Angel Rock Waterfront Cottages - River Life

Red Heads on the River - 1/26/2012 - Written by Mike LaDue

2012-01-26T13:17:00.000-08:00

The end of December ushered in some pleasant sights and sounds along the River. Ice made an attempt to lock in the River and the placid mirror like surface had not a ripple to disturb it. That was in the early morning hours of Wednesday, by afternoon the River was back to a disturbed annoyance, shedding the ice to roll along once more. It will be some time before I will be able to walk on hard water, this New Year.

The weather switch flipped (once again) on Thursday, with the high temperature of the day straining to reach 14 degrees. We decided to take a drive up River towards Massena and do some sight seeing. As we drove to the east it was evident that it has been much colder to the east of us. Crooked creek that feeds Chippewa Bay was encased in ice to the outlet. Brown cattails lined the shore of the meandering stream that lives up to its name. I made a mental note to take time to paddle that stream in the New Year.

Passing through Waddington I saw my first ice anglers on a small bay near a golf course. There were at least ten of the hearty souls enjoying first ice on a windless day. A day on the ice is not bad so long as that wind behaves, even when it is below twenty degrees. “It looks like they are having a good time and it is a nice day for it.” My Bride shuddered at the thought; “Well I see your true purpose for taking me for a “ride”, now you know where to find good ice. I suppose you plan on coming back tomorrow?” I furrowed my brow and took her hand; “This day is all about you and me baby, if that were not the case I would have brought my ice gear with me!” She shook her head in disbelief at my grand gesture of love.

Coles creek had a good many more anglers and resembled a small city. Dots of humans in dark (cold weather) suits caused me to slow down. There were tip-ups with flags waiting for a strike, while jigging rods exercised weary arms. Wee ones ran across the open white plain oblivious to the cold. A bit jealous I drove on, putting the whole matter out of mind for my gal’s sake. Near Wilson Hill I noticed a mature bald eagle hovering above us. It soared in the open sky as the bright sun highlighted its grand white feathers. This was the first one either of us has seen this season and we marveled at its size. A bit further we saw a second mature eagle sitting on ice near the open water of a bay.

We ended up driving past Massena a ways and stopped for diner. When we returned to the car after dark, the temperature had fallen into single digits. Much to my surprise there was a pair of anglers still on the Ice at Coles! They were out in the open air, with a light glowing over the holes in the ice. They huddled closely together absorbing the heat from the hissing lamp. The thermometer in the car read zero. Those two were cut from a much stronger cloth than myself and is it possible… love to fish more even than me?

Friday morning I awoke to an excited wife, proclaiming a huge raft of ducks on the River. Out in front of the cabin I could clearly see red heads and grey bodies bound together like a woven basket. With my field glasses I could see that the majority of them were Red head ducks with a few blue bills on the fringe. I quickly layered up, pulled on my boots, rain coat and my new goofy hat. With camera in hand I began my sneak to the Rivers edge for some photos. There were two rafts separated by fifty yards, with at least 500 bodies in each raft.

I watched in amazement as each of the rafts of ducks reconfigured into one large group. Ducks were flying in, while others kicked water into the air as they dove for food. Mist from the river added to the mystic of the moment. Drifting snow rained down from the sky in bundles like tornadoes. I laughed to myself at the notion of a new word, “snow-nadoes”. The reason became apparent why the raft had chosen to claim the south shore for the day. I could hear the report of gunfire from the Canadian side.

Saturday morning the event became even more spectacular. Over night the number of read heads had increased three fold! The raft when combined extended over three hundred yards, a sight these eyes have never witnessed before. The River was as calm as an august morning without a ripple to report. I could clearly hear the sound of splashing waves or falling rain against the River. It came from the myriad of ducks diving as they kicked their feet to submerge! Just imagine a thousand out of three thousand kids in a pool splashing water at one another, which was the sound…exactly.

Sunday afternoon the wind came in from the south west while the ducks frolicked in the bright sunshine. Several rafts covered the River for as far as I could see. The sun was high and reflected off of the red heads giving each raft the glow of pale roses in a well kept garden. Suddenly one raft lifted into the sky beckoning more to join. Soon the air was filled with clamoring beautiful waterfowl, sweeping, circling and joining in flight. Like a huge swarm of bees the majority of them rose to meet, greet and leave. Whistling wings and soft rapid chatter ended my encounter with the greatest flight of diving ducks I have ever seen! A great start to a New Year wouldn’t you admit?

The River Gives Up Her Heat - 12/26/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2012-01-24T09:27:00.000-08:00

Thickening fog obscures Carleton Island

Ghost like spirits race over the River surface.

Saturday morning the River was in the process of sending its collected heat (as fog) into the winter’s sky. I wrapped myself in a few layers of clothing and topped it off with my new Woolrich cap. It looks like the bomber caps that were worn in the Second World War, with a rabbit fur lining. I think that it was a good investment, very warm and windproof too. Sandy took one look and told me that I look goofy in it. “Between that hat and your white beard you are quite a sight. I’d say that you are all ready for the cover of Old timer’s magazine. Heck you might even get the centerfold!” Her scandalous opinion did little to daunt my enthusiasm, its all about heat retention this time of year, on the River.

Zoey also found my cap of interest and joined me for a walk. She danced along my side keeping a watchful eye on my head piece until she realized she was not going to get it. Her focus changed to the pert frozen lawn, where she could put her nose to use. The grass crunched under foot sounding like potato chips, being crushed in the bag. There is no snow on the ground and each foot step left an impression of flattened grass. Zoey only went as far as the hill above my dock. She anchored her self close to the ground, while I went to take pictures of the River.

This is one of my favorite sights each year, the River cooling and rising to meet the clouds. The clouds were being pressed down by an unseen hand, ready to greet and collect the air borne moisture. At times the Shore of Carleton Island faded in the mist while the drifting white banks heaved forward, driven by an east wind. In front of my dock swirls of ghostly images twisted and marched forward like spirits skimming the River’s surface. Each toppled over one another creating larger transparent veils courting the clouds. It was a continual dance of fog, wind and clouds rising, drifting and mixing.

We had a cool, that is to say cold day on Saturday. To be honest with you, it was also a cool day to take a trip along the Rivers shore. I persuaded Sandy to join me for some shopping in the Cape and a ride out on Tibbett’s Point. The sun was playing hide and seek between low flying clouds and the fog still rose (but) with less effort. We enjoyed seeing the dark silhouettes of black ducks dabbling along side gadwalls and mallards. I tried in vain to get a close photo of them near to shore. As soon as the car slowed down they bee-lined in the opposite direction to a safe distance.

There were ducks all along the route out to the Lighthouse. Sandy had to watch the road as I tend to put more effort into watching the wildlife than the road, myself. I think she gets more nervous than the critters I try to sneak up on! “Hey get back on your own side of the road, your just as bad as my father was. Would you please pay attention to what you are doing?” I thought I was paying attention to what I wanted to be doing.

Somehow we made it safely to the light house in time to see a ship passing from the river into the Lake. We both were mesmerized by the vision of the large steel hull that appeared to be floating on clouds. It entered the lake and it shrunk in size as the horizon swallowed it up… whole.

The thought occurred to me that a New Year is almost here and that I should set another goal for me, my Lyman and the River. Sandy and I have made trips to each end of Wolfe Island and out into the lake, past Mud Bay. We have gone just past Clayton to circle Round Island and return home. 2012 will be my year to explore the River further. I want to see her shallow bays on each side, smell the air and feel the distinct significance of every location. I’d like to camp in a park or two in a pup tent while enjoying a camp fire. A good many areas of our River is still a wilderness to my eyes and what a fool I would be to not take it all in.

I think that I will also introduce some new people to the River. As much as I enjoy each of my trips they are always enhanced when seen through new eyes. I am looking forward to my eldest Son’s family returning to the River, it has been five years too long. The last time they were here my grandson was but a toddler. He is now ready to get a rod into his hands and a feel for that which keeps us enchanted. You’ll forgive me if I now lean back into my chair and close my eyes, to day dream a bit about the year to come…

Good health, steady work and happiness to you, through out the coming year!

River heat rises to meet the clouds.

Pictures off Carleton Island - taken by Mike LaDue

2011-12-12T12:20:00.000-08:00

Setting of a full November Moon - 11/14/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-12-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

The River has been taking its toll on my old worn out body. Each day that I am able, I travel in the Lyman to cast my arm off, in search of northern pike or a hungry musky. Bobbing waves rock me in the wood hulled craft, like a mother soothing her babe. I have to tell you that at times, it is tempting to lean back for twenty winks under the blue skies. Being the only boat on the River (most of the time) I am well aware of where I just might end up. The winds have been from the south west while I fish and a “quick nap” would land me on or near the shores of Wolfe Island. I am also well aware of the consequences associated with waking up in a boat with fishing equipment in Canadian waters, no thank you!

After one such grueling day “working” for fish on the River, I took a nap in the sanctuary of my cabin. Sandy had prepared me a warm pot of beef vegetable soup from her own recipe. She uses the Wagner ware Dutch oven that was my mothers and grandmothers. It is as welcome a sight after a cool day on the River, as is my comfortable chair after lunch. The combination of each leads me to an excellent slumber there after. My dreams lead me to quiet waters and large fish, many of which are too large for the net and some as long as the Lyman! My dream trips are always more productive than reality.

“Mike wake up, there is a brilliant full moon setting out front! You have to see this.” The fish that I had on, was large and almost to the net, when the aforementioned exclamation of excitement separated me from my dream. After a long stretch, I lumbered from the easy chair to look over the River and see a full November moon setting. I may have been groggy, but my instincts directed me to my camera and back upstairs to the balcony. Slight wisps of clouds hung to the bottom of the illuminated globe as it settled between cedar trees. I could not have dreamed such a perfect close to the day of my 92^nd trip in the Lyman.

Saturday I opted to make a change in my outdoor habits, I had an urge do some venison searching. I could not have picked better day, it was cool and bright in the morning. I did some still hunting, taking slow steps and scanning the woods for any movement. A brisk wind shielded the sounds from the crisp fallen leaves which surrounded my boots. The woods were void of bird activity and most of the movement I caught was that of falling leaves.

An old pine tree held a young porcupine outside of a large hole in the tree. As it heard me coming it turned its back to me and flared its quills in my direction. I stood still and watched it turn to face me, an inquisitive little fellow. It had an obscure face with two tiny black eyes that feared my presence. It was the size of a basket ball with a tail covered in spiny quills. Another step and it repeated the display from the rear. To be honest with you it made the hair on the back of my neck react in the same matter. There are two creatures that I do not want to adjutant… skunks and porcupines, each for the obvious reason, distinct to their breed.

Sunday morning the River had a steady blow from the south-west inviting me to add to my season setting goal in the Lyman. The sunshine sparkled on the deep blue River surface as I watched a CSL freighter approach the west end of Carleton Island. The islands are now in the winter mode. Leafless trees have over taken the horizon with smatterings of blue sky, poking through the tree tops. Sad looking cottages look stark and lifeless, some of which have lost their hearts. Changes are inevitable but not always welcome, such is the pulse of life as we know it. This day I was meant to enjoy the gift that was handed to me; sunshine, warmth and a bit of fishing.

The morning outing (ride #93) did not yield a fish. The lure sailed a good distance with the wind on each cast. I jigged it, reeled it slowly and only managed one strike that held onto a northern, briefly. I spent over two hours sitting on the cool vinyl seats of the Lyman. My hands were cold, my butt was frozen and the wind did not help matters. The thought of breakfast over took my urge to fish further. I left the boat in the River knowing that another ride would end my afternoon.

At 3:00 PM I returned to the River under a cloudy sky. Inverted mountains of clouds drifted to the north east. It was like looking over the Adirondacks from the seat of a plane, with white peaks and sunken dark valleys. It was an unusual sight from the seat of a boat, to say the least. My third long cast from the boat skipped the lure like a stone, splashing down. I decided to speed up my retrieve, just to try something different from the morning attempt.

A solid strike and unwilling participant engulfed the silver doctor spoon. She was the best Pike of my life (over 10 pounds). She peeled line from the reel like a strong small mouth! Around and under the boat she went, not slowing down for five minutes. I prepared the net for a scoop and the sight of it sent her on another driving dive to the edge of the weeds. A tug of war ensued and to my relief she came free of the carpeted bottom.

I set the tired fish onto a plastic bag and had to remove the barbless hooks from her gills. It was a task… with one hand holding her still as I while tried to pull the lure from beneath the gills, to minimize any severe damage. The lure dropped nicely into the net and then I had to unclasp the wire leader with one hand. All said and done she recovered and scooted off in good shape. The next cast I caught another pike of normal size and then two more before daylight slipped away.

I am hopeful that November will continue with this spectacular weather. I have caught more pike in the last two weeks than I have over the last several years. I know that it just a matter of time before a cruising musky finds one of my lures. Who knows, with just six more rides to reach one hundred for the season that may be the number where fate and luck coincide?

My Faulty Shotgun - October 24, 2011 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-11-16T12:43:00.000-08:00

Sunday night I took my pup out for a walk around the yard. She sniffed all about the ground, looking for any remaining scent that may have been left by a cottontail. As she took care of her business, I realized the overwhelming silence. The wind was still, the stars were bright and the moon has waned to nothing. I strained my ears and hoped to hear at least one cricket. That beautiful chorus that I took for granted during the late summer has ended. The air temperature was at 35 degrees, the coolest that it has been along the river so far. Isn’t it amazing how in tune to the weather even the insects are!

Sandy called for the septic to be pumped and the man who came had his own idea as to where the tank might be. I told him that I thought that it was in front of the small cabin. He said “No, I think that it should be over here between the cabins.” He began and continued to dig test spots, after hitting some solid surface with a probe. At each location he unearthed a good many rocks and stones, finding no tank. Rain came and sent him on his way until another day. The lawn looked like the woodchuck from the movie “Caddy Shack” had relocated here.

Friday the weather improved and he returned to dig again. This time I had started a hole where I thought the tank was. He took the hint and expanded the area, finding the tank and emptying its contents. He left the bill with Sandy and the lawn for me. Saturday morning I went out and proceeded to rake out the rocks and sod to fix the lawn. Really it all worked to my benefit as I needed some large stone to fill in the driveway, where heavy rain had created a shallow culvert. Of course removing the stone will make the next septic encounter easier too.

The day was bright with clean refreshing air, blown in by a west wind. I could hear a barrage of gunfire from time to time, as water fowlers ushered in the second season. Cormorants flew low over the River while Canada geese kept high in the air, avoiding any contact with the duck hunters. Through out the morning I listened to honking geese pass by, one flock after another. A strange sound caught my ear, a low guttural honk followed by a gurgled purr of sorts. I stood with my neck craned upward, scanning the sky to see the creator of the unusual sound. They sounded a bit like swans trying out a new tune. Finally a flock of brant appeared overhead flying in a V formation. At least thirty of them were gabbing back and forth as they traveled the shoreline towards the lake. As I said before the task at hand worked to my benefit, I got to see and hear something new.

This past week also gave me ample opportunity to get into the fields with my pup. She is only 9 months old and is doing exceptionally well for her age. She is responsible for putting some pheasants and woodcock into the freezer so far. Of course I have missed my share and she is not to blame. I think the following note that I sent to my friend, will set the story straight.

Hi Vic,

So, I am going to sell that shotgun you sold me 25 years ago! I hunted hard on the last day of the turkey season and finally intercepted a flock at noon. I drew down on a tom and fired. He hopped off of the ground and the flock split in two directions. All right; “I’ll just sit here and call one back.” An hour went by and not a bird showed up. So then, I figured that I would stalk back through the woods and the three ravines, I had already crossed once. Not a bird to be seen or a sound from one either. When I climbed over the last ravine, I saw two long necked red headed toms not forty yards away. One shot later from “your” faulty gun, nothing dropped again!

They ran to the open field over the rise. I chased after them and saw to my astonishment, “10” mature gobblers looking back at me within gun range. I shot twice more and once again nothing dropped. One flew to the creek while the others just sort of walked away! I stood motionless scanning the ground for a dead bird; surely I must have gotten one at such a close range…nope. Now I was down to two shotgun shells. To my surprise they did not flee across the open field, but opted to “hide” in the cattails by the creeks edge.

I hustled my butt, along with the two remaining shells loaded in the inaccurate Remington 870, down to the edge of the marsh. Suddenly a bunch of glowing red headed gobblers set a striking pre-flight pose. As they began to clamor for space to get airborne the air was full of beating wings. I drew down on one and it collapsed into the reeds. My second shot found nothing but a big hole of empty space between the fleeing toms.

I seem to recall that you indicated a thirty year warranty on the accuracy of the product? I will be sending it back to you for a replacement or a “full” refund. Now you may be asking yourself; “How was that same shotgun able to drop teal in front of your lab while we hunted Braddock’s Bay in front of “Lonesome George’s.” At this point I think that you were the one actually doing the shooting and hypnotized me into believing that I could hit those little ducks. Nice TRY!

Now on to other matters; How has you’re water fowling been to date? I have yet to dedicate a day to it, as my truck is off the road and in need of repair. Also the River has been in a “mood swing” for the last two weeks. Wind has been out of the west, east or north with rising waves. My new Britt has been doing well; she has gotten me 5 pheasants and two woodcock to date. Don’t get excited, I used my other shotgun, the over/under that I bought from Rabjohn in Hamlin, you’re still on the hook…

Mike

Vic’ replies; I would be more than glad to take the faulty gun back. I know how you take care of your guns. I believe I can double my money back on the gun! Maybe you should consider a small scope for your gun (author’s note; sure now he wants to sell me a scope and is indicating that I can’t see!). He continues; just the other day it took me two shots to kill one duck; I guess that I should have blamed the gun. I said to myself at age 70 maybe my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Concerning the picture of the turkey, did you go home and change guns, are you sure you didn’t flock shoot?

Duck season has been real bad, after the youth day all of the ducks were gone. I went over to “lonesome George’s” and set up. Opening day and I saw just two ducks all morning, Sunday I never saw a one. There were a couple of shots on the bay and that was it. Well have a nice day and be sure to return the “faulty” gun.

Vic

Vic is 70! Really… he does not look a day over 69. You would think that a mature individual would be less sarcastic. Of course I would never tell Vic my sentiments. He still makes the best smoked salmon on the planet and I would not want to jeopardize our “firm” relationship over a petty issue like an old shotgun. Who am I to cast aside a life long friendship over a few missed turkeys? As they say; “the way to a mans heart is through his stomach.” I concur…

Mike LaDue Monday, October 24, 2011

Ed's Visit - 10/10/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-11-10T13:29:00.000-08:00

After two weeks of inactivity (in my Lyman) I finally returned to the River for some fishing. My cousin came for a visit and picked a perfect October weekend to enjoy the outdoors. Our only problem was to decide what to pursue, fish or game. The days ahead called for unusually nice weather so we put off the fishing. Friday morning we went on a casual turkey hunt to absorb the fall foliage, crisp clean air and a down right hot sun.

The scenery along the route to the woods varied amongst the trees. A few maples had orange and red crowns while many still held fast to vibrate green leaves. A good many oaks have turned over the season and now wear dusty brown or gold foliage. Cattails have given up their soft green color that swayed in the breeze all summer. The borders that surround French creek are now outlined by golden brown cattails with cigar heads. The meandering snake like outline of the creek is an impressive sight. It is one of my favorite places to explore and listen to nature.

My cousin has slowed down and he has trouble with long walks. I had him sit in a clear area of the woods with decent visibility, where the sun would bake his bones. I knew that a nap was inevitable and wondered if he would only see turkeys in his dreams. The woods proved to be barren of any current turkey activity. I saw some recently shed feathers and a large dusting spot. The soil there was fresh and looked soft like talcum powder. A few under belly feathers clung to the dirt while a soft breeze gave them rise to linger in the air. Turkeys had been there in the morning and perhaps they passed a sleeping, snoring creature under a tree. There may have been a missed opportunity for one being and longer days in the woods for another.

Saturday morning the River had a soft flow to the east driven by a west wind. We lowered the Lyman and had to each stretch to get a foot hold on the gunnels. The river is low… and the boat now rests in the water almost four feet below my dock. We went out to a nice looking weed bed, to cast for pike. My cousin was content to sit in the stern with a hot cup of coffee between his hands, listening to the River lap against the hull. I pulled in a pile of weeds and had some small perch follow my doctor spoon. As with the turkeys, the pike were elsewhere that morning.

Perch fishing was a bit better, with us each keeping active at rods end. The River only gave up a few decent perch, not enough for our breakfast, so they were turned loose. The wind put an end to our morning as it blew us along at a good clip. Our jigs were riding high near the surface with two split shot on each line, made of soft metal. Since lead is now banned for fishing weights, it is difficult to rig a line without excessive bulk. The new versions of split shot (weights) are much lighter. They are still being made in increments of ¼ ounce and mimic lead in design, while the actual sizes have doubled. I am sure someone will find a suitable replacement eventually, followed by hefty price.

In the afternoon I steamed some top neck clams which I ordered from a grocer in Watertown. These clams are of a size in between little necks and cherry stone, leaning towards the size of the latter. They were surprisingly sweet and tender for the size and my guests all but finished the 200 steamers. No one went away hungry and everyone purred with delight with each batch. The cost was only $3.49 a dozen, very reasonable compared to the smaller variety. My bride was able to freeze enough clam broth (for fish chowder) to last until spring, an added bonus!

The shore line of the River is rapidly losing the seasonal residents. Most of the boat hoists and docks have been moved to high ground. What a shame, they are missing some of the best weather of the season, not to mention the changing landscape. Sunday I drifted outside the entrance to Millen’s Bay in a warm breeze. I had no more than a tee shirt and shorts on for most of the afternoon. There are two tall poplar trees at the shores edge, by the bays entrance and I noticed drifting leaves in the River.

My eyes followed the huge grey tree trunks, where the leaves were shedding from swaying branches. One by one they twirled in spirals settling on the River like tiny parchment boats. The song “autumn leaves” came to mind and played in my head as I watched what must have been the inspiration for that song, long ago. Each leaf floating through the air drifted exactly like the descending (light taps) on the keys of a piano.

The version that I remember was by Roger Williams. It was the only piano instrumental to ever reach number one on the Billboard charts and it remains the best selling piano record of all time! Only tonight while doing some research, did I find out that Mr. Williams left this world… the same day that I recalled his song. This natural world that God has created inspires us, awes us and is a timeless link to our past, present and future. As beautiful as that song is to remember, it would not have come to be without some simple falling leaves…

Steve's October Visit - 10/17/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-11-10T13:27:00.000-08:00

What began as an exceptional autumn week became a classic one. Monday through Thursday the temperatures were reflective of the summer season, deliciously warm and mild. It was actually too warm to take my pup afield most of the week. The lawn was cut and the yard raked, while I wore swim trunks and a t- shirt. I even hopped into the river to do some adjusting on my railway system, for what will remain of the boating season. As Thursday turned to afternoon I could not contain my need to run the pup. Warm or not it is autumn, a season that always comes up too short for me no matter how often I am able to enjoy it.

Zoey and I tackled some heavy red osier, where she zipped about under the orange leaves and red barked clusters of head tall osier. I could hear her bell and the distinct flushing of a wood cock from that direction. The long beaked, brown game bird flew past me in plain view. I swung my 20 gauge and sent two rounds of pellets in the general direction, trimming some leaves in the process. Zoey came flying out to see what all the commotion was about. “Sorry Zip, that one caught me off guard, I’ll try and do better next time.”

It did not take long me for to get winded, fighting piles of brush with limited visibility in any direction. Zoey had built up a good head of steam too, she was panting and keeping close to my heals. “We’ll leave the woodcock be for another day, when it is appropriately cool for such an activity”. She and I had a long drink, before walking the distance back to the car through some strip cut fields. I have to tell you that it was warm, I had to pause to let steam out from under my collar and it did little to cool me off. Swinging the over /under on a bird was the last thing on my mind…

Zoey stopped and turned her head, to sniff into a strip of grass mixed with brush. She went headlong into the pile where I soon lost sight of her; just the ringing bell let me know her location. The next sound was that of rooster pheasant rising from the grass with loud objection. The sun was behind me bouncing off of his burgundy chest and long stripped tail. His green head and ring neck lead him quickly away from me and the dog. This time it took but one shot to settle the matter and I called for Zoey to come.

She ran past me a bit further than where the bird went down. “Here Zoey, find you’re bird… over here.” Not a chance, she was on a mission and I soon discovered why. A second rooster broke from his hiding place that the pup had unraveled. Somewhat surprised I swung on the second bird, rattling its tail and nothing more. His cackling trailed off as he flew out of sight. Zoey settled down and located the first rooster on the ground. She gave him a good sniffing over and she seemed to smile at her capability to provide so much fun!

Friday night we had company on the way up and a complete turnaround in the weather. The balmy days turned furious with wind and bellowing rain filled monsters flying over head. The River was welcoming early Friday evening. By midnight the sounds of an angry cold front rattled the river into a constant booming chorus. Wave after wave slapped the shore line like a jilted girl on a date. I could here the docks being tormented as the waves rushed through open planks to settle on the deck of each.

Thunder and limited lightening gave me a good night’s sleep. I enjoy the rocking commotion of a thunder storm while immersed in soft sheets, under a warm quilt. I kept my head to the pillow into mid-morning, while my guests were up and about just after sunrise. My son, Steve interrupted my first cup of coffee to ask me how to see photos on my camera. I was immediately suspect as to his previous actions. He must have taken some “nice” shots of his father during a sound sleep. “My phone… I don’t know how to use that phone let, alone get any photos from it!” I thought that an artful dodge might sidetrack his thought process long enough for me to escape embarrassment.

“Take a sip of coffee, pap. I said how do I get to see them on your camera?” With a startled look I said; “Hand it over to me… I don’t remember right this minute… let me work on it.” I took possession and went into the photo file; I did recall how to use the delete key.

The first photo that I saw was that of a rainbow settled near the end of Carleton Island. He had managed to capture the image and its reflection, on our dock! The next shot that “lucky” took was of the other end of that same rainbow as it lit near the shore line of Carleton drive, on the mainland. “What time did you take these? So you just saw my camera lying around and thought you would use it? I am shocked by you’re brazen use of my property!”

“Listen, you were asleep, I saw an event that you would have captured if you had been up. I just wanted you to see what you were missing, not bad huh? Bet you wish you got your (lazy) can up a bit earlier this morning. You have been here a long time and I have not seen any rainbow photos as nice as these, you have to agree!” They go from being children, to kids, to a constant reminder of how you once were and will always be thanks to them…

October Arrives - 09/26/11 - Written by Mike La Due

2011-10-31T13:04:00.000-07:00

The first of October marks the beginning to another wonderful autumn in the woods. October is my month to enjoy cool days and changing leaves, not to work on home projects. I have been scrambling to get the cabin covered in a protective coating of preservative. As you may be aware the weather has not been a cooperative partner in my endeavor. It rains every other day, limiting my effort and causing more hair loss. So be it, come Saturday I will be switching out the staining brush, for a shotgun and adventure.

I enjoy and look forward (like a child) to the opening of the autumn season for game birds. Woodcock, Pheasant, ducks, turkey and grouse will provoke me into a frenzy of activity. This year I have a new puppy, another Britt who is going to be filling the paws of Toby. Zoey is still a youngster at eight months of age, full of determination and energy. I have been working with her through the summer. She is learning how to manipulate me with a sassy attitude. “Zoey sit… lay down… get out of the garbage can.” She rears her head back and gives me a chorus of woo, woo, woo! Oh it is going to be an interesting year in the field with this one.

Saturday morning before sunrise I plan on dropping some duck decoys into the river. I have endured enough from the local mallards this summer. I have some issues to settle with these ducks. They like to lounge on my dock in tight clusters to sleep, up to fifteen of them at a time. After a good rest and some preening they get up and wander around leaving their calling cards, for me to remember them by.

I hope to re-educate them with some cautionary volleys from the Remington magnum. As a rule I am a decent wing shot on most birds but ducks pose a problem. I tend to miss most of them cleanly, laying a string of shot behind them. They just fly to darn fast and I am not good at sustaining a lead on them. By the end of the season I seem to collect a half dozen for the freezer. As the saying goes even a blind chicken gets a kernel of corn now and again. I may not do much to control the duck population but the manufactures of shotgun shells profit from my attempts.

Saturday afternoon I will take to the fields with Zoey. I am eager to see what she has for natural talent (other than back talking). I will not be all that serious about the whole matter, I’ll be happy if she is able to stumble across a bird or two. It has been a long time since I have started a pup and there is nothing more rewarding. The crisp days of autumn are well spent following a dog to the horizon. I’ll enjoy her prancing about, curious nature and be amazed by her energy. We will both form a mutual bond through our days together in October. If I’m not too tuckered out at days end, I’ll share some of that time with you in the weeks to come.

I have not given up on fishing or my goal of one hundred rides in the Lyman this season. My last rip for northern pike was my 82^nd ride. The fishing was not very good but the entertainment was priceless. Up at Angel Rock Lodge a family with small children came down to the dock. The kids pleaded with the folks to let them drop a line in the water. “Can we go fishing…please?” The parents were taking in the sunset and photographing the brilliant sky. Their little girl (who I would say was about 3 or 4 years of age) settled down at docks edge with a tiny fishing pole. She wore knee high boots and blue shorts that left a gap between the two.

Suddenly she began to screech with delight. “I got one I got one. A fish… I caught a fish!” She swung the little rod around to show off her prize. Her tiny feet were both elevated off the dock in unison as she flung her arms into the air. Each time she jumped I laughed out loud! Her feet in those boots hung in the air like she was flying above the earth. What a privilege to see a little girl catch her first fish and her evident delight. The River has “hooked” another ardent admirer, I’m sure.

Second Ski Trip - Written by Mike LaDue - 08/08/11

2011-09-14T11:56:00.000-07:00

The first week of August presented me with ample opportunity to enjoy the River. Hot, almost sweltering days draw my attention to lapping waves, signing a song of cool relief. I have been in the River almost as much as I have been on it. Not long after entering the River do I realize that she is almost as warm as the air.

That initial plunge from a long reaching dive off of the dock, brushes aside the humid air and stagnation. The flight alone is well worth the run over the hot boards! I can feel the cool crisp breeze of my accelerated effort, as I launch from tip toes high above the River. With my hands clasped above my head, I enter her hidden world to unwind. My hair becomes pasted to my forehead and then relaxes to hover like cascading sea weed. My eyes search for the surface, where I break through like a new born baby. Such a soothing intimate relationship as the arms of the River envelope me and seep away the heat. The experience never gets dull or looses its grip of wonder.

Fishing was sporadic this past week with the wind being to strong or not strong enough. I managed some large perch, about six at each attempt, just enough to keep me honest. Six is really all that I need for a good meal in the morning. Every now and again a small mouth took my little jig to give raise the excitement level. The large ones all managed to throw the jig back during a leap while the under sized ones came in to be handled. To my surprise I have been catching a number of colorful sunfish this year.

Sunfish in the River have the most vibrate pattern of skin tones that I have ever come across. A bright orange belly converges into a pattern of wavy blues comingled with various greens that camouflage the sunny in the weed beds. Each one is like holding a rainbow with a tiny mouth attached! As a boy the sunny was our primary meal around the camp in the summer. They were large and came easily, taking a bit of worm suspended from a red and white bobber. I hope that the ones that I have been releasing are able to develop a secure population. I don’t have to keep any to taste them; I still remember the flavor of them snapping in a black skillet while the tails became crisp. I have heard that (we) people do not have the capacity to remember flavors, don’t try to tell my taste buds that while I am handing a Sunny!

Yesterday the river was just too perfect so my son and I had to strap on water-skis and take advantage of the glassy surface. I was first in the water and I’ll tell you there was absolutely no shock, it was like newly drawn bath water. I gave the signal and was on the surface without incident. As much as I enjoy my Lyman seeing her from the water always gives me a smile. I jumped the wake several times to admire both sides of her hull; she just seems to smile all of the time.

Being on skis is really like walking on water. I can’t even hear the motor running, just the sounds of the streaming wake and rippling River bubbles under the planks I ride upon. Steve took the plunge after my enjoyable ride and had a nagging need to go slalom. He entertained us with some very nice flips while the skis darted off in different directions. He eventually took to one board and showed fine form in his efforts. As a matter of fact he did so well that I could not help but add to his adventure. I gave the motor all she had and whipped him to each side of the hull, in an attempt to see some more unrehearsed acrobatics. He held firm and laughed the whole incident off with a broad smile (rotten kid). “That was a great ride Pap, but I wish that you had a larger outboard then maybe things would have turned out the way you intended.”

I noticed that someone has circled a day (mi-month) on the calendar, on the fridge. It would seem that someone thinks that I will some how forget our anniversary. Nonsense! In thirty six years I have not missed a one. Why… right now I am plying over my choices for the perfect gift. I have it whittled down to one of two. Perhaps a nice new Dutch oven, one that will be a proper kettle for fish chowder, something colorful and pretty like her. On the other hand if I were to purchase a new ultra light fishing rod I could spend more time on the River. That would allow her to enjoy some peach and quiet around the cabin while using the lap top. Being prepared is not nearly as important as being thoughtful…

Great White Bird - Written by Mike LaDue - 07/25/11

2011-08-31T13:00:00.000-07:00

A shower today has brought some long needed relief from many hot days. A soft steady rain pattered off of the roof and driveway, most of the night and into late morning. I chose to give my potato plants a drink two days ago, as they were looking mighty droopy. I have two separate plantings of taters, one here at my place and another at my brothers. He dropped by yesterday to inform me that some red and black bugs have eaten every last leave off of those plants. That planting was my second attempt at his place, the first batch of taters drowned in all of the spring rain. It’s a good thing that I planted a backup plot. Now I’ll keep a keen eye out for munching bugs.

This week yielded my first harvest of green beans, 3 quarts. My pepper plants have some small peppers hanging, with an ample supply of blossoms at the ready. We have been enjoying some nice summer squash, cooked in every fashion. Some have been dipped in olive oil, salted with sea salt and grilled. Others have been fried with onions and red peppers to a golden brown, dripping with butter. Sandy made a casserole last year with cheese that was out of this world! I look forward to that treat again this week, but probably won’t get it until company comes. Sandy limits much of her cooking attention to visitors; her culinary efforts make for a memorable visit. After nearly 37 years of marriage I have at least learnt a thing or two from her in food preparation and presentation. Her appetite may not be what it once was but her expectations have not changed!

I have a goal of getting in 100 rides on the River, in the Lyman before ice up this fall. Consequently I have been on the River most every day; fishing, sight seeing or cruising the shore line, during sunsets. Last week I ventured out on a very calm surface, to a glimmering setting sun near the east end of Wolfe Island. It was a breath taking experience, so much different from the sunsets that I enjoy from the dock. I felt as though I was somewhere else, watching an orange crowned horizon grace the tree tops lining the island. A freighter came up bound and I motored near her side to listen to her heart beat. The throbbing engine and a soft wake were the only sounds. Her rolling wake caused the Lyman to bob as I watched the long ship fade into the sun, with her night lights glowing.

Another glowing object caught my eye while fishing near Carleton Island. A long necked white bird flew by with long wing beats. It was leaving the island and heading to Canada. I grabbed my camera and fumbled with getting it set up. My fingers must be larger than those used by the designers of the camera. I have a tendency to hit buttons that stall the process and build a narrative of explicative disapproval to the process. That aside I did manage to get a decent photo of the great white bird. It had the silhouette of a blue heron and flew like one to a tee, only it was pure white!

When I was young I saw what turned out to be a “great egret” at my fishing hole. I was able to identify that bird with the aid of a neighbor who had a Peterson guide to the birds. I was sure that I had found the rarest of all “herons” and was disappointed to discover it was not one. This time I have more questions than answers. In my own Petersons guide I discovered that there is a “little blue heron” which stands 24” tall and has different color phases. The adult is blue and brown but the immature bird is all white. My sighting may have been of an immature little blue, maybe. The guide shows them to wander this far north at times. From my perspective the bird that I photographed looked to be much larger than 24.”

It looks like I have my work cut out for me. I’ll have to spend more time on that side of Carleton Island to see if I can confirm my sighting. With an excuse like that, getting to 100 trips on the River should be an easy number to attain. Oh, the sacrifices I have to make to meet my goal may seem daunting to some, I’ll endure …somehow. While I’m there I’ll probably do a bit of fishing… just to pass the time.

Second Day of Bass Season by Mike LaDue

2011-08-03T13:51:00.000-07:00

While I was working on Sunday my Son Steve decided that he had better get home and get some things taken care of. I came home from work to see a calm River, with out too much boating activity. “Sandy how would you feel about me going out to do a bit of fishing? I’ll just go for a couple of hours and get home in time to cook the roast on the grill.” She knew that it was coming, I know, the look said it all. “I think you should get out and enjoy the River as much as you can, go fishing and have fun.” When a smile precedes a statement like that I know that I’m as good as gold.

The wind usually decides my direction, but Sunday it was minimal. I decided to go to the east where I had intended to try for bass the day before, with my son. The flavor of barbecues filled the air as laughter cascaded across the river, from children and adults. It was a good day to play outside. There were even a number of boats anchored in shallow bays enjoying the hot sun and doing a bit of early summer swimming. Its days like these that make old man winter fade away.

I took my Lyman into the shallows where I could see moss covered rocks just below the hull. I intended to drift across the (under water) ridge until it disappeared into deeper water. I peered over the side to scan the bottom for life, casting a jig to tempt a strike from any of the inhabitants. Moss and more moss clung to the hook each time I sent it out, until I cleared the rock piles. No fish, no strikes until the bottom vanished below me.

A few small perch took a liking to my jig and came to hand to be set free. The wind chose a direction and strolled in from the east, giving the Lyman a steady push. My little five foot rod took to bending almost back to the handle, as a good perch clamped down on my entree’. One for the stringer, a good start thanks to the winds cooperation. I picked up four perch and made another pass.

The rod almost left my hand as a large fish began to shake its head and run from the boat. It took line from the drag, singing a delightful song, finally a good bass to show for two days of effort. I dug out my net while the fish drove away from the boat and made myself ready. As it came near the surface it looked like a keeper, I could see a good length as it continued to double my rod over. To my surprise the bass turned into a jack perch, it was as feisty as any small mouth could be!

For just two hours I made pass after pass over that spot and secured 25 perch that ranged in size from 9” to 13”. What an afternoon! The fillets from my catch yielded five and a half pounds, with one pound of them being the two largest perch. I do have one regret, I wish that I had taken my son there on Saturday; he would have had a ball. When he finds out I am sure he will label me a “fish hog.” He’ll say; “Sure you keep all the best spots for yourself, what do they call that…?

The early summer has given rise to frequent wildlife sightings on the River. The Blue Herons are in good number this year. While on the north side of Carleton Island I saw a rare sight, eight herons that were flying in a loose formation. At times I will see two flying side by side or one following the other. They appear gangly and awkward when they drop to a flat spot to fish from. Those long legs seem to get in the way, followed by a hectic stalling of the wings, prior to landing. Few birds are more graceful when airborne. The heron captures the laid back sense of the season, slow and steady with time to spare.

Outside of my back door, a robin placed a nest on the crossed logs, just below the roof. I watched her fly off each time I exited the cabin and then watched as she fed four hungry, bald chicks. With in no time the “clan” grew to overfill the tiny nest. Each time I went outside and they heard the backdoor slam, they sat up mistaking me for “mother”. By this time their feathers had improved their appearance. Four complaining triangular mouths fixed on large heads reached for sustenance with extended necks, only to be disappointed. I enjoyed the show and paused to watch them settle down each time. The nest is silent now, they have fledged and I hear them in the trees around the cabin.

A small bird house in one of my cedar trees holds a group of swallows. I have been watching with interest the coming and going’s of the parents. They bring a bug and duck in to feed one of the clamoring chicks. To my surprise as they exit the shelter, they carry out a load of white and black cargo to deposit into the River. Each parent is doing their part to keep house, by removing the chick’s droppings! I never knew that they did that and so thoughtfully take it clear of the yard too.

The mallard bachelor club will be breaking up soon. There have been a dozen loafing drakes enjoying some quiet times, as their hens have been tending the eggs. I know the club is due to break up soon, as I have seen my first batch of ducklings. The tiny yellow and black chicks clung closely to “mother’s” tail creating a raft of bobbing peepers. Two independent types lingered a bit too far to the rear and the mother gave them a warning “quack.” Those ducklings may be small but they are quick, especially when they are warned.

Let’s see, what have I learned from the wildlife this week? Take life slow and easy like a heron. Land in different spots during your travels, to enjoy an otherwise missed opportunity. Like baby robins we must all make our own way in this world, leaving home behind. The Swallows remind me to take care of my home and be tidy. And of course the ducklings prove that “mother” is always right.

Opening Day of Bass Fishing

2011-07-13T13:57:00.000-07:00

Pappy Remembered - 6/12/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-07-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

Thursday morning I was riding along the shore line in my Lyman, picking up perch and soaking up the warm rays of the sun. I enjoyed non-stop action from perch, rock bass and a couple of small mouths. A west wind blew a heavy sea of whitecaps for about an hour and then it behaved itself. The sun permeated my bare skin from head to toe; only finding resistance from the swim suit that I wore. Even the swim trunks seemed like too heavy attire, for the burning 80 degrees. As is usually the case my mind did some wondering… back to my early years on the River.

My father introduced me to the River… oh my… over fifty years ago. I carried a rod and reel on the high rocks of Krings Point, to cast for sunfish when I was four years old. As I grew bigger, Pap rented a row boat from relatives at Goose Bay. I literally climbed to the very tip of the aluminum boat to absorb the cool river breeze as we left the bay. The fishing kept my young mind occupied with large rock bass and reel-stripping small mouth. Once he got me into a boat there was no getting me out until sunset. We ate lunch on the River and explored her nether regions like two kids of kindred spirit. He always set aside two weeks for our adventure.

Pap did a lot to keep my older siblings occupied, before I came along. He set up a baseball diamond in part of his garden, with a caged backstop and real bases. The neighborhood had more than enough youngsters to build a pair of teams to play ball. Pap was there to referee and some times partake in all of the fun. I have cousins who reminisce how much they enjoyed coming to see “Uncle Russell”, he always took time to get down to their level and play with them.

I was his last of four children and he was not as youthful when I broke unto the surface of world. He opted to provide me with the tools to explore the world and gave me a free reign to do it. Fishing poles, a small plastic boat, BB gun, bow and arrow, skates, and his shared imagination. He knew that the outdoors was a good way to learn about life and he encouraged me, with his own stories from his days as a boy. His father was taken from him when he was only five years old and being outside seemed to heal his wound, better than any words could have.

As with a lot of other fathers in the sixties he spent most of his time at work. He had to provide for my mother and four kids, so time was a precious commodity. I would some times catch up with him after he had endured an exhausting day. I know that I was the last thing he needed to hear from, as his slouched demeanor would indicate. None the less he bent a patient ear, to listen as I rambled off my most recent discovery or problem. He never scolded or criticized me for some of the outlandish things I undertook… he just listened and smiled. I had his trust, love and respect… always.

In 1968 he purchased a 1956 center steer Lyman to enhance our trips to the River. The slender craft built a link between us, as we refurbished her interior and the outer hull. We were both proud of the results and enjoyed her for a few seasons… yes the best times either of us had on the River. With a larger boat we ventured into areas of the River that we had only seen on the rolled up maps of parchment we carried. A good many times during that season, those maps became our best friend in finding our way back to Kring’s. We ate fish every day for diner and roasted marshmallows over the fire, while we gazed at the stars over the St. Lawrence.

We eventually purchased a small cottage here in Cape Vincent, where he was able to enjoy his retired years, in the place which he loved most. Every summer evening found him at docks end absorbing the sunset, savoring each one as if it was the last. His last days were a struggle for all of us, as we watched him dwindle down to eternity. He was pleased to know that we had found a resting place for him, here along the River. My Bride went so far as to promise him that we would live here and be close by. That promise released the broadest smile that she had ever seen from my Pappy!

There are few words that can be offered to thank a Dad for all of the sacrifices that they have willingly made. Most of them will shrug off the attention, being too humble to except that that has come naturally to do. It’s just what they do…

Wet Week - 5/16/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-06-04T10:43:00.000-07:00

While working at the Clayton Big M yesterday, I saw a lot of long faces. The weather was the culprit, with rain and cool weather in the forecast through out the coming week. Folks who have not been by the shores of the River in months were less than delighted with their welcome back. That old northeast wind sent spirited showers in varying waves most of the day.

I was out retrieving shopping carts with my hood up and hat pulled down finding it difficult to hide from the rain. The refreshing air brought back my experiences from the past week on the water and in the woods. Inclement weather seldom deters me from my outdoor enthusiasm and often enhances the outing. I don’t mind a good shower or a total soaking for that matter. That steady release of moisture from the sky has a way of bringing out the best of feathered singers.

Over the past week I have seen and heard numerous song birds enjoying a refreshing shower. Bobolinks and flycatchers were in fanciful flight with the males doing similar prolonged, hovering maneuvers. Each of the two species can hang in the air with rapid wing beats, often challenging one another for dominance. I watched as the males sailed from leafless tree tops to duel in a jousting style from a distance. The associated females seemed unimpressed and went about taking care of important matters, as gals tend to do.

I watched meadow larks fly pass me by with a swooping flight. They pump their wings to a high spot and then drop downward as if to crash, without a wing beat. It as if they are making a bell curve graph as they plod along to another location. The sound is distinct with a swooshing wing then silence and another swoosh seconds later. I can follow the path without ever seeing the bird, knowing exactly who it is. From the rush family, a veery followed me from one location to another. In empty trees, he sang a poignant song with his neck out stretched, as if performing opera on stage. He seemed happy to play to an audience of one!

Yellow warblers joined me at ground level as I kept close to a bush, attempting cover my presence and shield the drizzle. No other bird has such a cheerful song, they remind me of the seven dwarfs on their way to work! The damp Saturday morning brought to me the best in their delightful song and bright yellow hues. All of the songs and damp air overtook my eyelids and I slumbered off for just a minute or two. When I opened my eyes I saw that a turkey had passed by exactly where I had anticipated; only now it was beyond my range. Three and one half hours - a two minute nap = one wet empty handed hunter.

As I went over all of the “I should haves” following the vanishing turkey, my eyes caught sight of something new. Yes… a new bird to check off in my Peterson field guide, it had a dark black patch covering its face and a pronounced yellow chest. Age has taken some of my sight and according to my bride… most of my hearing. The one thing I still have is a decent memory for detail and I could not wait to get home to identify that bird! On page 247 in the Peterson guide I found the newest species to check off and date- “a common yellowthroat.”

We have had our field guide since 1983 and the opportunity is rare to add a new sighting. Each one is an event that we inscribe to it with our name, date and location. The small investment some 30 years ago has become a family tradition with a history all of its own, enhanced by our hand. “Saturday, May 14^th 2011- Mike at Ashland WMA.” If you do not have one then consider it, you will be amazed what one little book can do to enhance your life.

River Pictures

2011-05-25T11:21:00.000-07:00

Spring Thunder - 04/27/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-05-25T11:18:00.000-07:00

Rumblings of thunder drew me to my front porch, to enjoy the lightening show last evening. At 6:45 a ship was passing, going down river towards Clayton. She was well lit and appeared to be slowing down in anticipation of encountering the pending storm. A great gust of wind preceded a heavy down pour of rain and the ship all but disappeared into the pelting sheets of rain.

The lightening was limited to the upper atmosphere and I did not get to see the usual bolts striking the land mass across river. A flash would light the darkened sky above, highlighting the persistent down pour. I counted after the flash, anticipating the loud looming boom that followed; it was a count of 1/ 4,000. It is said that by counting by 1/1,000 a person can measure the approximate distance of the lightening in miles from its origin. Judging by the bright light that I witnessed above, the event was four away!

The west wind took a sudden shift and edged in from the north, sending me post haste back into the cabin. Even before I reached my front door my sneakers were soaked and the porch was awash with a stream of water. The rain splattered against the windows looking out on the River (that was no longer visible). In the stillness of comfortable surroundings I could hear the distinct sound of dripping water by my fireplace. It appears that my “professionally” installed fireplace has to have a new coating of caulk applied to the chimney on the roof.

By 7:00 PM the river came into view as the sun began to poke through the yet raining clouds. Near Kingston the horizon became apparent with streaks of sunlight nipping at the storms conclusion. It was an enjoyable event and with the lightening held high in the sky our electric remained intact. The rapidly moving system lifted the clouds enough to see Carleton Island and then Wolfe Islands shore line. I knew that a rainbow had to form soon, so I grabbed my camera and ventured out on the saturated earth.

The ship that I had lost in the canopy of rain, sat moored in a safe place, near the channel. A soft fog cast about her with suspended fluffy clouds sweeping above her hull. Indeed, a wonderful double rainbow grew over the mainland and formed a semicircle well into the dark clouds. I could feel the warmth of the sun as it overtook the skyline. Birds cheerfully sang songs of cleansing, morning doves cooed, robins chirped and chickadees flitted about with renewed vigor. I too felt the sense of a new beginning from the sweetened spring air, the flavor and smell of which is unique and remarkable on the St. Lawrence.

Mike LaDue, April 27, 2011

The first day of May showed a marked improvement in the weather…no rain! I was up and out of bed by 3 AM preparing to go listen for some “gobbling” of tom turkeys. The moonless sky was full of stars and the temperature was just above freezing. My cousin and I were in the woods and settled well before first light. It surprised me how active the song birds became, even before the first rays of light took to the sky. Songs cascaded from the dark silhouetted pines and an occasional bird flew past. All I could see was a flash of a shadow followed, by the whipping wings leaving a trail of sound.

I sat amongst some blown down beech trees over looking an open field. The sun seemed to take its sweet time in over taking the darkness and I waited impatiently. An animal appeared in the open field as if it was trying to out run a banshee! It had a yellow colored buff coat and grunted as it fled to safer ground. I have not a clue as to the identity of the animal, perhaps a coyote?

Daylight began to over take the shadows and as it did a chorus of song birds was joined by the distinct sounds of roosted toms… sounding off. I heard at least three tom turkeys near one another, sending a shrill of gobbles into the cool morning air. I can’t tell you of all of the early mornings that I have sat in silence hoping to hear just one tom! I have been an avid spring turkey hunter for forty years and how times have changed. When I started turkeys were just in the southern reaches of the state, now they are everywhere. The sound of a tom sending a distinct gobble from high in a roost is haunting, almost primeval and well worth giving up some sleep over.

A number of hen turkeys replied with long pleading yelps, to show the boys where to find them. This all went on for a good half hour and then I heard the birds fly down from the roost. That is another sound that you never forget once you hear it. They leave the high trees with a few long wing beats, to glide to the ground with a soft thud. The hens will continue to plead for directions and the toms will only give them a short volley of gobbles to follow. You see the “boys” expect the girls to seek them out and they are very leery of those that don’t. That’s where the challenge comes in and the reason I get out of bed, well ahead of the sun in May.

Turkeys have both excellent eyesight and hearing. The slightest move or an unusual sound will cause them to vanish into thin air. There are times when it seems too easy to fool one, but most times it’s the other way around… and I’m the fool.

Wet Eagle - 04/11/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-04-30T08:43:00.000-07:00

I sat on my front deck last evening listening and watching a light thunderstorm rolling past. The air from the River was delicious with the heavy fragrance of newly falling rain. A grey sky cast above the River in rapid movement, the thunder remained near the shores of Canada, with no visible lightening. The temperature is reaching into the fifties and it is becoming very pleasant to sit outdoors once again.

Grackles and robins are all about the yard collecting nest fodder to begin a family. I watched on grackle with a long stem of grass enter a likely tree. The grass was three times the length of the bird and negotiating between branches was a challenge. Suddenly another grackle appeared from under the cedar boughs, standing erect. The hidden bird had already laid claim to the proper nesting location and was unwilling to give it up. All the fellow with the stem could do was back down and search out another location. He lit onto a short cedar and vanished in its crown, successful.

There’s a pair of crows who have made a nest next door in a tall cedar. Their nest is already built, with one tending a batch of eggs. Crows have a remarkable array of vocalizations with which to communicate. I watched one returning last evening with some nourishment for its mate. The jet black silhouette came swooping through, making a series of clicking sounds. The bird seemed very proud of what it was carrying and proceeded to inform its better half that dinner was on the way.

Robins are becoming very territorial and fights erupt through out the day. It is strange to watch such a docile creature get its back up to another. If one happens to land on the ground too close to another’s nest site, then the “Robin rumble” begins. A face off to warn the intruder to leave or pay the consequences takes place. When that has no effect they each rise to dual in the air with flapping wings. Once may be sufficient but often as not it takes a few rounds to settle the issue.

The rain has also lured some hibernators to venture forth into spring. Night crawlers and peppers have emerged to cross the road as the rain saturates the ground. While out driving at night, they cover the roadway. The worms are hardly visible, but the peepers make short leaps, like popcorn in a black pan. All of this activity provides a wealth of food for birds and small mammals after a good rain.

I took a ride over to Wellesley Island with my niece, to take some photos last week. We saw a young bald eagle in a barren tree. This was the first eagle that I have seen developing from immature to mature. White was beginning to emerge from its head while some brown still remained. The eagle was sprawled out in the tree attempting to dry off. I made the assumption that it had tried to do a little fishing and got more than it bargained for! The usual stately raptor looked more like a wet dishrag in its current condition. Surprisingly none of the small birds bothered to harass the soaked creature. After a good air drying it once again took flight… a bit clumsily I must say.

On a calm sunny morning I took to my dock to enjoy the blue River and watch the wildlife. A pair of muskrats were swimming and diving on the calm surface. I ventured over to my neighbors dock for a better view. They seem to have claimed the underbelly of the dock for a home. Being leery of me, they would dive some twenty yards out and swim beneath me, up under dock. One did become somewhat accustomed to my presence and gave me a good photo opt. Carrying a camera is a good way to learn patience, especially when wildlife is the subject. What better surrounding could you ask for such a hobby as the St. Lawrence River?

More Travelers Come Home - 04/03/11 - Written by Mike LaDue

2011-04-30T08:25:00.000-07:00

The eruption of spring continues with the flow of returning (long missed) migrants. It seemed like each day this week brought forth a new sighting. Even the humans are becoming more active, tending to the fallen leaves of autumn, picking up debris and some even venturing further. There have been an increased number of mariners seizing the open River to proclaim another season.

The bird feeder outside my kitchen window has drawn some weary travelers to it. Redpolls, cardinals, house finches, mourning doves, grackles and red wing black birds all vie for a spot. Two grackles this morning stood across from one another in objective defiance… facing off. With outstretched necks they stood toe to toe like sumo wrestlers in a ring. A chipmunk soon upset the food tray casting its weight into the matter. I have dubbed this chippy “cheeks” as it fills its face to the max before retreating to its den. It has a ravenous appetite after its long sleep, buried in a den.

Under the (pole) bird feeder the little rascal runs circles around the birds to claim the bounty on the ground. The small stripped streak leaps from all “fours” becoming air bourn, further asserting it’s dominate place. The birds are somewhat annoyed by the antics and lift from the ground only to return in a different location. I am sure that the confrontations will decrease as more forage becomes available from Mother Nature. In the mean time I am enjoying all the commotion.

Sandy noticed a pair of Canada geese next to a small farm pond, with a family of goslings, already in tow. I usually begin to see goslings much later in the spring and we were shocked by their appearance. There are still a good many cold nights ahead, so I hope that the parent geese are well endowed with down! A dragonfly came whizzing past the front porch yesterday. At first I thought it may be a humming bird as the flight is very similar. My winter warn eyes are still suffering from snow blindness and have trouble focusing on fast objects.

Traveling to Clayton my eyes had a clear view of a raptor atop a telephone pole. On April 1^st an osprey was over looking the road, across from a nest of many seasons. It must have been a male leading the way for the upcoming rituals of mating. With the number of successful hatches over the last few years I expect to see more nests being built. That nest alone produced three fledged osprey last year.

Friday afternoon I opened the doors of the boathouse to listen and watch a soft rain shower. The River was calm, aside from the tiny ripple rings left by diving rain drops. Geese and diving ducks clamored in the air and on the open water. Soft sounds of honking and low pitched squawks carried through the still air. My thoughts turned to getting the Lyman ready for another season. The River is still plenty low for putting in the railway, but the water does not look too welcoming, as it hovers in the upper thirty degree range. I will wait for a few warm days to raise the temperature a bit more. I know that I will be getting wet and I will drop a bolt or two into the drink, causing me to send bare arms to the bottom. A sunny day with a warm sun makes that project tolerable and lessens the purple color that cold water brings. Purple is not my favorite color… or feeling.

I did see two separate mariners in pleasure craft, poking around on the River this week. One came from Carleton Island in an open hulled outboard, he seemed to be enjoying a ride that had been dreamt about for months. He had a wonderful day as the River lay calmly at his command. I’m sure that he had work that he was tending to, what a great way to go about it! The second craft came from Millen’s Bay in an aluminum hull that I recognized. I know that some Ice was still sealing the bay from the River, and that he had to have done some icebreaking to get free. Indeed he had, I could see the snake like broken path left by an anxious sailor longing to feel the rivers flow. It’s never too soon to be on the River and as we all know it never lasts long enough.