Turkey and French Creek in the Fall - 10/19/2012 - Written by Mike LaDue

Another fall turkey season comes to a close today with me still holding onto my tags. It is not for lack of effort nor is it the fault of my crooked shooting eye. I had a very good chance to fill my tags on Tuesday afternoon. The day was sunny and bright with the leaves of autumn in full brilliance. I had not been walking more than 5 minutes when I noticed a flock of turkey just over a hill.

I took advantage of a tree line to sneak up on the birds, who were feeding on an abundance of grass hoppers. It went so well that I was surprised to find myself within thirty yards of them. My quandary was my next move. If I were to shoot into the tightly grouped flock I would have a good chance of exceeding the limit. I began to point my gun to the outside of the group to locate an individual tom. That one motion brought up a lot of wary heads. For a second I was stared down by some twenty turkeys that assessed the situation of inconvenient interruption. All of them began to run as if the ground was on fire.

It is impossible to out run a turkey (I know). I raised my gun to take a breakup shot. The turkey hunting ‘bible’ says that if you shoot to the side of a flock they will break up. The birds will become disoriented and eager to regroup. Then said hunter merely needs to find a spot near them and talk nicely to one. Let me tell you how that worked out, for me. The sound of the gun sent them all into the air. A second shot prompted a very eager escape and turkeys were going in three directions. All is good so far, but wait.

I followed a group that landed in a small wood lot close to the shore French creek. I selected a spot to sit and secure a nice meal for November. I could hear birds talking in the woods with loud yelps. This was going to be a piece of cake. I worked my mouth call to sound like an old hen. Two birds responded immediately. I turned in their direction and noticed a hen sitting on the opposite bank of the creek. She was watching me and began to compete with me. As good as I thought that I sounded it was no match for the real thing. The birds closest to me went silent.

Two toms swooped in from the wood lot (over the cattails) to land in separate oak trees, to listen and to watch. Now I had been outflanked by what people call stupid turkeys. More calls came from a hill covered in brush some 100 yards away. “I’ll just sneak in near the edge of that brush and call, one of them will comply.” I began my crawl and the hen across the creek took flight and landed into the cattails on my side of the creek. Sitting near to brush I could hear at least three birds pleading for some company. I no more than got three yelps out and that hen sounded off loudly! She was determined that no one from her group was going to go home with me.

There has never been a time when I was so close to so many birds and unable to see them. Yelps were still coming as I called and they were less than thirty feet away, under the thick red brush. No one was willing to step out into the open and take a curious look. Old mother hen then got a bit anxious and called as if there was going to be a high price to pay if the others did not listen. That’s when all of the turkey talk ended. I did not see a movement or hear a foot fall as the wise old bird collected her comrades. There had to be at least one bird out of twenty, some where out of her calling range. I went on the move again.

Following the creek edge I spotted four turkeys about to enter a large wood lot. If I could get ahead of them I may make up for the (botched) earlier effort. A tall sugar maple tree welcomed me to sit upon its wide expanse of exposed roots. The woods are now in the most vivid colors of the autumn season. I had to pause and look skyward to take in all of those colors against the blue sky. A red Squirrel in a hickory tree took notice of me and began to chatter like a typewriter in high speed mode. That little bugger came down the tree to give me an earful of its displeasure. Reds are hard to photograph but this one managed to keep still, they are the ‘A’ type of the squirrel world. They seldom stop to even take a breath.

When I reached into my pocket for my mouth call the little red went zipping up the tree and out of sight. I yelped softly three times and a lone turkey answered my call. I waited a few minutes and did another series of calls. Can you guess who answered me this time? That’s right… she’s back,  some how she just happened to be in the marsh behind me and was ready for my next move before I was. So much for the advice from the turkey ‘bible’ it is my guess that turkeys have never read that book.

Oh, getting back to that hickory tree. My Pap and I used to pickup hickory nuts while pheasant hunting. He would take them and bake them in the oven for me. They are small and hard to crack, but the meat inside is worth the effort. Roasting those dries them out and turns what would be bitter to sweet. I picked up a pocket full to save to have for my November meal. I may not have a wild turkey to roast but I will have those nuts to remind me of how a hen, with a pea sized brain kept me in my place in her woods.

  Here’s one last note to my fellow outdoor enthusiasts. Even though I hung my top layer of cloths outside after returning home I still found two ticks on me in the morning. I had to dig them both out to remove the whole tick. I know it give me the willies too. It is vital that you remove the whole tick to prevent infection. I did not take the time to spray my cloths with tick spray and paid the price. Buy a can and use it, it is good insurance.

Puffball Season - 09/24/12 - Written by Mike LaDue

The property has come alive with bunnies! My Britt (Zoey) sits on the deck watching them while she trembles, shakes and whines at the invaders entering her space. After a long dry summer, the last few weeks have given rise to some durable greens. The recent showers have promoted lush growth from formerly dormant vegetation. So now the lawn is littered with rabbits, devouring all that they can get.

The usually timid creatures have allowed both me and the dog some very close encounters. They are so intense on fattening up that they ignore any interruption to the dining experience. I walk Zoey on a leash and she slowly approaches each one. Her eyes become fixed, her ears cock back and her steps are slow and steady. When I walk ahead of her she gives me a look that says: “Are you nuts! Slow down or you’ll scare them away before I catch one.” She has yet to attain her goal but my arm sockets are getting a work out. As soon as the rabbit decides to dart away, my leashed rocket tries to close the distance. It’s amazing how powerful a short (23 pound) dog can be.

I am happy to see that something other than my garden is greening up. The bunnies have worked over all of my second plantings, not a trace of a trace remains. Oddly enough they left the original planting of Swiss chard completely alone this summer. From time to time a young rabbit would try a leaf and then abandon the effort. This was not the case with the tender new shoots that rose in late summer. The chard just began to get some color and then it disappeared. “Nipped in the bud” as Don Knott’s would say. I am going to plant some more chard today and add a fence for good measure. Swiss chard is a cool season crop and if the weather holds, I’ll be able to enjoy a new crop into winter.

The change in weather has enabled me to get the dog out into the fields for some exercise, prior to the up coming hunting season. The first few times she went, she only lasted for an hour. Between the heat and her determined attitude to race over every square inch of ground… she tired easily. The walks have done us each good; she is trimming down and becoming stronger each outing. I am feeling the reawaking of the season with the cooling air and enjoy taking long strides through the fields. I know that my lung capacity is improving and that I will be ready for some memorable adventures, behind my pup.

A week ago I found my first puff ball of the year. It was just the right size, a bit bigger than a soft ball and it had no blemishes. Autumn’s first treat for me is always some thinly cut puff ball, fried in butter and olive oil. The aroma of the edible mushroom fills the house with a nutty sweet fragrance. That first one was gone the day I harvested it and I hungered for more. Yesterday I went back to the area where I find them and searched a ridge top in the woods. Zoey raced her way through woods climbing hills and ducking out of sight into thick undergrowth. I walked for over an hour and found not a single white globe to bring home. I got back to the truck, watered the dog and decided to take a quick walk around the area. Not fifty yards from the truck I found half a dozen puffballs that were as big as basket balls. They were too large to eat and covered with craters. I found it hard to believe where they were growing… right out in the open!

I wandered around more and nearly tripped over one that was big, but not too big. I plucked it from the ground and inspected it for infestation, this one was a keeper. Not long after that I found another and brought the pair home. My sister was over for a visit and I fried some butter in a pan until it browned. I then added some olive oil and the puffball slices cut to ¼” thick. With both sides browned and golden in color, I offered my sister her first taste. She was amazed at how buttery it was and commented that it also had a nutty flavor. Her husband is a big mushroom fan, so I sent some sliced puff ball home with her. I shared some with neighbors and still had enough to freeze two full zip bags. I will be looking for more in the coming week, they are that good!

Another wild crop that I have been keeping an eye on is apples. This morning I picked and tried one with a blush of red, hinting that it may be ready. I bit into one very dry sour rock. Maybe after a good frost they will soften and sweeten up. I like to use the wild apples in my dehydrator to make the best apple chips going. The wild apples are a good deal tarter than the cultivated variety. That tartness is enhanced when slowly dried with a coating of sugar and cinnamon. The end result, it is like eating a slice of apple pie and they are delicious when roaming the fields in autumn. My biggest problem with them is making enough. My Son likes to snag a bag each time he comes to visit. He visits often when he knows that they are here (that’s another benefit).

This morning I took the Lyman out in the River (yes it is still able to float). I noticed that there are virtually no boats or boat lifts left in at this end of the River. A lot of docks sit empty with their legs showing well above the River. I motored down to Linda Island and drifted below billowing clouds. The sun started out full and bright and then said clouds separated me from the warmth. There was just one line of clouds in the sky and that line set up shop right over me. I caught a 17” small mouth on a rebel crab and she was a strong gal. She jumped twice and then clung to the bottom, making quick runs away from the boat. I put her back after our meeting and a photo. Just like puffballs bass have to be of the proper size for dining or procreation and this one was met for the latter. Cedar point state park is looking like the season is over save a hearty few. That’s a good sign; once the campers leave the perch might just fill in the void with another good autumn harvest.

Princess to the Castle Singer - 07/23/12 - Written by Mike LaDue

A reader called me a couple of years ago to invite my bride and myself to a complimentary cruise with the Uncle Sam boat lines. His name is Captain Hartman and we share a similar interest in the great outdoors. He told me how much he enjoys my articles in the Thousand Island Sun and felt compelled to meet me and talk further. We played phone tag a few times and were unable to secure a mutual time. The River does that to a person, so much to do and so little time.

In late June of this year, I heard from the captain again: “Mr. Thompson and I would like to invite you and some guests on a complimentary cruise to Singer Castle. He and I both are both avid readers of your column. You are welcome to choose a date on a Saturday in July; just give me a weeks notice.” I was taken aback and thrilled by his generous offer. It just so happened that our Angel-baby and her parents were returning to the River on July 20th.  “Captain, I will take you and Mr. Thompson up on your offer, I’ll see you on Saturday the 21st at 10:00 AM, Thank you so much!

Our Angel-baby has taken on a new title as she is now four years of age and no longer a baby. She is now a princess, everything in her world is princess related. I’ll tell you up front; she is the only princess. Do not make the mistake of referring to anyone else with her title. She will tell you: “I am THE princess you can’t have two!” What better treat could Ma and Pa-Due give that obsessed little girl, than a trip to a real castle? Her parents told her that she was going to a castle and she lit up with a beaming face. “A real Castle… there is a real Castle up on the River by Ma and Pa-Due’s? They had to endure the inquisition from their four year old ‘princess’ for nearly three weeks. I’ll wager that they wished that they had waited to surprise her.

Saturday morning proved to be a chore for the princess’s mother. That child had no interest in eating, she wanted to put on her best dress and get to that ‘Castle’. “I don’t want to eat, I’m not hungry.” The struggle evolved into tears, folded arms and swollen red cheeks. Her mom had to utilize some bribery to achieve a modest gain; “You won’t be much of a princess if you can’t walk through the whole castle. A princess needs lots of energy to climb stairs and peak into secret spots. ‘Secret spots’ unlocked both that girls jaw and her imagination. The princess kept with the questions all the way to the Castle and I finally got to meet the ‘Captain’.

My family waited to board the Sam-7 while the other tourists hustled past. Captain Hartman recognized me, greeting me with a broad smile and a hardy handshake. “Hello Mike, I think I may have told you that Mr. Thompson and I read your column every week. Why I even have my daughters reading it now. I think that you reach a good many more people than you can imagine.” I thanked him for his kind words and told him that my imagination was on par with our princess, concerning the trip. “I have admired Dark Island since my Pap brought me to Krings Point fishing. The island was just that, dark and mysterious with a looming stone walls and tall overbearing trees. I can’t tell you how fantastic it is to have the opportunity to see it up close with our princess.”

I soon learned that the Captain is known as ‘Bear-paw’. He told me that he did not think that any of the tour guides on the Uncle Sam line even knew his real name. This nick name has followed him through out life, derived from his early trapping. “I used to trap along the River, traveling across the ice on a set of snow shoes… bear paw snow shoes. Back then it was the only way to get around on the River. There were no motorized vehicles, only foot power and determination.” I felt like a kid in a candy shop with a free pass. This man and I gabbed during the journey up to Singer castle, and it was like hanging with my Pap once again.  A great day just kept getting better.

Captain Bear-paw has more knowledge of this section of the river than anyone else whom I have encountered. Every rock, shoal, island and rift. He told me that he purchased a shoal when he was in the 7^th or 8^th grade for the back taxes. “I liked to duck hunt on the River and each time I went out someone either beat me to the good spots or owned the shoal.” He pointed to a small island where a series of duck blinds dot its edges. “That’s Mr. Thompson’s duck blind.” This is the commonality that I share with these gentlemen who read my ramblings… waterfowl. The blind looked like one that could have been built in the late 1900’s. It was a beauty, island stone had been mortared to blend in with the surrounding Island. I could imagine a stiff north wind blowing in flocks of black brant to eager retrieving dogs.

It was not only the River that lured Mr. Frederick Bourne to the area. He too was an avid water fowler who spent years enjoying the Rivers bounty. His idea of a duck blind became a bit more grandiose than Bear-paws shoal or Mr. Thompson’s water fowling island. (Now we have four kindred spirits traveling on the same trip). He was a man of both fortune and fortunate circumstances. He purchased an island and informed his Bride that he was building a ‘stone box’ for a duck hunting camp.

He commissioned designer Ernest Flagg to build his ‘stone box’. It was inspired by the novel ‘Woodstock’ penned by Sir Walter Scott. The novel provided exact details for the construction of the Castle Woodstock, in Scotland. Being a man of immense wealth and raising 7 children he took into consideration his family. He was one of the rare few who could bring dreams and fantasy to life with holding no expense.

I could now see the looming Island that I recall as Dark Island, known to Mr. Bourne and his Family as the Towers. I turned my attention to the princess who was perched on her mother’s lap. Her gaze was fixed on the red terracotta roof and tall stone castle that will be in her dreams for years to come. Her mom kept teasing her: “Where’s the princess I don’t see a princess.” “I’m right her… I am the princess!” Singer Castle looks much more welcoming when experiencing it up close. It is finely defined with flower gardens gracing the flowing lines of expert masonry that looks as sound as the day it was completed.

I stepped onto an immaculately kept parcel of River lore, dropping my feet on the same dock and stones that an exuberant Bourne family first saw, almost a century ago. Captain even set us up with our own tour guide who recognized the princess immediately. “Look we have a princess to see the castle, oh what a fine day this will be. Follow me and I will give you a tour”. Judy Keeler made our little princess feel as welcome as family. Judy amazed me with her extensive knowledge of the Castle, its various inhabitants and architecture. I have to wonder where she stores it all. I must admit that I only heard a portion of her oration as I was being a busy shutterbug.

Singer Castle is a living accurate example of the last century for a privileged few. It houses (or Castles in this case) 28 rooms of crafted furniture. My eyes wondered across ornate carvings in tables and cabinets in the dinning room. There our princess was seated briefly at the head of the table and she looked regal! Each room is a unique functional space that is very homey for its grand size. This summer home had indoor plumbing, electricity and telephones years before the general population. The phone service was limited to the island and I deem it was necessary for the inhabitants to keep track of each other. Judy explained that the servants lead a much better life on the Island than anyone on the mainland.

Marjorie Bourne was the last of her family to occupy the Castle. It has changed hands a number of times since then and that history is a story in its self. As you may be able to tell I was overwhelmed by the grandeur, hospitality and information. If you have a little princess of your own (don’t tell ours) consider giving her a treat that she will never forget. You cannot beat a day on the River taking a journey into history to what I consider a rare gem in our Islands. Singer Castle also hosts weddings and offers an overnight stay. Now that would be one night to remember, a Canadian sunset Heck, if I was told that I could either hook a fifty pound musky or see the castle, I would have still chosen the Castle. Yes, really… you only have a little princess for a short while.

Baby Hummers and Opening of Bass Season - June 18, 2012 - Written by Mike LaDue

Baby Hummingbird

Last week was one of those weeks where everything came together nicely. Any project that I started ended with success. Just as I was finishing up my last item from the list, my neighbor dropped by. He has a humming bird nest and invited me to take some photos of the babies. He even set a ladder up right under the tiny cup that the chicks call home. I was amazed at the integrity of the construction. The Hummers gathered flecks of lichen and I have no idea how it is all held together. It looked like something that the mythical fairies would make.

The inhabitants barely had two wispy feathers each. Neither of them had a pronounced “hummers beak” and looked like any other chick. Of course there are no other chicks that would fit into a nest that is the size of a quarter dollar! They each were situated butt to beak and there was room for them to grow. With a diet of sugar I’ll bet that they will become adult size in no time at all.    

After my list of items “to be done” was complete, I was able to concentrate on the opening of bass season. My son Steve made arrangements to get here (late) Friday night to join me. I turned my attention to straighten up the Lyman and the associated terminal tackle. I stripped all of the ultra light reels of old line that became twisted from the last month of perch fishing. I go through a lot of four pound test… It is great for sensing a light biting fish and setting a hook, but it gets worn out in no time. I rigged up four rods, two for each of us. With my eyesight it is a lot easier to do while sitting on dry land. When I attempt to do it in the boat it is like watching an old man thread a needle. Then again that’s exactly what it is!

My boy and I were up and on the river around 7:00 AM. There were already a number of other anglers out enjoying the early morning heat. The first spot we tried held a few perch; it had been loaded with bass the previous week (honestly). He has heard it all before, “You should have been here the other day; I could not keep those huge bass off of the jig.” My son’s confidence soon waned in me as he realized that I did not even bother to add a net to the boat. On the ride back to the dock he lathered up in sun block, anticipating a scorcher.

With net on board we headed to another spot where the bass were last week. A few good perch came our way and Steve broke the ice with a big small mouth. She came straight to the surface and abruptly threw the jig back to the Lyman. With an astonished gaze Steve said; “Wow that fish was the biggest bass I have ever seen. How big do you think it was?” With all of my years of experience at loosing just such fish I told him “That it was a solid six pounder. Any small mouth that is over 20” is five pounds or better and she was all of that.” His next cast hit the mark again and he landed a three pound fish. He was all smiles and the joy that that gave me cannot be put into words. I added that one to the stringer of perch, at least one of us would be enjoying some jalapeño bass. Boo-hoo poor pitiful me, I really didn’t mind, his enthusiasm was infectious. The next bass he got into snapped the line at the jig and I handed him the spare rod.

“I’ll strip some line off of this rod and tie on a new jig. You just keep on catching em.” Fifteen minutes later I had it ready for him. Waves always come out of nowhere when I try to tie on jigs. I would almost have the line through the microscopic eye and doink… another near miss. By the time I was done he had parted company with the jig on the spare rod. Did I say that things came together nicely all week?

When I got back to holding a rod myself I saw the shadow of a bass dart past the boat and cast to the image. The jig did not fall far and it came right to the surface locked into the boney lipped bass. By the time my son netted that one my arms felt like rubber bands. At least the knot held and I now was looking forward to some hot grilled bass too. By this time it was near 11:00 o’clock and I motored us out to the channel to watch the poker run come up River and then down. The sounds were deafening but the rooster tails made it all worth the irritation. I took a lot of blurry photos as the waves from all of the commotion rolled us from side to side. It seldom works out that I am able to catch those missiles in flight.

I filleted our catch and prepared my favorite jalapeño brine, allowing them to absorb the heat before grilling. Steve took a swim and tried to introduce his pup Darby to the River. The dog may be young but knows that when there is nothing under his feet it is not any place he wants to be. Steve coaxed Darby to the edge of the dock with a wad of weeds and then snatched him off. The pup was paddling well before he ever hit the drink and the one “new experience” was enough for him. He stayed with me while Steve took the kayak out for a ride and was content to watch his boy from the dock.

This morning I was on the River by daylight. The sun broke the horizon to the east and split the clouds with a banner of pink and orange. I had it all to myself for three hours and in that time I caught six bass. One was 24” and the biggest one that I have landed from the River. We wore each other out and it took some time to revive her so that she could return her to her nest. There are two smaller bass and six perch hanging from my stringer that need my attention. If you will excuse me until next week, I have a hankering for some smoked fresh River fish.

My First North Country Brook Trout - 4/30/12 - Written by Mike LaDue

Sunday afternoon I sat on my dock absorbing the waning sunshine, while I waited for a heron to happen by. I have spent each available evening waiting for a heron to skim the Rivers surface for a good photograph. To date the event has not come to fruition but the time spent has been relaxing. Yesterday my time on the dock gave me the opportunity to look back at the events of this past week.

Thursday morning I took a trip south of Adams to search for a brook trout. I utilized the DEC’s website to locate some listed trout streams three weeks ago. Since then I have dedicated one day each week to explore a new area. I have seen some wonderful scenery and a variety of flowers and animals. Finally the most recent trip paid off this week in the form of a nice brook trout. It came from under a log chasing my Rapala lure and nearly leapt to my feet during the pursuit. The current was strong from a recent rain and the fish took full advantage of it. I was treated to a colorful show from the brookies flashing drives. There are few things more beautiful than a brook trout.

I came upon a beaver dam where a creek had a dramatic change of flow. The creek above the dam was a good four feet higher than the stream below it. Water purged from the sides of the dam and gurgled underneath. Two Canada geese paddled in the smooth water above complaining of my presence. I could see where the beavers had been busy during the night adding new logs to their home. A formidable cherry tree revealed the efforts of the sharp toothed beavers. Sunlight must have come before the job could be completed as it was nearly half way done. Beavers are nature’s engineers when it comes to building a dam. I can’t imagine the strength required to hull and place such large logs…amazing.

In another location I was treated to the songs and the flights of a pair of bluebirds. They were utilizing a nesting box and preparing it for a new brood of babies. It is so refreshing to see our state bird making strides in an on going recovery. The box they were using was placed by the DEC, but a good many concerned individuals have also taken up the cause. I see them all over the North Country along fields and in yards. My “bluebird” houses are always taken over by wrens or chickadees. At least they are being utilized and the birds bring their songs close to home.

While walking through a grove of hemlock I noticed some orange tree fungus growing on a decaying log near a creek. It was the first time that I have seen an active culture of fungus. I am used to seeing the white expired fungus (shelves) where growth has long stopped. The contrast of the orange fungus to the green vegetation on the ground (below) was a striking. Flowers are not the only enablers of color in the woods, even the emerging buds of maple trees are adding a soft red color to the skyline.

I found a pair of odd fellows hanging together, like long lost pals on another creek. A drake wood duck was joined by a drake blue wing teal. Both of them were fine examples of their species. A drake wood duck carries what I would consider all of the colors of the color spectrum. The drake blue wings most defining marking is not his wings as indicated in his name. What is most apparent on him (in the spring) is his white crescent moon separating his eyes from his bill. Waterfowl come in an array of colors and it makes them my favorite species to watch.

Saturday morning I set about building a campfire to smoke a wild turkey breast on. It is a tradition that I started last year. The event yields a fine dinner and gives me the added enthusiasm to get up at 4:00 AM during the month of May. I added briquettes to the flaming logs after the fire was well under way. I do not like to use lighter fluid and the confines of my campfire pit helps to shield the wind, keeping the coals under control. The trick to smoking is to have a moderate heat and well soaked wood chips.

I soaked the turkey in a brine of apple juice, pickling salt, brown sugar, maple syrup and honey over night. The acid in the apple juice helps to tenderize the bird while the other ingredients give flavor. I allowed the bird to warm over the fire for a half hour and then applied the first coat of honey. Every time I added wood chips I gave it another coat of honey. Four hours later a golden sweet Turkey graced my serving dish, almost too pretty to carve… almost.

After dinner I shared some of the warm delicacy with neighbors. The pan I carried over lasted about five minutes. One of the ladies remarked: “That would be good on a sandwich for lunch tomorrow.” As she spoke there was but one slice left in the pan and it found its way into her husband’s mouth. The next day I delivered some more to them and to other friends along the River. Being an outdoorsman along the River has its rewards, the best being good friends who share the same admiration for River life.