WE-WE THOMPSON
William Walter Thompson was a walking encyclopedia of fishing techniques. But, we still call him "We-We" even into his 70's. He didn't really mind the nickname if it was used by a friend although a few less friendly folks had landed on their rumps after intoning that phrase when addressing him. The actual creation of this terminology has been lost or readily forgotten in time although the most oft repeated version is never repeated within earshot of the possessor. His little brother couldn't say the big word William so he settled for "We-We" and it stuck from the age of about ten.
William was an outdoors person right from the get-go. He lived on the fringe of town and but a short stroll from White Birch mountain. The Lemon Tree River went almost through his family’s slight acreage so he had the best of choices when it came to hunting and fishing.
Our friendship almost terminated due to an unfortunate incident about the age of twelve. We were cruising the banks of the Lemon Tree River one fine summer afternoon; referred to by us as “Sour” Creek, when Willie had to excuse himself for a trip behind the nearest “bathroom” tree. He soon called out with a request for my handkerchief. It was promptly denied. What was he to do? The suggestion was to use his t-shirt, which was immediately rejected.
There was plentiful ground cover nearby and that was the alternative choice shouted out. Amid many expletives deleted he decided that it was the only tenable solution to his dilemma.
I was summonsed to his house a few days later by a phone call from his mom. She directed me to his bedroom where he was presently confined. He was laying abed, totally nekked except for a smearing of calamine lotion over his entire private areas, front and back. He vehemently announced to the world, with great passion, that as soon as he recovered from his near death poison ivy plague I would be dispatched by the most torturous means he could devise. We both survived that curse.
Come that fall it was time to visit the huge oak grove near Willie’s place and try to lessen the squirrel population a mite. My trusty .410 gauge in hand, I arrived at Willie’s to find him unwrapping his birthday present. A brand new Remington .20 gauge pump shotgun came out of the box and rested on his knee. His dad figured it would be a lot safer than him firing his .22 single shot up into the foliage trying to hit an elusive tree rat.
Off to the woods we went betting on who would have the first squirrel on the ground. We split apart about twenty yards and commenced a slow paced walk through the large oaks looking for that tell tale leaf shake that betrayed a furry luncheon.
Willie stopped, fired and a good sized squirrel hit the ground about twenty-five feet away from the base of the tree. As he approached it got up and started running away so he shot again and it fell still. Almost within touching distance up it came and once again Willie fired. He said that finally ought to take care of that blankety-blank squirrel. I opined that anybody munching on that now Swiss cheesed rat would be lucky not to lose a few teeth or fillings. Holding the barrel of the shotgun in his left hand Willie leaned over to grab the squirrel and danged if it didn’t start rustling around on the ground. With a loud curse and a mighty blow he struck at it with the stock end of his brand new .20 gauge. A sickening sound filled the forest as a ground level, leaf covered rock appeared and the stock instantly split into about half a dozen pieces. I fell to the ground trying to keep my sides from splitting due to the laughter now rolling through the glade. Willie just stood there in shocked silence, mouth agape, no sound emanating for the longest time. Later his dad just rolled his eyes and nodded his head while he listened to how Willie had accidentally dropped the shotgun and it just happened to land awkwardly on the stock end and the wood must have been defective or something like that.
As far as fishing prowess goes Willie was a veritable human gill net when it came to the trout of “Sour” Creek. A rod was just a natural extension of his arm and behaved accordingly. Our most memorable adventure occurred while worm drowning one hot summer night. The creek wasn’t too warm for trout even this far downstream and actually still in the city limits. Its chilly headwaters site was situated at the lower level of Clements Dam fed by the even colder Johnson Springs. Water releases weren’t set to any particular schedule and in midsummer it happened only during a possible torrential downpour and rapid run offs. The river would slowly rise about three feet with a full release.
Today we were going to the deep undercut banks of the “Rope Swing Swimming Hole” to see if we could catch one of the monster trout that We-We said were sure to be lurking about. He claimed that the best time was just before or right after dark and he had once hooked up to a whale sized trout only to end up with twenty feet less of hook less line after the battle.
An hour of worm drifting produced no bites so We-We decided to get serious and put two entire juicy night crawlers on the hook and guided it towards the near undercut just below the bank where the root ball of the “Rope Swing” tree resided. The line stopped mid drift and it looked like we’d snagged one of the roots or some under bank debris.
We-Wee pulled a little and “it” pulled back. This wasn’t the classic thrashing of a hooked lip trout and seemed more like a big catfish slightly tugging back. Slowly We-We worked the fish to the top and I shined the flashlight on it expecting to see something large; but, it only turned out to be a trout of about twelve inches. Why had it behaved so strange and seem so fight free?
Suddenly the water erupted in a volcano like explosion and the twelve inch trout was devoured by a gaping mouth and a following body that looked like a whale broaching and splashing down with a thunderous roar. We-We stumbled backwards and was barely able to grip the butt of his pole to keep from losing it. The monster dove straight for the undercut and the line tightened and then went slack. We stared at one another and We-We finally regained his senses and started trying to free the line from whatever was holding it captive. After a few minutes he yelled that something was heading downstream and his line was about to spool out. The fight lasted about another ten minutes and he was slowly able to gain on the fish. It finally topped the water again and in the flashlight’s glow looked like a massive Muskie. We-We had to bring it to the bank while I leaned over and was able to tail it up and grounded it. The twelve inch rainbow’s tail was still sticking out of the massive jaws of the huge brown trout, which we later measured out at twenty-nine inches and about thirteen pounds and a few ounces.
Willie’s family also liked to fish through the ice and they had a shelter on skids that was big enough to hold two adults comfortably with one or two kids thrown in the mix. On this particular day his dad and uncle rose at 4:00 am and shook an unwilling participant to wakefulness as best they could. As the heater in their shelter warmed the frigid early morning air Willie slowly slipped lower and lower on the bench till he was once again comatose. His uncle surveyed the interior of the shelter and spied an old calf high rubber boot. Conferring with Willie’s dad they decided it was time for the monster catch of the day. Deftly hooking the boot to Willie’s jig they slowly lowered it to the bottom of the lake and then raised it a few feet upwards.
With a quick release of the weighty water filled boot it rapidly hit the bottom and bounced setting off the small bell at the tip of Willie’s jig. Willie revived in a split second, grabbed the jig and began reeling as fast as he could. When the top of the boot cleared the augured ice hole dad and uncle collapsed in a paralyzing paroxysm of laughter. Willie’s enthusiasm for ice fishing declined quickly after that episode and he never ventured upon the ice forevermore.
And, that’s probably how the expression “he got the boot” came into being - or not!
I miss those adventurous days of fishing and hunting outings with We-We and think of them often. He’s still involved in an occasional outdoor adventure but has added a self taught amazing ability for wood carving, bowl making and hand painting them to his vast repertoire.
In today’s world of electronic games, amusements and communications there seems to be a total lack of appreciation of the outdoors nor much interest in pursuing it except for a few worthy organizations and individuals trying to instill this in our youth.
As for me and WE-WE, hopefully it won’t end for a little while yet and the memories last forever.