When I speak of the country around Little Caston I think of a beautiful a little creek near where my Bullard grandparents lived in Leflore County, Oklahoma.

In that long time ago in 1942, my brother Gerald and I were sent down there to help on Grandpa’s farm. After all, World War II raged and all of my grandpa’s kids had grown up and were drafted into the Armed Forces. They were “lucky” to escape that hard work in the fields at Goat Ridge just for some war duty? Leflore County was a land of beauty. You could look north from Grandma’s tall back porch and see the scenic and beautiful Wolf Mountain. It commanded one’s attention.

Wolf Mountain was often shrouded by mists in the mornings but later in the day, you could see where, in 1852, Mr. Butterfield ran his stagecoaches cross-country from Fort Smith to San Francisco. It was a historical site. Goat Ridge had a lot of clear running creeks where you could see good sized “goggle eyed” perch. It was where I was introduced to fly fishing one day by my Uncle Tracy. Roads crossed by little rivulets of cool clean water enticed the horses drawing a wagon or carrying a rider to pause and enjoy a drink of this cool water.

Little Caston Creek crossed over Goat Ridge Road. No bridge had been built yet across the stream. About 400 feet south was a place called “The Bluff Hole,” a natural swimming hole fed by Little Caston. Bluff Hole was wide and had a sloping sandy beach on one side and was sided on its deep western side by beautiful bluffs that were perfect for jumping and diving. The thick woods shielded this place of beauty from the road which was great for boys who liked to “skinny-dip” in its cool clear waters. Boys that didn’t own a bathing suit.

Just west of Bluff Hole was the old Panola church house that was said to be Methodist. Its actual beliefs shifted a bit from time to time, depending on just who was holding the current revival. Or perhaps who had shown up to preach that Sunday at the church. Didn’t matter too much. Brother Cross, an old Methodist farmer, always led the music behind the elaborate pulpit that was well illuminated at night services by its oldfashioned Aladdin pulpit light. It had a straight linear globe. There was no electric power on the “ridge”.

But time claimed this handsome old church. It is now just an insignificant heap — overgrown in brush. Then there is this: A virgin and large, magnificent pine forest alongside the south edge of Goat Ridge Road that had existed for hundreds of years was felled in just one winter by unregulated sawmillers. This perfect forest was free of stickers and thorns and a kid could run barefooted through it. It felt like an indoor carpet. These beautiful woods contained squads of flying squirrels and sometimes a whisky still. I had never seen such a place. But between one visit and the next it all vanished. Replacing it came stickers, brush and an abundance of ticks and chiggers and strange looking snakes. Grandpa said the flying squirrels had gone too.

My Little Caston Creek vanished too. Suddenly people built many chicken and turkey houses. This produced the abundance of slime which turned Little Caston into the smelly cesspool of oozing waste than now defines it. The only fish surviving this disaster were some odd-looking carp. No sign of the beautiful perch in the murky slop that replaced the pure water. No more fly fishing on this creek. You see, Perch and such will not attempt to breed in muddy or murky water. Now humans can’t swim in Little Caston nor drink it. Uh, Wolf Mountain? Rock miners with large machines are stripping it of its large flat surface rocks. Make good patio stones I’m told. A corporation sits on all that now.

Be sure and go to church Sunday.

Wayne Bullard, DPh cwaynebullard@gmail.com