Virginia Civil War Trails, Gettysburg, Make Me Wonder about Robert E. Lee

We took a back way down into Virginia at the edge of the Shenandoah Mountains, Interstate 66 from Interstate 81, to U.S. 533, I think it is, to State Highway 231, finally merging onto U.S. Highway 29, well down on Piedmont Plain, though the Blue Ridge remains in view to the west.

We had connected onto I-81 more or less in Harrisburg, PA, abandoning Interstate 78, which backwards more than 100 miles forms a crossroads in our hometown of Bedminster, NJ, with Interstate 287. We skirted Gettysburg, and then in Maryland, just before crossing the Potomac River, Antietam. Virginia is the Civil War state beyond compare with more than 2000 military incidents on record. We noticed that Highway 533 seems designated--at least in parts--a Civil War Trail. In Virginia, many roadways are so or at least are associated, and if you're interested, this link can provide more information than I will: http://www.civilwartraveler.com/EAST/VA/index.html

533 connected to Highway 29 in Virginia's smallest town, Madison, with 210 residents last on record in the year 2000. Nevertheless, this historical landmark of a village serves as the seat of Madison County, named after President James Madison, who owned property on the Rapidan River.

The first thing I noticed about Highway 29 is the namesake--The Seminole Trail. That raised an eyebrow, since our tires rolled through Virginia, not Florida. So once we got to our motel room, I Googled information. The best I can report is that U.S. 29 originated as a Cherokee trail, just as U.S. 206 in NJ originated as a Lenape trail. Escaped slaves headed south, rather than the typical north, to join with Seminole Indians in Florida, never to be found out. The best I could judge from the information, runaway slaves did indeed join with Seminoles, but I'm very familiar with Highway 29 leading southwest to Lynchburg, where I went to school for a semester at Lynchburg College. Why slaves would move in a somewhat westerly direction towards Florida beats me. The Virginia General Assembly named the highway The Seminole Trail in 1928--leaving no record of why. So it is a mystery.

To come down from Jersey through Washington DC would have been a way to follow history, too, but I always used to take that approach, and by what my Father told me, the beltway is a traffic mess these days.

Best of all, the way we came these recent days passed within a very few miles of Gettysburg. I've made the battlefield's acquaintance before, and just to see the name of the town on an exit and come close aroused positive affinity. And judging by the way the terrain moves in against the mountains, forming a sort of pass from Virginia up to Gettysburg, I wouldn't be surprised if the Confederates under General Robert E. Lee took more and less the same route we did today. Feel free to tell me if they did. I'm very interested in history, but for now I'm just going to leave it at this guess.

Potato field and Shenandoah Mountains

We found a place to park. I shot some photos, and studied the stream, Hughes River, from the bridge--lots of minnows, small suckers, one smallmouth. Matt went down to the river and walked upstream a way.

Tastee Freez is a southern chain immortalized in Cheech & Chong's 1970's yellow album, this example we found in the town of Madison.

Round Valley Reservoir Annual Bass-by-Boat

Sounded like we would be in trouble if we stayed out, but once the clouds crowded close, the thunder ceased. Very little rain ensued, and we motored back to the spot in minutes.

I remember a camping/boating/fishing trip here in 1978 with my brother Rick. We caught a lot of bass--all largemouths, all two to three pounds. In 2013, I caught a smallmouth from Fred's boat over two pounds, and I've caught a number of largemouths over three from shore, including one over five. But mostly, it's 10-inch bass, quite a few 12 to 14 inches, but not very inspiring size compared to the standard in memory going back almost 40 years.

I can be critical and still appreciate this reservoir greatly, as any readers of the book I'm writing will have no doubt. In this book, I don't quibble much about the size of bass. This blog post is just a passing take on what's going down. We caught a lot of bass yesterday, but none that weighed as much as a pound. The photograph below makes the bass look big, one of two I caught on the Chompers worm.

Otherwise, jigs did the trick, graced with four-inch twister tail worms and fat bodied four-inch twister grubs. A lot of rock bass, too. And I caught the first crappie either of us have seen in all these years fishing the reservoir. Fred's been out every year for the past 30. Topwaters caught only rock bass, though we had a lot of shifting light to make the lures seem auspicious. Besides the biggest smallmouth snatching a Chompers on descent to about 24 feet, bass hit in five to 10 feet of boulder strewn water, three of them largemouths.

I hoped for a big one while fishing 20-40 feet deep, but nothing happened. I even tried a Mann's Little George tailspinner, and though a small bass struck, leapt, and threw the treble, this happened in about eight feet of water among rocks.

Fred tried his new electronics, a real sweet graph of some sort I could have paid keener attention to, such as getting the name. I brought along my Round Valley Reservoir topographic map, and though the name of that escapes me, I can tell you Efinger Sporting Goods sells them for $10.00. Very detailed, complete with a map legend with half-a-dozen or so selections, including whereabouts of stumps, timber, roadbeds, building foundations, and creek channels. But it doesn't explain the creek channels--no streams feed Round Valley Reservoir--though it does explain some of the factors influencing the whereabouts of the gamefish species. It says, for example, that during winter the lake trout settle in the deepest water they inhabit all year. A number of us catch them from shore 15 feet deep. Not any 18-pounders, though.

All told, a real nice late afternoon and evening on the water.

Knee Deep Hybrid Striped Bass Contest a Success, Walleye and Hybrids Hit Night Topwaters yet

Got the report from Laurie about the Knee Deep Club's hybrid striped bass contest with 46 contestants. Results impress me, since so far, I've caught my hybrids in May, October, and November.

Bob Smith's eight-pound, six-ounce hybrid took first place, second place went to Brian Higgins at seven pounds, 12 ounces. Tyler Lambert had a six-pound, 13-ounce bass, Kevin Scanlon, six pounds, 12 ounces, and Eddie Mackin, six pounds, 10 ounces. These are all real nice bass bigger than my biggest in the photo, above, and I imagine many smaller got caught.

The catfish contest is coming up on August 15th and 16th.

Laurie also reports walleye and hybrids continue to get caught at night on topwater plugs, along with a few largemouths. Like last summer, persistent cool weather has pushed the season back. By now, normally this walleye and hybrid action is done, although hybrids get caught during the day on herring, at least some, particularly shortly after dawn. I haven't heard of trout being caught, however, as last summer rainbows came to the net in July.

Yesterday and today are hot ones, and for all we know, heat will come yet. (I'm one of the rare devils who thrives in hot weather like this.)

Looking forward to October! Looks my son and I will not fish Hopatcong this summer. Matt hiked in New Mexico until July 10th; we've always fished Hopatcong that first week in July.

iBass360 Spruce Run Reservoir Tournament and Barbeque: Largemouth, Smallmouth, Hybrids

Tried to sleep at 10:00 last night to get up at 4:45, but while I got up on time, I didn't sleep until about 1:00. I hate insomnia, less because I lose sleep, than because the conflicts I fight seem unnecessary, compared to the time wasted and the pain suffered. I take melatonin, helps, but I quit the Ambien generic because of poor effects in the morning.

I caught an 11-inch largemouth shortly after we began. The cove really seemed to offer only two spots among many acres. Where bushes and branches overhang the water--with five-foot depths in front--my weightless Chompers did the trick and impressed Eric, since I had written my first article for iBass360 on the method.

Eric's the brand manager and editor. He loves to write and edit, and puts his enthusiasm into the articles that come his way. Normally, I'm very opposed to an editor's changing my words, besides any obvious errors or by solicitations for improvement I agree on, since what I write--is what I write. If the writer's personality doesn't emerge, the work is not by his hand. What I do for iBass360 is collaborative, and so I looked forward very much to this morning in the boat with Eric. The only stickler I had with my recent piece involves Eric's use of the words about bass believing by instinct--because I'm literal minded and feel it important that I be so. No evidence suggests bass believe anything. And I don't believe animals have instinct; I believe that's a notion we use simply because we don't understand how their brains work as functional wholes, without any instinct in the creatures sort of telling them what to do.

Anyhow, Eric and I had a relaxed, casual time, and as these first meetings go, they never get into the substance of such matters, if only because we want to relax.

I did wonder--in that first cove--what fish kicked up mud. The water only two or three feet deep, I saw those clouds clearly, but these flats were so barren of cover, and wide open without deeper water adjacent, I refused to believe bass responsible. Well, later on, when we all came in for the barbeque, Steve Vullo impressed me. He had nailed a three-pound largemouth on a buzzbait--on just such a flat, apparently. I told Eric later that I think I felt too impatient with the shallows.

I also caught a channel catfish nearly three pounds on the Chompers, about two feet deep where the shoreline dropped off to six or seven feet where Eric positioned the boat. What a fight! I thought for a moment I had hooked a pike, the way it peeled line in a straight line, drag screaming.

Later, I saw hybrids busting herring at the surface. Eric moved us towards the commotion with the electric. I cast a Torpedo. I haven't been hit like that since I fished bluefish with topwaters. I hollered out loud.

Eric hooked one with a lipless crankbait. I switched to a Rat-L-Trap. Soon, as I let the plug descend--fish marked all over about 13 feet down--I felt the grab, set the hook, and fought a real nice one. Judging by other hybrids I've caught, about five pounds. A good, long, hard fight--so, when the hooks pulled as the fish neared the side of Eric's boat, I didn't feel loss.

That's not the story behind my Mann's Little George, my silver-painted teardrop shaped, one ounce lead-bodied lure, which Pat at the Basking Ridge Post Office picked up for me at Cabelas along with five others years ago, my favorite of the batch. I let it descend, felt a tiny tap and refused to set, knowing there was no way to hookset. The lure fell another two feet or so, I felt a whomp, set hard, felt powerful resistance--and the line broke. The same knot which held the previous fish had gone bad.

Eric caught a couple of crappies on the crankbait, and lost two other good-sized hybrids, besides catching his first, a 3 1/2-pounder, about that weight.

This was an iBass360 event, the biggest largemouth caught 4 1/2 pounds, and a 4.3-pound smallmouth even a better fish. We're a group of bass anglers who believe in fishing and health, the redemptive quality of angling and the enjoyment that lasts a lifetime. By all means, join us if you're interested.  http://ibass360.com/

Chester, New Jersey, History, Hacklebarney State Park Hike

Sadie

When my wife and I lived in Chester in one of the apartments above Pegasus Antiques, we used to go hiking in Hacklebarney State Park, down into the Black River Gorge. On a few occasions, I came here myself, hiking the two mile or so round trip with my super-ultra light spinning rod to fish for recently stocked trout. Yesterday we hiked down into the gorge for the first time in about 17 years, taking our son along who is nearly that old now.

We had spent some time in Chester first, visiting our former landlord who still owns the shop. While he told us about the demise of the town--he's the last antique shop, when during the 90's as many as 28 thrived--I picked out a photograph from the 19th century or early 20th of a young chorister to take home. Since my father is Director Emeritus of the American Boychoir, and I sang for 13 years under his and others' direction (Leonard Bernstein included) with Trinity Episcopal Church, Princeton, and other organizations, this little piece of history I found in Ken's shop is a fine keepsake.

Stepping back outside some time later, I caught myself and made sure to go check out the public memorial in front of his shop. A memorial for all American wars graces a black and white film photo I had taken years ago, but can't read what in the picture. Of course. I remembered. But since that time, a new memorial is placed to the left, with a life-sized statue of a soldier, and a black marble plaque honoring Iraq, 2002, included.

"Chester is dead," Ken had said. For me, this is very sad. We lived right in the middle of a thriving shop keepers town, across the street from the Public House restaurant and bar that goes back how long--I should know. I waited tables at historic Larison's Turkey Farm. Weeks after I left, Turkey Central, to my mind in honor of Benjamin Franklin, closed its doors.

The American Boychoir School is in trouble also, funds drying up. The choir invites boy singers from any and all religions--or none--and although my father began life as a Methodist, he converted to Episcopalianism, the high church denomination originating in England when King Henry the 8th separated from Rome, and the tradition with the best sacred choral anthems, the culture of sacred choral and organ music my father leads especially in America. The refinement of anthems and choral/orchestral works like those of George Frederick Handel, Johann Sebastian Bach, and Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart may seem alien to the American mainstream, and yet they are more central to Western Civilization than popular culture ever will be. Western Civilization, however, may be as dead as Chester. Nevertheless, a few of us draw inspiration from great music, and our lives may be happier than the sort of schizophrenia celebrated as cool.

I will never forget performing Ian Hamilton's Epitaph for this World and Time, world premier, Cathedral of St. John the Divine, Manhattan, 1970. We poured out the seven vials.

 Trout Brook has wild trout

 Trout Brook

 Hemlock



We Caught a Bunch of Average Smallmouths

Fished a favorite North Jersey stream with my son, and we caught a bunch of average-sized stream smallmouths, nothing big, though I sighted a bass of about three pounds. This time we brought along our black Labrador, Sadie, and instead of tying her to a tree, Matt found a cinder block to lug about as we moved up a long stretch. She enjoyed plenty of swimming, and of course, always does if opportune.

Just a very nice afternoon of getting far away from routines. Besides stopping once for trail mix, we hit a Dairy Queen knock-off, and the vanilla soft ice cream tasted a lot better than I anticipated it would.

Got home about seven. Had left at about one. We did try some new areas of the stream, but they didn't produce. Nevertheless, it's interesting exploring. I brought a map along I never used, nor did I rely on Matt's mobile, and I own no GPS. The back roads, hamlets, towns, hills, and gullies all surprise when new to me, but never present a problem as if I can't find a way back to the familiar.

Hooked a Salmon in New Jersey and Caught Bass

Oliver arrived a little before me and spoke to two guys coming off in a jonboat who caught nothing but sunfish, fishing all day from early morning. We got on the water at about 5:15, fishing from Oliver's double kayak, Oliver insisting on fly fishing while I brought along my 5 1/2-foot St. Croix spinning, as well as a 6 wt. fly rod. I trolled a weighted Clouser minnow for a short while. Then I concentrated on bass fishing, allowing a weightless Chompers worm to slip down among towering weeds as deep as 25 feet.

The results: six bass, the largest 17 inches, others 16, 15, and nine or 10 inches, all quickly released. Oliver caught sunfish on a dry fly, including a couple of them really panfish-sized. One of those actually hit a small streamer. But he hooked something mysterious on the dry fly--bass-sized--though none of us got a sighting other than commotion on top.

Mid-lake, flying ants speckled the surface, and we spotted something pretty big sipping them. Brown trout exist in the lake, very few. The surface must have been 77 degrees, and yet who knows. Would a straggler brown surface to sip a few dozen and dive back down?

Certainly the salmon shoot up from cold depths and crash herring on top. We saw this action long before sunset. Water clear, they see the herring and zero in. Besides, lateral lines can sense those herring better than sight, at least on calm days. At sunset and thereafter, we eased about mid-lake for an opportune moment for Oliver to fly cast a streamer, and for me to heave my heavy Kastmaster a mile.

We saw some crashes. I kept throwing my Kastmaster where a single salmon had surfaced and splashed minutes before, and hooked one. The Kastmaster has a single, large hook more suited for bluefish. I fought one for 10 or 15 seconds before it got off that hook.

Yeah, hooking a salmon in New Jersey makes me feel young again. You look out on the lake from shore--you'll never hook one! But all that space is fair game. The herring cruise and the salmon shoot like silver terror anywhere and everywhere so long as it's deep below, which is a lot of water, but not too much.

Sometimes when they crash on top it really is a sight to see with water splashing around like kids in a pool forcing it in each other's faces.