Hey fellers-
Name's Joel. Born and raised in Tucson. Just moved up to Chandler with the family in October '12. I have been a Crappie hunter since I was about 3 or 4.
My Grandparents, mother, and two aunts moved out here from Tennessee in '62. My Grandpa is a retired miner, and got two weeks off every year he was working here. He spent the first week by himself at Roosevelt, then the grand kids would come up and camp for a week over spring break. These are some of the best memories of my childhood.
This was back in the very early 80s through about 92...every year. We camped on the shore near Grapevine, with the boat pulled snug up against a rubber mat with two pieces of tire to keep the bow from scraping too much. The road in was dirt and steep. The "Spring Creek Store run" was the highlight of the week as it usually only happened once or maybe twice during our stay. We got the exact same space every time we came for about 7 years in a row. We saw the same people each year, and I played with the same kids.
The Crappie fishing varied from "pretty dang good" to down right tiring. My Grandpa ran two shifts per day. One AM and one PM after lunch. We never had anything bigger than a 16' Bass Tracker (which seemed gigantic to me), and we had 10-12 people there at any given time, so a schedule was necessary. With sometimes 6 of us in the boat...and water approaching the gunnels, we had many 50 fish days, and a couple of 200 fish weeks. We fished minnows under bobbers almost exclusively. A Zebco 404 and later a Zebco 1020...small, red and white plastic bobber...smallest minnow you could get out of the wire-reinforced styrofoam minnow bucket. When the fish were in the brush, my Grandpa would occasionally get out the "fly pole" (crappie pole) and let us dip minnows in the little holes in the brush. We'd come back with a basket full of Crappie...greeted with a fried bologna sandwich and a cold RC or grape soda (Shasta). There were a few times when we kids would opt not to fish because we were tired of catching so many. We would get that knowing smile from our Grandpa as he said, "Well,....okay..." ...his way of saying, "You're an idiot..."
Leaving at dark and cold....motoring up to Windy Hill or "Sally Mae" with two homemade biscuits and sausage stuffed in my sweatshirt pockets...the hood of which is cinched at my chin to protect my ears from the morning wind...that feeling when the motor slows and quites, and finally shuts off...the two big waves of your own boat's wake catch up to you and push you just a bit closer to your cove...and the smell of the two-stroke exhaust...that is still the stuff of magic and butterflies in my stomach.
I'm grown now...almost 36 years old with two kids of my own. I don't get to fish as often as I'd like, but the magic remains. I still see it in the faces of my son and daughter as they wrestle in a trout or small catfish. I see it in the honest excitement in their eyes when I tell them that we're going fishing. I realize now why my Grandpa put up with all the trouble of taking a bunch of kids and their moms...and sometimes dads... out in a little boat...having to rig everyone...cast some of our lines...untangle all of our lines...get the fish off...rebait some of us...watch the depth finder...mind the wind...mind the rocks...mind the rods...mind the hooks...take us to shore because we forgot to pee...
It's worth it...even just to catch a little glimpse of that magic.
That...and he had already been fishing and camping for a week by himself
I don't know that I have a favorite lake. Rosey has most of my memories...and Silverbell. I like Apache as well, and the San Carlos Lake of days long passed.
I fish from a canoe these days. I have an ugly boat, but I'm selling her as I have no room to store her, and no vehicle with which to pull her.
Glad to be here.