BACKROADS AND BOBTAILS
Noodlin'? Can't help ya
by Bob Kornegay

Friend and brother scribbler Tom Seegmueller called the other day seeking my assistance. He was having trouble locating a live source of information for a story he was thinking of writing. He needed, he said, to speak with someone from southwest Georgia who practices the recently legalized sport of noodlin', the art of sticking one's outer extremities into aquatic nooks and crannies hoping to grab onto and extract whatever finned creature might be hiding there.

I wasn't much help.

Not that I don't know a few noodlers. I do. None of them, however, reside in southwest Georgia. They're all from Oklahoma or Missouri, where the sport is quite popular.

That's not to say, of course, that southwest Georgia noodlers are completely nonexistent. Perhaps there are a few hardy souls around who might take to such a pastime. If so, I surely hope old Tom finds one to talk to and, if he's so inclined, to noodle with. I'd think, though, such folks would be almost as rare as hen's teeth.

Tell you why.

You know those holes into which noodlers so nonchalantly stick their arms and legs? Well, those same cavities are apt to contain not only big old catfish, but other varieties of aquatic fauna as well. My noodlin' acquaintances in the Midwest, for example, are particularly wary of beavers, which they say can deliver a quite nasty bite to wayward limbs feeling around in their logjam hideaways.

Now consider southwest Georgia. Down here, getting gnawed on by a large, flat-tailed rodent might be the least of a noodler's worries. This part of the country has so much more to offer. Namely, water moccasins and large snapping turtles. Not to mention that 12-foot alligator who shows up to check out the strange two-legged critter whose screaming and thrashing can be heard across two county lines. I mean, bad as getting beaver-bit must be, I've yet to encounter a venomous beaver or one who'd eat you for breakfast. (Uh uh, smart alecks, don't go there.)

If there are any noodlers (particularly of my generation) in southwest Georgia, they likely practiced a fishing technique known as "muddin'" in their youth. Now there's a sport with which I'm personally well acquainted.

In days of yore, I often, in the company of one or two other young ne'er-do-wells, journeyed to a small, wetweather creek that by late summer had receded into a series of landlocked, stagnant waterholes. There, my buddies and I, armed with garden hoes, stirred up silt from the muddy bottom, depleting the water's dissolved oxygen and causing the hole's inhabitants to rise to the surface. Afterward, it was easy to pluck countless numbers of bream, catfish, bass, and suckers from the dingy pool and transfer them to a "croaker" sack or bucket, simultaneously avoiding countless water snakes and cottonmouths in the process. Many a fine fish fry and numerous entertaining snake tales resulted from these lessthan ethical and likely illegal excursions. It's been nearly 40 years since my last muddin' experience, and I hope I'm safe in assuming there's a statute of limitations.

Occasionally, in the course of these adventures, a bold young mudder (never me, mind you) would throw caution to the wind and stick his hand into a bankside hole or a tangle of tree roots, emerging with a fat mudcat, a tasty bullfrog, or some other, less desirable quarry. It stands to reason some of these brave souls grew up to become today's noodlers. A few may even live in southwest Georgia. After 40 years, though, who knows?

So, Tom, I remain truly sorry that I am unable to hook you up with a local noodlin' expert. Here's hoping you nail down that story you're after, but I'm afraid you're on your own.

What's that? Will I consider going with you as a last resort?

Not on your life, buddy.

The only noodlin' I'll be doing is in a bowl of fettuccine alfredo, thank you.