A Stony Brook Fish Story

The Bend

Yet another reflective story as winter seems to wind down now, ice-out perhaps coming very early and ponds, lakes and reservoirs remaining open hereafter. My best friend from my teens emailed me from California last night, and suggested I write a story around the four-pound smallmouth he caught in Stony Brook, Princeton Township, back when we were 15 and 16.

"Steve, you're dreamin'!" I replied. "It was two-and-a-half."

Something flashed through my mind when I read his request. Now it occurs to me the theme involves concrete essence, a most radical idea introduced by philosopher Aristotle about 2500 years ago in ancient Greece. All the more radical, when you consider his best friend was Plato. For Plato, essences or Forms were out of this world. But instead of agreeing with his mentor that the body is a prison, Aristotle seemed never to forget the enjoyment of his partying days, and pointed to ordinary things and creatures as important.

About that riotous youth he enjoyed, when he got it together after long, hard nights to mind business, peddling herbs brought in the money.

When I look at the photograph of my second-favorite Stony Brook spot, the Bend, it makes me want to be there, slate knocking under my feet, assuring me of life's value as I cast a mellow yellow Mr. Twister, a foot-long smallmouth hammering it.

Now imagine if I were Platonic, had died and escaped the "prison" to dwell among the Forms. According to Plato, you're supposed to behold the Forms when you're dead. Suppose I did something naughty and looked the other way, back down to earth, to see something "corrupted" like the photo I've included with this story. What if, for all the Platonic High, what if those weighty rocks, supposedly no good for their tendency to go downward, made me remember how good it is to be somewhere? Plato's eternal Forms aren't really in any place since they're not concrete.

I'd come straight back to earth and be reborn, if I had the choice. Maybe if you're a real stoner, you can deal with being so high it doesn't matter being nowhere, but I think the root word of the self-description would imply inescapable gravity.

My favorite Stony Brook spot is called the Eight Foot Hole. A number of us still call it that on rare occasion. A spring release at bottom is good for both bass and holdover trout. Sometime during the past decade, my nephew once caught four rainbows there in August, and it's where in 1977 Steve caught his two-and-an-eighth-pound smallmouth. Even I had embellished it, when I wrote Steve back.

A number of us camped in the woods streamside, and on a number of occasions. Fair bet kids don't anymore, and even back then there was never anyone else doing it, but no one ever troubled us. Steve caught his bass in the evening, and I had come prepared with a wire-mesh catch bag for just the event of a big one caught. We also caught some 10-inchers--back then legal size was nine inches--and put them in the bag, too, keeping them in the water overnight.

And then before dawn, we got up, fixed scrapple and eggs by a nice fire and hiked the mile to the Princeton Day School ponds...with the smallmouths that survived out of water the near-jogging pace, to be stocked in the lower pond. We know at least one lived, because I caught the big one a year later on a Hedden Plunker off the surface. We even loaded a section of water with rocks, hoping the bass would reproduce.

We had permission to fish the ponds. The school Headmaster sang in the Episcopal choirs I sang in. But stock them? Well, we were kids.

Who knows. Maybe both Aristotle and Plato are right. Maybe this earth gets "stocked" with naughty people from Nowhere.    

Ice-Out Largemouths Top to Bottom

 

           February typically features ice-out throughout most of the state, if ice fishermen still catch largemouths on tip-up baited shiners on north Jersey lakes into March. I recall an 80-degree afternoon with bass caught from a shallow pond’s surface, and heard later about ice fishermen the same afternoon on Lake Hopatcong. It’s not impossible to tempt largemouths on the surface late in February, so long as water temperature is rising and at least about 47 degrees F. There’s a way to do this that may be as tempting to you as it is to bass.

          Some plastic jerkbaits, like the Rebel Minnow, rest on calm surface at an angle with the plug’s rear submerged. The head portion is the only part breaking the surface. A very slight rod twitch raises the rear and quick slack allows it to fall back. That’s all the action needed. I only fish this way with 2 ½-inch plugs when water is cold, sometimes waiting 15 seconds or more between twitches, keeping alert because bass don’t clobber the plug. They dimple the surface by sucking the plug down at the rear, subtle as a trout’s sip rise.

          I’ve only found this method effective for fishing ponds towards evening after a mild afternoon, the surface calm and water cold, yet having warmed perhaps six or seven degrees compared to the previous afternoon. Bass feed more opportunistically in springtime cold water than during fall, because they need calories to nurture eggs and milt, whereas all the science and research they do not put on fat for winter. They’re cold-blooded. They need no additional fat to insulate the body. With water temperature spiking in the upper 40’s or perhaps surpassing 50, especially a pond’s northeast corner may be a shallow hotspot. Since the sun positions on a more southern axis this time of year, its warming rays will especially fall on such a corner.

          The same principle holds true for lakes and reservoirs once they warm sufficiently for bass to invade shallows: try northeast. Use another technique, however. Suspending jerkbaits have been all the rage for years now, and with water temperatures still on the cold side, the ability of these plugs to remain stationary a few feet or so beneath the surface lends them well to slow moving bass. Larger 4-inch plugs may be effective, since they run a little deeper, cast better and may attract bigger bass. The trick is to impart subtle life-like action, not by simply twitching the plug in place every 10 seconds or so, but by sending a message to largemouths’ lateral line sensory receptors that this hunk of plastic, which doesn’t really look much like a baitfish, behaves a little like one. Try making a fairly pronounced twitch, followed by the lightest touch of animation you can give the plug. Break action irregularly with teasing intent since baitfish pulsate electrically with tiny flight impulses. They’re ribbons of life, and if you can make a plug seem nervous, you’re more likely to provoke an aggressive reaction. Don’t be obvious; it’s hardest to work a plug with finesse, but if you get results, well worth the effort.

          Shallows may yield a few bass and big ones, but nevertheless, at this time of year bass typically hug bottom structures in deeper water, water too cold to move metabolism and motivate bass into shallow ambush positions. Baitfish aren’t very interested in venturing to feed on zooplankton or what have you among residual weeds, either, yet ways to catch largemouths deep on lures instead of live shiners may be of particular interest.

          My favorite method employs an old standby. Any jig and spinner arrangement will work, but I keep a dozen or more of the old Johnson Beetle spins, 1/8^th ounce, and while obviously this is going light, it works. Some swear by full-sized spinnerbaits, but I’ve never been able to fish a large Colorado blade slow enough. The Beetle Spin features a removable wire arm, which is like a spinnerbait frame you can detach from the jighead. For our purposes, leave it on. The tiny size 0 Colorado blade doesn’t spin, not at the rate I retrieve the lure. It barely sort of waggles. Fish the lure right on bottom, barely inching it, working it even slower than surf fishermen drag Ava jigs in the fall surf for stripers. And they say you can’t fish an Ava slow enough.

          Obviously, this bottom method won’t work in residual weeds. And on the face of it, it looks like a method for smallmouths, but I’ve caught more largemouths this way. The ideal situation is a sandy, gravely or clay bottom right at the edge of residual vegetation about 10-20 feet deep. It works in the deepest water of ponds—so long as bottom is not slimy or silted with residue that will foul the blade—and it works in lakes and reservoirs. I called it tick spinning way back when I was 14, because I could hear my watch ticking at a quicker rate than I seemed to turn the reel handle, while imagining the ticking of the tiny Colorado blade making little flickers, not pulses of vibration. Believe me, that crawling of this lure on hard bottom works, and don’t worry about the blade not really spinning.

          So much is written about tube jigs because they work. The plastic tentacles are perfect for teasing cold water bass, the appendages seeming to come alive in subtle, alluring ways on their own. Bass don’t only feed on baitfish this time of year. Nematode worms are the perfect example of food that resemble these plastic feelers, nematodes sometimes existing in clusters, and like all living things, emitting subtle vibrations through subtle movements, captured by the amazing sensitivity of bass’s lateral lines. Bass sense monofilament or braid line motions too, which is why I regard the first cast to a likely spot most critical, although not so urgent as to hurry subsequent retrieves. A bass will likely be more interested in the alluring motions of a tube jig than be distracted by line—a proven fact, since bass get caught! And fishing real slow, shaking the jig right on bottom to make it nervous, doing your best to keep the jig in place while tentacles vibrate, works.

          You need quality braid line. Since braid transmits motion from the rod to the jig more directly than monofilament, don’t compromise. Don’t even use a monofilament leader; use fluorocarbon, since fluorocarbon is a better quality connection. Tie the two by uni to uni splice. Don’t complicate the matter with a barrel swivel. Ten-pound test braid will tie six-pound test fluorocarbon just fine. Larger 4-inch tubes, as well as smaller, may be effective depending on the size and weight of the jig, depth fished and size of bass pursued.

          Bass fishing is usually tough this time of year, but not as tough as open water during unrelenting winter. Early warm fronts can make bass vulnerable, and in any event, if you want to get a jump on the season, fish ponds. Especially shallow ponds with somewhat stained water ice-out first and warm faster than any other waters you can choose. Before you know it, you’ll be retrieving full-sized spinnerbaits at a moderate clip.             

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