First Winter Perch and Smoked Turkey - 01.14.13 - Written by Mike LaDue

A few perch came my way through some holes in the ice, over this last week. I went on Tuesday afternoon, off of the State boat launch at Chaumont Bay. The snow had melted over most of the bay and I left my cleats in the truck. I walked like a two year old learning how to negotiate an uneven floor. I did not walk, I shuffled my way across the glass pane like surface until I found a bit of snow making for better progress. A good wind was blowing in my face making my journey much more enjoyable.

I found a spot where I could set my five gallon bucket down in some residual snow. Otherwise it would have been traveling back to the truck without me, while I hand cranked a hole through the ice. I ladled out the ice chips which floated to the surface of the pulsating clear water. My bride purchased a seat that fastens to the bucket top. No more ring around the butt for me! It has a semisoft cushion and is much more comfortable. I chose my rod and dropped the jigs into the hole out of sight. When the line went slack I reeled it up a turn or two to get them just above the bottom.

I think that I may have jigged it twice when I had a perch take the bait. Up came a four inch replicate of something worth keeping. I dropped my gloves and took off the wiggling child and looked it straight in the eye; “You get back down there and send me some adults.” My ploy was either not heard or completely disregarded. Another twenty small fries kept pestering my jigs and it got to the point where I just left my gloves off. This pattern of activity was abruptly interrupted by a worthwhile fish of significance.

A plump eight incher tussled and shook its way to the rim of the hole. Finally, I iced one worthy of the frying pan, now all I needed was three more for a good breakfast. One more came on the next hit and then another. After that there was a twenty minute lull with no activity at all. I don’t know about you, but when ice fishing a minute can be an hour or an hour can seem like minutes when the bite is there. The wind gets colder and seeps through my cloths when the line remains limp for long periods of time. I jig a little, look around and pull out a snack of peanuts or dried fruit and set the rod down.

Did you know that those little bags of peanuts just went form .50 cents a bag to .99 cents a bag? The government keeps saying there is close to zero inflation… really they do! I guess that they don’t like peanuts or use gasoline or heating oil. The only thing that I know of that has not gone up is the efficiency of those who get paid to lead. (Sorry I had to vent a bit.) That idle spring bobber sat motionless while I crunched on the tastier more expensive peanuts. I stuffed the empty bag into my pocket and picked up the rod. That intrigued a toothy creature below and it clamped down on the bottom jig.

Oh Boy, this was a nice big perch! I pulled the line up hand over hand to get it out before it slipped the hook. This was no perch it was a 20” chain pickerel with a jig dangling from its mouth as it zipped past. I let the line out and allowed the gingerly hooked fish some room to roam, while I prepared my gaff. Suddenly I did not notice the wind or the cold; I even felt a wave of heat come over me. I coaxed the pickerel to the hole and fumbled the gaff around under its jaw, lifting it clear of the hole. Ha-ha, ha, now I had me a breakfast for morning with plenty more to enjoy later. I called it a day and went home to fillet my catch.

Perch, pickerel and eggs (with some home fries) in the morning is the most delightful mouthwatering way to start the day. In fact it was so good that (I) without thinking was loading my ice fishing gear back into the truck and on my way. This time I went to Long Point Sate Park to try and find some larger more cooperative quarry. There I found three anglers already on the ice fishing with tip-ups. I walked out with on cleats this time and crunched my way to some deeper water. I jigged to the depth of fifteen feet and the bite was slow to start.

The anglers with the tip-ups were busy chasing flags. For those of you not familiar with tip-ups; they have a flag attached to a reel, which pops into the air when a fish takes the bait. Once the flag hits the wind the angler races to the hole and waits to set the hook. It is both exciting to do and watch. I watched two of the men surround the hole while on their knees. One of them pulled the line hand over hand while the other talked; “How big do you think it is, is it a big one, can you see it yet?” Soon the pair hoisted a nice northern pike into the air to show the third angler. In the time that I was there I watched them repeat the series of exciting events three times. As for me I caught five more 8-10” perch that afternoon and another six on Friday.

Friday the wind came and went along with some small hail and rain. The ice was collecting the rain and it was running down the holes that I fished from. I could hear the ice beginning to melt with bubbles popping up from the bottom and emerging through the seams. It is a sound very similar to that of a bottle of soda being poured into a glass. There were two anglers with tip-ups and the wind was causing their flags to pop. One of them tried in vane to set up a portable ice house. He wrestled with aluminum poles and a canvas that wanted to become a sail. It’s a good thing that he was a robust fella otherwise he would have been in for a long ride to the open water. My time on the first ice was over as it was rapidly deteriorating.

By Sunday most of the snow had melted and the hard ground turned to mud. The creeks and ditches were collecting the water and sending it to the River. A ribbon of sediment laden water flowed past the boathouse going down river. I watched a number of diving ducks take advantage of the flow which must have attracted them to some good dinning opportunity. I was also taking advantage of the nearly sixty degree day with dinning on my mind. My Britt Zoey joined me around the smoker where I placed my tom turkey from last spring. It was so nice to sit by the smoker and listen to the River while watching the ducks. The waves were lapping the shoreline and nipping at the ice bergs that have washed ashore. I spent four hours adding briquettes and soaked mesquite chunks to the fire. It was well past dark when I brought the golden colored wild turkey into the house.

I cannot explain the fragrance with proper detail. It filled the cabin and drew my bride to the bird with gleaming eyes. “Is it ready? Can I at least have a little piece?” I had to wave her away; I knew that her primal urge would not stop at a little piece. “We have to let it get completely cool or we will loose the moisture. Just back away slowly and try to locate some patience… don’t look at me that way, it makes me very, very nervous…”

Year End '2012' - 12/19/2012 - Written by Mike LaDue

So here it is my last article… for ‘2012’. The binder that I put my weekly writings in is grateful to receive the final one. I have been unusually talkative this past year and the binder is barely able to hold the contents. I wish to thank all of you for taking the time to read my ‘view’ on River life. I have met a lot of new people over this past year and many of them were like minded readers. Nothing gives more pleasure than to know that my efforts are noticed, read and enjoyed by you!

I went back through my photo files in an effort to recapture this twelfth year of the new century, on our River. As you may imagine I do have a lot of photos! It took me some time to get through them all, as I could not help but reminisce. I paused to admire the wildlife; loons, waterfowl, song birds, heron, deer and turkey. Photos of smiling faced relatives and friends captured in and on the River, harvesting the memories of summer. I can sit here and look out of my Lyman into the summer sun as it sets with a string of fish tethered to the gunnels. Yes, my photo’s help to get me through the short days of winter.

I enjoyed a number of ‘first time’ events this year. A call from Captain Ken Hartman of Uncle Sam boat tours led to a trip to see Singer Castle. My bride and our friends included our little princess, taking the tour of the Castle. She was thrilled to see an actual ‘Castle’. Then much to my surprise we were invited to return for a nights stay, so long as we brought the ‘princess’ back with us. You see every castle has to have a princess! Ours spent a month of dreaming of the event before her return. I thought that she was going to crawl out of the boat and swim for it, as soon as she spied ‘her’ castle. That was a gift of great measure for a little girl who is full of wonder and dreams.

A few weeks back I was invited to take a charter to hunt autumn Muskie with Captain Matt Heath. During our many conversations Matt’s dad, Doug asked me what I thought of the trip to the castle. I told him that it was an experience that I will never forget, one that everyone (who is able) should do. Doug replied: “My father was the caretaker out there while Marjorie Bourne still owned the place. I was young and had the run of the Castle most of the year until ice-up. I look back on it now as a very unusual experience for a kid to have had, back then it was Dad’s work and my playground.” I could not help but imagine how grand it must have been! This River, this place, is a continuing story with personal connections as broad as the River itself. Whether you camp here for a weekend or are blessed to spend the whole summer, it will captivate you.

My neighbor Don noticed that a humming bird was going in and out of one of his cedar trees, last spring. He put up a ladder to find a tiny nest nestled in the boughs with three eggs in it. The next day he invited me over to take a photo of the nest. Overnight the eggs had hatched and three tiny black leathery figures with orange beaks huddled together. I gingerly pulled aside the branches for a photo. This was my first humming bird nest and I could not be more excited.

 Don said: I’ll put the ladder up each week until they are gone so that you can watch them grow.” I’m sure that you know how quickly birds mature from fuzzy little chicks to adults. The first photo I took was on June 15^th and the last one I took was on June 30^th. I think that humming birds, with their diet of sugar have the fastest chick rearing of all. In just fifteen days they went from naked featherless bodies with triangular beaks to emerald colored feathers with long beaks. The next week when I checked the nest, they had already begun life’s journey. From then on I began to see the yearly humming bird wars take place.

Thanks to Don and the nest watch, I have come to the conclusion that the hummers that dive bomb one another are the young of the year. For a long time I have wondered why the tiny pollinators become territorial over the sugar feeders. They look like First World War air craft dipping and diving nearly hitting one another in flight. The chatter that they make is comical. The display is continuous and it is the time when they throw caution to the wind. At times they nearly hit my head when in the heat of playful bantering which is another indicator of ‘youthful folly’.  

Last winter was iceless on much of the River. In January we had a winter rain shower which produced a rainbow over the channel close to Wolfe Island. I missed out on exploring the River surface across the ice and the isolated, energetic, soothing ripples of wind making swirling snow-tornadoes. My fishing through the hard water was in the sheltered bays where the water was shallow and the fishing slow. Very little snow ever materialized and the ground lay bare (here) all winter. My weekly trips on the sound ice helped me to maintain peace of mind while the days grew longer.

I took a photo of the river level in February of last year. At that point it looked like we were in for a doozey of spring. The River was high and thrashing debris onto my cement pad against the boathouse. That was the high point for the year, as the River began to dwindle (down) early. When it came time to set my Lyman up in the River it was well below the previous season’s level. We all watched helplessly as it continued into August when many boaters had to call it a season, removing their boats. I took another picture of the river level in November and you can see the stark contrast. It will take a tremendous amount of snow, runoff and rain to rectify that situation this next year.

The river level not withstanding it was a good spring and summer. I found the perch and bass fishing to be good for a few weeks in June and July. My son, Steve and I had a great opening day with us each catching a pair of small mouths. It was a hot day and we each wore pink skin home after a great day of fishing. We had many other trips on the River where we were able to share some good talks on all manner of topics. I like having my boy in the boat on the River. It is the one place where we can connect and it is where his smile is broadest.

Our garden grew well and we had enough greens to share with many people. My bride’s flower beds took the prize with variety and brilliant color, bearing all summer long. I did not have as many camp fires as in years past due to the dry conditions. The last thing I need is to race around with a hose and try to contain a catastrophe. When I did light up the evening I sprayed the ground and kept a pair of buckets filled with water. Though the fires were few they always blend the River, land and sky into the souls who sit around them. I also enjoyed the fireworks of the French festival. I took the Lyman down on the calm surface of the River and joined a fleet of other boats for the show. The simplest pleasures in life are indeed free.

Summer showers were infrequent and when they happened I was mesmerized by them. Some chased me off of the River to wait them out in my boathouse. Lightening, booming thunder and pounding rain on and over the River, who could ask for more? Sunsets were many and I savored each one that I was able to. I often found myself casting for pike off of the east end of Carleton Island, stopping to watch a ship pass under an orange sky. The throbbing engines were like the beat of a clock calling an end to the day.

Autumn came with the consistent splendor as it always does. I took my Zoey out to chase birds, her favorite past time. She is a pleasure to watch in the fields, running, racing and gracefully launching over weeds and brush. This small Britt is only twenty pounds and a friend of my wife’s said; “That can’t be your hunting dog, you must have another one?” Sandy replied; “No she is it, I don’t think Mike would want two of them, he has his hands full with just the one.” She is small for a bird dog and will not attempt to pick up a bird. She prefers calling me to the spot where she has it pinned down by yipping like a coyote. She’s still young and I will work on that and her ‘big dog’ attitude.

I wish you all the best that the New Year will have to offer. There will only be some ninety days after January 1^st until the River will be ready to begin a new season. I along with you will be dreaming of that day and the ones to come there after. The best is yet to come…

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.