Bryson City Tales Page 19

  I thanked him for his kindness and for a wonderful day. While waiting for Barb and Kate to return home from their Saturday errands in town, I began to clean and prepare the fish. That night we had our first meal of genuine Smoky Mountain trout. Barb cooked green beans and corn, along with yeast rolls. The wonderful aroma in the house matched the sweet evening we spent as a family—an evening of storytelling and laughter, an evening that defined what family was all about. The warmth of that evening wafted through all of Sunday and on into the evening.

  First thing Monday morning, however, the feeling completely morphed into horror. The radio clicked on at the prescribed 6:00 A.M., and then I heard it—from the mouth of Gary Ayers himself.

  “Good morning, folks. Boy, law enforcement over in Cherokee was busy, busy, busy yesterday. Seems a bunch of tourists were caught coming out of the woods with creels of illegal trout. Yep, folks. These guys had caught a bunch of brook trout. Not only did they catch an endangered species, but all of the fish were under the eight-inch minimum, and they went over the six-fish limit. Worse yet, these guys didn’t even have licenses. And if that’s not enough, they were found to have used kernel corn—and you all know that the park only allows fishing with artificial bait. Well, folks, law enforcement will be buying some new patrol cars this week. They arrested these guys, and they’re in jail, without bail, over in Sylva. Looks like they’ll get a $1,000 fine per rainbow trout, $2,500 for each brook trout, $2,500 for fishing with bait, plus $1,500 for trout fishing without a license. Folks, we’ll need an adding machine to figure out the damage. Not only that, officers have confiscated the criminals’ cars. Now for this morning’s weather report . . .”

  I was mortified. I felt a cold sweat break out on my brow.

  “Honey,” murmured Barb softly, as she lay curled up beside me in bed, “didn’t Don tell you that you didn’t need a license?”

  “That’s right. But he also told me there was no limit on the number of fish or the size of the fish or the type of fish. He also told me that we could use bait.”

  I paused to consider the implications—and then the headline in the Smoky Mountain Times: “Local physician buried under the Sylva jail after murdering ten endangered brook trout caught without a license and with illegal bait.”

  I barely made it through morning rounds at the hospital. The first thing I did after arriving at the office was to give my fishing mentor a call.

  “Don, did ya hear ’bout those boys being arrested over in Cherokee?”

  “Yep, sure did. Mighty unfortunate for them. Mighty unfortunate.”

  “For them? For them?! How about for us? Grissom, that could have been us! Are you nuts? Why didn’t you tell me about the license? Why didn’t you tell me about the size limit? Why didn’t you tell me about the maximum number of fish we could take? Why didn’t you tell me that only artificial lures are allowed? Grissom, we could be in jail!”

  “Now, Doc. Just calm down a bit and let me explain.”

  I’m sure he could hear my angry breathing. This had better be good, I thought. It had better be good!

  “Doc, those guys are foreigners. They were catching fish that weren’t theirs. Those of us who grew up here—we know what’s ours and what’s not. Doc, those fish belonged to us before they belonged to the park. The park knows that, and so do we. We don’t take what we don’t need, and we eat all we take.”

  “But, Don, if Jim had looked in our creels, we’d be in jail.”

  “Doc, you don’t think he saw our creels? You don’t think he knew? It’s just the way things is around here. Jim knows it. I know it. Now you know it. But if it will make you feel any better, I’ll come up there at lunchtime and help you apply for your license. And, in the future, we’ll catch us some bigger trout, OK?”

  After I hung up I didn’t feel any better at first. But as I thought about it a bit, I began to understand the feelings of the locals a little better—especially those whose parents and whose parents’ parents had grown up in Swain County, especially those who had lost their property to the government when the national park was formed. Many still considered it, in a way, their land—and land that still provided them food.

  After that day I didn’t ask where the turkey or deer or hog or bear meat I received in payment for medical services came from. I just accepted it with a grateful heart. And I was thankful for an afternoon in the woods, seeing and hearing some things that refreshed and invigorated my spirit and soul. I wouldn’t have been there except for Don. I was thankful for one of the best meals of my life. I wouldn’t have enjoyed that except for Don. I was thankful that at least this one local fellow was starting to consider me one of the “locals.” I was also thankful for the mercy shown to me by a law enforcement officer who understood the spirit of the law as well as the letter of the law.

  Louise and Mitch had begun to teach me the ways of mountain medicine. Don began to teach me the way of the land. Jim showed mercy. I thought of the words of wise King Solomon in the Old Testament:

  There is a time for everything,

  and a season for every activity under heaven:

  a time to be born and a time to die,

  a time to plant and a time to uproot,

  a time to kill and a time to heal,

  a time to tear down and a time to build,

  a time to weep and a time to laugh,

  a time to mourn and a time to dance,

  a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,

  a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

  a time to search and a time to give up,

  a time to keep and a time to throw away,

  a time to tear and a time to mend,

  a time to be silent and a time to speak,

  a time to love and a time to hate,

  a time for war and a time for peace.

  A time to die, a time to live. A time to learn, a time to be thankful. And, I thought to myself, That’s just the way it is!

  chapter twenty-two

  SOMETHING FISHY

  I was on my way out of the operating room, having assisted Ray with an emergency appendectomy on a young newlywed. She and her husband had been honeymooning at one of the local inns. Suddenly Louise burst through the OR doors.

  Ray and I looked at each other. Who was she after this time?

  “Dr. Larimore,” she squawked, “I need you in the ER. You won’t believe what I’ve got. I’ve been here in this hospital for a lot of years, and I don’t even believe what’s in there!”

  She turned and tried to escape through the rapidly closing doors, which caught her squarely on the shoulders. She gave the doors a shove and shouted back over her shoulder, “Now!”

  Ray and I looked at each other again. “Mind if I join you after I get the patient settled in the recovery room?” he asked.

  “Sounds like it might be interesting. Come on down,” I chuckled as I sped through the OR doors.

  When I got to the ER, things seemed calm. Louise was writing a note at the nurses’ station, and two of the three patient bays had drapes pulled around them. There were no paramedics to be seen.

  As I walked in, Louise stood up. “There’s two patients, Doctor. The first one will live but needs a lot of suturing. The second one was DOA, but the first patient will not let her out of his sight until the game warden arrives.”

  This has got to win the prize as the most unusual patient history ever presented to a doctor, I thought to myself. I must have looked totally confused.

  She continued. “Before your jaw completely dislocates, come look.”

  The smile on her face was devilish. She pulled the curtain of bay 2 open, and my eyes beheld something they had never seen before nor ever seen since in an emergency room. It was a fish. Now, not just any fish but a gigantic fish! The ER gurney is about seven feet long, and this fish occupied at least two-thirds of its length. It was massive. My jaw dropped. The jaws of the fish were also open, with horrific-looking teeth and some blood on the sheet by the mo
uth—I presumed from being hooked. Louise was snickering.

  A voice from bay 1 spoke, “That’s one monster of a fish, ain’t it, Doc? I’ve ne’er seen a muskie so big. Think she’s shore ’nuff a record. Maybe even a worlt record.”

  “What’s this fish doing in our ER?” I asked.

  “Well, Doctor,” Louise piped up, “Mr. Crisp here would not be evaluated unless I agreed to let his fish accompany him.”

  “Doc, that thar is a record fish. Can’t let her outta my sight till she’s properly measured and weighed. I caught her fair and square. I’d rather bleed to death than let her outta my sight.”

  “Bleed to death?” I inquired.

  “Oh, yes, sir,” exclaimed Louise. “Come looky at this.” She pulled the curtain back to reveal a white-as-a-sheet Mr. Crisp, who otherwise looked just fine—aside from his right arm, which was covered with a bloodstained hospital drape. Louise went to the patient’s right side and slowly peeled back the sheet that was clotted to his arm. He winced.

  “What happened?” I cried—trying not to sound as shocked as I really was. The arm looked as though it had been through a meat grinder. No bones were showing, but there was clotted blood from just above the elbow to the wrist.

  “Well, Doc, I was down near the Almond boat dock, jigging for crappie. The lake’s down a good forty feet, so to get to the shore you’ve got to walk down the edge. Thar ain’t no trees or stumps ’round the cove thar, just the water’s edge. But I know a place where thar’s a rock. When the water’s that low, you can get to the rock. On the side of the rock thar’s an underwater cliff, about fifteen or twenty feet straight down. Great place to fish.”

  His eyes bored into mine. “Doc, you ain’t gonna tell no one about my spot, are you?”

  “No sir, Mr. Crisp, your secret spot’s safe with me.”

  “Well anyhow, I was just standing there at the edge of that rock, a jiggin’ for crappie, like I said. Had caught a bunch of them critters. Had them on a stringer in the water. But I had the end of the stringer under my foot, since thar warn’t no place to tie it to.”

  “Go on,” I encouraged. The story was getting more curious by the minute.

  “Well, I commenced to hearin’ a slurpin’.”

  “A slurping?” I asked.

  “Yep, Doc, a slurpin’.” He then mimicked one deep long slurp, followed by another.

  “What was it?”

  “Well, I tell ya, Doc, I didn’t rightly know m’sef. Ne’er heerd such a noise. Then I realized it was at my feet. I just plumb froze. Then, while that slurpin’ continued, I slowly aimed my eyes down at my feets. And thar was the most unusual sight my eyes had e’er beholded.”

  I couldn’t believe what my mind told me was coming, but he sure enough said it anyway.

  “At my feets, which were thar on the edge of the rock, thar was that muskie.” He pointed to the fish in the bay to his left. “Doc, that’s a deepwater fish in Lake Fontana. They don’t ever come up to the surface. You’ve gotta troll real deep for them. But thar she was, a comin’ up right at the surface with her mouth wide-open, just like a big ol’ shark, and then she’d just suck in one of my crappie and then she’d a close her jaws and just fillet that thang while she backed up. Just filleted ’em one at a time, and then she’d come back for the next one. Why, I’ve ne’er beholded such a thang.”

  He was quiet for a moment, almost in a trance.

  “Then what happened?” I asked.

  “You won’t believe this, Doctor,” Louise commented, shaking her head from side to side. “Just won’t believe this a’tall.”

  “Well, Doc, I only had three crappie left on that stringer,” Mr. Crisp continued. “So I had to commence my planning real quick-like. I slowly bent down and took my pole—and very, very slow-like passed it from my right to my left hand while I was continuin’ to stoop. That muskie then slurped up my second-to-the-last crappie. But she either didn’t see me or didn’t care, ’cause she backed up and then came up for the last ’un. But, Doc, I was ready.”

  “You were ready?”

  “Yes sir, I was ready.”

  “So what happened?” I was scared to ask. I knew the answer. Not only could I not believe it when I thought it, I still couldn’t believe it when he said it.

  “Well, Doc, when she opened them thar jaws to come up an’ suck up my last crappie, well I just jammed my right hand through her jaws and up through her gills and then jumped back real fast ’afore she could pull me in and drown me.”

  He paused as he relived this once-in-a-lifetime event—taking in and then releasing a deep breath. “Well, Doc, she shore didn’t like me a pullin’ her outta that thar lake. She was a thrashin’ and a floppin’. I backed up like a crab, a pullin’ her along with me—when all of a sudden-like my brain yelt at me, ‘She’s a bitin’ you, boy!’ I looked down at my arm, and every time she thrashed she done gored me again. Thar was blood a flowin’ out of her mouth—and I realized it were mine!”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Well, I kinda panicked and pulled my arm outta her mouth real fast, but I think that just caused more gashes. Anyway, I threw myself on her and we wrestled a bit. I warn’t gonna let her a back in that thar lake. Finally the fight kinda left her. I got my stringer and real careful-like passed it through her gills and done drug her back up to my truck. Come straight up here. Knew Louise would know who to call.”

  “What in tarnation is going on?” a new voice blurted out. As the curtains separated, the exclamation continued, “What the blazes . . .” and trailed off as Ray entered the room. “Well, I never . . . ,” he muttered as he looked back and forth between the two patients.

  The story was told again, with perhaps even more gusto and bravado. As Ray listened to the tale, I examined the gory mess. The patient’s hand was intact, and all the arteries and nerves were uncut and fully functional. But he had row after row of fairly superficial lacerations and a few that ran deeper.

  “Looks like you’re going to be sewin’ awhile, champ,” encouraged Ray.

  “Don’t you want to stay and help a bit?”

  “I’d love to, buddy, but I promised Nancy I’d be home for dinner.” With that and one last chuckle, he was off.

  I commenced to cleaning, numbing, and sewing. I don’t remember just how many dozens and dozens of sutures it took to close up Mr. Crisp, but it took a couple of hours of nonstop work. I took several breaks to see other patients. It was a good thing the afternoon was light—as we only had one available patient bed in the ER.

  After I had finished sewing, while Louise was cleaning and dressing the fisherman’s arm, I was writing prescriptions for an antibiotic and a pain medication. Out of the corner of my eye I saw someone with a uniform on enter the room. As I turned, the officer introduced himself. “Dr. Larimore, I’m John Mattox with the Park Service. I think you know my daddy—the pharmacist down at Super Swain.”

  “Yes, John, I do. It’s good to meet you.”

  “Well, I was heading home when I heard on the radio a call for the game warden to come over to the hospital to certify a world-record fish. The warden’s hung up with a case down near Bird Town, so since I live near here, I told him I’d come and check things out.”

  I took John over to Mr. Crisp, who was now sitting up, his color almost back to normal. He gladly, and with even more vigor, retold his story. John listened without a word and then took a small tape measure from his pocket and measured the fish’s length and girth. “Man,” he muttered to himself, “that’s a big ’un!”

  He looked at me. “Do you have a scale?”

  “For fish?”

  He smiled. “No, for people.”

  “Oh,” I stammered, “of course. Right over here.” I pointed to the scale near the entrance to the ER.

  “Can I weigh myself?”

  What an odd request, I thought. But, ever the polite ER doctor, I said, “Of course.”

  He walked over and stepped on the scale, adjusting the weights. �
��One hundred seventy-three pounds,” he said, almost to himself. He returned to ER bay 2 and hoisted up the fish in both of his arms. “Doc, come give me a hand, will you?”

  What was he up to? He carried the muskie over to the scale. “Doc, adjust the scales to see how much I weigh now.”

  Now I could see what he was doing. By subtracting his weight without the fish from his weight with the fish in hand, he could come up with an approximate weight for the fish. As he saw the weight, John’s eyes widened, and he whistled. “Man, oh man, this could have been a world record.”

  “Could have been?” I whispered. He nodded his head and carried the fish back to her bed. With my help we got her situated again.

  “Is that a record, Mr. Ranger?” asked Mr. Crisp anxiously.

  John walked over to the sink and washed his hands. “Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen. I need to radio this information to the game warden. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  I also stepped out to finish my dictation on the case. Soon I heard a yelp, as Louise administered a diphtheria-tetanus booster to our fisherman.

  Ranger John returned, and I joined him in the ER bay.

  “Mr. Crisp, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. First of all, if this fish is weighed on a certified scale, it’s likely a world-record weight, but . . .”

  “But what?” croaked our now pallid fisherman.

  “Well, that’s the bad news.”

  What’s the bad news?” “

  “This fish won’t qualify for any records.”

  “Just why the blazes not?” shouted Mr. Crisp.

  “Since you didn’t catch it with a rod and a line, it won’t count. You caught it with your hands. They won’t certify a fish for a record unless you catch it with a regulation rod, line, and bait. I’m awfully sorry.”

  Mr. Crisp’s face registered the terrible shock. His lower lip began to quiver. He bit it as he fought back the tears. He looked at his arm for a moment, sniffled, and then looked over to the fish.