Delaware Canal Hike Reigelsville, PA & NJ, Reigelsville Inn Dinner

A 1908 Roebling Bridge connects Reigelsville, NJ, with Reigelsville, PA, two very different yet historical towns.

Next time I go online for a Highlands destination, I really should be more careful about directions and make sure I know where I'm headed. We meant to hike trails through Musconetcong River Gorge. It's not that I couldn't have found the park. For the first mile or so of the hike we chose instead, I felt guilty for the failure. But really, I had to get over that, because traveling with Patricia, no way in any good faith existed to go wild driving up and down to find the place. As much as I did wander, edging upon borderline craziness, I considered the peace of mind she wanted with time off from work.

I have never used a GPS and plan on never bothering with any. 

Finally, I just got on Warren Glen Road and headed west, right along the Musconetcong for some of the distance. When I pulled aside for us to view a factory--forget company name--with the river coursing right alongside, smoke stack and all, I wanted to photograph, but didn't dare today. We drove down from Bloomsbury through Pohatcong Township, Finesville, and down into Reigelsville: small, charming towns with a laid back feeling compared to the Somerset County region we come from. We crossed into Warren County from Hunterdon just beyond Bloomsbury, I believe. All those 10 or 12 miles between Bloomsbury and Reigelsville, we never came upon a gas station. Warren Glen Road is County Road six hundred and something or other, I forget, but a fairly substantial highway with reduced speed limits inside developed areas that mostly seem to date back to the early 20th century.

I've driven along most of the NJ length of the Delaware above Bordentown, but this was the first I've been here. From the second Roebling Bridge we've now crossed spanning the Delaware--the other just north of Barryville, NY--I think I sighted the favorite night striper fishing spot of my son and I going back six and seven years ago. Reigelsville, NJ, is a dusty spot, but once we walked into PA, we felt astonished to see a fine restaurant. Reigelsville Inn.

"Go check out the menu," Patricia said.

Looked interesting. First, we hiked about three miles total on the Delaware Canal towpath. A guilty trek, owing to where I had wanted to go, became a very pleasant stroll, my upper back not giving the usual pain despite the heavy camera bag. We even saw a bass leap for a damselfly. And the fat toad that crossed our path is a perennial encounter that never ceases to please. Lots of good talk northward and back.

And then the meal. I felt very amused to find striped bass and skate wings offered back to back. We used to surf fish stripers, and catching skates instead marked the bane of our ventures. I tried skate once and did not like it. I wanted escargot for a shared starter, but let this go for the oysters Patricia preferred. Instead of a crab cake dinner, I had a huge venison burger complete with house salad, since crab cakes of all sorts of varieties serve as a fairly common menu item, not venison. Haven't had venison since early 1994 after butchering a deer the previous fall. Trish had a big veggie meal with rare mushrooms I tried and they tasted great.

Reigelsville Inn dates to 1838 when it served as a hotel for canal masters of whatever more specific description--the guys in charge of the mule barges.

"Must have been a flop house," Patricia said.

Whatever it was, the trade route went from Allentown-Bethlehem to Philadelphia, although the Delaware Canal does not fill the entire mileage, but runs south to wherever it emptied into the Delaware where boats could continue south without shallow rapids in the way.

The Inn today is an amazing place. We chose to eat outside on the patio by the canal, but got a good look around inside. Great original art adorns all the walls, really giving the place character. The second floor offers tables. A live jazz band jammed as evening fell. I give this place a great thumbs up and I'm glad we happened on it. 

 Preserved Canal Lock

 Part of the extensive outdoor patio by the canal at Reigelsville Inn, where we ate.

South Branch Raritan River Morning Smallmouth Quest

Noel and I waded about a mile downstream the river, beginning at 6:30 this morning. I thought things in our favor, catching a 10-inch smallmouth bass on my second cast, but although I missed some hits, and Noel caught a lot of little bass and another almost average-size, this proved to be a morning for enjoying the river as a river, and each other's company, more than for catching fish. I thought back over the fishing I've done up and down this river for the past six years. Really felt good I didn't miss out this year, the previous outing at the railroad trestle all too short and unproductive, besides photos.

As I expected, the river's running a little stained. I typically find the fishing better when it's very clear. I fished a five-inch Senko-style worm, switching to a Chompers as we neared our turn-around. Noel fished a sixteenth-ounce jig and also a tiny Echo jerkbait, casting distances that surprised me. His G. Loomis rods really seemed to make a difference. Maybe that's wishful thinking on my part, but especially the little jigs Noel fish interested me.

I waited to see if he'd show me up, but never felt any inclination to make a switch from my big worms. I've spent six years fishing the river on fairly frequent occasion, but never have experimented with different lures much. Not since the Stony Brook, Mercer County days of my youth. I noticed my package of tube plastics in my tote this morning, and I've wondered recently if I'll ever try them... The Echo comes from Australia, I believe he said, and the cost is $18.00 each. Noel likes the internal rattle.

We hiked back along a trail for about a mile, the nerve leading down my left leg giving me some trouble. I may be 54, but I don't feel old, and I wondered if the likes of lugging a heavy camera bag on one shoulder, a heavy tackle tote on another used to be a drag. I couldn't quite remember, but probably not. And I certainly had no trouble with nerves due to herniated disks in my back. So physically, I'm wearing down a little, but it doesn't seem very important. May not be able to backpack in the Pinelands as I would like to do with my son, since my upper back pains me whenever I lug anything heavy for awhile, but the mind and spirit remain optimistic, as I want to be on my deathbed.

North Branch Raritan a Little Stained, Waiting on Next Time

Hadn't fished since the 18th. Since I had to go to the vet out in Branchburg, I planned on making a stop at the U.S. Route 202 bridge. Last I pulled onto the gravel, October, 1993, I caught 15 of those little trout the state used to stock in the fall, a couple of them about eight inches, the rest about six. Since I knew there's a hole under the bridge or used to be, I imagined bass.

Hole's still there. My Chompers worm took a hit from a bass. It had leapt for a damselfly and I winged a cast right to the splash. But the water stained somewhat, I knew chances of any other takes had no favor. Too lazy to tie on a snap swivel and spinner, I left after 10 minutes.

And then this evening I went to a spot on the same river near home for nearly an hour. Here water's a lot clearer, though still not clear as a bell as I like it and the bass do too. My son spotted a 19-incher in this stretch about a week ago while walking our black Lab. Stretch is extensive. The bass could have been up or downstream--or in another stretch entirely, since bass apparently move around rivers during summer.

My fourth or fifth cast didn't go where I intended. Nevertheless, I had that odd feeling telling me this is the cast that will result. I let the worm sink and settle for a good 15 seconds, and forgot all about my hunch. It was a long cast and all out of sight. I never noticed line twitch. And I just began reeling to retrieve the worm, rather than testing the line as should always be done. Fish on. Drag gave a little before I could really set the hook. And then the bass came free.

Anyhow, I'm supposed to fish the South Branch with Noel soon. I hope I can report a catch, but I'm afraid water just won't be clear enough.

For More Topwater Bass, go into an Actor's Mode

This one actually caught on favorite Lake Musconetcong years ago with a clear plastic, Hedden Torpedo.

Spook Yourself into Topwater Bass

Heightened awareness, by definition, is not the norm, but slip into an actor’s skin to make just the right moves with a topwater plug. Simulate fright so the plug skitters quickly at the moment a bass is ready to react. Feel completely natural, triggering the strike directly. The immediate environment offers you perception so subtle you don’t think, imparting the plug’s action directly. Become an immediate mirror of life surrounding you, leaping out of the image spontaneously to make a surface plug behave precisely to incite a strike.

          It won’t work unless senses become immersed in the environment and you feel keenly attuned, weirdly at one with florid summer life. Bass fishing from kayaks in June at a private Lakehurst lake made all the difference, because we sat right at water level. We fished for hours in daylight before sinking into deep affinity for the lake after dark. Within 15 or 20 minutes of moonlight, I howled like a wolf having hooked my third among flooded timber, a bass over three pounds soaking me, racing back and forth beside at the surface like a frightened pig. I caught many more and some as big, casts aimed perfectly. The next morning in gathering daylight I hung the same plug on branches a few times, not in the feel as the night before. The timber stood as the sort of aquatic forest calling for a soft-bodied weedless topwaters during daylight hours—let alone at night.

          Hours before the morning after ensued, Fred Matero said, “How are you doing this?” He fished a hundred feet away.

          “You have to make the bass smell blood!” I said. “They pound what they feel is frightened.”

          Fred's fishing picked up. You have to do the bleeding, I told him. He picked up on my infectious mood. Not actually afraid or frightened, you have to feel this intensity as an actor would, taking perceptual cues and transmitting them to the bass. Sounds crazy? Any actor would be, if not for the art. Before bass struck, I anticipated hits coming, skittering my Baby Torpedo, pulling rapidly by sweeping motions as I had never worked a topwater before, witnessing wakes race up from six feet behind and careen straight into the plug. Bass shot airborne two feet at such wild, cavorting angles I couldn’t set the hook.

           I knew exactly when to create this action by no visible evidence and no ordinary telling myself how to do it. None of this felt detached, random or whimsical. I put my thinking mind aside, except to guide this actor’s trance, to keep myself from backing out as if to deny it happening.

            To some degree, this happens to all of us in any kind of fishing. Most of us get to the lake or what have you, start fishing, and slip into the flow of fishing, which itself is something of heightened awareness. We don’t like the thudding resistance of casting against the body of water confronting us, as if nothing is there and we have to work ever harder to keep futility at bay. But that’s normal unless it gets onerous and we either look for fish elsewhere, decide they won’t hit—or possibly step up the effort to overcome resistance, which often works even under tough conditions.

          When fishing is good, the feeling of opposition between angler and the water he fishes melts. We don’t necessarily slay the fish for magic to happen, but without some action the question mark gets between us and immediate response to rod in hand, interest down the line. Struggle for certainty not all slow fishing is about, to some degree—unless bored—we’re open to the environment rather than questing against doubt. On occasion, we may feel desire not so much for a huge catch or high numbers—quantity isn’t really all we want—but something truly wild from deep within this natural world we visit to make catches, which we exist as part, deep within just as wild as the fish.

          For me, perhaps fishing topwater plugs for bass—I haven’t quite got the magic in weed mats with soft lures—is the surest way to the strangest fish. Openness to the water I fish is something anyone else who fishes feels familiar with; we feel personal affinity and want to return. But to put yourself into a deep contemplative state of imagination similar to what actors must do and make a plug seem—to yourself as well—like something alive and escaping from bass feels downright weird.

          Think of the times on the water when you noticed something you already knew immediately before recognizing it. Cognition—rather than re-cognition—happens to each of us out there because being in a fishing environment is just that. We sink in, perceive things someone who lives in artificial environments day and night, or who spends all their time in virtual reality cannot perceive if they stood side by side with us.

          No one can fish optimally every time out; by definition it couldn’t be optimal. But it’s worth trying if you get halfway there.

Dog Hike to Butternut Falls, India Brook Park, Mendham, NJ





Thought up this family dog hike about eight months ago, but settled on this evening only yesterday. It's a nice little gorge in Mendham, a 20-minute drive from our house in Bedminster.

India Brook Park serves as entryway down and in. This stream is part of the North Branch Raritan River headwaters. Butternut falls are stunning. Not great, big falls like Passaic Falls in Paterson, but for a local woodland, very nice.

Matt started fishing right about the same time others arrived to swim. I urged him to continue, but as soon as he tangled his line, I knew it was no use, especially because we recognized the situation for us had got compromised anyway. I thought this evening would be perfect. About 67 degrees out, cloudy, no one would swim the 60-degree water. They did. I said offhand to Matt we can return in October.

After we got home, I mentioned again the possibility of a return sometime, and Matt suggested we use the fireplace at the head of the falls to cook. His mother had checked out the details and said we have to get permission from the township. So perhaps we'll get permission and do this sometime. 





Catching Big North Jersey Bass with my Son

Took my son to my favorite North Jersey big bass lake, actually a large pond of perhaps 20 acres. Matt felt very happy to catch this nice one of 17 inches or more. This bass fought hard, so hard that when he got it to the bank, he commented that it didn't match the five-pounder he caught in our neighborhood pond. He caught the five-pounder many years ago.

Pitching worms names the game we played. It's all about hitting selected targets like brush edges and submerged stone, letting the worm descend, and retrieving back (sometimes letting it descend twice more on the way back, etc.) to make the best of the next cast or flip or pitch. A lot of tight space exists in back. Skill in getting a worm where it needs to go results in bass. And once we got back among the trees and rocks, Matt climbed a rock face, found a big slider turtle shell, and observed two full-grown bullheads mysteriously hanging right against shore under thickets.

We tried to get all the way in the belly furthest back, pretty much did, and then we would make our way to the other side. A machete would have helped. And heavy-duty, waterproof boots. Nothing's impossible, but my upper back ached like hell and I judged we should leave. We had fished two hours and both of us felt ready to go. Before we exited in the car, I pulled aside and looked for any possibility of accessing the other side easily. It's fenced off from that approach.

Five of my seven bass would have measured the scale between about three to 3 1/2 pounds. I caught a 19-incher so skinny it couldn't have quite weighed three pounds, at least I guessed not, maybe an ounce or two more. I've never before caught a bass I thought about to die. This sick fish clearly seemed on the way out. I've never before seen bass eyes shrunken in sockets as this fish suffered.

The way I'm looking at the fish as I hold it: no conscious reckoning of the sign of my own impending age.

Hybrid Striped Bass Off-Structure and Mid-Lake

One of those trips when we get out fresh early in the morning, endure hours of fishing, and leave grateful for the day. Joe's long experience on the lake told us we're past the spring trolling, so we drifted herring for more than five hours. Actually, the best Lake Hopatcong catches come at night now, on surface lures for walleye and hybrids. Rental boats aren't available after dark.

We began at Sharp's Rock and drifted at about a 45-degree angle back into the condos. I've heard that softly sloping drop-off where Bertrand's Island Amusement Park used to thrive on days like this is good fishing, and we did mark fish on the graph.

In Davis Cove, I caught a crappie. Joe tied on a jig and fished that for a short time. Otherwise, all day we fished herring. I caught a white perch, also, at the end of a drift from Nolan's Point right to about where weeds begin across Great Cove.

I would have fished closer to the drops, closer to shore, the points, shelves. But not only have Joe and his brother Jimmy caught hybrid striped bass mid-lake from June through August--if not right out in the middle, well out from the bottom edges of drop-offs--I've seen the fish out there in July. My son and I once fished Pickerel Point in about 35 feet of water, casting into about 25 feet and allowing un-weighted herring to suspend over wherever the oxygen line ends everything in the summer. I heard a sound like horse hooves on concrete, swung around and saw hybrids busting herring right at the surface, way out there far beyond casting range.

So I had some faith in what we did, but it yielded not a hit from a hybrid. Fishing two rods apiece, the three of us set herring from 12-25-feet deep in the water column, weighted by egg sinkers, and let one of the rods present an un-weighted herring at the surface. Last I fished with Joe, Jimmy came along also, and though we fished on the drop in late September, the hybrid we caught (I lost a real big one), hit an un-weighted herring swimming over about 30 feet of water.

Come October, we'll surely get them. My son and I never get skunked. And it's not only Joe & Jimmy's word that that's when the hybrids come in and hug the drop-off's of points and shelves, where--for whatever reason--herring bunch that time of year. Lots of people know this and it's been written about by some. My son and I have been on the bass for years.

I felt today as if held in suspense. After Sharp's Rock, I felt we'd never get a hit, but also that if we did, then I'd get a direct glimpse into another way of fishing hybrids Joe & Jimmy have succeeded at, the possibility I saw with my son that day in July.