How to Pull a Pirogue

"I just got my pirogue back from repairs." Kenny B Wright told me as I arrived on a Friday evening in early May. "Want to float the Tuxachanie tomorrow?" Kenny and I were both members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen, and I was visiting him at his Gulf Coast winter home. I had planned to do some saltwater fishing but Kenny said the weather had been unusually warm this year and he wanted to float Tuxachanie Creek. Kenny spent the winters on the Gulf Coast and knew how to fish the area, so this had all the indications of a hallmark day. I really should learn to pay more attention to Kenny’s quiet, impish grin.

We got up early fixed coffee and breakfast. By 7:00 a.m., Kenny was loading jugs of water into the back of his pickup truck to later replenish his leaky radiator. Sticking out the rear of his pickup box was a narrow plank fourteen feet long and sharpened on both ends. Two narrow boards created 8-inch sides that wrapped around the plank. 

Photo by Doug Christian

"So this is a pirogue." I said aloud noticing the four-inch high "seats" that were built into it. Kenny managed a ‘Yep’ through an impish grin as he hoisted two more jugs over the edge of the truck’s box. By 8:00 AM, we had spotted my truck at the take-out site and were pulling the pirogue (pronounced Pee´-Row) down an embankment to a 15-foot wide stream called Tuxachanie Creek. I had my doubts about whether the shallow craft would hold two heavy guys and their gear, but Kenny assured me that it held three guys during duck season last fall.

Before long, Kenny and I were actually floating over a deep downstream hole, with a generous 3 inches of gunwale out of the water. I reckoned the wake of a ½-grown muskrat crossing our drift might put us in jeopardy, but the little craft slid quietly through the water for about 50 feet. Then we had to get out and pull the pirogue over a shallow bar and deadfall. The water was warm as we stepped out of the boat and pulled it over the shallow bar, dragging the pirogue’s bottom on the sand and clay river bottom. At the end of the sand bar, the deadfall had diverted the water to create a waist deep hole immediately downstream from it. Getting the pirogue over the deadfall was easier and drier than getting back into the pirogue from waist-deep water.

Photo from Panoramio

The upper Tuxachanie is not conducive to fly rodding. It is overgrown, narrow, and mostly fishable by creative spin casting. Fortunately, I threw some ultra-light spinning gear into the pirogue when I saw the stream earlier from the take-out bridge. The banks of the Tuxachanie are 4-12 feet high and overgrown to the point that it often feels like floating through a tunnel of foliage. The surrounding forest is an impassible swamp infested with snakes and alligators.

The fishing technique on the upper Tuxachanie is a prime example of what I call sequential fishing. It goes something like this: float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over a deadfall, float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over some shallows, float and fish for 50 feet, get out, pull the Pirogue over a deadfall ... and so on. 

"So where is the fly fishing stretch?" I asked Kenny after about an hour of floating and fishing for 50 feet, getting out, pulling the pirogue over a deadfall, floating and fishing for 50 feet, getting out, pulling the pirogue over some shallows, and floating and fishing for 50 feet.

"I don’t know, I’ve never floated this stretch before" Kenny informed me. I corrected him by reminding him that, after an hour, we still hadn’t floated the Tuxachanie. We did manage to catch a few sunfish, and I even caught my first Spotted Bass; all four inches of him. Kenny taught me how to tell a Spotted Bass from a Largemouth Bass (the jawbone of a Spotted Bass does not extend past it eye).

I learned that fishing from a pirogue is different than fishing from other boats. Most people use boats to stay dry. Pirogue fishing is wet fishing. After a few trips in and out of the pirogue, it was hard to tell the difference between the inside of the boat and the stream. Kenny said the stream has flowing water but once, while standing on a sand bar, I suggested we empty the pirogue before the fish died from lack of water in the stream.

"Are you sure this is the Tuxachanie?" I asked Kenny as I glanced at my watch. It was 1:00 p.m. and I still could hear no signs of traffic. We had been on the stream, no, in the stream for five hours. I told my wife I expected about a four-hour float and that I would probably be home about 1:00 in the afternoon.

"I don’t know, I’ve never floated this stretch before." Kenny said. There was a long silence. We were both considering how long it would take if we were actually on a remote tributary to the Amazon. Realizing that it may be a longer trip than anticipated, we began to forego fishing to float 50 feet, get out, pull the pirogue over a deadfall, float 50 feet, get out, and pull the Pirogue over some shallows. There were better holes, more open to fly rodding on the lower end of the trip, but the afternoon sun was beginning to slide into the swampy forest. A couple vultures sat in the trees above us watching with eager anticipation.

We finally met another fly-fisherman working his way upstream who informed us we were about a quarter mile from the take-out bridge. It was 4:00 p.m. and we were tired, wet, and thirsty (our water ran out two hours earlier) when we beached the pirogue on the sand bar just above the bridge. We carried our gear up to Kenny’s truck, then unceremoniously pulled the pirogue up the bank and loaded it into the truck. Kenny had indeed given me a memorable fishing trip. The only casualty we suffered was a paddle that I broke trying to pole the pirogue over some shallows. Kenny said it had taken him years to develop the worn patina and proper cracking in that paddle.

"Kenny, I’m exhausted but I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed this trip." I said. "I’d like to do it again, but next time let’s not drag that damn pirogue along." Kenny just grinned as he poured some water into his leaky radiator.

Royal Dun

The Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Parade

Four members of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen (CHAOS) were gathered at Ma’s Kitchen Kettle for breakfast. Instead of the usual outdoorsmanship, the discussion topic was the upcoming Chukar Harbor bicentennial celebration. Gerry Mander, the Mayor of Chukar Harbor and Barry D. Cash, the town’s Treasurer, met earlier in the week to discover that there was not enough money in the treasury to pay for fireworks and a parade.

Chukar Harbor is not a wealthy community and they were only able to collect enough money from the town’s merchants to purchase the fireworks; and the bicentennial was only four weeks away. Mander and Cash invited Howard A. Doone, the Event Planner for the Chukar Harbor Inn and Town Hall and Wendell D. Buscom, one of the founders of the Chukar Harbor Ancient Order of Sportsmen and a retired city planner to breakfast to discuss the situation.

"Well, there you have it, gentlemen." Gerry Mander said after explaining the town’s dilemma. "I can’t tell the people we won’t be able to have a parade on our bicentennial! But I think we can do this with a little planning and coordination. Wendell, can we convert your pontoon boat into a float?"

"If I pulled the motor off and we draped something over the rails … maybe." Wendell said. "Howard, if we borrowed a few table covers from the Inn, we could cover sides of the boat. Gerry, if we used a few flags from town that line the streets during the 4^th of July, and add a little crêpe paper, we might have one decent float." Barry and Howard agreed that they could put together a couple of floats that way. Then the ideas began to turn toward a float with some kids and balloons. It would not be difficult to get volunteers to dress in bicentennial costumes; some of the Chukar Harbor residents dressed that way anyway. Old Pete Boone down on 3^rd Street wears that coonskin hat and buckskin coat everywhere … Gerry interrupted the group’s discussion.

"Great!" Gerry said. "You fellows work on those two floats. I’ll handle the rest." Gerry excused himself for an appointment at his office.

A few days later, town workers were posting notices all over town about the location and times of the fireworks and the parade (10:00 AM), along with the other activities like cow-pie bingo, a midway, horseshoe tournaments, and bake sales. Over the next few weeks, Wendell and Howard recruited other members of CHAOS to work on Wendell’s pontoon boat. Titus Over, a farmer and long-time CHAOS member offered a wagon with hay pulled by his big 7R John Deere tractor, always a hit at a parade. By the time the members of CHAOS had stepped up with balloons, banners, flags, vehicles, and labor there were two nicely decorated floats for the parade.

Saturday, the Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Day of Celebration, arrived as planned. By 9:30 AM, people from all over the county had lined the streets eagerly waiting for the bicentennial day parade to begin. Wendell and Howard brought their float to the south end of town as Gerry asked. Titus Over arrived in his John Deere tractor, all washed and polished, pulling a hay-wagon filled with school kids and balloons. Gerry Mander arrived at the vacant lot at about 9:45 AM and was met by a crowd of concerned people dressed in period costumes.

"Gerry, we only have two floats! What happened?" Wendell asked, concerned about the embarrassment he and Titus were about to undergo by participating in a 2-float parade. One for each century. Big deal. Gerry just brushed off their concerns.

"Start up your engines, boys. It’s almost time to start the parade." Gerry said. Wendell and Titus were considering tying Gerry to the hood of Wendell’s truck as the main attraction, when Gerry pointed to the road's curve ¼ mile south of town. "Wendell, when I give you the signal, you pull out and go all the way through town at 5 miles per hour or less. Titus, you pull up the rear." Gerry commanded. Wendell and Titus suddenly caught on. With a big grin, Wendell climbed into his truck and started the engine.

Every year the 1267^th Army National Guard unit makes its 4-hour journey to Sam’s Hill National Guard Training Grounds for their two-week training deployment. The route to Sam’s Hill goes right through Chukar Harbor, a fact that was widely known but, in the excitement of the bicentennial, was forgotten by everyone except Gerry. As mayor, he had called the Guard to confirm the day and time they were going to be reaching Chukar Harbor. At precisely 9:58 AM, the 1267^th Army National Guard convoy rounded the curve leading into Chukar Harbor.

Wendell pulled out just in front of the first truck in the convoy. The old pontoon boat actually looked pretty good, all decorated up. Old Pete Boone was there, the de facto Grand Master of the Chukar Harbor Bicentennial Parade, proudly wearing his coonskin cap and buckskin coat, toothlessly grinning, and waving to the crowds.

There were Humvees, jeeps, armored cars, and trucks of all sizes. Some of the trucks were covered and carried supplies. Others were flatbed trucks and carried tanks and artillery pieces. Still others carried bulldozers, road graders, and backhoes used to make roads. There were 42 vehicles in all. As soon as the soldiers realized they were in a parade, they began waving to the crowds, blaring their air horns, and revving their powerful diesel engines. People clapped, the children cheered, and the old men saluted when the trucks passed with American flags displayed.

As the last army vehicle passed, Titus revved up his tractor and pulled his float full of kids and balloons in behind the convoy. The crowds swarmed around Titus’ float, and followed the convoy through the town and piling their kids on the haywagon. At the north end of town, the entire town had gathered in the street to wave farewell to the 1267^th. As it left town, the convoy picked up speed, but the soldiers continued to blast their horns until they disappeared around the curve north of town.

It was the best parade Chukar Harbor ever had.

Royal Dun