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The Beast of Muddywater Lagoon

July 9, 2026June 21, 2026BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

July 9, 2026

The Spotting Of The Muddywater Lagoon Beast

Nobody could agree on exactly what the lagoon was for.

Officially, the city council referred to it as:

“The Municipal Water Reclamation and Environmental Recovery Basin.”

Everyone else called it:

“The Sewer Pond.”

It sat at the very edge of town where civilization politely stopped asking questions. A murky body of water ringed by cattails, mosquitoes the size of sparrows, and an odor so powerful that passing motorists instinctively rolled up their windows and questioned their life choices.

It was said that fresh water mixed with wastewater there, diluted itself, and eventually seeped back into the earth.

That was the alleged purpose.

But beginning one spring, people started whispering about something else.

Something alive.

Something big.

The first report came from Wanda Simmons.

Wanda owned the town’s only bar, Wanda’s Last Chance Lounge, a business motto she proudly claimed applied equally to customers and marriages.

One morning just before sunrise, Wanda was returning from illegally dumping trash at an abandoned gravel pit behind the rural home of the Chevrolet dealer.

She would later insist:

“I know what I saw.”

The eastern sky was just beginning to glow.

And there…

floating just offshore…

were two eyes.

Yellow.

Reflecting the sunrise.

Beneath them, something dark.

Long.

At least ten feet.

“It was an alligator!” Wanda declared.

The town laughed.

Mostly because Wanda had been known to mistake fence posts for ex-husbands.

A month later came Report Number Two.

The town drunk, Earl “Tater” McGrew, staggered into the sheriff’s office soaking wet and smelling somehow worse than the lagoon itself.

“I nearly got et!” he shouted.

The sheriff sighed.

“Where?”

“Layers Lake.”

“Layers Lake is ten miles east.”

Tater blinked.

“Well then where’d I fall in?”

“The sewer pond.”

Tater thought about this.

“Huh.”

Then he leaned forward.

“Whatever was in there tried to eat me.”

“Or,” said the sheriff, “you fell in face first.”

Tater pointed dramatically.

“It hissed.”

The sheriff wrote in his notebook:

SUBJECT INTOXICATED. POSSIBLY ATTACKED BY CATFISH.

The third sighting was harder to dismiss.

Two hay haulers, brothers Jimmy and Dale Foster, were returning to town with an empty truck.

They stopped along the highway overlooking the lagoon.

And watched.

A group of ducks floated near shore.

Suddenly—

WHAP!

A massive tail erupted from the water.

The ducks exploded into the air.

The water boiled.

Then…

silence.

Jimmy looked at Dale.

Dale looked at Jimmy.

Jimmy said:

“That ain’t no catfish.”

Dale nodded.

“That’s a dinosaur.”

By summer the town was obsessed.

Everyone had theories.

An escaped zoo animal.

A secret government experiment.

An overgrown snapping turtle.

Someone even suggested it was the reincarnation of a corrupt city councilman.

That theory gained considerable support.

There was only one problem.

According to the wildlife department…

there were no alligators within a thousand miles.

The winters were too cold.

The lagoon was too polluted.

And no sane reptile would choose to live there.

Official statement:

"An alligator surviving in this environment is biologically impossible."

Then the photographs appeared.

Blurry.

Out of focus.

Taken through windshields.

A pair of eyes.

A ridged back.

A tail.

Something massive beneath the water.

Every image looked exactly like an alligator.

The town exploded.

Television crews arrived.

Internet monster hunters appeared carrying drones and night vision goggles.

A retired Navy man built a trap baited with chickens.

A chiropractor attempted hypnosis.

The local pastor sprinkled holy water into the lagoon.

The lagoon promptly bubbled.

Nobody was certain if that meant anything.

Months passed.

Nobody got close.

The smell kept most people back.

The creature remained elusive.

Until…

one crisp October morning.

It happened.

Twelve-year-old Emily Harper was fishing from the north bank.

Not because she expected to catch anything.

She simply liked quiet places.

The lagoon qualified.

Suddenly…

the water erupted.

A huge head rose from the surface.

Emily froze.

The creature stared back.

Not yellow eyes.

Green.

Curious.

Ancient.

It blinked.

Then slowly crawled onto shore.

The entire town, which had apparently been hiding nearby hoping for this exact moment, collectively screamed.

Because…

it wasn’t an alligator.

Not even close.

It was a giant lizard.

An enormous reptile nearly eight feet long.

Heavy-bodied.

Powerful claws.

Long muscular tail.

Dark mottled scales.

And a forked tongue flicking lazily through the air.

The creature looked prehistoric.

It waddled awkwardly.

And appeared thoroughly annoyed by the attention.

Wildlife officials were summoned.

Three universities sent biologists.

Reporters descended by the dozens.

After weeks of study they announced:

The creature was an enormous species of monitor lizard.

Possibly descended from an exotic pet released decades earlier.

Somehow…against every law of nature…it had survived.

The warm outflow from the lagoon had kept the water temperature just high enough during winter.

The constant supply of fish, frogs, raccoons, and the occasional lost lawn ornament had sustained it.

It was…astonishing.

Rare.

Perhaps unique.

The town was disappointed.

They had wanted an alligator.

But over time…they became proud.

Because while other towns had parks…or museums…or giant balls of twine…they had:

“Muddywater Mike.”

The world’s most famous sewer-lagoon monitor lizard.

A viewing platform was built.

T-shirts were printed.

Wanda Simmons immediately began selling:

“I Saw Mike First”

shirts.

Nobody believed her.

She sold hundreds anyway.

Earl “Tater” McGrew continued insisting:

“That thing almost ate me.”

Emily Harper would smile.

“No, Earl.”

She’d point to the sign beside the lagoon.

MUDDYWATER MIKE
Species: Giant Monitor Lizard
Disposition: Generally Friendly
Favorite Foods: Fish, Frogs, and Tourists Who Ignore Warning Signs

Earl would squint.

“Still think he hissed at me.”

And every evening…

just before sunset…

Mike would crawl onto his favorite patch of shoreline.

Stretch himself into the fading light.

And stare across the town that had spent a year hunting a monster…

only to discover…

they had been living beside a miracle all along.

GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | ©2026

Secrets of The Back Side Fishing Spot

May 7, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–3 minutes

It was a humid summer evening. The air clung to your skin. The world glowed gold in the last light of day. My friend Bub and I stood at the edge of the old creek, just downstream from the dam. The concrete wall loomed behind us. Its spillway trickled like a broken faucet, feeding the deep pool below. The water turned slow and murky there. This was our favorite spot, a secret place we called “The Backside.”

Bub handed me a bank pole he’d rigged himself. It was a sturdy sapling shaved smooth. A heavy line was tied at the end. A fat hook was baited with a chunk of cut shad. We drove it into the muddy bank. We angled it over the swirling water. We tied it off with an extra rope to a thick root jutting out of the ground. Across the creek, Bub set another pole, whistling as he worked, his boots sinking deep into the silt.

We settled onto the bank, backs against the grass, watching the poles bend and sway with the current. The sounds of the night crept in: frogs croaking, cicadas humming, the occasional splash of a carp rolling. Somewhere distant, a train rumbled across the trestle.

“Think they’ll bite tonight?”

Bub asked, tossing a pebble into the water.

“They always do back here,”

I said, grinning.

“Big ones like the deep pool. They come up from the river, get trapped behind the dam.”

We waited in comfortable silence. Just as the moon began to rise, one of the poles gave a sudden, violent lurch.

“There!”

Bub shouted, scrambling to his feet.

I grabbed the pole, feeling the weight and fight of something strong on the other end. The bank pole bent double, creaking against the strain. Bub rushed over to steady the base. I worked the line by hand. I pulled and gave slack as the fish surged beneath the surface. The water boiled and flashed, silver scales catching the moonlight.

“It’s a big one!”

I gasped.

Together we fought it, step by muddy step. At last, Bub plunged his hand into the water. He grabbed the fish just behind the gills, hauling it onto the bank. It was a channel cat, fat and whiskered, easily ten pounds. We stood over it, grinning like fools, watching it thrash in the mud.

“Told you they always bite back here,”

I said.

Bub laughed and clapped me on the back.

“Best pole fishing spot in the county.”

We reset the pole. We rinsed our hands in the creek. Then, we sat back down under the stars. The dam hummed softly behind us. We didn’t talk much after that. We didn’t need to. The night surrounded us. The water flowed gently. The old dam spoke for us. They weaved our friendship into the quiet rhythm of the creek, one fish at a time.

Discovering Lake Tenkiller: A Journey of Self-Discovery

April 30, 2025April 30, 2025Benjamin4 Comments

By Benjamin GroffMedia© | benandsteve.com | 2025 Truth Endures©

2–4 minutes

Finding Home at Lake Tenkiller

One man’s journey through Oklahoma’s parks led him somewhere unexpected—and unforgettable.

When I graduated high school, I was no stranger to the outdoors. My dad was a park ranger, so much of my youth was spent in the Oklahoma parks where he worked. But let’s be honest. My version of “camping” came with cabins and beds. I always had the choice to stay inside if the weather got bad. I didn’t venture far into the woods unless I had to. That was just the way it was.

As I entered adulthood, though, something shifted. I started craving a deeper experience with nature, something less structured and more raw. I planned to visit every state park in Oklahoma. I aimed to camp at each one—no cabins—just me, a tent, and the open sky.

That plan lasted exactly five stops.

On my sixth visit, I reached Lake Tenkiller—and everything changed. The water was clear and clean, the air calm, sheltered from Oklahoma’s notorious winds. It was unlike anything I’d experienced. I pitched my tent and knew, deep down, I wouldn’t need to search any further. I had found my place.

Stormy Nights and Quiet Joys

I returned often, even through thunderstorms. While other campers packed up or ran to their cars at the first crack of thunder, I stayed. I watched lightning dance across the water. Thunder rolled through the hills. Rain swept across the lake. These moments became one of my life’s most calming experiences. Tenkiller is situated north of Gore, Oklahoma, in the Cookson Hills. It also feeds the Lower Illinois River, which contributes to the Arkansas River.

In those younger years, full of energy and a touch of recklessness, I embraced the wilderness. I was there for all the peace, the storms, and the quiet lessons only nature can teach.

Evolving Comforts

Eventually, the novelty of sleeping on the ground wore off. The cold felt colder, and the earth felt harder. That’s when I discovered a few rental cabins tucked near a cove. I asked around and spoke to the owner. They explained how they customized cabins for guests. They even hung a shingle with my name on the front.

Suddenly, a fireplace, stove, refrigerator, and absolute beds transformed my experience. It was still my beloved lake—but now with a touch of comfort. When friends heard about it, they wanted in. Soon, I was making the trip with six or eight others. We built a tradition of campfires, storytelling, and fish tales. These tales only grew bigger over time.

Moving On, But Never Forgetting

As the years passed, life caught up with me. Work, family, and obligations—they pulled me in new directions. My visits to Tenkiller slowed, then stopped. One day, I realized it had been years since I’d last seen that clear water.

But that’s the way of things. The lake had given me what I needed when I needed it—freedom, peace, community, clarity. And though I will not return as often, the memories are stitched into who I am. When life gets noisy, I remember those quiet storms. I think of the glassy mornings. I recall the crackle of fire in a lakeside cabin.

Some places stay with you, even after you’ve left them.

Lake Tenkiller is that place for me

A Memorable Day: Taking My Dad Fishing

April 17, 2025BenjaminLeave a comment

4–6 minutes

Taking Dad Fishing

When I was a child, my dad and I did countless things together.

We rode horses nearly every weekend if not every evening. We went to rodeos and parades—not just as spectators but as participants. We traveled to horse sales, chasing his dreams of new bloodlines, no matter how far away they seemed. Of course, I realized when I grew up that they weren’t all that far.

A lake at the south end of our property teased me year-round. I saw cars creeping across its dam, people scrambling down its rocky banks, casting lines into its blue water. I dreamed of fishing with my dad. But he never seemed interested.

We had more important things to do. We needed to haul feed for the horses, cut hay, stack bales in the barn, and care for the animals. The farm and all our other activities consumed all our time. There was no time for anything else. School and sleep were crammed in the margins of my day.

Eventually, I grew up and moved away. After a chlorine gas leak injured my dad, he had to sell the last of his horses. He became tethered to the living room; his body slowed, but his mind sharpened. On my days off, I would come home. We would sit on the back patio, drinking iced tea and talking. We watched that same blue lake that had taunted me for so long.

One afternoon, while I was visiting, he said,

“Come look at what I found in the storage shed.”

Out back, he pulled a polished rod from a rack. It was old but cared for. The line had to be a 100-pound test.

“Used to fish with this before you were born,”

He said.

“Put it away after you come along. So many kids were drowning in lakes back then… I couldn’t take the chance.”

And now, decades later, he held it out like an invitation.

“Will you take me fishing?”

“Of course,”

I said.

He smiled, took a puff from his nebulizer, and told me to wait while he got his hat.

“Dad, you need a fishing license.”

I reminded him, hoping it would buy me time. I needed to figure out how to care for him in a setting I didn’t control.

From the kitchen, Mom called out,

“He got one last week! He’s been waiting for you to come home. Can’t drive that far by himself.”

That settled it. I grabbed my gear from behind the seat of my truck. Then, I loaded Dad up. Finally, I drove us to my secret fishing spot.

The fish were practically leaping from the water. Dad was giddy, casting with the energy of a man half his age.

He kept asking how I found such a remote place and marveling at the size of the fish we caught.

I thought I had waited 24 years to go fishing with my dad. I didn’t want to use up all my time in one afternoon.

Eventually, the stringer was full, and the sun started slipping.

“We’d better get you home,”

I said.

“Mom said you’ve got to be back by two for a breathing treatment.”

He frowned but nodded, and we packed up our catch.

When we got home, the house was empty.

“Was Mom going out today?”

I asked.

“I think your sister was taking her shopping,”

He said, unconcerned.

I got Dad set up with his treatment. The hum of the machine had just started when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Benji?”

A familiar voice—my sister’s mother-in-law. Using my childhood name.

“Where have you and your daddy been? We’ve been trying to find you.”

“We went fishing.”

“Fishing? You took JD fishing?”

“Yeah—we caught a nice stringer full.”

There was a pause.

“You’d better put them on ice. Your mother and sister were in a bad accident. A truck hit them head-on out on the bridge. They’re at the hospital in Chickasha. You need to get your daddy down there.”

I turned to him and broke the news gently. He took it quietly, still holding onto the joy of our day. Maybe it hadn’t fully sunk in, or he didn’t want to let go of the moment.

At the hospital, Dad was the first to go in and check on Mom. My sister waited in the hall, shaken but okay. When Dad came out, he looked as calm as ever.

“She’s going to be fine.”

He said.

“They’ve got her so doped up she thinks she’s on the moon.”

Then someone asked him where he’d been. He grinned.

“Fishing. Caught the biggest fish you’ve ever seen. I swear, some were as long as my arm!”

Everyone laughed.

“That’s a fish story if I’ve ever heard one!”

“Sure, JD. Whatever you say.”

I backed him up, grinning.

“We’ve got them at home. Put them on ice. Big stringer full.”

My oldest sister chimed in, skeptical.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, I did. Slid them into a plastic bag first, then put them in the freezer.”

It was true.

And that fishing trip wasn’t the last. That summer—his last summer—I ensured we went out as often as possible. Sometimes, it was just the two of us. I had always dreamed of this as a boy, watching the lake from our back porch. Other times, I brought my brother and my nephews along. Dad would hold court on the bank. He told stories and gave advice. He cast his line with the patience of someone who knew the water well. He knew the time was short.

We laughed, caught fish, and built memories like campfires—small moments that glowed long after sunrise.

That summer was magical.

It was the summer, and I finally got to take my dad fishing. And it was everything I had waited for.