Mr. Clyde's Camp

When I was a boy, I helped Daddy and Uncle Gene work on Mr. Clyde's Camp.

The River Swamp used to be full of hunting and fishing camps with names like Judge's Camp, Mud Lake Camp, Buck Island Camp, Bullpen and many more.  Over the years I stayed at most of these camps, but one camp was very special to me, Mr. Clyde's Camp. It was located next to the Morgan Lake train trestle, but on the highway side of the railroad tracks.  Daddy and Uncle Gene did most of the work, but it was still a family affair.

Building the Camp

The main feature of the camp was an old school bus converted for camping.  The bus had a stove, cabinets, sink, beds and a table in it.  I never slept in it because I always thought a few rats stayed in it, too.

Daddy and Uncle Gene built a shelter next to the bus to cover more tables.  They also sunk a hand-pump.  Much sweat was lost pounding those pipes deep enough to draw fresh water.  I never did get used to drinking pump water, always tasted like rocks to me.

They then built an out-house behind the bus.  Uncle Gene dug a deep hole and used old army canvas for walls.  A kitchen chair modified with a commode seat finished it off.  The out-house worked pretty well, especially if you didn't mind a few mosquito bites from underneath the commode seat.

There was also had a big tent with a large kerosene heater in it.  I still remember one particular night was so cold the water pump froze.  We had the tent heater going full blast, I was using one of Daddy's old army sleeping bags (which I still have.)  Uncle Gene kept the heater working while I stayed curled up in that sleeping bag.  I believe that was the best night's sleep I've ever had.

Fishing and Drinking

I stayed at that camp a lot in those days, mostly with Uncle Gene, sometimes Uncle Buddy camped with us, too.  I think Uncle Gene may have even lived there for a while.

We did more fishing than anything else from that camp, Uncle Gene and Uncle Buddy did more drinking than fishing.  I knew they both drank too much, but I loved being with them whenever they were sober.  They were always took good care of me.

Uncle Gene and Uncle Buddy could fish, too.  They knew how to float nets in the Altamaha River for big shad, run trot-lines, and set bush-hooks for catfish in the Patterson Waterway. They could give White Perch (Crappie for my more northern-located friends) a fit with a cane pole and minnows in Morgan Lake.  They even knew how to "telephone" for fish (I'm sure the statue of limitations against using a crank and car battery that makes fish float to the top of the water has long expired by now.) 

One night a family tragedy almost happened.  Daddy, Uncle Buddy, and I were checking trot-lines on the far side of Morgan Lake, the deep side.  Daddy was in the back of the boat working the paddle, I was in the middle holding the flashlight, and Uncle Buddy was up front, checking the trot-line.  For some reason, Uncle Buddy stood up, lost his balance and fell into the lake.  Uncle Buddy and Daddy both had been drinking that night.

Uncle Buddy went under with a big splash, then there was nothing.  Daddy rushed to the front of the boat, almost knocking me in, too.  I don't remember exactly how much time passed, but I do remember starting to panic.  Daddy grabbed the light and starting searching around the boat, but no Uncle Buddy.

Daddy then shined the light into the lake.  You could see Uncle Buddy down there, looking up at us, like a dead man.  Daddy reached deep into the water, grabbed a hand-full of hair and pulled him the surface.  After Daddy got Uncle Buddy back into the boat they both started laughing.  We continued checking trot-lines that night.

The Real Story About Hush Puppies

We had many family dinners at that Camp.  Momma would fry fish, hush puppies and cook pots of grits.  We even had catfish mull a few times, that's fish stew made with catfish heads, potatoes and onions (You gotta try it before making a face.)

While frying fish at the camp one evening, Momma told me how "hush puppies" became a southern tradition.  She said that when she was a young girl, her Grandmother, Mary Anna Mumford Browning, would fry fish on the back porch of her old house off Factory Street in Ludowici.  Once the cooking started, the neighborhood dogs would gather around the porch, whining for scraps of food.

Feeling sorry for the poor dogs, she took a little left-over cornmeal, made a batter and dropped spoonful's of the thick stuff into the frying pan.  After several minutes, she took the cooked balls out of the pan and threw them to the hungry dogs, saying, "hush, puppies."  A southern tradition was born and people have been eating hush puppies ever since.

I still have many memories about that old camp --  for a while the place was full of chickens, which turned wild. We had to catch them on the roost one night using a cane pole with a hook on the end -- for some reason Uncle Gene would only wash his frying pan with sand and water from the lake --  and then there was the search in the woods near the camp one cold night for a man who had a "monkey on his back."  Daddy and I helped with the search.  Tragically, the man was found the next morning, he had died from exposure.   

I think a bait shop now sits on the old camp site, surrounded by a trailer park.  If they only knew...


Mike's Fishing Tip - Use a match stick to turn a Catawba worm inside out.  Jiggle this bait around stumps and submerged logs, the Warmouth will go crazy trying to get on your hook.

Mike Griffin, an old Ludowici boy from way back.

PS - All of my stories are true, mostly true, or maybe just made up :)

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