By now, the stink bait must be getting pretty ripe, sun-baked in a covered, five-gallon, galvanized pail with a bail handle — what we used to call garbage cans back in the day.
If you’re confused, relax, you just aren’t familiar with catfishermen and the bait they use. Aficionados brew special bait for a catfish derby, the biggest and best of which is scheduled for this weekend, “any where on the Connecticut River and its tributaries.”
We’re talking about the Holyoke American Legion Post 351 derby, 29th annual, the granddaddy of them all, the one the best and brightest anxiously await,
affable Senior Advisor Don Partyka at the helm, throwing in his two-cents’ worth from the sidelines, early and often, all in good fun, of course. Yes sir, the “Channel Cat” is quite the boy, one of the best, an all-time jawboner, probably Hall of Fame material.
Someone ought to buy him a Derby hat for the occasion. Maybe I will. A formal one.
Myself, I have no first-hand catfishing experience. No, I have always been on the periphery, but I do vaguely recall an old Pine Nook trapper, a good one at that, brewing catfish bait from carcasses and entrails; a pungent mix that would gag you, eyes
watering, out by his backyard clothesline. Open that garbage pail and be prepared to burn off your nostril hairs, one powerful stink. I’ve smelt it and could never imagine working with the stuff, transferring it to some sort of bait can or mayonnaise jar, and then
actually handling it to bait the hook. I guess old Trapper Teddy employed rubber gloves, which solved one problem, that of odor and bacteria on his hands, but who would want to deal with the stench every time they opened the container along the river’s bank? Phew! Maybe Trapper Teddy brought nose plugs to address the issue. All I can say is: Deep-fried catfish must be delicious, given what a man has to go through to catch them; off the bottom, of course, attracting them with a stench that would curl your hair and turn your tummy.
Trapper Ted used to say “the riper, the better” when it came to catfishing. I believed him. He knew what he was doing, whether running a ridge, chasing through swamps, or working a trap-line, upland or down. They don’t make any like him anymore; a
throwback from way back when I knew him; more than capable of making ends meet.
Anyway, Trapper Teddy’s long gone by now, probably resting at Pine Nook Cemetery, a good thing for competitors at this weekend’s derby. He would have been a tough man to deal with at such a gig. Having grown up on a large dairy farm bordered on the east
by the Connecticut River, Teddy learned to fish for catfish on lantern-lit nights, convivial occasions, of course. In fact, maybe the liquid refreshments helped him cope with the unpleasant odor accompanying his leisure activity; probably stimulated conversation,
too; kinda Huck Finn-Tom Sawyer stuff, plenty of ribbing, practical joking and horsing around away from the watchful eye of the, ah, authorities. Which is not to suggest that’s what happens today, in this more refined, homogenized culture. Uh-uh. We’re talking
about a little more law and order nowadays. No, a lot more; increased enforcement, too. Rules and regs. Gotta have ’em. Soon they’ll probably have surveillance cameras watching from the heavens, if they’re not already up there spying, Big Brother style. My
GPS unit says they’re already there, observing from the heavens. But let’s not digress. Some people welcome that kind of stuff, sing heartfelt praise. So, with that … back to the 29th annual Catfish Derby, Don’s Derby.

The good thing is that with Trapper Ted out of the picture, everyone will have a fair shot. But be advised that the old guy will be looking over the shoulder of anyone fishing his stretch of the Connecticut, and he’s not bashful; never was, always more than willing to
tell anyone who’s listening that they’re a stupid SOB who doesn’t have a clue. I heard it said hundreds of times, to me and many others.
It was no joke. Teddy meant every word he said. Spared no one.