Delaware and Raritan Canal State Park: Mule Barges, Rough Men, and Bass

Delaware & Raritan Canal

The Basin

Coal barges pulled by mules, maneuvered into Baker's Basin by muscle, took refuge here from the Delaware & Raritan Canal current. Rough, wearied men rested on the 10 or so acres overnight, not so exhausted. They built bonfires, partied and drank. The stories told here are legend no one will ever know. Nineteenth century history never printed. Free as the air we breathe. The lusts that gleamed in fire-lit eyes as men rapped back and forth about women must have been enough to power a tractor trailer.

I heard about bass caught here when I was 10, so I cajoled my father to drive me over to have a look, having memorized directions from the father of a girl I knew, a father who cast big bass plugs into the pond.

Dad drove me over. There were about a dozen black men hanging out, and I felt deeply curious, because they didn't seem in the same space I came from at all. One of them turned and glared at me with wide open eyes holding great power. Mine didn't flinch. From the passenger seat, I held his enormous gaze, and analyzed it as I concentrated. Not exactly hatred or negativity, though that was there with rage just behind. I swore I saw the faintest glimmer of desire to know, rather than destroy.

"This place is wild!" My father said. Without saying another word, he simply swerved the station wagon around before he ever stopped, and vacated the grounds.

I understood and said nothing.

Four years later, by my request, a friend's father drove the friend and me over. We fished. Maybe that's when I first noticed the Allied Van Company immediately in front of the gravel lot, off U.S. Highway 1, loaded with tractor trailers. One form of commerce transportation to another.

I caught a bass and couldn't believe fishing as good existed so close to home. I had caught bullheads in the canal downstream, crossing Route 1 on my bicycle as a 12-year-old. But largemouth bass?

I fished here often, completely unafraid of my neighbors from Trenton. I don't know what Dad thought. Probably nothing. Most adults repress their fears and hope for the best.

It's good I went that first time with Dad. Then, the original mule entry existed. Four years later, a mere ditch pipe exchanged water where the open swath had been filled in. I saw something that existed since about 1830, when canal construction completed.

Now, not mule barges, but bass cruise in from the canal and winter over in the calm basin water, deeper and better habitat for bass in cold water, water in which they don't have to expend such energy with low metabolism struggling against a current. Just like the barges at night.   

 

Remembering the 1970's and Fishing as an Eternal Verity

I've understood winter as a time to reflect and read since my teens, so it's no wonder I've been posting stories more than accounts. Having missed out on the ice fishing, because I got caught up in other things, Round Valley Reservoir yet awaits laker fishing, specifically. Even more to the point--from shore. I might catch rainbows instead.

I like to get into the technicalities of the game and see how these lead to natural effects, how a creature of nature responds as the focal point of an ecosystem, me included in that particular system in which I participate. It all begins at home. After all, ecology and economics share the same prefix, and the word economics originates in ancient Greece, oikonomia, meaning the organization and management of the household. I pick up on facts like this from reading. In an uncanny way, they're native to me, just as a Litton's Lines post on Ancient Greece and Round Valley Reservoir relates a wildly weird experience I had there. Broad and sunlit, mind you.

When I'm at home arranging tackle for an outing, I always seem to start by thinking concretely on just what to gather, sort, and prepare. I do all that sort of piecemeal while clues tend to lead on to how I can fish, like little things. I find the spinnerbait stinger hooks that got lost for a year and don't need an awkward bluefish hook in the place of one of them. On and on it goes, and I start to remember other things, like the 17-inch bass caught the previous year on a certain black custom quarter-ounce Colorado-bladed job. Before long, I'm in a deep reverie, enjoying some theme or other about the outing or many of them.

That's why, once and awhile, I post themes rather than accounts, and why my accounts themselves tend to be thematic. More than how-to, where-to, tactics and patterns--why we fish matters. None of us would have done it in the first place, unless we had a basic desire to feel what it's about. And then, once we inevitably got frustrated at the difficulty, we began to piece out how to do it. But this led on for each of us who kept at it.

The more we get into it, the more we desire to experience. And if this isn't personal experience, fishing's becoming meaningless, rather than becoming more of a story.

So that's my lead and I'm going to try and keep this post reasonably short, since after all, it's only a blog through which I'm writing.

Back in the day, those world-famous 1970's when 75% or more of high school seniors smoked pot much more openly than they seem to smoke the stuff today, when rock 'n roll was in it's heyday--arguably, '70's music is better than '60's, but not as good as classical--when the weather always seemed warm and sunny--if you're my age, I bet that's how you remember it--when everyone was usually in a good mood, and if not that, in a great mood...the 70's were a time when a few friends and I--besides all this other stuff--fished the early season for largemouth bass.

Typically, it began in late February on the bottom. At least I used to crawl a Johnson Beetle Spin so slowly on gravel I noticed the second hand of my watch seem to turn at about the speed of the handle of my Penn 716. I don't recall anyone else trying this technique. It probably required too much patience. Whether or not, I do know I came up with it. Next, we got them in the mid-column with water warming a little, in between the bottom and the shallows, reeling in-line spinners slow to moderately. I think all of us fished this way. But I made my own out of knock-off CP Swing components that worked just as well. Size 6. So did an older mentor, who showed me how to do this. Brunswick Sports and Hardware in Trenton near the Lawrence Township line sold the parts, or was it Andy's Sports Shop in Trenton? Most likely, old Andy had the equipment. I'm certain now, because my mentor hated Brunswick Sports and Hardware.

Finally, when bass barely nudged into the shallows, we got them by slightly twitching 2 1/2-inch Rebel Minnows on the surface.

Why do this, when so much partying went on? I remember just once, one afternoon I hit Baker's Basin high. It was sacrilege. I really don't say this ironically, because the guilt felt palpable. We, the immoral majority who broke the law, had our ways and means of sharing the sacrament of mother nature, the bones we burned to offer togetherness.

Who knows, perhaps we released the wrath of great spirits, who would have preferred we engage other arts instead. After all, at least the spirit of great works remains with us, and to ignore this fact doesn't make them go away.

Fishing, for one of its qualities, was a way to preserve purity. I knew whatever insights I momentarily gleaned by looking askance as we got into the Dead, these insights rarely, if ever, amounted to anything, because forgotten. I never fully gave into the counter culture, as a few of my friends did and still offer everything up in smoke.

Fishing was much more important. Again, for one thing, because it was unambiguously real. I bet anyone who smokes that stuff is uncertain of reality sometimes when on it. I remember two incidents, one on an island during a calm night of camping on a lake, another in a cabin by a pond, when reality felt more certain and positive than usual, and yet so many times we teens fell prey to confusions about what deeper levels of mind informed us, while the ability to stop action and consider had got let loose like a tape we couldn't stop and rewind. And then we felt as if missing something important, since stuff happening to us we couldn't control didn't seem right for good reason. I guess adults exist who have come to terms with pot and have learned how to let control go, but I've come to good terms with life without the stuff, so it's pretty much a non-issue for me.

I fished all the time during my teens, and avoided those who smoked all the time. I gave up my closest friend--who later came back--because he went too far into the haze. The rest of us teenaged fools and pseudo-intellectual Honor Society types, after freshman year in college when I dropped out to begin in the shellfishing business, it took me three troubled years of conflict with friends to finally write them off as full of---

Is the mind's standard reality or not? If not, it can be all sorts of things, whether you smoke pot or not. Things all of which amount to social prejudices of one sort or another.

So were the '70's Purple Haze or clear sunlight? If I wrote sunshine, you might think of the code designation. I remember the sunlight.

Nevertheless, I make a confession. I honor the Dead. God save the child who rings the Liberty Bell. Robert Hunter's "Franklin's Tower" stems from his passionate love of history, which says a lot for the power of the human mind under duress of agents that destroy it. Ultimately, we can't blame the drugs as the agents. They're chosen in the context of a broader cultural power structure.

Go away and fish. You stand outside it all, looking in on the whole world of folly.

Here's the link to that Round Valley post: http://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2012/10/round-vallley-reservoir-and-ancient.html

Delaware River's Deepest Depth: A Bass and Walleye Nexus

He's very much all grown up now, but this doesn't seem long ago, when Matt and I rode to Barryville, NY, in November, Narrowsburg further upstream in the back of my mind. I learned of the 113-foot depths during my teens, the deepest of the river, at least the deepest above the tide line at Trenton, and I suspect deeper than any depths of the river below and the Delaware Bay, without knowing for a fact. I studied a map, since I had a fascination for maps and places designated. Naturally, I wanted to go to Narrowsburg sometime.

Modern life or postmodern life or post-postmodern life, whatever you want to call it now, isn't much different than the 1970's when I fished constantly. Call it a "Space Oddity" if you want; there's no doubt that with the demon speed of modern transportation and the angelic lace of the limelight, the modern mind is abstracted in space compared to just little more than a century ago with people much more connected to the land and water. Anyone can contradict me on the difference between now and the '70's by citing the abject fascination with electronic devices. There's no doubt we're even more in our heads as a result, and less reading of newspapers and books means the quality of mind is changed, since reading print on paper is a different experience and closer to nature. Or you could say viewing and reading electronic screens is closer to atomic energy levels in nature, as if we're trying to dig worm holes in the fabric of time to other places.

I got away from my habit of fishing at the age of 18. Just after I had dreamed of becoming a tournament bass pro at 16, I became utterly enthralled with literature, which had seemed very unlikely, because until my junior or senior high school year, I hated English classes, at least those besides journalism, which I liked because I was getting published in magazines on fishing at 16. I did like composition class, 11th grade, the first step to what some may see as my demise, because keeping a personal journal was required.

I got hooked. Like a drug more addictive than nicotine. Soon I read every book I could grab. And many years later, I now have about 100,000 pages of these journals I've handwritten.

Fishing? I kept fishing. As Eric Evans has observed, I never lost the passion. But the serious habit--about 250 days on the water each year--fell by the wayside. Matt got me back at it with fervor in 2004. Steve Slota had turned us on to Barryville in June that year, the two of us and his son Tom, and Matt, catching dozens of smallmouths up to three pounds as we floated down in a vinyl raft. Steve also caught a walleye on a Rapala Countdown. We camped at Cedar Rapids, at the time owned by a woman I've become acquainted with and Steve knows from way back. I'm having a senior moment and forget her name. She runs another place in Barryville now.

So late in November, I had one of my rare inspirations, and I guess I say rare only because modern life or whatever it is, is so contrary. I get inspirations like this all the time. And even though I gave up fishing recreationally so much, I became a commercial shellfisherman at 19, as hard core outdoors as you can get, which involved working in bay brine January and February wearing wetsuits.

Did I get the idea to drive Matt to Barryville and try to catch walleye, or wasn't it premonition, because I'm not moved by "ideas" in some form like dead, encrypted information. Maybe I'm moved by ideas in the Platonic or Hegelian sense, great affective wholes in the way the Bible speaks of a man being commanded to act. Well, I only behaved as if commanded when I utterly gave way to manic episodes during my youth and seemingly survived them only by miracle. I always consider, judge, emend, choose.

This is a blog post, so I probably can't say so much and keep your interest. Perhaps I will write a longer, subtler version of this post and submit it to a literary journal. 

Unfortunately, Matt got skunked on this adventure northward into New York, but I caught a pickerel, two nice smallmouths and a largemouth in Barryville, before we took the leap and rode all the way up to Narrowsburg. It's like a lake, the river wide and rounded. One boat had fishermen in it working a distant shoreline. They were sort of silhouetted in dim light with haze on the water and clouds overhead. We caught nothing in Narrowsburg, plying a shoreline, but it was like feeling great weight of water, and of course I didn't fail to tell my son how deep.

A sort of homecoming. In my teens, I had wondered about this place. Wanted to go, of course. And in November 2004, it was all beginning again.    

Photo Outing Found Trout Round Valley After Big Snow

Alarm went off at 7:15 and I felt wretched exhaustion and set it for 8:45, hoping sunlight on the Clinton Mill would balance the red. As often happens, I get manic in the head and insomniac when I go to sleep at night, ideas competing with my wish to sleep. Before I finally zoned out sometime well after midnight, I hoped to awake energetic, as sometimes a little manic bout punches energy level enough to wake up ready to go.

Not this morning. But by 8:45, I was OK, except I decided to forego the fishing tackle for Round Valley Reservoir and hit the road immediately, scooping up my camera, tripod, and leashing Sadie the black Lab. On the way, I worried about light perhaps not being right. You can see it is, but there's some bad white balance that resulted in blue snow you can see if you look for it. I can correct that. The "kit lens" has pretty deep color tone, but I may buy the much more expensive 17-55mm yet. I Don't think the photo quite does it, but the camera is a D7100, top of the DX format line.

After a dozen shots or so, I headed up Route 31 looking for a kayak outfitter I never found, so I have to wait yet to buy cartop racks. But I drove into Glen Gardner, turning around at Hot Rod Hot Dogs, and marveling at the size of the mountain with a rock face in front of me. Some of the houses along the way are beat up and kind of appealing, a feeling of honest ruin and letting it all go. I guess some things have to rot, and though I wouldn't live in ramshackle house, I would hate to live in a country where every house is prim.

I drove to Round Valley and shot photos, left, got the idea of walking to a low-water peninsula to photograph it, and turned the Honda Civic back. So I got a good trudge in deep snow with Sadie and got more photos, that peninsula shot worth it all the way. And then I walked along the water, most of the way in refrozen, boot-resistant snow, to one of two guys fishing trout.

He had two rainbows, each about 17 inches, caught on shiners. He told me some lakers got caught just before the snowstorm slammed us. I drove up here on Tuesday, and the main park entrance was closed. It must have opened yesterday, since boot marks on the trail were old, but this guy was the first out to that point, judging by his.

I may get out and fish trout here soon.

 Used my Tokina 11-16mm

Nikkor 70-200mm f/4, 1.4 Nikkor Extender, 1.3 camera crop function

Taking it all Out to Budd Lake

The year after we met, Patricia, who became my wife, and I, moved onto the second floor of a Victorian manor in North Plainfield, New Jersey. That winter of 1993-1994 was the coldest on record. We paid through the 12-foot ceilings for heating.

I read in The Fisherman about ice fishing on Round Valley Reservoir, but never joined in. During a move that August to Chester, New Jersey, I came close to throwing out my tip-ups. I had trout fished that spring, but compared to previous life as a commercial clammer, I was not connected to the land and water, and I almost tossed aside something essential to me.

Once established in Chester, I went through dozens of jobs before I began waiting tables for Larison's Turkey Farm. Patricia called the restaurant "Turkey Central." We married in 1997 shortly before I began working there. Larison's had been a landmark for six or seven decades. I think it is that long. I once sat down to dinner with Mr. Larison and a couple of others. He was 97, but the place went out of business just after I quit in 1999.

I felt like Benjamin Franklin stepped out of existence.

The bald eagle became the national symbol, not the wild turkey that Franklin suggested, but the wild turkey is one whacky bird that symbolizes the Great Thanksgiving Feast of Friends, the social cluster jam that can incentivize capitalism from the ground up, not from the high venture command that levels the field for everyone but vultures. The crowds were steady at Larison's and the work reliable. Fun too, that place was a riot.

But before I began working at Larison's, during January 1997, I ice fished Little Swartswood Lake with a friend's son. The friend had also shellfished with me behind Long Beach Island. My passion for ice fishing surged. All these years later, I remember this with crisp focus. 

The next weekend I began ice fishing Budd Lake. For three winters, most of my fishing was solitary, and the best I remember of these outings was a frigid, 15-degree afternoon when I encountered a loneliness that would have been unbelievable to me growing up.

I not only faced it without depression, I relished it as the very essence distilled of my struggling life. It took a few seasons before I felt this at its best, and the vibrant social scene at Larison's didn't cheat the experience. I had worked hundreds of jobs since I began taking them in 1987, along with shellfishing sporadically until 1993. Most of them temping, I had a dozen agencies, so all told, I'd say I worked close to 300 jobs in about a decade. I was conscientiousness and a hard worker, if I could be. Sometimes I was so self-divided hard work wasn't possible, yet conscience remained.

In essence, I'm a writer, not a workin' man. Clearly at odds with the expected, I'm nevertheless the most persistent man I've known. Besides, on that issue of work, I've never met anyone else who has worked as many different jobs. After that decade--I was ice fishing Budd Lake with a friend by this time--I found a job I could accept long term and stayed with it for 13 years. But I've had the goal of success as a writer from the age of 16. Nothing has stopped me.

Budd Lake could have been the moon. It was beautiful. I can't tell you how precious physical light really is. And ice stepped on. I was like an astronaut from a spacecraft I not only manned alone, but built alone. The spacecraft of my unknown life, which I know well enough to have done it successfully.

 

Me in 1997

I'm Staying on Blogger with More Comments

Looking forward to summer, fish on and conversation. Joe played this hybrid striper long enough that Jim and Donna settled into talking in the background about whatever.

Going on two months ago, I wondered if it's possible to migrate a blog from Blogger to WordPress. I had never heard or read of it being done, but it seemed surely there's a way to rewrite code. Next time online, I googled to find out plenty people have and do, and I began researching while assuming it would be too costly to hire someone.

Well, it's not very costly, about two hundred bucks. I just think, after all my efforts at understanding the process, it's not necessary that Litton's Lines go to WordPress. When I begin a literary blog it will be different, a blog that explores possibilities for my first novel, makes sense of what this novel will be in the cultural scene today, markets it, but above all persuades readers to my vision as well as invites them to take a different perspective. I don't like to think of people as a market as I like to think of them as individuals. I will begin this blog on a self-domain in WordPress, and I may suffer a lot of headaches for this. In five years of Blogger the site's been down just once. I read about 99.96% as an excellent uptime figure, but that means the site is down three or four times a year!

I don't want to lose a single post, nor a single digit of the social share numbers, and I've been informed it's possible some posts get lost during the transfer, and not one of the services I've reviewed mentions social share numbers retained. In the meantime, I finally got the Google + gizmo fixed. That was simple, I just had to change it to a different form. Once the number hit 600, it reversed. Every time someone tried to share, the gizmo subtracted a number. I tried before I changed it, and it didn't even allow me to share. So that's fixed. I also found out that all this time, comments have been possible only to people Google registered! So how many of you who have tried and been refused, I don't know. Sorry about that! Chalk it up to inexperience with techy stuff. Now anyone can comment easily, and I hope you do. I know a lot of you guys and gals read this blog as a local source, but until today, never knew I could open it up better than I had it set.

One caveat. I don't yet know if I'm going to merge the blog with Google +. So far, I understand it needs to have a shared author profile. No problem there. But it might be that if I incorporate comments from Google +, once again, only registered users can comment. I hope that's only true in Google + itself. I place blog posts in a number of Google + communities and reply to more comments there, than in this blog itself, so I do want to incorporate those comments and make this platform more of a community. I will always answer comments, as I always have.

So we're off to another good year and I promise you that before I begin work on that novel again, I'll finish my book on fishing. Actually, I have a second book on fishing in the works, too, and intend to finish it before I return to the novel, also. I find writing an extremely compelling act, but if not for fishing, I guess I would just be another nerd. That description has never suited me.  

Ice Fishing in Maine Anyway

The market for mousy grubs in Maine is picking up in recent years.

Ice Fishing Promises Winter Action  

          Four strong whacks of the splitting bar yielded water. I followed through with cuts in a tight circle, whisked chunks out of the hole with the flat of the blade, and kneeled to reach bare handed under water between surface and bottom, measuring better than four inches of safe ice thickness.

          When I get a chance to fish on fresh “black” ice without snow cover, I expect lots of trap and jig action. All varieties of gamefish see live shiner scales or silvery jigging spoons reflect sunlight and strike in reaction. Most of the ice fishing season, however, is a relatively darkened world to fish, yet great catches are made by setting traps and/or jigging where fish frequent. Just as important as sight, a fish’s lateral line is a sensory organ that picks out vibrations from many yards distant. Fish key in upon vibrations forage make to feed under ice.

          Compared to the depths trout swim in summer, ice fishing is productive in relatively shallow water. Lake trout dwell deepest, though not as deep as during summer, and often strike quite shallow. Largemouth bass usually get hooked in depths shallower than 20 feet, smallmouths as deep as about 30 feet, and pickerel may strike in three-foot shallows. Yellow perch and panfish often bite just as shallow, although they may feed in depths of 20 feet or so. Depth all depends, if most of the time we don’t know why and just feel happy to find fish.

          Every lake or pond offers its own unique structural challenges and opportunities, and to be prepared for them and find fish, you must be familiar with what’s under the ice, have a topographic map, or go with a guide or someone who knows the destination. Choose the fish you want to catch and zero in. Pickerel, largemouth bass, perch and panfish may share the same spots, but trout are another game.

         Brook, rainbow, and brown trout feed on shallow flats of five to eight feet or so, especially with drop-offs nearby, since they migrate to and from deeper water, depending on whether not they feed in shallows or rest deep. When devouring minnows, they suspend between ice and bottom, though the water may be especially shallow and the issue negligible. Otherwise, they find invertebrates on shallow bottom, including small crayfish. Jigging spoons like the Swedish Pimple and Kastmaster in 1/10^th ounce size, ice flies, Micro Jigs and a whole host of other little lure options produce, although it’s a good idea to experiment. Unless trout feed voraciously—as they might—they’re picky.

           You need to be quiet. They’re about as spooky as during warm weather and just a little slow by comparison. Trout best acclimate to cold--better than pickerel. Live bait options include maggots, small minnows, waxworms, and redworms fished under a float. Use the lightest line possible, not because trout see as well as when no snow blocks light, but because sight remains involved to some degree. And believe it or not, trout sense line by their lateral receptors. If you anticipate big trout, six-pound test is needed. But two or four-pound test on a tiny reel and jigging rod is appropriate otherwise.  

          Lake trout typically suspend under ice and may be hooked near the hole. Main lake points, humps, and mouths of bays are the big attractions. Large spoons fished on hefty jigging rods produce, as do ¾ ounce rattling lipless crankbaits: lakers are drawn through darkness to the commotion. Traps baited with live shiners or smelts are great to space apart by about 25 yards and let be while you jig. Four may be set per man, while each jigs his fifth legal line. 10 pound test Power Pro Ice line with 10 pound test fluorocarbon leader connected by a uni to uni splice can withstand the duress of fighting these great fish. Jigging large spoons or other lures produces noise, so it’s not important to go light.   

          The Kastmaster effective for trout is deadly for pickerel, quarter ounce about right. A silvery spoon of any variety draws strikes powerful enough to make you forget the chill. When I began fishing as a boy, almost everyone said I needed wire leader to protect against teeth, but I learned from someone who used 20 pound test monofilament tied to a swivel. Now we have fluorocarbon. Fifteen-pound test is just right.

          Pickerel ambush forage fish with absolute deliberateness from shallow weeds year round. Fish shiners or jig a spoon over residual vegetation, and sooner or later you’ll happen upon a pickerel. Vegetation grows deep in some clear lakes, so shallow is relative to how deep the sun reaches, given bottom soft enough for vegetation to flourish. Pickerel, especially the big ones, can be caught as deep as 20 feet or so. You don’t want to place shiners in the thick of weeds, since they will bury themselves. Set them so they swim over the highest reaches of any vegetation that hasn’t decomposed, and pickerel will find them, possibly bass too.

          Whether you bait a trap for pickerel or bass, a smallish barrel swivel connecting main line and leader serves as weight. The shiner or smelt will find its way down, rather than swim upwards against the weight of the line and swivel. A light wire, size 6 hook, such as the plain shank variety Eagle Claw makes, sufficiently allows free swimming. Some swear by size 8 trebles, but if bait is swallowed and the fish released, that’s a problem. In all events of fishing traps, it’s better to set the hook sooner than later. Thick braid line designated for ice fishing is manageable for hand lining. A more expensive low diameter performance brand will cut the hands of whoever tries to play a fish.

          Largemouths often frequent the same weeds as pickerel, although you won’t find any as shallow as three feet. Eight feet is a possibility, although 12 to 15 is better. If you know of any spot that combines residual weeds, submerged brush or timber, or rocks—fish it. Whatever the structure you select, if deeper water is nearby, this may be favorable. Largemouths may not retreat deeper than 20 or 25 feet, but they may prefer to cruise in deeper water’s proximity.

          Rocks are just as essential to smallmouth bass as weeds to pickerel, but if you know of a spot at least 15 feet deep combining rocks with residual weeds, you may sweeten your chances of success. Main lake rocky points, humps, and ledges are not the only drop-offs that produce smallmouths. Coves with combinations of vegetation, stone, and sharp drop-offs may offer outstanding fishing. Both species of bass, smallmouths especially, tend to frequent sharp drop-offs in winter because the route from deep water resting basins to shallower feeding grounds is short. With metabolism slow, they swim less.

          Yellow perch and panfish jigged with the lightest specialty rods take tiny ice jigs tipped with mousy grubs. Residual weedbeds and weedline edges can produce great numbers, and some ice anglers are dedicated to perch and panfish for this reason. A feast afterwards carries the celebration.

          Nothing else excites like the risen orange flag of a trap against a snowy background. As a boy, the experience of a bobber going under gave me an uncanny feeling of connection before I even set the hook. As a grown man, I never lose out on the thrill of a flag. It’s like a sign of life in the Sahara.