“Ain’t no tellin’ how many thousand white perches I’ve et and still ain’t had my fill.” – Rosie Carter
As the heat of the Southern summer begins to give way to the cooler, amber-toned days of autumn, many anglers turn their attention from the deeper pursuits of bass and catfish to something more subtle, more traditional, and often more rewarding—white perch. Known by many names, including silver perch, white crappie, and sac-a-lait in Louisiana, the white perch is not technically a perch at all, but a member of the sunfish family. Despite that botanical confusion, there’s no mistaking the pleasure and utility of catching them, especially in the fall when they school up in large numbers and offer both sport and sustenance.
Nowhere is this fish more appreciated than in the rivers, lakes, and slow-moving backwaters of the Southern United States, from the oxbow lakes of Mississippi to the shallow sloughs of Alabama and the slow, tea-stained rivers of East Texas and Louisiana. Here, fishing for white perch isn’t just a pastime—it’s a heritage. And few people embody that legacy better than 82-year-old Roosevelt “Rosie” Carter from outside Monroe, Louisiana.
“I been catchin’ white perch since I could barely see over the side of my daddy’s old jon boat,” Rosie said, sitting on an overturned bucket under a shade tree near Bayou D’Arbonne, line in hand and cane pole resting across his knees. “Back in them days, we didn’t fish for fun. We fished to eat. My mama could take a sack of perch and make a Sunday dinner feel like Christmas morning.”
White perch are especially plentiful in the fall, drawn to shallower waters as temperatures drop and baitfish migrate. They feed aggressively this time of year, gorging themselves in preparation for winter. The seasoned angler knows that timing is everything. Early morning fog rising off the lake, when the water is like glass and the air smells of wet leaves, is prime time for white perch.
“Come October,” Rosie explained, “they start movin’ up outta the deep, followin’ them shad into the creeks. You find the bait, you find the perch. Simple as that.” But as with all things in the South, simple doesn’t always mean easy.
White perch have a reputation for being both cunning and finicky. They’ll hit hard one minute and vanish the next, often moving on a whim. Finding them in the fall involves knowing their habits, understanding their seasonal patterns, and adjusting to changing water temperatures. In cooler months, the fish become more active in the morning and late afternoon. They tend to school near drop-offs, underwater brush piles, submerged timber, and creek channels.
“In the fall, you best find yourself some good structure,” Rosie advised. “Ain’t no use fishin’ open water unless you got birds divin’ and bait jumpin’. But get up close to them laydowns and stumps, and you’ll fill a stringer in no time.”
Rosie prefers a cane pole over a spinning reel, a tradition he’s held onto since boyhood. “Folks like all them fancy rods and x-ray (sonar) units these days,” he chuckled, squinting toward the water. “But me, I like to feel it. Ain’t nothin’ like the tug of a perch on a tight line, that pop when they take it. That’s the real feel of fishin’.”
Despite his age, Rosie still fishes nearly every day of the year. His hands, gnarled from years of casting and cleaning, seem to move on instinct. He ties a small gold Aberdeen hook on light line and tips it with a live minnow, sometimes using a small jig when the fish are feeling more aggressive. “Them little shiners, they like candy to a perch,” he said. “But when the bite slows down, I switch to a black and chartreuse jig. Somethin’ about that color just gets ‘em riled up.”
White perch fishing in the fall isn’t always just about location. Presentation plays a big role. Slowing down your retrieve, letting your bait linger, and watching for the slightest twitch of your rod tip can mean the difference between a slow day and a limit. Rosie swears by patience. “Most folks fish too fast,” he said. “They in a hurry to catch one and don’t give the perch time to look it over. You gotta finesse ‘em sometimes, like courtin’ a woman.”
One of Rosie’s favorite tricks is what he calls “deadstickin’.” He’ll drop a minnow straight down into a brush pile and just hold it there, letting the natural movement of the boat or breeze give it life. “That perch’ll be sittin’ there lookin’ at it, and then—bam!—he can’t help hisself.”
Autumn also brings changes in water clarity, especially after a rain. Cooler runoff can muddy the banks and stain the creeks. Rosie says don’t let that scare you off. “A little stained water can be a good thing. It make ‘em less spooky. I like it when the water’s got a bit of color. Not muddy, but like sweet tea. That’s when I know it’s gonna be a good day.”
And a good day white perch fishing can feed a family. Rosie remembers lean times when a five-gallon bucket of perch meant his family wouldn’t go to bed hungry. “We didn’t have money for steak or roast. But we had fish and squirrels. Mama would fry ‘em up with cornmeal and a little bacon grease, serve ‘em with turnip greens and cornbread. Lord, that was a meal.”
Even today, Rosie shares his catch with neighbors and kin. “Ain’t no point in keepin’ it all for yourself. You catch enough, you give some away. That’s the rule where I come from.”
For newcomers wanting to get into fall perch fishing, Rosie offers a few bits of wisdom. First, don’t overlook small waters. “Everybody runnin’ to the big lakes, but them little creeks and bayous hold just as many fish—and less folks fishin’ ‘em.” Second, keep your bait alive and lively. “A dead or lazy minnow won’t get no attention. You keep ‘em cool and fresh, or don’t even bother.” And finally, stay out longer than everyone else. “Most folks give up too early. But I’ve caught some of my best fish with the sun settin’ and everybody else already gone home.”
Roosevelt Carter is a legend in his part of Louisiana, not because he boasts or brags, but because he’s always where the fish are and he’s generous with his knowledge. Young folks come to him to learn, and he teaches with a gentle tone and a warm smile. “Fishin’ teaches you things,” he said. “Patience. Respect. And how to provide. That’s what I want folks to understand. Ain’t just about catchin’. It’s about what you do with it.”
Fall in the South carries its own kind of magic. The cypress knees rise like ancient fingers from the still waters, the air is filled with the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, and the surface of the water reflects the golden colors of the changing trees. Against this backdrop, a float dips, a rod bends, and somewhere in a johnboat or on a dock, an old man grins at another bite.
“White perch don’t get the glory they deserve,” Rosie said, standing slowly and stretching his back. “But you get a skillet full, and you’ll know why us old folks chase ‘em so hard.”
As the sun slipped below the treetops and the chorus of cicadas began to rise, Rosie gathered his gear and his bucket full of glistening silver fish. He doesn’t need the fancy gear, or the digital maps, or the chase of trophies. Just a pole, a minnow, and a quiet spot on the bayou where the white perch school in the autumn dusk—and the memories of a lifetime swim just beneath the surface.
