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

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

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

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…