This story was written by William Hoy in approximately the 1930s.
When I was a boy, Salt Creek was simply alive with fish. Nothing in this entire world thrilled me as much as just going fishing.
Now I remember those wonderful fishing trips, one in particular I wish to tell you about and I will try to recount all the incidences that happened on the memorable and eventful trip.
It was 30 years ago. I was then a young man, of course was very much elated, and so speaking, stuck on my dignity and superior knowledge of everything that was worthwhile.
I was at that time studying medicine, and there was no doubt whatsoever in my mind that I would become a very eminent and distinguished physician. But I am sorry to say those boyhood dreams of greatness have never been realized. Like many other air castles, fabrications and dreams of renown and greatness have long since toppled and like a myth have passed away.
On this day I was speaking of, I had made great preparation for an all-day fishing trip. I had pictured in my mind just where I would go.
I knew of every good fishing hole for miles around. Sometimes I would go over to Green Valley and fish at the mouth of Green Valley Branch where this small stream empties into Salt Creek at what is known as the deep hole.
Then sometimes I would go over by Duncan at what was known as the gar hole.
Sometimes I would go on down the valley to the deep waters.
But this time I am speaking of the mouth of Schooner Creek; that’s where we caught the big pike.
So on the evening before my fishing trip, I took the minnow seine made of an old gunny sack and in the little Schooner Creek I caught a good number of nice slick shiners and creek chubs. I put them safely in the minnow bucket, sank the bucket in a nice clear pool under an old elm tree.
I asked my mother to fix me a lunch, for I intended to start before daybreak and before breakfast. I put feed in the buggy for the horse. So after supper, with all things prepared, I set my alarm clock for 3 a.m.
I arraigned the coal oil lamp so it would best shed its rays of light upon the book I had been reading titled “Congo Rowers,” a book of adventures on the Congo River in Africa. Peering through those pages and thrilled with the wonderful adventures, along about midnight I dropped off to sleep only to dream of wild lions and great spotted snakes.
Then I was startled from slumber by the blare of the alarm clock. I rubbed my eyes, dressed, gathered my dinner bucket, gun and minnows and off I went for a fun-filled day of fishing.
—Submitted by Pauline Hoover, Brown County Archives