Great Day on Way-Way--Wawayanda Lake

My wife got a kick out of this photo.

Brian and I have been jinxed for a couple of years, breaking the cycle of not getting out as we try to plan and ice fishing in January, today finally getting out on Wawayanda Lake. I didn't quite realize beforehand how long the drive, about 20 minutes further distant after passing Greenwood Lake, near the New York state border. My son and I fished here in July or August 2011, the boat rental shop opening at 8:00 a.m., and I think I paid, without any reservation, $120.00. We got skunked. (Matt did loose something big that took a herring he let down deep.) It was a sweet day. Bittersweet. That feeling wasn't going to tinge this day. 

The way I feel now is the way I expected to feel. The afterglow of a successful day. It started out OK, us launching around 7:00 a.m., after I had got to Brian's house before 5:00. My Minn-Kota hustled that squareback towards the far end, where my sonar unit showed plenty of depth to scout for herring schools and salmon on them. The screen froze. I tried disconnecting the battery a number of times and restarting. Nothing showed on the screen at all. Just the water temperature. 69.

"That's alright," Brian said, "We can rely on Joe's unit." His friend had arrived here at 4:30 a.m. from Rancocas south of Trenton. He pointed to Joe's one-man pontoon in the distance, got out his mobile device, and asked him if he was marking any. Very few.

"Bruce is bent out of shape," he said.

I knew the day was no loss without another screen to look at, but the need of repair after just two or three years of use, especially when just yesterday I got a check in the mail for an article published and felt that bonus feeling of money going to the savings account, stuck me. We tried and tried to catch a salmon, Jim never finding a real school of herring and salmon on them, us getting a couple of really good drifts under a light breeze, but Brian got the only hit, until later, after the two of us turned to pickerel and bass, Jim lost a couple of salmon that hit his spinner. Meanwhile, I came out of my silly withdrawal. I knew in my head it's not worth quibbling over, but I fight for every cent; paid an hourly wage by a supermarket, very little of that going towards outings like today's, most of it supporting my son's Boston University education, so paying for the likes--although I thank Brian for his generosity in buying the bait today, a big Frabill bait unit, and driving us up there--and for paying the cost of all of my equipment by getting paid for writing, this didn't mean I was set back so much as in need of keeping up, as I have for more than a decade. Besides, had I remembered then how much it cost to fish this lake with my son, how willing I was to take the opportunity, I could have told myself all the more that equipment failure is not worth the trouble of misgiving.

You tell yourself it's not, but if you're in the habit of getting ahead on little, it takes awhile to bounce back. Maybe not long. Soon out of the mood, I never missed the graph.

Brian learned a neat method from his Uncle for catching pickerel and bass. Former Frank's Bait and Tackle, on the way here, and from what I understand from Brian most anglers still call the shop, now named Tackle and Field, used to sell redfin shiners imported from Arkansas, big ones about five inches long. "They were for lunkers. We didn't get many hits on them, but the bass were big."'

They became unavailable, and Brian and his uncle tried the herring they used for salmon on the bass and pickerel, getting results. Instead of anchoring, or floating out the wind, and waiting on the bobbers to go under, Brian had me set the electric motor on low speed, trolling them, bait set about five feet underneath, through weedy water 10 to 15 feet deep. It works. We caught three pickerel apiece and I also caught the biggest black crappie I've ever caught, about 13 inches. Maybe the only black crappie I've caught. I once caught a 15-inch white crappie at Spruce Run Reservoir, and that's the only specie of the two I remember catching. Plenty of those and plenty this big, but I like the dark shade a lot better. Brian also lost three pickerel and a bass. I lost a few, too.

We had forgotten the wire leaders bought at Frank's. I feel responsible on two counts. They were stashed on the passenger side, and I told Brian out on the lake that 20-pound test fluorocarbon leader should suffice. He later said all three of his lost pickerel bit through. One of those three was bigger than any we caught. Maybe I'm sold on wire leaders now. When we ice fished in January, pickerel bit through fluorocarbon then, too.

We went through four dozen herring. Some of them died, but the Frabill unit--big as a cooler--kept them alive a long while.

I suggest weightless plastic worms. Out of the wind--I had forgotten my anchor--Brian hooked a nice bass that came half way out of the water, displaying the wide-opened mouth of a three pounder. He also hooked a small bass that leapt off. I missed one hit from a bass. Panfish seem attracted to the impregnated scent. They pull on the worms a lot.

We were out for hours. Slowing down. Slowing down better than you can read this entire post. Rain came and we headed towards the ramp, coming upon another cove out of the wind as rain subsided. There we caught three bass and a pickerel. Brian was the first to break with targeting the edge of thick weeds as he began reeling his worm over the stuff, getting hit on the first cast. "Just like the Princeton Day School Ponds," he said.

I had fished bass there the same way. Eventually, I tied on a Scum Frog, a soft weedless topwater froggy thing that took three or four missed hits. One of those hits, Brian pointed out, might have been successful, had I waited a second before I tried to set. I know that in principle, but it's still hard to know that in habit, the way it counts.

On the lake eight hours, by the time I got home in Bedminster, more than 14 hours had passed since I had awakened after about four hours of sleep. Brian had bought two Monster energy drinks before we got on I-287 South; I settled on a mix of nuts, filling and plenty good for energy, and I drove the 45 minutes home from Brian's house without feeling exhausted. I cleaned the crappie for dinner and two rainbow trout given me by someone at the ramp who decided he didn't want them--a 12-incher and 16-incher--and got an hour of sleep before I unloaded equipment from my car. My canoe stays at Brian's, thanks to him, and thanks to restrictive condo association measures, but the battery is back on the charger upstairs, and the electric motor in its place. Brian can use my canoes any time he pleases.

The important thing about outings like this is the enjoyment of the day, but plenty of thought goes into them afterwards, more than I ever disclose in a post. If I gave up this mad fishing, this hard work at preparing equipment and carrying a heavy battery and carrying a canoe that weighs 110 pounds up a fairly steep slope to where its kept and, in general, utterly breaking with the comfort of routine, I wouldn't sin against the social system involving work hours that tends to reign us in to habits of obedience; I would sin against life. Brian and I have a way out of getting told what to do. Better. We find life the way anyone knows it as his or her best, and speaking for myself, I'm not only willing to suffer for that, I find the suffering is a lot less than I would think it is, if I didn't get out and have a day with a friend like today.

At the ramp, Brian got out and asked me to look for the keys to his truck in the bottom of the canoe. Not there. "Maybe I left them in the truck."

He came back, "They have to be in the canoe."

They weren't.

"Brian, how could you lose your keys?!" I said, feeling they couldn't really be lost. And in that moment my hand went for my pocket. "They're in my pocket!"

He had me go get something last minute in the morning. Both of us had forgotten.  

Joe and his one-man pontoon.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2011/09/wawayanda-lake-is-sweet-spot.html

Memorial Day

My wife goaded me into going to the town parade, and as I told myself I would enjoy the event, the walking, the lemonade and iced tea, the river, I did. And I experienced a moment of heady gratitude for our armed services, which, after all, is what the holiday is all about.

Last night, we watched a special on TV about a WW II battle between British and Nazi forces. Never before in all my life--it featured real footage of skulls splintered and bodies of former friends dumped in view beside trenches, rotting corpses, trench foot, talk of tanks running over their own who had fallen dead, because they had to get forward position, etc.--never have I experienced battle as realistically as this documentary recreated it. Supposedly, creative art does that, not documentary, but no, this production was so intensely realistic it beat any story. What nations have to do, sometimes, in defense.

On the way to Far Hills, we walked over the North Branch, witnessing a fly caster catch a trout. On the way back, we witnessed a trout caught on a spinning rod.  

Quick Catch at the Zoo

At the AT&T Zoo just before 5:00, getting just a little preoccupied with photography, flippin' an egg into the current under the exit bridge a couple of minutes later, I hooked my first quickly. I spent more than three minutes with my Go Pro mounted on my extension bar and placed underwater and half-in, half-out, taking that long to make sure some footage works as still shots.

Then I got into what turned out to be an onerous process--feels real good now--of missing at least 50 hits. I caught 13 in the hour-and-a-half I fished, losing another almost at my feet, losing a few others during the fight, all of them coming on one-pound test Suffix. A couple of them measured nearly 13 inches, these fish really running long and hard on the microlight.

That current right at the downstream edge of the bridge is especially difficult to drift when water is high and moving as it did today. Color was OK. Not clear, but not dingy, either. But the flow made getting a direct pull impossible, though I picked up the line quickly enough on these 13 fish. I let the trout take eggs a couple of seconds before setting, but obviously this didn't work too well, though it did work better than pulling back immediately.

I emptied a  large jar of Atlas Mike's King. (I think it's possible I bought the last large jars of salmon eggs available in the nation, at Walmart, Morris Plains, in December last year or January. I cleaned them out of large jars.) Then I got started on Shrimp. I was going to stay around until I reached a total of 15, but I inadvertently snapped off my rig, and then I found tying on a new little snap with that thin line so aggravating, that I decided it was wise to bow out before I felt any worse. Doesn't seem I would have felt that way now, but getting home early to get started on other stuff hasn't let me down. My hand-to-eye coordination has gone so far south with age--they told me 15 years ago I need tri-focal lenses, but I use only reading glasses on occasion--that it is the revenge of my brother David. I pitied him while I was growing up. He does use glasses. His frustrations with tying knots. I was reminded of Winston Churchill--"Never, never, never, never give in." Then, I kept trying, but when a wisp of wisdom visited me, whispering that I can let it go and it will be OK, I listened instead to this.

Eating some trout at present. Cooked them well before darkness fell, thinking I could have caught 25 or 30, maybe more, had I stayed. Definitely would have caught more, had I got the hook into them more often.

Have music playing on my laptop. "Haitian Divorce," Steely Dan. Segued into it from a number of old Motown selections: "Family Affair," "Diamond in the Back," Boz Scaggs' "Lowdown" tossed in, "Who's that Lady," and "What's Going On." Makes Chris Hayes on TV interesting.

Donald Fagan just drips with sentimentality. So much for the tearful reunion. I'm going back to Motown.

…Though you may not drive, a great big Cadillac.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2019/04/muskonetcong-river-hakehokake-creek.html

Hell of a Thing

It's a hell of a thing for me to have said, "I believe most of my readers take in a paragraph like the one I just wrote--thanks for reading--and it goes from one end of the brain to the other without arousal suggesting any commitment." This in the post the other day on Hopatcong.

It's probably not true. It's probably my own self-doubt. And I must "believe" that only in a bad mood. I was facing my job the next day. True or false, I read that first paragraph minutes ago, and though it does lose its power in the last sentence, otherwise it's elegant enough to feel pleasing, no matter if anyone would think it's only sentimental or not. What's the point of the big shakedown in the next paragraph?

Alright, up against the wall! Am I just an impractical idealist or what?!

How many more times a job will spoil things after a nice day seems infinite. And the barrelhouse is a state of mind I'd probably be a fool to believe I can escape, as if I'm any exception to "a circuitous habit of small concerns." I just want to be. 

In the Center of Open Spaces

Some days remind you of larger frames, those days when you find yourself in the center of open spaces, passing through majestic sequences of ordinary hours. You're out in the open under clouds and sun, between sloping hills and trees--not behind doors, windows, and walls--so you might feel an inkling of openness to the extraordinary. If inklings of better visit you while on the job, as they do me, they're mental then, while out here reality itself assures you of a worthwhile world.

I believe most of my readers take in a paragraph like that I just wrote--thanks for reading--and it goes from one end of the brain and out the other without arousal suggesting any commitment. The problem with the world, which people have increasingly called crazy over the past decade, is that people don't shed their thick skins. They build walls of defense so the world doesn't hurt them, and then they end up out-of-touch with any world that will do them good, feeling all the worse. Petty concerns rule the hours and little light penetrates a circuitous habit of means to small ends.

I don't mean to insult you. Especially if you're not that reader, and instead you're not only in agreement with me, but manage to get past triviality. But it's a growing frustration of mine that so many affirmations I engage with the world and account for--to some degree--in this weblog, these seem to get past people as if it's sentimentality. If that's all awareness amounts to--an impractical feeling that will never amount to dollars and sense--then I'm with you. The hell with values and literature. If it amounts to nothing, as most people seem to believe, then I'll resolve to reporting nothing but the plain stupid facts.

Today was a better day than that.

Matt's away in Boston for the summer. My wife and I got word from him this afternoon. He plans on visiting in mid-June. A year ago he caught his first hybrid striper over five pounds. Today Michael Vandenberg and I went out hoping for more, and though we encountered none that big, except perhaps for one fish in Lake Hopatcong's Byram Cove that broke my somehow weakened line too quickly for me to tell what kind of fish, we caught five beautiful bass, the biggest 19 inches, the others ranging between 14 and 18 1/2 inches.

My one concern focused on Michael catching a nice one. That 18 1/2-iucher in the photo was a keeper. But as everything well-planned and well-executed goes, once the chief objective is achieved, the day opens up to greater possibilities. It doesn't matter if a finger can't be put on them. Just this day was one to be remembered, not only because we enjoyed trolling hybrids, but because after we caught some, we felt free to include our work worlds within the wider context of what really makes any of it possible.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2018/05/lake-hopatcong-trolled-hybrid-stripers.html

11-Pound, Five-Ounce Lake Hopatcong Walleye

Laurie Murphy:


Knee Deep’s Panfish contest was pretty much a washout due to the heavy rain. Thank You to the few who did brave the elements and fish. First place went to Tommy Crouch, 2nd place went to Fred Nitek and third place went to Pete Rathjens. Next contest up is for Walleye, being held on May 18th &  19th. Some nice fish made their way to the scale this past week, including a 11 pound 5 ounce walleye caught by Don Rolfs, caught casting a bomber long A from shore. Sabrina Mackin had a Hybrid Striped Bass that weighed 8 lb 8 oz and Alex Tuorinsky had 2 white cats weighing 3 pounds and 3 pound 14 oz. Some young fishermen had their share of nice fish also, with Max Hughen with his 1 lb 10 Rainbow trout and a 3 lb 12 oz walleye, along with several nice Bass , and Brandon Wood trolled up some nice trout, with the largest being a Rainbow over 3 pounds and a Hybrid Striper that was 6 lb 6 oz. Have a great week ...

Caught Some Round Valley Bass

I still manage to get over and fish Round Valley in May. Eight years ago, I began fishing there on frequent occasion from shore during this month, catching plenty of bass and some big ones, the largest five pounds, caught in the reservoir. Today my wife came along with our black Lab, Sadie. I brought a fold-out chair; she brought a book to read while sitting in it.

I fished the pond first, not raising a fish. The reservoir yielded seven largemouths, average-size reservoir bass like this one photographed. All came on a light brown Senko. I missed a few hits. I kept at the fish, hoping that one of those infrequent big ones would break the cycle, but the little bass occupied me well for little more than an hour.

We left near 9:00 p.m. I had tried the pond again, another corner and short strip of shoreline, and though no hits came there, I gave it enough attention to break even further past the barrior that the daily grind erects. The peace felt vividly alive as thousands of baitfish broke calm surface over the deepest water. It seems as if thousands of herring inhabit the pond, but maybe it's unlikely that's what they are. Few have existed in the reservoir for decades now, though the pond is fertile and has a depth of about 45 feet. I guess it's the question of whether any got into the pond somehow, years ago, as somehow they got in the reservoir then. If so, why wouldn't they have stayed there with the higher fertility the pond has? No one seems to know how they got in the reservoir. Why not the pond, too? It just so happens no one talks about them in the pond; all the talk I've heard is about their demise in the reservoir due to lowered fertility.

It looks like I won't be done holding jobs for years yet. Possibly more than 11 years, until I'm 70. I never graduated with a four-year degree, because I saw no point in doing professional work I wasn't interested in. I did have an interest in earning a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing, or else in earning a PH.D to become a professor of philosophy. My academic advisor at Hampshire College suggested to me the latter option and strongly supported it, going so far as to secure me one-on-one tutoring with the head of the philosophy department at the college, but my parents would not pay for any grad school, and I had no notion of the possibility of earning funding otherwise, clueless about that sort of thing, and no one offered me so much as a clue.

So I've worked low-paid wage jobs from the age of 32, when I gave up commercial clamming, returning to mainstream life. This evening's outing showed me that when I finally am done working stupid jobs, real life will take me back.

https://littonsfishinglines.blogspot.com/2014/05/lunker-lunch-5-pound-round-valley.html