Hainesville Pond, Little Flatbrook, Millbrook Village Outing

Hainesville Pond has been on my mind for years now, and I must have been verbally introduced by Oliver Shapiro's Fishing in New Jersey: A Guide for Freshwater Anglers, forever after intending to come here. Well, we have been going up to the Ridge and Valley on Memorial Day weekend for many years, and finally I incorporated a visit, knowing full well that this 37-acre pond is notorious for weeding in early, but hoping my son and I could fish it anyhow. Actually, the wide angle lens from which I shot the photo, above, makes the water seem more open than really is. Although Scum Frogs and the like really would work, I just didn't have the heart to make the effort today, especially with a thunderstorm coming right up behind us, and so much water out there just spells out: Use the canoe or forget it.

Maybe in March or April. It's nearly June now and this place is very forbidding this late. And very shallow. Kind of interesting to find a Jurassic Swamp up here in the mountains. 

We headed back down U.S. 206 to connect with CR 615, arrive in Layton and the Little Flatbrook, indeed find a Division of Fish & Game posting behind a local venue that apparently doesn't mind people parking and walking in--everyone we encountered friendly--and yet, to fish this little creek, you really need to bushwhack and wade upstream with no trails to guide your progress, apparently. At any rate, that thunderstorm bore down, and before we could search any further, lightning and rain erupted as we drove off, two-weight TFO and Matt's five-weight with us unemployed.

Next stop Millbrook Village, although I felt very tired, we could possibly hike up along Van Campen's Brook and at least get some difficult fly casting in. The stream is noted for wild brown trout, but they don't come easy. Patricia and I hiked up a few years ago, and though I hooked a little one, we really need to hike further and fish harder to do anything more memorable.

I got a shot of the Millbrook Village Methodist-Episcopal Church that turned out better than it looked on the Nikon's screen. God's angry with us, wouldn't you say? And so the storm clouds faithfully hint at the truth, though the rain and thunder that came as an absolute deluge I can't show you, because I didn't capture that.

Before we geared it out with rain on our tracks again, Patricia and Matt caught up with two National Park employees, who, in conversation, told them the staffed event with open doors to various preserved buildings and period dress closed at 3:00, this to my wife's sadness, but there's always next year! OK. So I might have preferred to explore some other Ridge and Valley corner, but we can go to Millbrook Village...and hike the Van Campen's a lot further than last time.

Don't get me wrong. I had a wonderful time with the history here. But once might be enough?

We got pretty far up the creek, too. And I would rather wade the Little Flatbrook, but I can't imagine Patricia slipping on those wet rocks in good conscience.

We drove on down U.S. 46, after passing through the Water Gap enshrouded with fantastic cloud configurations, and as I drove past, I got that great view up the almost vertical rocks rising 1200 vertical feet...and what an adventure that would be, to climb that. Bet you'd get arrested, too.

And down along the Delaware, where once, many, many years ago, we stopped, got out fishing rods, and Matt and I fished as his mother witnessed. Yes, we caught smallmouth bass where the river runs very deep with jagged bank boulders in and out of the water. How many smallmouths, exactly, I don't remember. But those were days my son was really into the fishing.

To Johnny's Hot Dog Stand. The climax of the trip for Patricia. Well, before we got there, again, as this is the third year of that now, I stopped at the soft ice cream shop in Buttzville. Nearly 40 years ago, friends and I always stopped here, a landmark for us, as we drove from Lawrence in Mercer County to fish, hike, and camp in the National Recreation Area.

Don't misunderstand "outdoors people." Or at least not us. We don't denigrate culture, technology, and developed means, but we do believe in progress and making things of better quality and value, the invention of new applications more appropriate to reality. And that's what it's really about for us--the real world, whether exploring local history or enjoying a world class Broadway play in Manhattan, Beethoven's 9th Symphony in Morristown, or the Van Campen's Brook, a creek which happens to really exist and is therefore significant. Or using the mobile device to get pertinent info as we travel. (I haven't bothered to own one of those yet, but my son and wife do.)

 Little Flatbrook at Layton

 Well, you can wade up from here.

 Millbrook Methodist-Episcopal Church

Walpack Valley

I'm writing The Microlight Quest: Trout, Adventure, Renwal, a memoir I intend to get published.

Lake Hopatcong Fishing: The Difference a Day Makes

This outing with Brian Crunket escaped the typical apprehensions, which, though they rarely defeat any of my fishing endeavors, usually make me and anyone with me uneasy for awhile, at least until the skunk gets off the back. Not Thursday morning. First trolling pass--wham! Brian wrestled a hybrid on the rod, boating the fish a little shy of legal size. Second pass--slam!

He caught eight hybrids in no time, before I caught my first. All of these fish but one hit an X-Rap, the other a Shadow Rap running deeper. The bass shunned my favorite #9 Rapala floater, until finally a 15-incher socked it, and then the action died.

We trolled up lake and then westward, happening upon big fish marking on the graph. Brian said, "They're stacked."

Big hybrids on a school of herring about 29 feet deep over bottom 33 feet down. Out with the Binky's, we jigged until satisfied these fish wouldn't hit, deciding to go in and buy live herring later if we would fail to find a lot of fish trolling.

We rounded a big cove a couple of times, me losing what I'm sure was a trout, and Brian catching a pickerel. Finding shallows elsewhere our plugs barely made it through, weeds reaching up as if to grab them, I caught a pickerel, a crappie, we missed some hits, and then I caught my first rock bass from Hopatcong just after we left the area to troll on down along the shoreline.

The day had that element of letting all else go to just involve the lake and conversation, keeping words in the moment as benevolent time unfurled possibilities, a lot of fish coming and going, a lot of interesting structure to marvel at and get some interest from fish associated with these habitats. I had shot some interesting photos early on, and some of the fish shots I've filed have proven worthy as possibilities for magazines. Heat intensified, reaching at least 90 before we left just after 2:00, cooking us both without sunscreen, and rather than feeling oppressive, uncomfortable, or like an alien force that won't let a person be who needs stable room temperature to feel the environment is right, the weather's presence possessed quality improving on experience, rather than breaking it down as if too much and not good.

If it were zero degrees out and my clothes suited the weather, I might say the same, and I've been on the ice of Lake Hopatcong with temperatures around 20, on Lake Musconetcong at zero. The ability to normalize outdoors is a very healthy practice. The real world outside the box-like cells of four surrounding walls allows you to expand and grow, feeling well and fully human--if you will enter that world. It's too easy to physically be in reality and remain preoccupied with nonsense in the confines of your skull. Jailors are the most envious spirits among us, and each of us has multitudes of them to contend with.

This lake with the sort of grandeur you know isn't contained in space as big as a bay, sound, certainly not ocean, nor many lakes and reservoirs of other states, gives anyone who chances on learning its secrets a lot of time to keep learning more. I've fished the lake almost 10 years, and I've learned just enough--and that's not much compared to what I can yet--to have felt on this outing that I'm ready to take my wife out on the lake and express my fish-finding ability.   

We returned to our big hybrids with herring, finally finding the fish in about 33 feet of water over bottom 37 feet down. Not surprising they'd moved during the course of a couple hours. They just wouldn't hit. A breeze had picked up, but not enough wind to make drifting weighted herring any problem. The bait swam right in there among the predators, which wouldn't touch it.

So we returned to our sweet spot, and got two trolling passes in before floating masses of weeds broken at the stems made trolling an absolute mess. On the first pass, I caught another 15-inch hybrid and on the second, a 15 1/4-inch rainbow trout.

Pickerel always associate with weeds.

Crappie, one of the two species--black and white, respectively--I first learned about at age eight named calico bass.

Rainbow Trout

Dow's Boat Rentals

I never knew a mallard could sleep on one leg, and never noticed until I developed the photo.

Caught First Two Smallmouth Bass of the Year, and Some Other Fish

Caught my first two smallmouth bass of this year while fly casting for trout with a Muddler Minnow streamer. That's what I tied on at home, and with light fading, I wasn't going to change to a dry fly, even though I witnessed splash rises and perhaps could have caught more trout.

I arrived at one of the two rivers that run through Bedminster, looking for any sulfurs hatching, seeing none, and practicing pretty hard at my casting, but too many times the tippet and leader tangled, which just means I have to learn how to avoid that yet. This evening, I had no insight, none as yet, into how keep the monofilament straight, but the casting is getting a lot more assured quickly.

Just a wonderful close on the day, when after sunset I felt everything let go for a few seconds and while wading upriver, remembered riding my 10-speed bicycle six miles from Lawrence to Princeton, toting my fly rod as a 12-year-old. And I thought about that for a moment, which brought the experience now 43-years-old into immediate resolution.

Why did fly fishing Stony Brook make such a difference over fishing for suckers and bullheads in Little Shabakunk Creek down the street from where I lived? An answer came easily. It's not just about "nature." If it were, any place would be as good as any other. I believe we are motivated, genetically, to acquire new territory not just as an echo of paleolithic fishing, hunting, and berry-picking urges, but ultimately for personal reasons, and I believe the acquisition of aesthetic value in places--not just for nature sake but involving personal responses that include whatever a (unique) individual brings to new places--moved paleolithic people essentially just the same as today. I think the whole notion of motive primarily as "practical," which means food-getting, is a falsehood that has confused civilization for centuries.

All of my fish quickly released this evening, no photos show their pretty colors and bronze hues. Three trout came to my hand, and also a red-breasted sunfish, despite those denizens of the delusional philosopher Plato, from whom so many lies remain with us today. "Men of bronze" he named people who struggle as the workers of today. Let's just call smallmouths bronzebacks. 

Next Round: Hybrid Stripers Hit with a Breeze on the Water

Will caught his first hybrid stripers, this month planned since last fall with special consideration for Matt and his friend. Will hooked up on the third pass over my favorite spot, the hybrid stripping line at a quick, steady rate before tossing the hook aside, but action remained pretty steady for the next hour-and-a-half or so: two hybrids for Will, three for me, and one for Matt, and although none of these fish quite compared to what Mike and I encountered just days ago, we had a thoroughly enjoyable time with space leftover for future possibility. Matt and I plan on hybrid stripers in Spruce Run Reservoir come June, and an outing during the summer may offer some guest room.

We experienced a couple of barren passes, and I decided to follow along the shoreline further up the lake, but although we marked a few fish, none hit. Just as well we brought some variety into the outing, as Matt and Will sustained conversation they wouldn't have.

And when we returned to the spot a half hour later, wind had died, and I felt sure this isn't good for trolling, trying to conceptualize just why this may be. I know rough surface activates the environment below and predators get bold just as baitfish may stir to scatter and swim about, since less plainly visible than in light passing through the surface directly. But just the same, with calm surface, the Rapalas get sensed easier than under noise from uneven surface.

Whatever the case, the situation didn't feel right, and most of the time, my hunches judge whatever's really there.

We made three more passes, Matt caught a little trout, and then we headed back to Dow's.

New Jersey Hybrid Striped Bass Action, Some Trout

Mike Maxwell and I departed Bedminster at 4:35, arriving three minutes ahead of schedule at Dow's Boat Rentals, 5:17. By then, plenty of light in the sky brought me back to earlier times, before I bought portable running lights, and a half hour later, no visible sunrise afforded a photo op. Temperature slid a little, and though no wind made life miserable, for at least two hours, more like three, we felt pretty cold, even though we wore winter coats.

We trolled. Mike caught a yellow perch to start things off, and then a trout. I felt like out hiking, traveling such a distance way down the lake, almost into the State Park flats, turning as shallows started to hang our Rapalas with weeds. The slowness of action made me feel as if a lot of effort had gone into a leisurely boat ride. I thought of the 30 bucks I blew on a planer board. If you want my honest advice, for flatline trolling, keep it simple. That's the advice Fred Matero gave me, but I bought this piece of plastic and haven't used it yet, if I ever do. I also spent another 30 bucks on silver-plated Sutton spoons. At least they're collector's pieces, but they may prove of no more value to me than this, and I can sell them on Ebay someday if I want. By all the evidence I've gathered, these top-notch trolling spoons that reflect light like no others, no longer get made. I rigged one with a tungsten bullet weight, quarter ounce. The concentrated density of tungsten is less complication ahead of the spoon to possibly turn a fish away. I tied a small barrel swivel five feet ahead of the wafer-thin spoon, so with the weight, the spoon does ride about four or five feet down.

But we caught all our fish on Rapalas, except for a pickerel I caught on a Phoebe, small fish of about 17 inches. I caught one of the small trout the state stocks in Lake Hopatcong to feed cormorants. Oh, I forgot, the true intention is to serve fishing license holders. I guess the only way around the inevitable fate for such a large percentage of stocked trout statewide is to stock only breeders, except of course in streams where cormorants don't do their damage. Stock fewer, but fish cormorants can't swallow.

We headed towards Byram Bay when I got fed up.

"Mike, it's so slow, what do you say we buy some nightcrawlers. I know places where rock bottom has no weeds, and there's got to be some smallmouths around."

When we began, water temperature registered 56 degrees. Fifty six degrees. It's almost June. At that temperature, not even smallmouth bass spawn. When we left, 59.

I figured no hybrid bass wanted to play in water so cold, which is why I trolled a Phoebe on a second rod in a holder, figuring, well, at least trout will. Water is about as cold as was a month ago, 53 on April 17th.

Judged that wrong. I decided to make a final trolling pass of a favorite spot, before getting the crawlers. My five-pounder struck. And for the next two hours, it felt like non-stop action. What a difference some fish make. The second fish I had on much bigger than the five-pounder, you have to understand how hybrids fight with extremely energetic punches--one of those bursts of convulsive power snapped 12-pound test fluorocarbon, and not at the knot. I kicked myself 52 times, well, how many times I don't really know, but I knew with a distinct burning sensation that the loss was my own fault. I had set the drag just slightly too tight, not by a wide margin of error at all. I use thin-diameter Power Pro braid and a fluorocarbon leader of about four feet.

And then another struck and the drag screeched before the hook pulled. I fought yet another a long time, and just as Mike lowered the net, it turned broadside for both of us to judge as about the same size as the bass I caught, and the hook came out.

"Bastard!"

And then I said to Mike, "I never feel bad after a fight like that when the loss isn't my fault."

After this I caught one a couple of ounces over 3 1/2 pounds, and missed a couple of hits or they missed me. Mike had a hunch about his Rapala. It stumped him because we both used #9 silver floaters. He had caught the perch and trout on just that plug he used now.

"Bruce, could this broken hook have to do with it?"

"I doubt it, but here." I un-snapped my Rapala and handed it to him, taking his.

Minutes later, I said, "This plug is screwed." I checked the tie-on, wasn't that, but it did not run right. I snapped on a perch-pattern Rapala.

Finally Mike caught a hybrid just shy of keeper size.

Dow's Boat Rentals

Catching a Couple Largemouths Despite Cold Front

Quite a cold front came through with temperatures in the middle 40's during rain last evening, and with mostly clear skies this evening at Round Valley, temperatures fell from the mid-60's. Busy all day, I arrived at the main park entrance at 7:00, and as I expected, found that's when it closes.

Listening to a Stevie Ray Vaughan collection on the way there, I sketched plans of taking my wife through the main entrance sometime this summer, paying the entry fee, and hiking a trail into the reservoir's rear and back. Since I've been reading a book on photography--the present chapter on photographing plants--I had hoped to find some flowers today, but maybe we'll find some summer blooms, and besides, I can come in the spring during years ahead to try and find early blossums.

I began by fishing in the wind and wishing I had loaded six-pound test monofilament that deals with the likes better than braid. Pretty soon, I took Sadie and walked back into the woods to try and find those flowers, but found some pretty interesting scenes instead with sunlight quickly vanishing.

And then I went back to the reservoir, ready to slow down as the wind had died, and figured I'd get skunked with the cold front. A big hatch of mayflies danced over the water, best I could make them out, yeah, they were sulfurs. I saw a few dimple rises well out from shore, and someone told me he caught an 18-inch rainbow yesterday, so they're still in close.

Something small picked up the Chompers weightless, and after another 10 minutes or so, I caught a largemouth of about 10 inches. I stayed well into dusk, catching another of about 11 inches.

Bass, Relaxation, Photography at Round Valley Recreation Area

Some outings just invite you to slow down and relax. When my son and I fish Avon Pier on the Outer Banks, North Carolina, I enjoy hours at a stretch doing almost nothing, not that the rest of the time I'm inactive: casting a jigger, casting and retrieving for flounder, and teasing pompano from pilings. At Bahia Honda Channel, we enjoyed non-stop action with snappers and groupers, and yet we fished for six or seven hours at a stretch in blazing sun and humid temperatures in the mid-90's. It felt like the entire world stopped for me, and the suspense bridged time all the way back to summer after summer in the bay clamming for a living behind Long Beach Island, New Jersey. I experienced on a deep level a continuity between that time during the 1980's to 2012 when we last visited the Keys--as an unbroken life never lost.

This afternoon I got to Round Valley Reservoir after rain had stopped not long before and began by fishing the pond. As I approached my favorite corner, I thought of how another chapter of my life has turned, since I'm no longer coming here so often as I had since 2011, now five years ago. I fished that corner today feeling as if I'll never catch up to fishing again; this year I haven't got out much, and when I toyed with my camera--getting shots from close angles I thought pretty cool, but really aren't all that special--just afterward I felt as if photography interests me more now. This corner as dead as last year's fishing revealed nothing; I left the pond feeling a little resentful, but knowing I couldn't pin it on anything. (Last year I wondered if ice fishermen have taken a lot of fish home.) I know a lot of fishermen feel vengeance towards spot burners, but I never see anyone fishing this pond, besides a very few over the past five years.

I gathered my stuff to fish the reservoir, not possessed of any serious concern for a few big bass I lost in the pond years ago, which made the experience special, since I can never know how big. I know how a bass of about two pounds or possibly much better takes my weightless worm. Sadie, my black Labrador with me, behaved well, and I sat on the dirt and gravel and began casting, which in total I must have done for an hour-and-a-half hardly moving from one place.

Small stuff got me interested right away. Taps and hits from any sort of fish piques interest. When light from the setting sun made miracles happen, I leapt up and ran with my camera around a bend to try and get shots of amazing light on the distant Cushetunk mountains. Later, driving home, I considered buying a Nikkor 17-55 mm lens, which will cost a lot of money, but sure enough, once I tried to process in Lightroom raw images from the "kit" lens, the Nikkor 18-55 mm, the color balance for most of the images proved to be all screwed up and irredeemable. It's as if this relatively inexpensive lens is only good for ordinary light, but my expensive Tokina 11-16 mm and Nikkor 70-200 mm lenses served me just fine this evening.

Best of all, though--just sitting there fishing that weightless worm. Allowing the world to stop. Because, man, I've been busy, and if I don't relax sometimes, I will burn out. Relaxing at home just does not do it as does fishing real slow.

I caught four largemouths, 10 and 11 inches, but the possibility for a really big bass in the reservoir is enough to make me feel very patient with the small ones. Over the past five years, I caught quite a few over three pounds and one five-pounder. Who knows, maybe the likes will happen again.