Fire Lake

Not all the lessons we learn in life are profound. Occasionally, there's an obvious premise that we simply ignore or forget and Nature has to find a way to remind us. If we're lucky, we survive and get a good laugh out of it. This is the story of one of those reminders.

Time was, my young family and I lived in the same town as my brothers and their (then) little families. We spent a lot of time together and much of that time was spent fishing at one or the other of several lakes in the area.

One of the closest fishing spots to Amarillo, Texas is Lake Meredith National Recreation Area. It's main attraction is a 10,000-acre reservoir, roughly 30 miles north of town and accessible from several directions.

Now, this is not your beautiful mountain lake, surrounded by pines. It's a deep hole in the prairie, surrounded by rocks, hills and sage. It's a “bring your own shade, hydrate and don't forget the sunscreen” kind of place. Nevertheless, it's popular with the locals of all the surrounding towns. In the Texas panhandle, you fish the holes you can find.

Most of the boaters and large groups prefer the deep water on the dam end. There are two small towns on that end, as well, so food, bait, etc. are available for the unprepared.

In the 1970's, we were not among the unprepared. We were seasoned prairie campers and serious fishermen. We were also not fond of crowds. We were something of a small army, with a definite mission: catch fish, have fun and relax.

We drove in on the “back road” to a cove on the southeastern shore, where there was a wide, semicircular beach with plenty of room for the handful of like-minded groups to spread out and not pester each other. No one was opposed to a friendly chat with a “neighbor” about the weather, the bait we were using, etc. For the most part, though, we were all on the same mission and respected each other's space.

This particular trip was just the three brothers. We had secured our favorite spot early, and were set up for the night in no time. “Setting up” in those days meant gathering firewood, dragging the coolers out of the trucks, tossing any blankets or tarps we'd brought down by the water's edge, baiting up and getting the lines out there. At the time, regulations allowed two fishing poles per person in use at a time. We had our arsenal of 6 rods armed and ready, standing upright close to the water on “rod holders” made from forked pieces of driftwood with a rock at the base of the handle.

This was catfish fishing, with the occasional walleye or perch as a bonus. There were also some massive carp and some turtles in the water, which provided an adrenaline rush, but went back in the water after the fight.

The method was simple. Cast out the bait, let the sinker settle in, tighten the line just enough and prop the rod on the holder. Continue the mission.

As it happened, we had arrived at our spot just after a surprise rain shower. This meant the available wood would be damp, and we'd need to get our fire started early, to dry out enough for the night.

We all set out on the hunt and had a substantial pile in no time, including a couple of big logs to keep it burning low until morning. We built the standard tepee arrangement with a bit of paper from one of the trucks. After a few matches blew out, courtesy of the evening breeze wafting in from the lake, the paper caught and the damp sticks began to smolder. With much fanning and blowing, we managed to coax up a few small flames and gradually, the smolder moved to the larger sticks.

As we had been gathering wood and patiently trying to build a fire, the sun had set, and we, in our now damp clothes, were beginning to feel the bite of that breeze. Progress on the blaze was simply too slow.

The senior brother, as the captain of our army, took charge. As any good leader would, he simply stated, “I'll get that son of a b*tch going,” turned and headed for the back of his truck, returning in less than a minute with a yellow plastic antifreeze jug.

If you were alive and at least a teen in the 70's, it's likely you already know that the jug didn't hold antifreeze. If not, don't judge. What held in his hand was his extra gallon of gasoline, in case he happened to run low on any trip. It was the symbol of a true road warrior.

Our captain strode boldly up to the smoking stack of wood and taking careful aim, poured a stream of gas into the fire pit. It caught, and a hefty flame engulfed the pile of wood.

Unfortunately, the flame didn't stop there, but climbed hungrily up the stream of liquid and into the jug. The situation was on the verge of spiraling out of control, as Captain Ken stood with an incendiary device spewing flame from its spout.

Our leader wasn't one to panic. Assessing the situation quickly, he strode to the water's edge and flung the jug as hard as he could manage toward the lake. We watched it arc out over the water and drop into the darkness.

When it hit the lake surface, we witnessed a spectacle of epic proportions. A flickering pool of brilliant, blue flame spread slowly, growing yellow tips as it began making its way across the cove.

In the half-minute or so that burning slick survived, it burned six fishing lines in half and lit the entire area with an eerie glow. It slowly faltered and disappeared.

For a few long moments, the entire world went silent. Then, from somewhere on the shore, a single, slow clap started. Another onlooker joined in. In a few more moments, the entire cove was ringing with applause, shouts, whistles and laughter.

In that brief instant, our army was elevated to hero status, borne on the shoulders of our leader. As the cheers slowly faded, we basked in that glory. Fame is fleeting, however, and all those present had their missions to attend to. As for us, we had our fire to tend, our lines to repair and re-bait, and a beautiful night under the now-visible stars to look forward to.

***

Like many tales of long ago, this story comes with a tinge of sadness. The cove where we spent so many memorable nights camping has been gone for many years. Lake Meredith has lost over 50% of its volume and the southern shoreline has gradually receded northward toward the dam. Our beloved fishing spot has been dry land for some time.

The lake is still a popular getaway for locals, although its old maximum depth of over 100 feet hovers at around 75 feet today. It's now stocked with several species of fish in addition to the native catfish.

For history buffs, the road we traveled to the cove we fished is the route to Alibates National Monument, where you can visit and learn about the flint quarry, a source of flint for hunters 13,000 years ago and throughout the history of the High Plains.

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I decided to share a little nugget from my next book, since it's taking quite a bit of time to write all the stories. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do telling it!