Story by Ken Duke
It must be hard for anyone but me and my oldest friends to believe, but once upon a time I was young. Even then I was into fishing. I was just learning—still am—and it was new and exciting.
Still is.
I lived with my parents and brother in what I was sure was the middle of nowhere, South Carolina—Saluda County, not far from Lake Murray, but far from what I figured was the center of the bass fishing universe. What I knew of bass and bass fishing I picked up on our farm pond, from fishing Big Creek which bordered our property on the northeast side, and from reading Bassmaster Magazine, Field & Stream, Outdoor Life, and Sports Afield.
Back then, when I told you I read everything there was to read about bass fishing, it was the gospel truth.
There was television, too. I could get Bill Dance, Jimmy Houston, Roland Martin, and Virgil Ward. They were the Mount Rushmore of bass fishing as far as I was concerned, but the thought that I would ever be in the same room as them, get to meet them, or have the opportunity to work with them seemed more than just far-fetched. It felt like a dream too cruel to imagine.
These were the earliest days of Johnny Morris’s Bass Pro Shops calendar, which was full of the latest fishing wonders plus some T-shirts and apparel far edgier than I or my fishing friends realized. Whatever tackle I had, I got from Ace Hardware or Sears, or it was a well-intentioned but woefully misguided birthday or Christmas present from a relative—a musky spoon, a book of trout flies.
I’d heard of “tackle shops,” but near as I could tell they were a conspiracy of magazine writers and television hosts. I had never actually seen one, let alone walk inside and lose myself in the wonders and delights of mid 1970s bass gear.
But then my stars aligned. It happened on a drive into “The City”—Columbia. That didn’t happen often, but when it did it was an occasion to scrape up whatever money I had and spend it in the sporting goods section of Sears or Gold Triangle. I’d get some Mann’s Jelly Worms or a box of a hundred Eagle Claw worm hooks for a couple of bucks and feel like I was the equal of anyone on tour or TV.
As I recall, we were barreling down Highway 378, just east of what locals call “The Circle,” when I saw the sign.
“The Bass Hole”
Could it be? Yes, it was—an honest to goodness tackle shop right there in the middle of the middle of nowhere!
“Daddy, can we stop?”
“No…. Maybe on the way back, if it’s open.”
“Damn,” I thought … but would never say out loud, not in front of my parents.
It would be hours before we would pass by again—headed the opposite way—and my parents would be ready to get home, not follow me around some stupid fishing store.
They didn’t fish, but they did indulge my interest in fishing. They must have figured fishing was better than drugs or “skin flicks” or any number of other things that misguided country kids got into back then.
By the time we passed the store again, my dad didn’t even slow down.
“They look closed,” he said, but there was a truck out front, and it was still daylight. “We’ll come back another time.”
Eventually we did—just me and him, which was great. No brother to tag along. My mother not waiting in the car to make me feel rushed.
The Bass Hole was great—early evidence of a promised land in my eyes. It wasn’t big; just an old homeplace converted into a store with some shelves and pegboards, but I got to see some of the stuff I only saw in the pages of magazines or on TV.
The store was dimly lit, but that only added to the mystique. I figured that if I explored every inch of the place I could find anything and everything I ever wanted as far as bass fishing was concerned. I was just as certain I could catch every bass in the state—quite possibly the entire southeast—if I had such treasures at my disposal.
The guys who ran The Bass Hole were young, maybe in their late 20s, and extremely nice to a kid who only had $5 or $10 to spend. When I got to the register, they praised my selections and gave me advice on how to use them. They even threw in a few items.
No charge.
Whatever meagre purchases I made in the few times I got to visit the store, they’d always give me an extra bag of worms or two. I assumed they were priming the pump. They could see how much I loved fishing and knew I’d likely be a customer for life.
One Saturday I scraped a few bucks together because we were headed back to Columbia, and I had negotiated a stop at The Bass Hole. I can’t remember what I was hoping to buy, but I know I was hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the early Fenwick Flippin’ Stiks, so it must have been around 1976 or ’77.
As we rounded the Circle and made a beeline toward Lexington, I was ready. It had been months since my last visit, but The Bass Hole was closed. Someone had blacked out the “B” on the sign (a fairly regular occurrence), and the shop was empty.
At school on Monday, the word was out. Some friends heard the owners had been arrested on drug charges.
Apparently, The Bass Hole sold more than fishing tackle.
In retrospect, The Bass Hole seems an ironic introduction to bass tackle shops for someone who’s carved a life in the fishing industry. It wasn’t a legacy store run by a gray-bearded old guy sitting in a rocking chair by a wood-burning stove, and it certainly wasn’t what it seemed. Maybe the guys who ran the store got me hooked on tackle before they could get me hooked on drugs. Maybe they knew a thing or two about addiction.
I only know that I missed The Bass Hole for a long, long time—for all the years that I lived in the area. I know that on the rare occasions I’m there, I look for The Bass Hole … or at least the old house it inhabited.
If it ever reopens, I’m going back.
My addiction to fishing and fishing tackle is not something I’m trying to beat.
