The little red boat hadn’t seen water in three years before last weekend. Not since that Saturday afternoon the 15-horse outboard that powered it decided to conk out.
Braden Durick was with me that time, too; he was 11 years old. His dad, renowned Red River catfish guide Brad Durick, is a good friend, and Braden occasionally tags along with me on trips “up north” every summer.
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We’d been fishing an hour or so that day three years ago, most of the time spent trolling shallow-running crankbaits upstream on a small river that shall remain nameless. (Writer’s prerogative and all that, don’t you know.)
We’d caught several northern pike of the variety for which this river is known that day, when I decided to head back downstream to try a different stretch of river in hopes of landing a walleye or three.
Things were going swimmingly until, just like that, the motor sputtered and died.
I pulled and pulled and pulled and yes – I daresay – I might have even uttered a colorful word or two.
Be that as it may, the motor wouldn’t start.
So there we were, stuck on a small river without another boat in sight to lend assistance.
Despite this unfortunate turn of events, we weren’t in any danger. We had two weather-beaten paddles in the boat, the weather was good – though a bit breezy – and, had the motor actually been running, the boat ramp was only minutes away.
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Paddling into the wind with rickety paddles, however, made the trip back to the ramp much longer. I’m horrible with distances so I won’t venture to guess how far we were from the ramp. More than a mile would be a safe bet, I’d say, but probably not two.
All I know is it took forever.
Life and other priorities got in the way – as often happens – but we finally got the motor into the shop for a tune-up earlier this summer. The little red boat also got a new set of tires and updated registration tags.
With that as a backdrop, we were good to go last Saturday.
A series of morning thundershowers delayed our trip to the boat ramp, but Braden – who’s now 14 – and I were on the same aforementioned river before noon.
Best I can remember, it was the first time I’d been in a boat on that river since the motor conked out. The water had been either too high or too low whenever the opportunity came up to fish it.
Braden has expanded his taxidermy skills beyond animal mounts with the purchase of an airbrush set. In addition to learning how to paint fish – he has a perch, a white bass and a catfish to his credit, all of which look great – Braden has started painting crankbaits.
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He buys the blanks online for less than a buck apiece and then goes to work with his airbrush, adding the requisite treble hooks when the painting is complete. His collection of custom-painted crankbaits includes such colors as “Wonder Bread,” “Firetiger” and a red-and-white crankbait that appears to have tiny scales. As I understand it, he created the scale effect by putting a hair net over the lure before painting the white portion.
Pretty ingenious.
The previous evening on the drive north, I mentioned to Braden that I’d actually caught catfish on crankbaits on this particular river. Having frequently fished with his dad, the idea of catching a catfish on a crankbait instead of cutbait didn’t jibe at all with Braden’s catfishing experience.
Catching catfish on a crankbait isn’t common, I told him, but it happens every once in a while. That’s the beauty of river fishing; you just never know.
As expected and as usual, we had the river to ourselves last Saturday. Braden tied on his custom red-and-white crankbait, and we started trolling our way upstream to see what we could see and catch what we could catch.
I was using a jointed Firetiger-colored Floating Rapala.
Braden couldn’t keep the small pike off his crankbait – and when I say small, I mean barely larger than the lure – and we’d easily landed a dozen or more when he hooked into something heavier.
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I put the motor in neutral and reeled up to watch him battle the fish. It wasn’t coming in without a fight, and the spinning rod Braden was using bent in an arc as the fish dived under the boat.
“That has to be a catfish,” I said.
Still, Braden was skeptical.
Unlike the Red River, which of course is known for its catfish, this particular river is relatively clear under normal conditions like we had last Saturday, with water that’s more the color of root beer than chocolate milk.
I got a glimpse of the fish’s large tail and – sure enough – as I suspected, it was a catfish.
The fish wasn’t a monster by Red River standards, but it was very respectable just the same. Very similar both in size and color to the catfish replica mount Braden had painted a few weeks earlier.
He couldn’t believe he caught a catfish on a crankbait – a crankbait he custom-painted himself, no less.
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It doesn’t get much better than that.
Braden caught two more catfish that afternoon, as well. Not on his crankbait, but by using a jig and a frog after we anchored up.
Anchoring and jigging was the only way we could keep the small pike off our lines. Had we been specifically targeting catfish, with enough bait to give it a serious effort, I think we would have done very well.
We finished the day with more small pike than we could count, three catfish and a bonus goldeye. The motor ran flawlessly, and – even better – the weathered paddles stayed in the boat.
More than anything, though, the excursion will go down as the day Braden caught a catfish – his first on this particular river – on the crankbait he carefully painted himself.
It was a memorable day on the water.
The Trust Project
