Fishing under the cormorants for big Tennessee River catfish is not for the squeamish—but it’s effective. (ChatGPT)
If you ever want to witness the closest thing freshwater has to a sewage-based ecosystem, all you need is a boat, a good spoon, and a strong stomach. Southern bass lakes have many charms—big bass, pretty water, mostly polite folks—but the lakes in early winter also host the largest open-air avian outhouse on the planet: the cormorant rookeries found on every dead tree and power-line tower sprouting from the lakes.
Cormorants are interesting birds, though not popular among anglers because they are fish-eating diving machines and have maybe impacted gamefish populations in some areas, though they mostly live on shad.
But they are also among nature’s most enthusiastic defecators. These birds don’t poop so much as they produce, like Holsteins produce milk. Like they’re trying to hit a monthly quota. And where do these industrious creatures choose to roost by the hundreds? On any structure standing over the water.
And what gathers beneath this aerial dairy of excreta?
Blue catfish. Lots of blue catfish. Whole schools of them. Apparently the species has decided that cormorant poop—mixed with falling shad chunks and whatever else the universe throws down—is some kind of artisanal, free-range buffet.
I don’t pretend to understand their culinary inclinations. I just know the sonar lights up like a Christmas parade every time I idle up to one of these roosts on my home lake, one of the TVA chain in north Alabama.
Of course, approach equals pandemonium. One minute the birds are perched peacefully. The next, you’re reenacting a feathered evacuation scene from a Hitchcock remake. Hundreds of cormorants lift off in synchronized panic, squawk-squawk-squawking, and every single one of them appears physiologically compelled to relieve themselves the moment they flap.
Tennessee River catfish grow fat on shad—and apparently some other, less palatable eats. (Frank Sargeant)
The result is a cormorant chum line. A white-and-brown streaked ribbon on the surface, drifting downwind like a terrible invitation.
And the blue cats? They love it. They swarm the slick like college kids at a taco truck. I’ve dropped a big silver spoon into that mess—something shiny to separate my offering from the, uh, natural forage—and felt 10 pounds of whiskered enthusiasm nearly rip the rod out of my hand. A few weeks ago, I boated one over twenty-five, a big blue freight train that apparently needed a break from its normal diet of whatever fell from above.
I shudder to admit that I have also caught some nice largemouth bass in these areas. Largemouths! I’ll never look at Bassmaster in quite the same way.
Anyway, these are very fishy spots, if you’re not the squeamish sort. Usually that spoon is grabbed long before it hits bottom. And if one fish gets off, another is likely to grab it immediately—it’s fishy pandemonium when the bird poop bite is on.
Cormorants are everywhere around the water in the eastern U.S., sometimes in astounding numbers. (Frank Sargeant)
There are, however, a few rules of engagement I have learned from hard experience.
First, do not get directly under the birds.
Second, if you should accidentally drift underneath the birds, don’t look up.
And most importantly, if you should drift under the birds and look up, against my advice, DON’T TRY TO TALK WHILE LOOKING UP!
It’s often good advice to keep your mouth shut. Here, it’s critical.
Don’t ask me how I know this . . . .
— Frank Sargeant
Frankmako1@gmail.com
