Day was farmers cultivated crops to keep down weeds, bugs were a nuisance they tolerated and commercial fertilizer wasn’t as pervasive as today’s. You could drink from a creek without fear of getting sick.
Not from a still pool, though, where moss and scum were a turnoff. I always migrated to a riffle, where the water gurgled over rocks and was sparkling clean, like the Rocky Mountain water Coors beer likes to brag about.
Coal Creek wasn’t much of a walk from where I lived on the east side of Humboldt. When I didn’t have chores to do — like pulling weeds or tending to the chickens — I’d grab my fishing pole, a can of worms and head east. One of Dad’s old metal lunch boxes held a few sinkers, an extra cork or two and some hooks. For a pudgy kid who had priorities, I also put in a snack or two.
I’d be on my merry way. Sometimes with Tony Edwards, who lived across Mulberry Street, in tow. He didn’t like fishing much, but always was up for an adventure.
We’d meander along the gravel road, tossing rocks for amusement, and finally come to the creek. A well-worn path led to the creek’s edge. I didn’t know who owned the ground, but no one paid any mind to kids fishing.
If by myself, I’d get serious about fishing, knowing that a small drift of old limbs that looked like bony fingers sticking out of the water was where fish hung out. I’d catch a few, usually pan-size. Most were perch of one denomination or another. They had firm, tasty meat and made for good eating, provided you didn’t mind weeding through a few rib bones.
After an hour or so on a hot afternoon, thirst would intervene.
Not far down the creek was a low-water bridge, across which the road headed up a hill. In a shelf of shale was a little spring where someone long ago had left a glass, chipped in a few places but without a crack. If the spring was running — depending on how much rain had recently fallen — I’d wait while the trickle filled the glass. The water was cool and sweet.
If the spring was dry, I’d amble back to the creek, walk along a path through the brush, sidle over to the swift water and drop to my knees. With hands cupped, I’d take a drink.
Sometimes I’d shut my eyes and imagine I was a pioneer, drinking in the wilds long before Kansas was populated. I could almost hear Jim Bridger and the boys fussing with me to hurry up so we could be on our way to the mountains — way out west.
