on toward that time of year again. Time to break out the minnow buckets and that rainbow assortment of jigs hidden away somewhere in the dark recesses of our cluttered tackleboxes. Time to brave cold false-spring mornings and even colder nights shivering in the glow of bankside lantern light. Time once more to cuss and discuss our old friend the crappie, a weird fish pursued by equally weird fishermen.

Crappie fishermen are weird for a variety of reasons, foremost being their addictive pursuit of a most unusual fish, though not unusual in appearance or demeanor.

The crappie is unusual in that he is a true piscatorial enigma for a variety of reasons. One, few who pursue him can come close to agreeing on what to call him.

Technically, there are two kinds of crappies: black and white. Sounds simple, doesn’t it? Guess again. Both black and white crappies are silver with black spots. You have to count the spines in the dorsal fins to reliably tell the difference. Most crappie anglers are so clumsy we seldom get past three or four before running a spine through a finger. Besides, it’s stupid to sit there counting fin rays while your partner is catching fish.

To further complicate matters, a crappie isn’t always a crappie. What he is depends on where he is. For instance, drive north and he’s a “croppy.” Go south and you’re catching “speckled perch.” He’s a white perch in the Mississippi Delta and some Yankees call him a calico bass. In south Louisiana they pursue sac au lait, meaning “bag of milk.” What we’re dealing with here is a fish with an identity crisis.

As mentioned, crappie anglers are as strange as their fish. They complain about a lack of snags in a lake because snags are good crappie structure. Let them find a stump or two and they’re happy. Let them hang up on the stump and they cuss about being hung up all the time. Come January, they load their boats with old Christmas trees and motor out to sink them in a likely spot where they can cuss and complain some more the following spring. Sigmund Freud would have had a field day analyzing a crappie fisherman’s behavior.

Crappie anglers also like to fish at night. There are advantages and disadvantages to nighttime fishing. The disadvantage is called darkness.

Anyone who grew up with monsters under his bed knows full well there are things in the dark that will get you. It’s no different for grownups out on the water after dusk. Trees and stumps not present on the lake during the day will uproot themselves and jump in front of your boat at night. Try to alleviate this dilemma by igniting your lantern and the owls, bats, and mosquitoes show up in droves. It’s like Pearl Harbor without all the noise.

For every crappie caught on a night-fishing excursion, there are at least three stump punctures in your boat, a dozen “skeeter” bites on your arms, and one long gash across your face from an errant swipe by a nearsighted owl. I don’t exaggerate here. I once lost my favorite hat when a lantern-blinded owl came too close for comfort. Said hat is now part of the bottom structure in Lake Seminole. I wasn’t a birder then so I’ve no idea what species of owl it was. My fishing buddy said it could have been Dracula, but considering the distance between Transylvania and Decatur County, Ga., I rather doubt it.

Night or day, no hazard that may potentially befall the crappie angler matters in the least if the crappies are biting. Forget the fact that the crappie isn’t a particularly sporting species. The daily limit is liberal and fried crappie fillets are mama-slappin’ good eating. Give us 20 or so big fat slabs for our effort and we’re as happy as any angling masochist can be.

Yep, we’re strange animals. The object of our unholy obsession lures us each year about this time in uncanny, addictive fashion. There is no known cure. Our actions must be tolerated with empathy and patience.

So, crappie widows (and widowers) take heart. If your significant other is exhibiting what you consider offbeat behavior and stays gone most of the time, it isn’t sex, drink, or the roll of the dice. It’s them danged ol’ specks. Just hand him his minnow bucket and let him go.

He’ll be home when the ice chest’s full.