As a kid some 45 years ago, I bathed in the mystery of a sleepy, slow, Southern river. The Sabine of my youth was a muddy puzzle that rarely gave up its secrets to a pre-teen boy armed with a spinning rod, a Zebco 33 spooled with 8-pound mono, and a pocket full of Beetle-Spins. But when it did, the rewards were gigantic. Big cats. The occasional fat crappie. Once in a while, it coughed up a sizable black bass or a foot-long sand bass.
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