By Clay Reid
Poacher: A person who, to most people, ranks right up there with cow thieves and people who slap their mama. As I grow older, I guess I can say I kind of lean towards that way of thinking, but at the same time I think about all the poachers I know, and how on many occasion I was unknowingly lead into poaching. This is where I have the conflict.
I will explain by giving a few examples. The first time I was led astray, I just happened to be over at my aunt’s house and she was married to an outlaw named Randy.
I was sitting on the porch enjoying a Dr Pepper when Randy said, “Hey, boy, you wanna go fishing tonight?” To which I replied, “You bet… I love to fish.”
Then old Randy tells me to meet him here at midnight, and we would head on out. Man I was excited and was counting the minutes for midnight to get there.
At midnight I came walking up, and as I did I noticed that Randy’s dad, Rolo and a friend of his named Homer was there, and I thought, “Well good; we’ll have a grand old time just me and the big boys.” Boy, if I only knew.
You see, as I was standing there, I was watching them load up beer and other stuff into the boat, but I noticed they had not loaded any fishing poles into the little 14-foot john boat. I thought well that’s strange, but I figured oh well they must have the poles at a lake cabin or something, then I never gave it another thought.
Soon we found ourselves pulling up to the boat ramp at Lake Kickapoo, west of Wichita Falls. Still no poles, and I was getting a little concerned, but I was committed so I got in the boat, and we sailed our butt to the backside of the lake in the pitch black dark.
After arriving to the backside, we pulled into a little cove and everybody jumped out into the water except for my little, skinny butt. I was thinking what in the h-e-double-hockey sticks are these fellars doing?
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