Second Day of Bass Season by Mike LaDue

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

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

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

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.