Raccoons pulled moribund carp from the water’s edge and
up onto the walkways below the dam. They ate pieces of them, and today’s
hot sun and flies will devour the remaining juicy bits. Some of the
fish heads and skeletons will be here all summer though, festering as
they turn a dull yellow. The bank fisher-men have learned to step around
them and ignore the smell.
Something’s always dying down here. About everything that’s pulled
through the dam dies. Occasionally there’ll be a cormorant or coon,
bloated and swirling in the current. You’ll see dead catfish and
gamefish, too. But mostly, it’s just the carp.
A guy wearing a cut-off T-shirt and sunglasses is leaning against the
walkway railing as I approach with my bowfishing rig. His wife is at
the water’s edge, holding a spinning rod with a skipjack rig. The
turbine closest to shore is generating, and that’s usually a recipe for
good bank fishing from the walkways. But not today. At least not with a
rod and reel.
“The carp are killing this river,” the man says, mashing a quarter
can of wintergreen chew into his lower lip. “Nobody’s catching fish. The
shad dippers don’t come down here because the shad are all gone. Hell,
there aren’t many skipjack left.”
“You ought to stand right here to shoot them,” his wife says to me,
motioning. “I’m not even casting because I keep snagging them.” As if on
cue, a 30-pound silver carp springs from the boils in front of her,
turns a half somersault 6 feet in the air, splashes, and is gone again.
She smiles at me. “I think you could’ve killed that one if you were
quick.”
He shakes his head. “In 10 years there won’t be anything but carp in here.”
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