Cooper Grist Mill Morris County Park Rendevous

 

Patricia got home at 6:30, would we really have time to get to Long Valley, Schooley's Mountain, and locate the trail to the Electric Brook falls? I've heard it's a mile one-way, although seemingly the walk must be less distance, given what I know about that region. U.S. Highway 206 we soon found flowing well, which it wouldn't have been an hour earlier. But clouds had just moved in, so I switched from WQXR Classical Music to Jersey Radio for weather. Very severe thunderstorms forecasted.

"We can go to Cooper Mill," I said. "Just go to Electric Brook another time."

"Are there trails to hike?"

"Plenty. And in any event, it's worth being by the river for a little while." I really didn't think any auspice existed to set out on a real hike.

One of those trails leads well down the river to Black River Park and the Kay Center, an environmental education outfit. Hacklebarnery State Park is downriver, also. But Cooper Grist Mill Morris County Park felt perfectly enough for a little outing after I wrote all day and took care of some errands, and Trish worked.

In the 1760's, a flour mill existed here owned by Isaiah Younglove until 1788. I think it's cool that names of mill owners stay with us centuries later. What I don't like is the quaint sense of history as if the people who really lived such lives did so as a sort of politically correct song and dance. "Storied." Life used to be a lot like it is today. The present mill--view the photos below--Nathan Cooper built in 1826.

On occasion, park staff run the water wheel, power shafts and gears turning a couple of one-ton mill stones. Here where Milltown once existed, after you see this amazing operation, you can walk across the street and enjoy a meal at Old Mill Tavern. Or a beer. Dozens of craft labels on draft. Highly recommended--it's Trish's favorite restaurant. Since we had Sadie along and would have to keep windows partly down through rain, we passed on it this evening.

We had some time to unwind before hearing thunder. Always memories here. Trish and I lived in Chester five years, and I used to come here and trout fish, doing especially well in the fall. Back then, the state stocked very little trout in the fall, but I always seemed to catch big eight-inchers. 

As we pulled onto 206 South, rain fell.

Meeting Suspending Smallmouth Bass Halfway

Here's an article, an earlier version of which got published in the Knee Deep Club's Around the Lake. Laurie Murphy of Dow's Boat Rental's has reported this week that smallmouth bass fishing in Lake Hopatcong is good.

Meeting Suspending Smallmouth Bass Halfway

By Bruce Litton

          My son, Matt, and I have for years live-lined herring on early July mornings for walleye and hybrids on the lake. Four years ago, under a July cold front so severe that we never took jackets off, leaving the lake early in the afternoon, we came up with smallmouth bass over three pounds. They hung close to rocks 20 feet deep, down to about 26, apparently suspending over the deepest rocks of the drop-off.

          Early in the summer, the lake’s oxygen is depleting, not to the degree it will by August, but the depths at which fish can survive become much shallower. By August, none survive any deeper than about 16 feet.

          Deeply impressed later on with the bass’s response that chilly July day with cloudless skies, during the first couple of hours fishing we got no hits; my son couldn’t even get sunfish to tap his live nightcrawlers. I felt afraid we would be skunked for the first time on the lake, and seriously didn’t want this to happen. I had almost given up hope, when after three hours Matt hooked the first smallmouth on a herring. When the outing completed, I knew we would try meeting smallmouths half-way again by allowing herring free reign. Each summer since, we scored smallmouths better than three pounds. Matt’s was the largest at an ounce or two over three-and-a-half pounds.

          Can they be caught on crankbaits or even by stripping streamers on a fly rod and sinking line? I suppose so. I wouldn’t want to use tube jigs, since my assumption is that the bass tend to suspend off bottom. You could try swimming jigs, but that’s a lot of guesswork as to where the bass lurk in the water column, and where in the column the jig swims. I would never say it can’t work, but I enjoy live herring fishing instead.

          Live-lining isn’t really letting the herring do all the work. While the bait swims freely on a size 6 plain shank hook through its nostrils, keep an interested awareness in the situation, even if you cast a Senko while two herring lines per man stay busy.

          I could cast a crankbait instead, but I don’t because I find these plugs noisy and in general less than subtle. As I wait, I fish a Senko among rocks a little shallower than I place herring and catch a largemouth or pickerel perhaps, or I succumb to my son’s nightcrawlers. Crankbaits can produce reaction strikes under bluebird cold front skies. Nevertheless, it’s in the way I imagine smallmouth bass suspended, somewhat in exile from their rocky homeland and surviving in water temperatures higher than optimal that makes me think they’re less interested in aggressively attacking a lure than pouncing on a herring met one to one.

          The lake has many rocky drop-offs and our bass have come from several. I typically anchor in 20 to 25 feet of water, but whatever is necessary to place herring so they swim among or over rocks 20 to 30 feet deep is sufficient. Single prong hooks hang up around the very active herrings’ heads, which is why trebles slightly advantage, but our interest is the bass’s survival if gut hooked. This is a shallower orientation than that for walleye or hybrids suspended over greater depths, although range may crossover. We’ve found hybrids well out in the main lake away from a drop-off during summer, and this I wouldn’t expect of smallmouths, less inclined to rove free of structure. If smallmouths suspend, they remain close to their native rocks.

          Rather than race about the lake, attempting to fish every one of the drop-offs or even a quarter of them, it may be best to settle down at one or two spots on a given outing. This hasn’t been especially fast action for us, unless you include the palm-sized sunfish and pugnacious perch caught on nightcrawlers. The panfish fun, bass trump them all.

          Summer live-lining is usually a different kind of fishing than the quickly successive pick-ups we have enjoyed fishing October hybrids. It’s a way of subtly locating good-sized smallmouths with hopes of hooking a really big one. Smallmouths surely reach five pounds in the lake. Imagine. Slow down and let your anticipations lengthen, rather than be busied by a lot of hard cranking.         

          Light tackle is all that’s necessary. Matt caught the biggest on an ultra-light. With our medium power rods, we use six-pound test and there’s never been a problem with losing fish to obstructions.

          Summer live-lining is hook and line, no sinker. My preference is not to set the drag light, but keep the bails open, two rods per man, and involve myself by keeping an alert eye. The moment you see line moving, tighten up and set the hook. So far, we have gut-hooked only one bass. The idea is to hook the fish in the mouth. This way we feel more assured of a bass’s survival after release.    



Delaware Canal Hike Reigelsville, PA & NJ, Reigelsville Inn Dinner

A 1908 Roebling Bridge connects Reigelsville, NJ, with Reigelsville, PA, two very different yet historical towns.

Next time I go online for a Highlands destination, I really should be more careful about directions and make sure I know where I'm headed. We meant to hike trails through Musconetcong River Gorge. It's not that I couldn't have found the park. For the first mile or so of the hike we chose instead, I felt guilty for the failure. But really, I had to get over that, because traveling with Patricia, no way in any good faith existed to go wild driving up and down to find the place. As much as I did wander, edging upon borderline craziness, I considered the peace of mind she wanted with time off from work.

I have never used a GPS and plan on never bothering with any. 

Finally, I just got on Warren Glen Road and headed west, right along the Musconetcong for some of the distance. When I pulled aside for us to view a factory--forget company name--with the river coursing right alongside, smoke stack and all, I wanted to photograph, but didn't dare today. We drove down from Bloomsbury through Pohatcong Township, Finesville, and down into Reigelsville: small, charming towns with a laid back feeling compared to the Somerset County region we come from. We crossed into Warren County from Hunterdon just beyond Bloomsbury, I believe. All those 10 or 12 miles between Bloomsbury and Reigelsville, we never came upon a gas station. Warren Glen Road is County Road six hundred and something or other, I forget, but a fairly substantial highway with reduced speed limits inside developed areas that mostly seem to date back to the early 20th century.

I've driven along most of the NJ length of the Delaware above Bordentown, but this was the first I've been here. From the second Roebling Bridge we've now crossed spanning the Delaware--the other just north of Barryville, NY--I think I sighted the favorite night striper fishing spot of my son and I going back six and seven years ago. Reigelsville, NJ, is a dusty spot, but once we walked into PA, we felt astonished to see a fine restaurant. Reigelsville Inn.

"Go check out the menu," Patricia said.

Looked interesting. First, we hiked about three miles total on the Delaware Canal towpath. A guilty trek, owing to where I had wanted to go, became a very pleasant stroll, my upper back not giving the usual pain despite the heavy camera bag. We even saw a bass leap for a damselfly. And the fat toad that crossed our path is a perennial encounter that never ceases to please. Lots of good talk northward and back.

And then the meal. I felt very amused to find striped bass and skate wings offered back to back. We used to surf fish stripers, and catching skates instead marked the bane of our ventures. I tried skate once and did not like it. I wanted escargot for a shared starter, but let this go for the oysters Patricia preferred. Instead of a crab cake dinner, I had a huge venison burger complete with house salad, since crab cakes of all sorts of varieties serve as a fairly common menu item, not venison. Haven't had venison since early 1994 after butchering a deer the previous fall. Trish had a big veggie meal with rare mushrooms I tried and they tasted great.

Reigelsville Inn dates to 1838 when it served as a hotel for canal masters of whatever more specific description--the guys in charge of the mule barges.

"Must have been a flop house," Patricia said.

Whatever it was, the trade route went from Allentown-Bethlehem to Philadelphia, although the Delaware Canal does not fill the entire mileage, but runs south to wherever it emptied into the Delaware where boats could continue south without shallow rapids in the way.

The Inn today is an amazing place. We chose to eat outside on the patio by the canal, but got a good look around inside. Great original art adorns all the walls, really giving the place character. The second floor offers tables. A live jazz band jammed as evening fell. I give this place a great thumbs up and I'm glad we happened on it. 

 Preserved Canal Lock

 Part of the extensive outdoor patio by the canal at Reigelsville Inn, where we ate.

South Branch Raritan River Morning Smallmouth Quest

Noel and I waded about a mile downstream the river, beginning at 6:30 this morning. I thought things in our favor, catching a 10-inch smallmouth bass on my second cast, but although I missed some hits, and Noel caught a lot of little bass and another almost average-size, this proved to be a morning for enjoying the river as a river, and each other's company, more than for catching fish. I thought back over the fishing I've done up and down this river for the past six years. Really felt good I didn't miss out this year, the previous outing at the railroad trestle all too short and unproductive, besides photos.

As I expected, the river's running a little stained. I typically find the fishing better when it's very clear. I fished a five-inch Senko-style worm, switching to a Chompers as we neared our turn-around. Noel fished a sixteenth-ounce jig and also a tiny Echo jerkbait, casting distances that surprised me. His G. Loomis rods really seemed to make a difference. Maybe that's wishful thinking on my part, but especially the little jigs Noel fish interested me.

I waited to see if he'd show me up, but never felt any inclination to make a switch from my big worms. I've spent six years fishing the river on fairly frequent occasion, but never have experimented with different lures much. Not since the Stony Brook, Mercer County days of my youth. I noticed my package of tube plastics in my tote this morning, and I've wondered recently if I'll ever try them... The Echo comes from Australia, I believe he said, and the cost is $18.00 each. Noel likes the internal rattle.

We hiked back along a trail for about a mile, the nerve leading down my left leg giving me some trouble. I may be 54, but I don't feel old, and I wondered if the likes of lugging a heavy camera bag on one shoulder, a heavy tackle tote on another used to be a drag. I couldn't quite remember, but probably not. And I certainly had no trouble with nerves due to herniated disks in my back. So physically, I'm wearing down a little, but it doesn't seem very important. May not be able to backpack in the Pinelands as I would like to do with my son, since my upper back pains me whenever I lug anything heavy for awhile, but the mind and spirit remain optimistic, as I want to be on my deathbed.

North Branch Raritan a Little Stained, Waiting on Next Time

Hadn't fished since the 18th. Since I had to go to the vet out in Branchburg, I planned on making a stop at the U.S. Route 202 bridge. Last I pulled onto the gravel, October, 1993, I caught 15 of those little trout the state used to stock in the fall, a couple of them about eight inches, the rest about six. Since I knew there's a hole under the bridge or used to be, I imagined bass.

Hole's still there. My Chompers worm took a hit from a bass. It had leapt for a damselfly and I winged a cast right to the splash. But the water stained somewhat, I knew chances of any other takes had no favor. Too lazy to tie on a snap swivel and spinner, I left after 10 minutes.

And then this evening I went to a spot on the same river near home for nearly an hour. Here water's a lot clearer, though still not clear as a bell as I like it and the bass do too. My son spotted a 19-incher in this stretch about a week ago while walking our black Lab. Stretch is extensive. The bass could have been up or downstream--or in another stretch entirely, since bass apparently move around rivers during summer.

My fourth or fifth cast didn't go where I intended. Nevertheless, I had that odd feeling telling me this is the cast that will result. I let the worm sink and settle for a good 15 seconds, and forgot all about my hunch. It was a long cast and all out of sight. I never noticed line twitch. And I just began reeling to retrieve the worm, rather than testing the line as should always be done. Fish on. Drag gave a little before I could really set the hook. And then the bass came free.

Anyhow, I'm supposed to fish the South Branch with Noel soon. I hope I can report a catch, but I'm afraid water just won't be clear enough.

For More Topwater Bass, go into an Actor's Mode

This one actually caught on favorite Lake Musconetcong years ago with a clear plastic, Hedden Torpedo.

Spook Yourself into Topwater Bass

Heightened awareness, by definition, is not the norm, but slip into an actor’s skin to make just the right moves with a topwater plug. Simulate fright so the plug skitters quickly at the moment a bass is ready to react. Feel completely natural, triggering the strike directly. The immediate environment offers you perception so subtle you don’t think, imparting the plug’s action directly. Become an immediate mirror of life surrounding you, leaping out of the image spontaneously to make a surface plug behave precisely to incite a strike.

          It won’t work unless senses become immersed in the environment and you feel keenly attuned, weirdly at one with florid summer life. Bass fishing from kayaks in June at a private Lakehurst lake made all the difference, because we sat right at water level. We fished for hours in daylight before sinking into deep affinity for the lake after dark. Within 15 or 20 minutes of moonlight, I howled like a wolf having hooked my third among flooded timber, a bass over three pounds soaking me, racing back and forth beside at the surface like a frightened pig. I caught many more and some as big, casts aimed perfectly. The next morning in gathering daylight I hung the same plug on branches a few times, not in the feel as the night before. The timber stood as the sort of aquatic forest calling for a soft-bodied weedless topwaters during daylight hours—let alone at night.

          Hours before the morning after ensued, Fred Matero said, “How are you doing this?” He fished a hundred feet away.

          “You have to make the bass smell blood!” I said. “They pound what they feel is frightened.”

          Fred's fishing picked up. You have to do the bleeding, I told him. He picked up on my infectious mood. Not actually afraid or frightened, you have to feel this intensity as an actor would, taking perceptual cues and transmitting them to the bass. Sounds crazy? Any actor would be, if not for the art. Before bass struck, I anticipated hits coming, skittering my Baby Torpedo, pulling rapidly by sweeping motions as I had never worked a topwater before, witnessing wakes race up from six feet behind and careen straight into the plug. Bass shot airborne two feet at such wild, cavorting angles I couldn’t set the hook.

           I knew exactly when to create this action by no visible evidence and no ordinary telling myself how to do it. None of this felt detached, random or whimsical. I put my thinking mind aside, except to guide this actor’s trance, to keep myself from backing out as if to deny it happening.

            To some degree, this happens to all of us in any kind of fishing. Most of us get to the lake or what have you, start fishing, and slip into the flow of fishing, which itself is something of heightened awareness. We don’t like the thudding resistance of casting against the body of water confronting us, as if nothing is there and we have to work ever harder to keep futility at bay. But that’s normal unless it gets onerous and we either look for fish elsewhere, decide they won’t hit—or possibly step up the effort to overcome resistance, which often works even under tough conditions.

          When fishing is good, the feeling of opposition between angler and the water he fishes melts. We don’t necessarily slay the fish for magic to happen, but without some action the question mark gets between us and immediate response to rod in hand, interest down the line. Struggle for certainty not all slow fishing is about, to some degree—unless bored—we’re open to the environment rather than questing against doubt. On occasion, we may feel desire not so much for a huge catch or high numbers—quantity isn’t really all we want—but something truly wild from deep within this natural world we visit to make catches, which we exist as part, deep within just as wild as the fish.

          For me, perhaps fishing topwater plugs for bass—I haven’t quite got the magic in weed mats with soft lures—is the surest way to the strangest fish. Openness to the water I fish is something anyone else who fishes feels familiar with; we feel personal affinity and want to return. But to put yourself into a deep contemplative state of imagination similar to what actors must do and make a plug seem—to yourself as well—like something alive and escaping from bass feels downright weird.

          Think of the times on the water when you noticed something you already knew immediately before recognizing it. Cognition—rather than re-cognition—happens to each of us out there because being in a fishing environment is just that. We sink in, perceive things someone who lives in artificial environments day and night, or who spends all their time in virtual reality cannot perceive if they stood side by side with us.

          No one can fish optimally every time out; by definition it couldn’t be optimal. But it’s worth trying if you get halfway there.

Dog Hike to Butternut Falls, India Brook Park, Mendham, NJ





Thought up this family dog hike about eight months ago, but settled on this evening only yesterday. It's a nice little gorge in Mendham, a 20-minute drive from our house in Bedminster.

India Brook Park serves as entryway down and in. This stream is part of the North Branch Raritan River headwaters. Butternut falls are stunning. Not great, big falls like Passaic Falls in Paterson, but for a local woodland, very nice.

Matt started fishing right about the same time others arrived to swim. I urged him to continue, but as soon as he tangled his line, I knew it was no use, especially because we recognized the situation for us had got compromised anyway. I thought this evening would be perfect. About 67 degrees out, cloudy, no one would swim the 60-degree water. They did. I said offhand to Matt we can return in October.

After we got home, I mentioned again the possibility of a return sometime, and Matt suggested we use the fireplace at the head of the falls to cook. His mother had checked out the details and said we have to get permission from the township. So perhaps we'll get permission and do this sometime.