Captain Gary Henderson

A friend of mine and I were talking the other day after spending an incredible day on the water. As we were discussing the day’s events, an elderly gentleman pulled his boat up to the dock and the aroma of the oily, blue smoke from his outboard wafted over us. My buddy seemed to go somewhere else, and his conversation drifted as well. After he came back, he apologized briefly and told me that his dad had passed away only a few years ago, and the distinct smell of that oil smoke always reminded him of fond memories when his dad and he fished together. Often smells are so remindful of memories. Faint, just off in the distance…the white paste glue from grammar school; the smell of freshly mowed grass, or the smoke from a distant fire.

A few months ago, I was driving toward home when the beautiful fragrance of an oak fire off in the far distance came into my truck’s window, and the memories of my youth vividly began to replay as colorfully and as real as if though I had been transported back some forty-plus years. Times were much simpler back then, and the smell of the burning oak remained in my nostrils bringing to life a gathering on the banks of a faraway river, and of a faraway time along the Kissimmee River at a place called Camp Mack.

Years ago, Mom, Dad and I would just head off in whichever way the old Buick decided to take us, usually this was after church on a sunny, Sunday afternoon. Winding, single-lane highways, or metallic-colored sandy trails, or turn-offs down old dusty orange grove clay roads,. The dust we kicked up matched the fruit that hung on the dark green citrus trees as we whizzed by row after row. Perhaps Dad had seen a homemade sign nailed to a telephone pole, or it may have been his keen sense of sniffing places out. Places that always had to do with water and fish camps, or an old and worn boat ramp.

This particular day, it was though we had passed through a time warp. At the end of a dirt road in south Polk County, Florida, time had stopped. Decades were lost and a paradise had been preserved. A sign hung haphazardly by an old, rusty nail telling us we had arrived at yet another place where water met earth. “Welcome To Camp Mack”.

Ancient oaks draped their long and reaching branches over light-gray, sandy patches, old yellow cur dogs laid in their shady, favorite places, an old tin-roofed cook shed was tucked near the bank of the Kissimmee River and several wooden boats waited for yet another day to take their owners fishing on the river and among its many hidden coves where dark and tannin water slowly undulated around giant bald cypress trees; trees perhaps hundreds of years old with their knobby knees protruding above the surface. Cabbage palms, soldier-like, lined the banks until the bluish haze of a hot summer’s afternoon took them from view. Old, darkened pilings stood sentry, leading out into the river. Several colorful rental boats were tied to them. Nailed to the pilings were boards of rough cypress planking, worn smooth by the footsteps of many fishermen and decades of stormy weather and blistering heat, but they still remained faithful and strong.

Just off the river were several small cabins across from the boat ramp next to a rustic and interesting old office. We slowly drove past each cabin reading the names above the doorways; “Liar’s Den”, “Boar’s Nest” to name a few. We never parked and went inside, Dad just turned around and muttered something to the effect of, “We need to bring the boat next time.” Then, off we went in a blaze of orange dust.

The following Saturday, Dad and I loaded up the little wooden boat he had built long before I had been born. Shellacked, shiny cane poles, paper cartons of red wigglers with patches of white cloth with rubber bands to keep the worms from crawling out, stringers, metal tackle boxes, a green, steel cooler that contained a chuck of beautifully clear ice from Mr. Spivey’s Ice House, and other essentials were carefully loaded into the now cramped little wooden skiff. Still dark, a hot cup of creamed and sugared coffee for the both of us, and the adventure began. I was nine or ten.

Sleep never came to me on trips like these, too much excitement for a young boy, and the same held true, I believe, for Daddy. We would sit in silence as he drove. Occasionally he would point to glowing eyes along ‘side the roads we would travel. And if by chance a black cat would cross in front of us, he would quickly draw an imaginary “X” on the windshield to protect us from some evil doings of the cat’s hex. He was superstitious, and I would giggle at his antics, and he would burst into an old Hank Williams song slapping on the huge steering wheel of the car, beating out a rhythm I so miss now.

As the sky began to turn blue to the east, we arrived at Camp Mack. The old dogs were still there, locked into the timeframe where we had left them a week prior. The aroma of strong, camp coffee filled the still air unable to mask the smell of eggs frying and bacon sizzling somewhere in one of those cabins. Old and young men alike busied themselves unloading wooden boats at the ramp. But mostly, I remember the smells. One in particular filled my young senses. Faint at first, conjuring, lingering, reminding. Burning oak, seasoned with the awesomeness of barbecuing pork, gloriously seasoned with magical and secret rubs. My head turned toward it like that of a quivering birddog realizing the fine scent of a nervous quail. And there, just at the water’s edge, the old tin-roofed shed was alive with activity. Several old men, dressed in thinning long-sleeved, light blue shirts, milled about tending the coals left behind from the burning of huge oak logs.

One of the old men approached us as we waited in Dad’s car. It was though the men had known each other all their lives and conversation led to the old man inviting us to come back later on that evening to partake in the barbeque and party. But as bad as I wanted to come back, I knew the rules of Southern etiquette. That being if one hadn’t brought something to share with the rest, it was just impolite to show up “empty-handed”. And Dad, knowing this, declined the invitation. The old man then told us that the first Saturday of every month the camp folk put on the same shindig and we were certainly invited to the next one. Dad’s reply, much to my elation, was, “If the Lord’s willin’ and the creek don’t rise, we’ll be here.” The next few weeks were filled with anticipation, and the Friday afternoon finally came when I knew we would be heading back to Camp Mack after Daddy got off work.

Much was to be done while he was at work. Mom made a huge pot full of her potato salad; cane poles were readied and packed into the little, green boat. The green Army tent was pulled from our garage; even the smell of the oiled canvas held special memories for me.  Many, many things to gather and get ready.

Our plan was to spend Friday night on a dry bank of Southport Canal, fish a little after the tent was set up and a campfire was built. Maybe fry a few fish we had caught, then settle in for the night and fish all day the next day. I slept very little as anticipation, again, kept me awake. Along about two in the morning, the sound of pure mayhem filled our tent. It sounded as though a woman was being tormented just outside. Blood-curdling screams. I was scared half to death. Dad just rolled over in his cot and quietly said, “Painter”. Made no sense at all to me. Why would a painter be screaming? But soon it stopped and I fell into a deep sleep. As morning came, I went out and put a few pieces of wood on the smoldering fire and just across the canal I caught a slight movement near an old fallen tree that led out into the water. A large yellow cat was walking out on the log, eyeing its surroundings. I froze and watched it as it drank, its huge, majestic head reflecting in the dark water. From behind, I heard Dad ease open the tent’s flap, then whisper, “Painter,” his word for panther. It was a rare sighting back then, and even more so now. I’ve only seen one in the wild; a sight I will never forget, and the scream of the big cat still echoes deep within me.

That Saturday, I spent little time concentrating on fishing. My mind wandered back to the old cook shed as I imagined what was taking place there. Dad must have sensed my eagerness to return and watch the old men prepare the pigs and build fires. 

Along about two that afternoon, we puttered back to our campsite, packed up our tent and other things, and made the short run back to Camp Mack. After loading the boat on the trailer, several women came out to greet Mom. They all wore dresses made from flour sacks. Back then, flour came in different patterned, cotton sacks that were collected, the stitching was removed and enough of the same pattern and colors from the sacks were then made into shirts, dresses, and quilt tops were crafted from the scraps. Nothing seemed to have been wasted in those simple times.

The smoke from the pits settled near the ground, and the fragrance of barbeque filled the still, warm air of a summer’s afternoon. Down the road, a trail of dust could be seen following a light-blue and white ’58 or ’59 Chevy pickup truck, and as the truck jerked to a stop near the cook shed, several men met the driver and they began to unload at least a half a dozen crates of fresh, sweet corn. And as fast as they could drag it from the bed, three large washtubs were filled with the corn and within each layer; a huge helping of rock salt was poured over the light-green, shuck-covered ears. Each tub was then filled with water to the rim, allowing the corn to soak up the saltwater.

Leaving the corn to the men, I eased over to the barbeque pits. One of the old men pulled back the convoluted tin exposing four halves of whole pigs. It was apparent they had been bathing in oak smoke for the better part of the day. Their skin was a deep, golden brown and steam rose from the cooking meat. Gallons of mopping sauce stood ready as another of the men applied the vinegary mixture to the pigs causing geysers of smoky steam to rise into the exposed rafters of the tin-covered shed. The aroma was overwhelming.

Before too long, folks started showing up around the many picnic tables that were scattered amongst the huge, mossy oaks. Bare lights, strung together with a continuous black, electric wire, were hung in the outreaching branches and along the beams of the shed…and more folks gathered. Soon after, three other men came up in an old black sedan and unloaded a banjo, a guitar and a fiddle. The soaking corn was laid in the pits between the smoldering meat and a few old, blue porcelain percolators, with the guts removed, were filled with big chucks of yellow butter and placed on top of the tin that covered the pork and corn…more folks arrived by boat, from their cabins, and in cars and trucks. Bluegrass music began to fill the late afternoon from the string trio as they stamped out a rhythm with worn and dusty boots. More women came carrying pots of collard greens with smoked meat for flavoring, more potato salad joined the large pot that Mom had made, hoecakes of cornbread wrapped in cloth covered baskets, coleslaw, hushpuppies, baked beans, pies, banana pudding and gallons and gallons of iced tea that was dumped in one gigantic container, more food than an army could possibly eat, and more folks arrived, bringing even more covered dishes filled with homemade delights. The steamed corn was shucked back forming a handle and then dipped in the melted butter from the blue coffee pots and handed out to all of the children. But my favorite part was coming. The old men that had dedicated their entire day to tending the meat soon began to bring huge portions of the barbequed pork to several large pans. Each man had two garden hand tools, the kind that look like three fingers coming out of the handles. Using both, one to hold the meat in place, and the other to shred the steaming meat, they piled mound after mound of “pulled” pork into the pans as another gave the pork a good helping of a fine barbeque sauce. The music played on and several of the folks danced around under the strung lights as the food was served, but not before an offering of thanks was sent to the Creator. The gathering lasted well into the laughter-filled night.