My week was shut down early by a
spring cold. I have spent three days wishing to be outdoors, while relishing
the times that I accumulated earlier. I caught some fish, chased some turkey
and tended my early garden. Its times like these when I am forced to lay low,
that I truly appreciate all that I have to enjoy on and around our river. The
clouds in my fogged head and the persistent cough have anchored me to home.
Today I just had to bust out of here and get some fresh air.
I traveled over to a spot where I
have been successful in acquiring asparagus from a very old bed. On Monday
after chasing turkeys, I checked the bed and only found three young shoots. I
ate them right there, on the spot. Raw asparagus is very akin to the flavor
fresh peas, with a lot more moisture to offer. Those three shoots were barely
enough to wet my appetite. I did not know what to expect this morning, maybe a
few more. There in front of me stood a bounty of tall hearty green thick
shafts. I counted as I cut them from their bond with the soil, just over fifty
stalks!
The bed I was in was part of a farm
that originated over one hundred years ago. The property is now a State
wildlife management area (WMA). Each time I travel through the field (to the
spot) I think of the hard knock life of those original farmers. I have never
known work like those rock busting, sod cutting determined survivors. Their
workday lasted as long as the daylight and beyond. I’ll bet that they were as
anxious for that first cutting of spring, as I am each year. There are few
remnants of the old farm left, pray that lone patch of asparagus. Finding a
wild patch is like unearthing buried treasure and those of us that do keep it
close to our cuffs. My efforts yielded me just over two pounds, enough to
satisfy me for a few meals.
I spent my evenings casting for
northern pike just before sunset (pre cold). The river was calm and clear on
each outing. I have seen a number of pike follow my lure to the boat ultimately
refusing to have anything further to do with it. Switching the hard spoon
(color) did nothing to improve my encounter with the belligerent followers. I
tried a rattletrap on Sunday and was surprised by a fat momma small mouth
grasping it. She made two leaps prior to me hulling her clear of the river and
releasing her. The change in the size of the small mouths has been amazing in
the last few years.
The ones that I have been seeing in
the river again this year are big. I’d say that they are from two to four
pounds each, with a few larger ones tracing shadows against the bottom. There
have been a number of changes since I started fishing here in the early 1980’s.
Weeds were held by rocks with very few open spots, where I could see the
bottom. Pike dominated the area out front along with schools of perch
preferring the dense weeds. Since then the bottom has steadily been covered by
sand. Zebra muscles came in to filter the water making it hard for weeds to
live. Gobies found their way here to the dismay of many an angler, they are
everywhere. Is it a coincidence that the perch and bass each getting larger?
Recent catches indicate to me that the smaller gobies are now a preferred food
source of each. I find them while filleting both perch and the occasionally
bass that I do keep. Einstein said that there is an equal and opposite reaction
from events causing change. It looks as though we may have come out of this one
on the plus side, as far as the bass and perch are concerned.
I have been enjoying the (spring)
river air that is blending with the fragrance of emerging flowers. Tulips are
beginning to fade while lilacs are filling the void with pungent sweetness. It
is pleasurable to tend my early garden plants while immersed in the perfume of
the season. My bride has constructed a ‘fancy’ pea trellis for the growing
peas. She has been working on my ways for a number of years, in an attempt make
things look ‘better’ around here. Left to my own devices I’d just knot up some
string and call it good enough. I’ll admit that it does look much better, but
she has a long ways to go to reconfigure my casual ways.
The songsters with feathers have been
busy picking and placing twigs for weeks. Two morning doves chose to build a
nest at the cross section at the top of my cabin wall logs. There was barely
enough room for one of them. Each time the male brought a twig his mate would
wiggle it into place only to have it drop to the ground. It took two weeks and
a lot of back step sweeping from me, before they chose to relocate. They have
successfully built a home on the other side where there is more room.
Another pair of doves found our upper deck to
be the perfect location to raise a brood. They chose a small table next to our
porch swing, which is flat and open. Both my bride and the dog went out there
after dark one evening, to watch for falling stars when the dog discovered the
nest. The dove flew off into the darkness unable to find her way back. I
brought the nest (on the table) in for the night to keep the two eggs warm. My
bride put the table back out in the morning, once it warmed up. The dove has
been sitting there since and now owns the deck, until the little ones fledge.
No one can say that I am not hospitable; I am such a sucker for the coos of
baby doves…
