Central Illinois is not prima facie sawed-off sportsman territory. Oh, I think those guys sitting on six inches of ice spearing pike through a hole are onto something but I never got a chance to try it. In the whole two and a half years I was there I don’t think I saw a single snake outside. The waterways were not obviously life filled and their names did not encourage close inspection: Salt Fork of the Vermillion River, Saline Ditch and my non-favorite – The Bone Yard. The latter flowed around Urbana-Champaign and some civic group started a campaign to “Save Our Bone Yard”. I’m thinking, OK, Step One…change the name! I suspected there was an Indian connection which made it all the worse because it sounded like a stream flowing into, or out of, (or both) a Stephen King novel.
There was a small park in town that I gave a fishing try; adventure opportunity is often closer than most people realize. Rod, reel, bobber, worms (Illinois had plenty of worms) and one and a half ham sandwiches later – zip. I Frisbee-ed a slice of white bread onto the water and before I could pack up a four pound carp surfaces and starts chewing on it. I says to the carp….”Oh; you.”
In the 20 years ensuing since my cane pole had been dragged into the lake my relationship with the carp had the tenor of Jeremiah Johnson’s relationship with the Crow in the last third of the movie. I had shot them (spear gun, bow & arrow), knifed them (hunting, paring) but mostly half-ounce barrel sinker + 2/0 hook + bread dough-balled them. Initially, this city park looked like a standard tactics theater.
Setting aside the fact that the best bait turned out to be French fries, events unfolded predictably. Carp were running around 4-6 pounds and I’d try different spots from trip to trip. I finally ended up sitting in a small grove of trees, with something to lean against, while I read a book and waited for a carp. It was a pretty pastoral image until the rats came marching in.
Generally speaking, when the rats come marching in, most people find something else to do or some place else to do it. To the sawed-off, however, this represented a pinnacle of sporting opportunity – Surf & Turf; a fishing pole in one hand and a gun in the other!
I already had a nice pump-up, .22 caliber, pellet pistol so all I had to do was bring it. Although sometimes brazen, real rats are fairly skittish especially when surprised (and I was planning on surprising them). Consequently there was not going to be time, and too much movement, to load, cock and pump the pistol if rats showed up again. Hence, on the next trip I sat leaning against a tree, carp rod baited and cast, reading a book with the completely ready pellet piston in my lap. This sort of thing usually doesn’t work out but darned if a rat doesn’t come trundling along the water line.
It was the shot of a life time; not from the hip, from the lap! The pellet hit the rat dead center and knocked him two feet into the water without skipping. He quickly did two complete medial/lateral barrel roles, paused briefly right-side up, and then did a surface-dive worthy of a water ballet. I knew they were ready swimmers. I did not know they would deliberately dive and swim under water.
I figure the rat ended up with a nice bruise from the encounter. I didn’t try again as it was going to take a real fire arm which would likely not have gone over well with the picnic people. I do wonder if the rat swam by a carp who mused “Well, at least he’s not just after us.”
ML
7/18/07
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Thursday, November 1, 2007
15. Everybody's got to be somewhere
I have this ongoing fantasy where I’m standing alone at dawn’s early light on Grayton Beach fishing for sharks. A lone walker approaches and it turns out to be somebody famous who asks about the fishing. I give a snappy, non-fawning, reply that indicates I recognize them.
The trouble with this fantasy is that the really famous are often stuck hanging out with the other really famous so as to avoid exchanges with the hoi polloi. Thus, a more realistic version of this encounter would be with the sort-of-famous. The sort-of-famous have the advantage of being able to go to good places with a fair chance of not having people like me inflict themselves upon them. So I’ve been planning for such an encounter with the sort-of-famous or the not-cleverly-enough-disguised really famous.
Michael Paul Chan: How’s the fishing?
SS: I hope you’re not still charging 85 cents for those sodas because I’ve got a baseball bat in the trash can over there.
Chris J. Barnes: Catching anything you ol’fart?
SS: You mean besides chatter from a passing smart ass kid actor?
Charles Bronson: What sort of fish are you after?
SS: Dumb.
Tom Scarritt: Are you the Sawed-off Sportsman?
SS: I’m a sawed-off sportsman; I wouldn’t want to be within the blast radius of the sawed-off sportsman.
Steve Harrigan: Catching anything?
SS: Does your being here mean I should be running for my life.
Clint Eastwood: Is this a good spot to fish?
SS: It feels lucky.
Harry Dean Stanton: Why don’t you go out to the sand bar and fish in deeper water?
SS: Because the further out you go the more things eat your horse.
Colette Hiller: How’s it going?
SS: In the pipe, five by five.
Rutger Hauer: What are you after?
SS: Moments.
Rutger Hauer: But won’t they just be lost like……perspiration in the sea spray?
SS: Ah yes, Roy’s regret; he needed a blog.
ML
10-8-07
The trouble with this fantasy is that the really famous are often stuck hanging out with the other really famous so as to avoid exchanges with the hoi polloi. Thus, a more realistic version of this encounter would be with the sort-of-famous. The sort-of-famous have the advantage of being able to go to good places with a fair chance of not having people like me inflict themselves upon them. So I’ve been planning for such an encounter with the sort-of-famous or the not-cleverly-enough-disguised really famous.
Michael Paul Chan: How’s the fishing?
SS: I hope you’re not still charging 85 cents for those sodas because I’ve got a baseball bat in the trash can over there.
Chris J. Barnes: Catching anything you ol’fart?
SS: You mean besides chatter from a passing smart ass kid actor?
Charles Bronson: What sort of fish are you after?
SS: Dumb.
Tom Scarritt: Are you the Sawed-off Sportsman?
SS: I’m a sawed-off sportsman; I wouldn’t want to be within the blast radius of the sawed-off sportsman.
Steve Harrigan: Catching anything?
SS: Does your being here mean I should be running for my life.
Clint Eastwood: Is this a good spot to fish?
SS: It feels lucky.
Harry Dean Stanton: Why don’t you go out to the sand bar and fish in deeper water?
SS: Because the further out you go the more things eat your horse.
Colette Hiller: How’s it going?
SS: In the pipe, five by five.
Rutger Hauer: What are you after?
SS: Moments.
Rutger Hauer: But won’t they just be lost like……perspiration in the sea spray?
SS: Ah yes, Roy’s regret; he needed a blog.
ML
10-8-07
Monday, October 1, 2007
14. The Fisherman's Quiver
The trouble with the beach is that it is made of sand which is hard on fishing reels. The trouble rises exponentially with the number of participating children, especially those in the “booger eating moron” developmental stage, because they keep thinking of other things to do besides hold a fishing rod.
Worse yet, beach fishing encourages bring a lot of equipment (a strong general inclination of this sawed-off sportsman) because a lot of equipment is actually called for. You need the little rod and reel to catch the pinfish to put on the big rod and reel to catch the sharks and the medium rod and reel to deal with passing customers while you’re waiting for the shark to eat the pinfish. You also need a tackle box, cast net, drink, bait bucket (or functional equivalent), chair, disposable camera (skeptic antidote), four-man fishing rig, baseball bat (shark antidote) and ice – minimum. And laying all this paraphernalia on the sand adversely impacts the next day’s functionality.
One morning, as we were preparing to leave, I walked to take one last look at the beach and noted a returning lone fisherman with two rods & reels in a five gallon mop bucket. The “Now why didn’t I think of that?” bell sounded loudly. The only flaw in his solution was the mop bucket – way too small.
The full bodied solution (bigger bucket), without adding to the problem (more stuff to carry), quickly led to a rectangular kitchen trash can bolted into a used baby backpack carrier with the seat cut out. Three six inch sections of PVC pipe bolted inside the trash can with a wooden backing were rod holders. (It helped that all of the fishing rods were telescopic). I do not build well but every once in a while – and these are the times you can really feel the force is with you – things start falling into place without measured planning. A retired small tackle box fit snuggly into the space between the PVC rod holders and the other side of the trash can! And below the tackle box was plenty of space for the other necessities. The principal further insight was that sand spikes, to deploy the rods in, fit in between the PVC tubes bringing the total rod/reel firepower to six. And the outside of the trash can is available for commercial advertising like on a NASCAR racer (just kidding).
Now I’ll be the first to admit that you get some funny looks while walking to the shore wearing this tackle store on your back (which is why I try and make somebody else wear it). But when you get to the water it is D-day in reverse for the fishys.
ML
7-12-07
Worse yet, beach fishing encourages bring a lot of equipment (a strong general inclination of this sawed-off sportsman) because a lot of equipment is actually called for. You need the little rod and reel to catch the pinfish to put on the big rod and reel to catch the sharks and the medium rod and reel to deal with passing customers while you’re waiting for the shark to eat the pinfish. You also need a tackle box, cast net, drink, bait bucket (or functional equivalent), chair, disposable camera (skeptic antidote), four-man fishing rig, baseball bat (shark antidote) and ice – minimum. And laying all this paraphernalia on the sand adversely impacts the next day’s functionality.
One morning, as we were preparing to leave, I walked to take one last look at the beach and noted a returning lone fisherman with two rods & reels in a five gallon mop bucket. The “Now why didn’t I think of that?” bell sounded loudly. The only flaw in his solution was the mop bucket – way too small.
The full bodied solution (bigger bucket), without adding to the problem (more stuff to carry), quickly led to a rectangular kitchen trash can bolted into a used baby backpack carrier with the seat cut out. Three six inch sections of PVC pipe bolted inside the trash can with a wooden backing were rod holders. (It helped that all of the fishing rods were telescopic). I do not build well but every once in a while – and these are the times you can really feel the force is with you – things start falling into place without measured planning. A retired small tackle box fit snuggly into the space between the PVC rod holders and the other side of the trash can! And below the tackle box was plenty of space for the other necessities. The principal further insight was that sand spikes, to deploy the rods in, fit in between the PVC tubes bringing the total rod/reel firepower to six. And the outside of the trash can is available for commercial advertising like on a NASCAR racer (just kidding).
Now I’ll be the first to admit that you get some funny looks while walking to the shore wearing this tackle store on your back (which is why I try and make somebody else wear it). But when you get to the water it is D-day in reverse for the fishys.
ML
7-12-07
Saturday, September 1, 2007
13. The Rock
If your only mode of transportation is by foot but you want to get to the end of the wilderness road, where it has been noted all America lies, you join a club. So I joined the Seminole Divers who made regular sallies to many interesting places for a gas contribution.
Real diving had long been an aspiration. Unreal diving saw several youthful attempts including building a scuba tank out of used sacristy candle glass containers (worked not at all) and who hasn’t tried the old breathing through a garden hose while under water (gives one a real appreciation for what “number of atmospheres” is all about).
The Seminole Divers were mostly the Seal Team of the anthropology department plus a few wackos who only wanted to go places where they could scuba as deep as possible. Consequently, we did a lot of river diving for artifacts. Apparently all past tribes, including the Spanish and English, were constantly throwing stuff into the rivers so it was a real source of items that had not been in the air for hundreds of years. Add to this the mastodons, who apparently swam poorly, and there was much to be found; plus the group was naturally sawed-off. I joined shortly after the trip where they tried to kill a wild pig with spear guns – my kind of crowd.
Beginner’s luck struck one Saturday morning just downstream of the second bridge on the Black Lagoon’s outflow. Though I preferred free diving, scuba tanks let one descend to the bottom and basically crawl along while holding onto the eel grass to defeat the current. The rule was “If it doesn’t look like it belongs there; it’s something”. ‘It’ was sitting completely in the open. A mottled pale blue marbled rock shaped like a hockey puck (maybe 6in by 3in). Others reported it shined like a big jewel as it surfaced first clutched in my hand.
Nobody knew what it was beyond being sure it was man-made. A professor in the anthropology department immediately labeled it a “chunky stone”. While its use to the Indians was speculative, its substance was fossilized brain coral. The professor asked if he could hold on to it for a time to measure and photograph. I said “sure”. Had he called me back I would have told him to keep it. However, a year later I concluded he was not going to call back so I called him and retrieved the rock.
It was something worth showing to others and another graduate student’s parents were seriously into Indian artifacts. Apparently they vacationed to reservations, constantly collected arrow heads and pottery shards and their living room was rumored to be full of display cases of such treasures. So an offer was made to acquire the rock.
Now it was a great rock but I did snakes and wanted to get into the big time which then meant a python. So I sold the rock for $25 to buy a rock python. In the event, I got a reticulated python which grew to the biggest snake I ever owned. This was my intention but in the fullness of time the snake ended up living in a cage made of a bulletin board glass front and uncut 4 x 8 ft sheets of plywood. The time came when the next cage was going to be a bedroom. So I sold the python.
All I have left of the snake are a few photos and a left forearm scar from the bottom two rows of teeth, and I miss the rock. However, if I had to do it all over again I’d probably do the same thing. Not for the snake but to get the rock where it needed to be – with people who did people rocks. The location of its discovery was duly noted and I hope it has remained with those who let others see it.
Besides, I still have a mammoth backbone disc and a clay pipe (unbroken bowl & stem). I also have an almost perfectly round stone, about the size and color of a ping pong ball, that my aunt picked up out of a Pennsylvania trout stream and handed to me when I was about five years old. Her interpretation was that the stream had so rounded it. I’ve been thinking about that hypothesis for over half a century and I don’t think the stream did it. I think some distant Seneca relative did it. It’s not for sale.
ML
7-9-07
Real diving had long been an aspiration. Unreal diving saw several youthful attempts including building a scuba tank out of used sacristy candle glass containers (worked not at all) and who hasn’t tried the old breathing through a garden hose while under water (gives one a real appreciation for what “number of atmospheres” is all about).
The Seminole Divers were mostly the Seal Team of the anthropology department plus a few wackos who only wanted to go places where they could scuba as deep as possible. Consequently, we did a lot of river diving for artifacts. Apparently all past tribes, including the Spanish and English, were constantly throwing stuff into the rivers so it was a real source of items that had not been in the air for hundreds of years. Add to this the mastodons, who apparently swam poorly, and there was much to be found; plus the group was naturally sawed-off. I joined shortly after the trip where they tried to kill a wild pig with spear guns – my kind of crowd.
Beginner’s luck struck one Saturday morning just downstream of the second bridge on the Black Lagoon’s outflow. Though I preferred free diving, scuba tanks let one descend to the bottom and basically crawl along while holding onto the eel grass to defeat the current. The rule was “If it doesn’t look like it belongs there; it’s something”. ‘It’ was sitting completely in the open. A mottled pale blue marbled rock shaped like a hockey puck (maybe 6in by 3in). Others reported it shined like a big jewel as it surfaced first clutched in my hand.
Nobody knew what it was beyond being sure it was man-made. A professor in the anthropology department immediately labeled it a “chunky stone”. While its use to the Indians was speculative, its substance was fossilized brain coral. The professor asked if he could hold on to it for a time to measure and photograph. I said “sure”. Had he called me back I would have told him to keep it. However, a year later I concluded he was not going to call back so I called him and retrieved the rock.
It was something worth showing to others and another graduate student’s parents were seriously into Indian artifacts. Apparently they vacationed to reservations, constantly collected arrow heads and pottery shards and their living room was rumored to be full of display cases of such treasures. So an offer was made to acquire the rock.
Now it was a great rock but I did snakes and wanted to get into the big time which then meant a python. So I sold the rock for $25 to buy a rock python. In the event, I got a reticulated python which grew to the biggest snake I ever owned. This was my intention but in the fullness of time the snake ended up living in a cage made of a bulletin board glass front and uncut 4 x 8 ft sheets of plywood. The time came when the next cage was going to be a bedroom. So I sold the python.
All I have left of the snake are a few photos and a left forearm scar from the bottom two rows of teeth, and I miss the rock. However, if I had to do it all over again I’d probably do the same thing. Not for the snake but to get the rock where it needed to be – with people who did people rocks. The location of its discovery was duly noted and I hope it has remained with those who let others see it.
Besides, I still have a mammoth backbone disc and a clay pipe (unbroken bowl & stem). I also have an almost perfectly round stone, about the size and color of a ping pong ball, that my aunt picked up out of a Pennsylvania trout stream and handed to me when I was about five years old. Her interpretation was that the stream had so rounded it. I’ve been thinking about that hypothesis for over half a century and I don’t think the stream did it. I think some distant Seneca relative did it. It’s not for sale.
ML
7-9-07
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
12d. Freeing the serpents
John had at least one uniquely sawed-off talent. He could hold his breath (at the surface) for six and a half minutes; I myself, a shorter but adequate, four and a half minutes.
Back in the good old days, when the swimming area of the Black Lagoon was restricted only by ones spirit of adventure, he would free dive down to the bottom at around 110ft. The ascent is the dangerous part because pressure helps breath holding and if you’re going to black out you do it near the surface. So our methodology was for me to start down as John started up and travel with him from about 50ft to the surface with the plan to do something constructive if he passed out while still under water. I bring this up only because the performance one evening at the headwaters of the Wacissa River required all of John’s breath holding powers to achieve the desired effect.
John owned a Volkswagen beetle, trunk in the front, and I was in possession of a water snake surplus. So one evening I talked him into taking me and about a dozen good sized Natrix to the sandy parking area just downstream of where the Wacissa River came out of the ground on the outskirts of the town of Wacissa.
When we arrived there were two middle-aged regular sportsmen standing at the water’s edge. They looked to be discussing something like a planned fishing trip or possibly some detail of the wide area of mostly vegetation covered water that is a standard North Florida river swamp. Id est a place where there are already too many snakes.
As we slowed to a stop I told John, “Do not say a word”. Without drum roll, I got out, John popped the ‘hood’ and I lifted the snake filled bag out of the trunk. John maintained silence but he was doing a lot of looking back and forth at me and the two men because he knew what I was about to do. What I did was slowly, and individually, pull snake after snake out of the bag and dropped it back in the river.
The best part of this story is not mine to tell as the best part is the version told by the audience. In the event nobody said a word. The two men were literally speechless. I’d give a lot to know what, or if, they ever spoke of the event or concluded that it was best left without comment. Sawed-off sportsmen occasionally have that effect upon others. For John’s part he almost killed us on the drive back because when he finally burst forth he just kept yelling ”Putting snakes back in the river, putting snakes back in the river” while he pounded the steering wheel as we headed home.
ML
6/7/07
Back in the good old days, when the swimming area of the Black Lagoon was restricted only by ones spirit of adventure, he would free dive down to the bottom at around 110ft. The ascent is the dangerous part because pressure helps breath holding and if you’re going to black out you do it near the surface. So our methodology was for me to start down as John started up and travel with him from about 50ft to the surface with the plan to do something constructive if he passed out while still under water. I bring this up only because the performance one evening at the headwaters of the Wacissa River required all of John’s breath holding powers to achieve the desired effect.
John owned a Volkswagen beetle, trunk in the front, and I was in possession of a water snake surplus. So one evening I talked him into taking me and about a dozen good sized Natrix to the sandy parking area just downstream of where the Wacissa River came out of the ground on the outskirts of the town of Wacissa.
When we arrived there were two middle-aged regular sportsmen standing at the water’s edge. They looked to be discussing something like a planned fishing trip or possibly some detail of the wide area of mostly vegetation covered water that is a standard North Florida river swamp. Id est a place where there are already too many snakes.
As we slowed to a stop I told John, “Do not say a word”. Without drum roll, I got out, John popped the ‘hood’ and I lifted the snake filled bag out of the trunk. John maintained silence but he was doing a lot of looking back and forth at me and the two men because he knew what I was about to do. What I did was slowly, and individually, pull snake after snake out of the bag and dropped it back in the river.
The best part of this story is not mine to tell as the best part is the version told by the audience. In the event nobody said a word. The two men were literally speechless. I’d give a lot to know what, or if, they ever spoke of the event or concluded that it was best left without comment. Sawed-off sportsmen occasionally have that effect upon others. For John’s part he almost killed us on the drive back because when he finally burst forth he just kept yelling ”Putting snakes back in the river, putting snakes back in the river” while he pounded the steering wheel as we headed home.
ML
6/7/07
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
12c. Canoeing for snakes
If you know how to drive a canoe you generally end up in the back. However a day’s outing of graduate students and advisor on the Wacissa River has certain expectations of adventure with the sawed-off afloat. This constituted a real opportunity for….payback!
Many are the stories of snakes jumping into boats passing under tree limbs. Falling is really more like it as you cannot “jump” if you have no legs. I do not doubt it has happened but suspect that the logical possibility is what fuels most stories for water snakes do spend a lot of time sunning on limbs over water as they can escape quickly by dropping.
Now I knew the Wacissa had plenty of water snakes; big brown water snakes were its long suit. It was mid morning and a likely time for them to be sunning on tree limbs over the water. It took a few passes to spot exactly what they were doing but it became clear a particular arbor geometry was favored and they were tending to be on the down stream side.
Stan was in the canoe’s stern and after a few trips past some brown’s sunning he knew what we were looking for. What we were going to do about it was the only thing that could possibly work.
Because the water was fairly swift, and water snakes are quick to fall into the river when trouble approached, we had to make our move quickly. I suspect it all worked as well as it did because the snakes were so accustomed to passing canoeists they could not believe that an approaching canoe would paddle as fast as possible directly at them and into the foliage. We had the added advantage of some concealment because the snakes were on the down stream side of the limbs with leaves blocking their view of our attack. The downside was we were not entirely sure what (all) was on the limb as we careened in.
And so it went. The other boats would stop paddling and start watching. Stan would line us up with an accurate current/canoe heading and paddle as fast as possible, with me hanging over the bow, into the tree.
There were always a number of possible, not mutually exclusive, outcomes including capsizing, finding nothing, finding a cottonmouth, finding a wasp nest. As events unfolded there would be much limb and leaf shaking and back outwards Stan would paddle us with me waving a big brown water snake over my head for all to see.
We ended up with quite a few brown water snakes. I do not remember if we kept them that day but I do remember a time of having too many water snakes and returning to the headwaters of the Wacissa River with a bagful.
ML
Sunday, July 15, 2007
12b. Canoes CAN'T sink
As the first Shaving of a sawed-off-sportsman and for many years the largest and most proficient swimmer of all the Shavings, clearly I was the number 1 choice for a canoe trip down the Cahaba River. Now the Cahaba River is not known to be treacherous, but as in any canoe adventure there are “The Perils”. My number one concern had always been, “What if the canoe tips over?” to which my sawed-off sportsman father would reply, “So what, it’s all my stuff that would be lost. Besides, canoes CAN’T sink.” This back and forth went on for about two years. Finally, my sawed-off sportsman father decided that the best thing to do is get me over my fear of the canoe tipping over. Clearly the best way to accomplish that is by rowing the canoe into a secluded area of Oak Mountain Lake and then intentionally tipping the canoe over.
Now, my friends at the time couldn’t quite understand why an early morning weekend outing with my father entailed him throwing me out of a boat. My long-time friends and fellow family members knew this to be completely acceptable D&D (Daddy and Daughter) quality time.
So at 7 am on a Saturday morning my sawed-off sportsman father pulls into my apartment community in his white Mazda pick-up truck with the canoe bungee-corded to the roof. I hop in wearing cheap shoes, an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball hat. There was obviously no need for make-up or a brush since the goal of the day was to throw me into the lake on numerous occasions.
So we get to the lake, unload the canoe, strap on our life jackets, and set out of find a nice alcove. (It’s one thing to be dumped out of a canoe, it’s quite another to do it in front of an audience.) We find a suitable place where the water is about 6 feet deep, out of the line of sight, and near the edge of the lake. A final pep talk not to worry because canoes CAN’T sink.
SS: “On the count of three … one … two ..”
S#1: “Don’t count, just do!”
Canoe flips over and we’re both in the water.
SS: “See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”
S#1: “No, not too bad. What were you saying about canoes can’t sink?”
SS: “Canoes CAN’T sink!”
S#1: “Really? Where’s your canoe?”
SS: “It’s right here … #%!?!”
Glug, glug, glug, the canoe sinks to the bottom of the lake.
MS-L
2/14/2007
Now, my friends at the time couldn’t quite understand why an early morning weekend outing with my father entailed him throwing me out of a boat. My long-time friends and fellow family members knew this to be completely acceptable D&D (Daddy and Daughter) quality time.
So at 7 am on a Saturday morning my sawed-off sportsman father pulls into my apartment community in his white Mazda pick-up truck with the canoe bungee-corded to the roof. I hop in wearing cheap shoes, an old pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and a baseball hat. There was obviously no need for make-up or a brush since the goal of the day was to throw me into the lake on numerous occasions.
So we get to the lake, unload the canoe, strap on our life jackets, and set out of find a nice alcove. (It’s one thing to be dumped out of a canoe, it’s quite another to do it in front of an audience.) We find a suitable place where the water is about 6 feet deep, out of the line of sight, and near the edge of the lake. A final pep talk not to worry because canoes CAN’T sink.
SS: “On the count of three … one … two ..”
S#1: “Don’t count, just do!”
Canoe flips over and we’re both in the water.
SS: “See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?”
S#1: “No, not too bad. What were you saying about canoes can’t sink?”
SS: “Canoes CAN’T sink!”
S#1: “Really? Where’s your canoe?”
SS: “It’s right here … #%!?!”
Glug, glug, glug, the canoe sinks to the bottom of the lake.
MS-L
2/14/2007
Sunday, July 1, 2007
12a. Rita II
If you are deposited in the Harpeth River often enough, with the tents and food waiting a day’s travel down stream, you learn how to steer a canoe.
If you fish from the bank long enough, with the fish apparently elsewhere, you get a canoe.
If you’re constantly blown around by the wind, while trying to cast from your canoe, you get an electric trolling motor.
If you keep seeing those guys fishing in the middle of the lake and wonder what they know that you don’t, you get sonar.
The Rita II, named after the vessel in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, had the aspirations of a WW II destroyer, some of the equipment and a Captain of occasionally questionable command decisions.
In hindsight the first motorized cruise tempted Providence. Yours truly (180lb), Mike (180lb), Murray (230lb), Lauren, (60lb) and about 60lbs of battery + motor, conducted sea trials on the Cahaba River above the Hwy 280 bridge one Spring afternoon. Excitement muted concern for the water line being only 3in below the gunwales. We did not capsize and Murray caught one bream. Upon return to shore all were unloaded, save the Captain, so as to ‘see what she’ll do’ speed wise with minimum load. This put 240lbs in the stern and the bow in the air. Going straight was not a problem but quick turns were. Another useful insight was that the prop needed to be just below the surface so as to avoid an additional source of unpleasant rolling.
An early modification utilized jumper cables allowing the battery to be placed in the bow which made one man travel pretty level.
As time went by various numbers of the Shavings served as bow ballast but mission creep has kept voyages exciting. Our current state-o-play has made it possible to fish for striper in the summer over an underwater spring. This however requires, in addition to the usual ordinance, a big bait tub, aerator and Shaving 4 throwing the cast net for shad while standing in the bow.
Future development of the Rita II will involve a 2hp gas motor and possibly an outrigger so as to more boldly go off the beach or into the tail race of some nearby dams. I know what you’re thinking; “Fair well and ado to you fair Spanish ladies….”
There is one voyage that has not been made but should have been the first given the canoe’s namesake; a passage that begins as a christening in the storied waters of the Black Lagoon. The fence is not high and when the gate is not open the sign simply says “beach closed”. A determined crew, just before dawn’s bend and the squadrons of black vulture landings begin, could easily hoist the Rita II over the fence. Then with out arguably “opening” the beach, they could hit the water, paddle past the pier, take a right and be on their way in the dawn’s early light amongst the many creatures which still remain. Just a thought.
ML
6/6/07
If you fish from the bank long enough, with the fish apparently elsewhere, you get a canoe.
If you’re constantly blown around by the wind, while trying to cast from your canoe, you get an electric trolling motor.
If you keep seeing those guys fishing in the middle of the lake and wonder what they know that you don’t, you get sonar.
The Rita II, named after the vessel in The Creature from the Black Lagoon, had the aspirations of a WW II destroyer, some of the equipment and a Captain of occasionally questionable command decisions.
In hindsight the first motorized cruise tempted Providence. Yours truly (180lb), Mike (180lb), Murray (230lb), Lauren, (60lb) and about 60lbs of battery + motor, conducted sea trials on the Cahaba River above the Hwy 280 bridge one Spring afternoon. Excitement muted concern for the water line being only 3in below the gunwales. We did not capsize and Murray caught one bream. Upon return to shore all were unloaded, save the Captain, so as to ‘see what she’ll do’ speed wise with minimum load. This put 240lbs in the stern and the bow in the air. Going straight was not a problem but quick turns were. Another useful insight was that the prop needed to be just below the surface so as to avoid an additional source of unpleasant rolling.
An early modification utilized jumper cables allowing the battery to be placed in the bow which made one man travel pretty level.
As time went by various numbers of the Shavings served as bow ballast but mission creep has kept voyages exciting. Our current state-o-play has made it possible to fish for striper in the summer over an underwater spring. This however requires, in addition to the usual ordinance, a big bait tub, aerator and Shaving 4 throwing the cast net for shad while standing in the bow.
Future development of the Rita II will involve a 2hp gas motor and possibly an outrigger so as to more boldly go off the beach or into the tail race of some nearby dams. I know what you’re thinking; “Fair well and ado to you fair Spanish ladies….”
There is one voyage that has not been made but should have been the first given the canoe’s namesake; a passage that begins as a christening in the storied waters of the Black Lagoon. The fence is not high and when the gate is not open the sign simply says “beach closed”. A determined crew, just before dawn’s bend and the squadrons of black vulture landings begin, could easily hoist the Rita II over the fence. Then with out arguably “opening” the beach, they could hit the water, paddle past the pier, take a right and be on their way in the dawn’s early light amongst the many creatures which still remain. Just a thought.
ML
6/6/07
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
11. What in Heaven's name brought you to Carrabelle?
College is the first opportunity to chose where you live and it was not a close call – Florida. We had vacationed there for years plus the tales of natural adventures filled the books I had read. I simply wanted to cease being a tourist; I wanted to live there.
So I went to The Florida State University in Tallahassee. The cities’ Seminole meaning was an abandoned site whose resources had been exhausted. This translation amused many as “there’s nothing to do here” was a frequent complaint. Those people simply ignored the venue’s many opportunities.
Adventure destinations were always dictated by transportation; no car, one walk’s. So off to the nearest State Park I headed one Saturday morning in September. Despite several trips to Killearn Gardens I rarely had to walk the whole distance as a citizen usually stopped and offered a ride. My first expedition in the land of coral snakes, cottonmouths and the eastern diamondback rattlesnake produced a two foot eastern king snake which I knew only from books; fair enough!
As time went by the snake hunters found one another and somebody had a car. The Tram Road circuit was a biggie first shown to me by Joe from New Jersey and another guy whose sole goal was a diamondback over six feet (I heard later he found that which he had long sought). Starting at a point just off the truck route, the road could be taken to Wacissa and from there to deeper forest roads. Because much of the circuit was sandy roads it was often possible to gauge snake activity by the number of trails in the sand. Furthermore a trail with no tire track, encountered after a car passed, allowed some precision on when the snake had been there. Plus you could tell which way the snake had gone and usually some useful idea of species. More than one snake must have crossed the road and thought, “made it”, only to find himself suddenly in a pillow case.
Because much of the Tram Road circuit was unpaved it was pretty much a before dark trek; long on eastern king snakes, rat snakes, rattlesnakes. Because it was paved County 67, running south from Telogia, was the night time place. Good, lightly traveled, paved roads and an abundance of scarlet snakes and scarlet king snakes were its glory. Besides these two premiere species there was plenty else as 67 ran from hardwood forest down to the Gulf coast. Carrabelle was the turn around point where we’d get some little pecan pies and Dr Peppers and relax in an oyster shell parking lot before the trip back up 67. Those were the days (nights actually).
We all had this vague foreboding these places would be erased by civilization after we left but return visits suggest not. On one family vacation which, as luck would have it, me, Mrs. SS, and a pile of the shavings were dining on gas station food (the really fast food) in an oyster shell parking lot. We got back in the car, I started whistling the theme song from Indiana Jones, and they started screaming “NO DADDY, DON’T”. They generally enjoyed these little side trips once events unfolded but maintained that initially screaming put them in better voice for those times that screaming was called for. On this occasion a short drive up County 67 turned up a grey rat snake on its morning outing.
So I came to Carrabelle for my interest; I came for the snakes. And I was not misinformed.
Recently Shaving 3 loaned me a copy of In Search of Nature by E.O. Wilson. Chapter one is “The Serpent” where in is said “ I can testify from personal experience that on any given day you are ten times more likely to meet a snake in Florida than in Brazil or New Guinea.” I knew there were more snakes in Florida than in Tennessee and I also knew of no where there were more. Turns out, if snakes are what you seek, it’s the best place on Earth.
ML
6/4/07
So I went to The Florida State University in Tallahassee. The cities’ Seminole meaning was an abandoned site whose resources had been exhausted. This translation amused many as “there’s nothing to do here” was a frequent complaint. Those people simply ignored the venue’s many opportunities.
Adventure destinations were always dictated by transportation; no car, one walk’s. So off to the nearest State Park I headed one Saturday morning in September. Despite several trips to Killearn Gardens I rarely had to walk the whole distance as a citizen usually stopped and offered a ride. My first expedition in the land of coral snakes, cottonmouths and the eastern diamondback rattlesnake produced a two foot eastern king snake which I knew only from books; fair enough!
As time went by the snake hunters found one another and somebody had a car. The Tram Road circuit was a biggie first shown to me by Joe from New Jersey and another guy whose sole goal was a diamondback over six feet (I heard later he found that which he had long sought). Starting at a point just off the truck route, the road could be taken to Wacissa and from there to deeper forest roads. Because much of the circuit was sandy roads it was often possible to gauge snake activity by the number of trails in the sand. Furthermore a trail with no tire track, encountered after a car passed, allowed some precision on when the snake had been there. Plus you could tell which way the snake had gone and usually some useful idea of species. More than one snake must have crossed the road and thought, “made it”, only to find himself suddenly in a pillow case.
Because much of the Tram Road circuit was unpaved it was pretty much a before dark trek; long on eastern king snakes, rat snakes, rattlesnakes. Because it was paved County 67, running south from Telogia, was the night time place. Good, lightly traveled, paved roads and an abundance of scarlet snakes and scarlet king snakes were its glory. Besides these two premiere species there was plenty else as 67 ran from hardwood forest down to the Gulf coast. Carrabelle was the turn around point where we’d get some little pecan pies and Dr Peppers and relax in an oyster shell parking lot before the trip back up 67. Those were the days (nights actually).
We all had this vague foreboding these places would be erased by civilization after we left but return visits suggest not. On one family vacation which, as luck would have it, me, Mrs. SS, and a pile of the shavings were dining on gas station food (the really fast food) in an oyster shell parking lot. We got back in the car, I started whistling the theme song from Indiana Jones, and they started screaming “NO DADDY, DON’T”. They generally enjoyed these little side trips once events unfolded but maintained that initially screaming put them in better voice for those times that screaming was called for. On this occasion a short drive up County 67 turned up a grey rat snake on its morning outing.
So I came to Carrabelle for my interest; I came for the snakes. And I was not misinformed.
Recently Shaving 3 loaned me a copy of In Search of Nature by E.O. Wilson. Chapter one is “The Serpent” where in is said “ I can testify from personal experience that on any given day you are ten times more likely to meet a snake in Florida than in Brazil or New Guinea.” I knew there were more snakes in Florida than in Tennessee and I also knew of no where there were more. Turns out, if snakes are what you seek, it’s the best place on Earth.
ML
6/4/07
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
10. Summer of the copperheads
It takes surprisingly little to become an expert on snakes. Library card captures of Ditmars, Oliver, Pope, Schmidt & Inger and Conant, plus plenty of field trips, and a kid can know more about snakes than 99.999% of the grownups. The only reason this knowledge carries special tribal prestige is that people are afraid of snakes. And the person, regardless of age, who moves forward while others scream and flee is possessor of an ancient power.
It is a power because, despite the commonly encountered ‘snakes are your friends because they eat grain gobbling rodents’, the more important truth is that snakes kill more people every year than all other non-human vertebrates combined. Furthermore, while only around one in twenty venomous snake bites kills a person, the other 19 are frequently left in wreathing pain for days and then the bitten appendage may rot off. And this sequela does not go unnoticed by the principle’s family and neighbors. Snakes are, as a snake once put it, “more powerful than the finger of a king”. Fire power, plus they are basically small and therefore way too close when first spotted, accounts for their fearsome status. Hence, the leap from a kid who plays with snakes to full blown witch doctor status is power over the poisonous.
Mike helped me build a cinderblock snake pit in the basement despite my mother’s position of “we’ll see” during the constructions phase. In the event she let me buy a cottonmouth from Ray Singleton and we put him in the pit. Not long after the snake’s arrival Dave came by with his father’s excellent camera and close-up lens. To take real advantage of the close-up lens full powers somebody had to do something they had never done before. Therefore I have a close-up picture of the first venomous snake I ever touched. Dave claimed that there was a ring of my sweat around the snake’s neck when I tossed him down. This photo shoot did not really count as the moment of full powers over the serpent. What was required was to go mano-o-snakeo, on his home turf, i.e. catch one.
So as a young nature counselor I was full of long pent-up desire to catch a poisonous snake and when the time came it came in spades. It all started one night when another counselor got clipped on the calf by what had to have been a poisonous snake. Nobody saw the snake but he spent some time in the hospital. Only a few nights later we were sitting in the head office monitoring the ebb and flow of a capture-the-flag battle down in junior camp. In runs a kid “Mr. L, there’s a snake”. Nothing new here until I get to the excitement where Flynn (maybe nine) has one tennis shoed foot gently on top of the front half of a 2 foot copperhead. And he was surrounded by about 50 kids with 50 flash lights (Nice stage lighting; the sawed-off appreciate an audience). Snake stick retrieved from the Nature Hut I put one hand under Flynn’s arm pit, to give him a little extra lift, and told him to jump.
Now my plan was to pin the copperhead’s head, as these things were supposed to be done, pick him up behind his head, and take him to the Nature Hut. As it turned out the snake had other plans and took off like a bat-out-of-hell when Flynn jumped off him. Fortunately the stage lighting crew scattered. Some chase eventually resulted in the planned out come. The Head Counselor said “well done”. Nobody bitten, snake on display, and I just made the leap.
As events unfolded it was less of a leap and more of an ongoing sprint around Camp putting the cuffs, so to speak, on pit vipers. A few nights after the first copperhead, just after lights out, a camper + counselor came to say there was a snake in the bathroom –copperhead two. Within days at an evening Jr/Sr. camp cook out in Sr camp….”Mr L there’s a snake under the cloths line”. That would be number three. Within days, a group hike from Camp turned up a big number four.
The Head Counselor, a very level headed leader, was starting to get worried. Not only had a counselor been bitten and both Jr and Sr. camp suddenly infested with copperheads, the capture on the hike made it look like we were also surrounded. A call to Tennessee Fish and Game indicated that the entire state was not being overrun with copperheads. I did my best to share in Camp’s official concern but in truth I was having a really good summer.
ML
5/28/07
It is a power because, despite the commonly encountered ‘snakes are your friends because they eat grain gobbling rodents’, the more important truth is that snakes kill more people every year than all other non-human vertebrates combined. Furthermore, while only around one in twenty venomous snake bites kills a person, the other 19 are frequently left in wreathing pain for days and then the bitten appendage may rot off. And this sequela does not go unnoticed by the principle’s family and neighbors. Snakes are, as a snake once put it, “more powerful than the finger of a king”. Fire power, plus they are basically small and therefore way too close when first spotted, accounts for their fearsome status. Hence, the leap from a kid who plays with snakes to full blown witch doctor status is power over the poisonous.
Mike helped me build a cinderblock snake pit in the basement despite my mother’s position of “we’ll see” during the constructions phase. In the event she let me buy a cottonmouth from Ray Singleton and we put him in the pit. Not long after the snake’s arrival Dave came by with his father’s excellent camera and close-up lens. To take real advantage of the close-up lens full powers somebody had to do something they had never done before. Therefore I have a close-up picture of the first venomous snake I ever touched. Dave claimed that there was a ring of my sweat around the snake’s neck when I tossed him down. This photo shoot did not really count as the moment of full powers over the serpent. What was required was to go mano-o-snakeo, on his home turf, i.e. catch one.
So as a young nature counselor I was full of long pent-up desire to catch a poisonous snake and when the time came it came in spades. It all started one night when another counselor got clipped on the calf by what had to have been a poisonous snake. Nobody saw the snake but he spent some time in the hospital. Only a few nights later we were sitting in the head office monitoring the ebb and flow of a capture-the-flag battle down in junior camp. In runs a kid “Mr. L, there’s a snake”. Nothing new here until I get to the excitement where Flynn (maybe nine) has one tennis shoed foot gently on top of the front half of a 2 foot copperhead. And he was surrounded by about 50 kids with 50 flash lights (Nice stage lighting; the sawed-off appreciate an audience). Snake stick retrieved from the Nature Hut I put one hand under Flynn’s arm pit, to give him a little extra lift, and told him to jump.
Now my plan was to pin the copperhead’s head, as these things were supposed to be done, pick him up behind his head, and take him to the Nature Hut. As it turned out the snake had other plans and took off like a bat-out-of-hell when Flynn jumped off him. Fortunately the stage lighting crew scattered. Some chase eventually resulted in the planned out come. The Head Counselor said “well done”. Nobody bitten, snake on display, and I just made the leap.
As events unfolded it was less of a leap and more of an ongoing sprint around Camp putting the cuffs, so to speak, on pit vipers. A few nights after the first copperhead, just after lights out, a camper + counselor came to say there was a snake in the bathroom –copperhead two. Within days at an evening Jr/Sr. camp cook out in Sr camp….”Mr L there’s a snake under the cloths line”. That would be number three. Within days, a group hike from Camp turned up a big number four.
The Head Counselor, a very level headed leader, was starting to get worried. Not only had a counselor been bitten and both Jr and Sr. camp suddenly infested with copperheads, the capture on the hike made it look like we were also surrounded. A call to Tennessee Fish and Game indicated that the entire state was not being overrun with copperheads. I did my best to share in Camp’s official concern but in truth I was having a really good summer.
ML
5/28/07
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
9. Mary Jane, why do you let him keep all those snakes?
You can keep snakes and only interact with the other woodland creatures. The garter snakes eat their worms, the water snakes eat their fish, the hog nosed snakes eat their toads, the king snakes eat their water snakes and the black snakes eat their lizards. But if you want to keep snakes and make the leap from impulse power to warp drive you need a lot of one thing and one thing only – mice.
In the fifth grade we moved back to Oak Ridge, Tennessee and my mother went to work at Oak Ridge National Laboratory….. Biology Division. Being a big Biology Division the investigators needed a lot of mice, many of which were raised in the “mouse house”. Mice being mice, they made more mice so that the mouse house always had too many – mice.
Biologists being biologists, they were more than happy to support the scientific leanings of the young. Consequently, all I ever needed to do was tell my mother “I need some mice” and home came a box of pinkies, fuzzes, hoppers, regulars and jumbos. So by the summer of the sixth grade the only limit on the number of quality snakes I could keep was the available space for cages in my bedroom! And it was a fair sized bedroom.
I remember that the richest I ever felt in my youth was late high school when I managed to have in my possession five corn snakes; (plus, of course, a lot of other stuff).
The ironic thing about this mouse-sink, palace-o-snakes arrangement was my mother didn’t mind the snakes but she didn’t like mice. Now that I think back on it maybe that was part of the point; fewer mice in the world.
It probably comes as no surprise that my mother’s friends questioned her sanity. She had a standard reply which I have always since shared with mothers and kids edging toward snakes in the house. My mother would just tell her friends…”Well at least he’s not out stealing hub caps”.
ML
5/25/07
In the fifth grade we moved back to Oak Ridge, Tennessee and my mother went to work at Oak Ridge National Laboratory….. Biology Division. Being a big Biology Division the investigators needed a lot of mice, many of which were raised in the “mouse house”. Mice being mice, they made more mice so that the mouse house always had too many – mice.
Biologists being biologists, they were more than happy to support the scientific leanings of the young. Consequently, all I ever needed to do was tell my mother “I need some mice” and home came a box of pinkies, fuzzes, hoppers, regulars and jumbos. So by the summer of the sixth grade the only limit on the number of quality snakes I could keep was the available space for cages in my bedroom! And it was a fair sized bedroom.
I remember that the richest I ever felt in my youth was late high school when I managed to have in my possession five corn snakes; (plus, of course, a lot of other stuff).
The ironic thing about this mouse-sink, palace-o-snakes arrangement was my mother didn’t mind the snakes but she didn’t like mice. Now that I think back on it maybe that was part of the point; fewer mice in the world.
It probably comes as no surprise that my mother’s friends questioned her sanity. She had a standard reply which I have always since shared with mothers and kids edging toward snakes in the house. My mother would just tell her friends…”Well at least he’s not out stealing hub caps”.
ML
5/25/07
Monday, May 21, 2007
8b. At least somebody was prepared
I knew Riley around 45 years ago at summer Camp but remember that he was from New Madrid, Missouri. I remember because he was, even at about 12, so accustomed to people saying “where”? that he would quickly add – “largest city on the Mississippi River….before the earth quake”. A subsequent earth science course confirmed the magnitude of the upheaval which reportedly rang church bells in Boston. So quick was he, at so young an age, with New Madrid highlights that I figured he was sure to end up mayor or at least head of the Chamber of Commerce.
Riley’s other memorable feature was generally being armed to the teeth. Back in those days you could get actual Army surplus from the Army Surplus store; bayonets, machetes, all manner of smaller cutlery. Riley was sawed-off early and if he had actually carried a saw no one would have noticed. I do not remember if he marched around Camp so equipped but if he did it didn’t matter; that’s what summer camp is for. I do know he was always fully armed when ever we went into the field.
One such trip took us to a Tennessee state park for an overnight camp out. Being the nature counselor, after camp site set up, I formed an expedition of the willing and off we went to see what was happening along on the lake’s shore.
Not much was happening until we came upon a fair sized hole in the bank at water level with a fresh mud cloud coming out of it. I alerted the group, opined that it was likely muskrat or snapping turtle activity, and was about to move on because sticking one’s hand in fair sized fresh holes is way too sawed-off. Then Riley must have moved because the sound of clanging metal reminded me we were better prepared to deal with this opportunity than was typically the case. I says, “Riley, let me see your bayonet”. I recall him pleased to share because I suspect he was probably operating under some sort of official “use it and lose it” personal weaponry injunction.
So we start sounding the hole, from the lake end, with the bayonet. It goes easily in as we follow the hole progressing landward. We followed the easy dirt toward the base of a big tree and then we got a “thud” sound from a half depth plunge and the bayonet starts shaking back and forth as if someone were on the other end. I says, “Riley let me see your hatchet”. And down, and around, we dug to a very big, very surprised, snapper. So big in fact that he was too heavy to carry safely by his tail far enough away from my leg. As we wanted more than a “you should have been there” tale back at the camp site a new transport method had to be invented. A kid on each leg was not going to last long and dragging him seemed a little harsh. So (and I still have trouble believing this but it’s what I remember) I hoisted him, his top shell to my skull top, his head to my back, and off to our encampment the proud hunting party marched.
The turtle weighed in at a bit over twenty pounds. Somebody came up with a bath tub for outside the Nature Hut and there the prize resided till Camp’s summer end. I dropped him off in a nearby river and that was that.
I fudged slightly on this story and tracked Riley down with Google. He was still in New Madrid and went way past the Chamber of Commerce from the stand point of the Missouri historical establishment. What I didn’t do was ask him what he had in his pockets. However I predict with high certainty, Riley is rarely without the biggest Swiss Army knife ever made and a leatherman tool (ah technology!) very close at hand. The fundamental things really do apply as time goes by.
ML
5/18/07
Riley’s other memorable feature was generally being armed to the teeth. Back in those days you could get actual Army surplus from the Army Surplus store; bayonets, machetes, all manner of smaller cutlery. Riley was sawed-off early and if he had actually carried a saw no one would have noticed. I do not remember if he marched around Camp so equipped but if he did it didn’t matter; that’s what summer camp is for. I do know he was always fully armed when ever we went into the field.
One such trip took us to a Tennessee state park for an overnight camp out. Being the nature counselor, after camp site set up, I formed an expedition of the willing and off we went to see what was happening along on the lake’s shore.
Not much was happening until we came upon a fair sized hole in the bank at water level with a fresh mud cloud coming out of it. I alerted the group, opined that it was likely muskrat or snapping turtle activity, and was about to move on because sticking one’s hand in fair sized fresh holes is way too sawed-off. Then Riley must have moved because the sound of clanging metal reminded me we were better prepared to deal with this opportunity than was typically the case. I says, “Riley, let me see your bayonet”. I recall him pleased to share because I suspect he was probably operating under some sort of official “use it and lose it” personal weaponry injunction.
So we start sounding the hole, from the lake end, with the bayonet. It goes easily in as we follow the hole progressing landward. We followed the easy dirt toward the base of a big tree and then we got a “thud” sound from a half depth plunge and the bayonet starts shaking back and forth as if someone were on the other end. I says, “Riley let me see your hatchet”. And down, and around, we dug to a very big, very surprised, snapper. So big in fact that he was too heavy to carry safely by his tail far enough away from my leg. As we wanted more than a “you should have been there” tale back at the camp site a new transport method had to be invented. A kid on each leg was not going to last long and dragging him seemed a little harsh. So (and I still have trouble believing this but it’s what I remember) I hoisted him, his top shell to my skull top, his head to my back, and off to our encampment the proud hunting party marched.
The turtle weighed in at a bit over twenty pounds. Somebody came up with a bath tub for outside the Nature Hut and there the prize resided till Camp’s summer end. I dropped him off in a nearby river and that was that.
I fudged slightly on this story and tracked Riley down with Google. He was still in New Madrid and went way past the Chamber of Commerce from the stand point of the Missouri historical establishment. What I didn’t do was ask him what he had in his pockets. However I predict with high certainty, Riley is rarely without the biggest Swiss Army knife ever made and a leatherman tool (ah technology!) very close at hand. The fundamental things really do apply as time goes by.
ML
5/18/07
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
8a. Bad protoplasm
So we’re sitting in the group room of a local bar after a neuroanatomy class and the topic of general disposition was introduced. In particular, what was the reason for the marked difference in demeanors between woolly monkeys and rhesus monkeys? I probably brought it up having just met a pet wooly monkey (“Monty” as I recall) who mingled well with a bunch of humans sitting around a living room. Monty’s passably civilized behavior was in stark contrast to what we all agreed would be the uncivilized to homicidal behavior of any rhesus monkey we had ever met.
The teacher, a Tallahassee neurologist, had joined us this evening and he forwarded the proposition that there was such a thing as “bad protoplasm”. Rhesus monkeys had it and wooly monkeys didn’t. His classification rang true as it was easy to think of animals whose mobility, agility and hostility far exceeded their station in life; those spiritually akin to the creature in the Alien series.
Based upon many encounters and several reasons my vote for baddest protoplasm goes to the common snapping turtle Chelydra serpentine. To begin with turtles as a group are not a first order menace. Oh a slider/cooter will take a swing at you every so often and a box turtle can probably pinch a finger in its closing shell but on the whole turtles are not exactly junk yard dogs. The common snapping turtle, however, is a junk yard dog. The species name says a lot about a striking speed that clearly impressed a visiting Swedish naturalist 250 years ago. And with a top wild weight of 75 pounds and an average of 10-35 pounds they are not to be tooted with.
My first tooting with came at about 10 when a pick-up safari was exploring a willow tree lined muddy creek behind our apartment. There was a piece of plywood, half in and out of the water, that one of the leader kids turned over. And under it was a 4 pound snapper also half in and out of the water. With slow menace he backed into the creek and was gone. I did not know such creatures existed and 50 yards from where I slept!
First capture was about a year later in the same creek. The fact that we had just returned from a Florida vacation must have accounted for the fact that I thought I was charging a big crab floating next to the far bank (pointy posterior shells as the similarity I guess). I picked up the one pound snapper and headed home where he likely stayed in an aquarium until he stunk us out –they have a distinctive unpleasant aroma.
The little ones, babies to about one pound, are fairly restrained; the attitude seems to set in at about three pounds but I don’t actually remember my first capture of the standard model. Fortunately snappers come with handles so if you get behind them you can pick them up by their long tails. This begs the question of “Why?” They bite, they’re big and they smell bad. This may explain the absent engram of first capture of a grown one as the typical conversation runs “I don’t want this thing; you want this thing?”
As driving teenagers we came across snappers in numbers from time to time. One day at Cove Lake, Dave and I were exploring a large area of foot deep water with a mud bottom. Snappers leave a characteristic trail in mud consisting of a two column path of foot prints with a continuous line up the middle where they drag their tail. We spotted the first trail and mud buried traveler quickly, then another and another. We ended up just counting them because if nobody wants one, fifty of the suckers are completely safe from even the sawed-off.
ML
3/17/07
The teacher, a Tallahassee neurologist, had joined us this evening and he forwarded the proposition that there was such a thing as “bad protoplasm”. Rhesus monkeys had it and wooly monkeys didn’t. His classification rang true as it was easy to think of animals whose mobility, agility and hostility far exceeded their station in life; those spiritually akin to the creature in the Alien series.
Based upon many encounters and several reasons my vote for baddest protoplasm goes to the common snapping turtle Chelydra serpentine. To begin with turtles as a group are not a first order menace. Oh a slider/cooter will take a swing at you every so often and a box turtle can probably pinch a finger in its closing shell but on the whole turtles are not exactly junk yard dogs. The common snapping turtle, however, is a junk yard dog. The species name says a lot about a striking speed that clearly impressed a visiting Swedish naturalist 250 years ago. And with a top wild weight of 75 pounds and an average of 10-35 pounds they are not to be tooted with.
My first tooting with came at about 10 when a pick-up safari was exploring a willow tree lined muddy creek behind our apartment. There was a piece of plywood, half in and out of the water, that one of the leader kids turned over. And under it was a 4 pound snapper also half in and out of the water. With slow menace he backed into the creek and was gone. I did not know such creatures existed and 50 yards from where I slept!
First capture was about a year later in the same creek. The fact that we had just returned from a Florida vacation must have accounted for the fact that I thought I was charging a big crab floating next to the far bank (pointy posterior shells as the similarity I guess). I picked up the one pound snapper and headed home where he likely stayed in an aquarium until he stunk us out –they have a distinctive unpleasant aroma.
The little ones, babies to about one pound, are fairly restrained; the attitude seems to set in at about three pounds but I don’t actually remember my first capture of the standard model. Fortunately snappers come with handles so if you get behind them you can pick them up by their long tails. This begs the question of “Why?” They bite, they’re big and they smell bad. This may explain the absent engram of first capture of a grown one as the typical conversation runs “I don’t want this thing; you want this thing?”
As driving teenagers we came across snappers in numbers from time to time. One day at Cove Lake, Dave and I were exploring a large area of foot deep water with a mud bottom. Snappers leave a characteristic trail in mud consisting of a two column path of foot prints with a continuous line up the middle where they drag their tail. We spotted the first trail and mud buried traveler quickly, then another and another. We ended up just counting them because if nobody wants one, fifty of the suckers are completely safe from even the sawed-off.
ML
3/17/07
Friday, March 9, 2007
7. Pop's milk snake
Before I turned six I lived on the Pennsylvania/New York border; my family in Olean, my grandparents near Bradford. Pop’s house, which he said when last I saw him, had seen six generations with Shaving 2’s visit at the age of eight months. Everything seemed smaller than what I remembered except the field running up the hill from his back yard to the tree line. A sloping affair of knee high grass where the after dinner entertainment was watching the deer step out of the forest. (Once he said he had seen bear)
Pop worked his “leases”. Pennsylvania oil pumping stations where horse-shaped pumps delivered the greenish crude out of the ground into big open – wooden I seem to remember –Jacuzzi-like barrels. It smelled good but he said it would give me a headache.
Because of his work, Pop had a long shed; long enough to accommodate runs of pipe that go along with pumping oil. The shed was not far from the house and at the bottom of the field that ran the valley’s length. And along with the tools and shed of an oil man came scattered sheet metal roofing and a rock pile. And along with the sheet metal roofing and the rock pile came garter snakes galore!
Rock pile captures tended to be one snake per flipped rock. Not every rock, of course, but there were a lot of rocks. Sheet metal roofing turn-overs could often uncover more than one garter snake and I’d grab as many as I could. I don’t remember keeping them and didn’t know to use a pillow case at the time. There was one sweep were I carried a bucket and returned with five in about five minutes. I remember because somebody, Aunt Bid I think, said “Look at this, the gosh darn kid has already got five of them”. I also remember cutting one’s head off and cutting him open to discover what they ate. It was a worm but afterwards I felt the knowledge not worth the price. When I learned how to read I looked such matters up in books.
Garter snakes are not big biters but they are big poopers. Not a particularly pleasant aroma but you get used to it, as the price of doing this business, and it becomes the smell of success. Not unlike how your hands smell after a successful fishing trip.
Because garter snakes do not bite what happened one evening made an impression. I flipped the tin and there was a not-garter snake that reared back and bit me as soon as I reached for him. I dropped the tin and headed back into the house for dinner.
A decision faced me as I knew three things: a) it was not a garter snake, b) it bit me and c) some not-garter snakes were trouble. I figured I ought to tell somebody but also figured that some things could change that might include my being forbidden to catch snakes. Dying was also on my mind; decisions, decisions. I decided to just eat dinner and see how events unfolded.
In hindsight I am so sure it was a milk snake that I can almost see it now. From a practical stand point the real danger was zero (ah books) as the only indigenous venomous snakes were timber rattlesnakes – which Pop assured me he knew where to find but would not show me.
The question is; what should I have done? Probably I should have mentioned the bite but then again I lived didn’t I! And when you’re headed down that sawed-off path “sometimes you just have to say, what the spawn”. I never told anybody until now. Hope I don’t get in trouble.
ML
3/2/07
Pop worked his “leases”. Pennsylvania oil pumping stations where horse-shaped pumps delivered the greenish crude out of the ground into big open – wooden I seem to remember –Jacuzzi-like barrels. It smelled good but he said it would give me a headache.
Because of his work, Pop had a long shed; long enough to accommodate runs of pipe that go along with pumping oil. The shed was not far from the house and at the bottom of the field that ran the valley’s length. And along with the tools and shed of an oil man came scattered sheet metal roofing and a rock pile. And along with the sheet metal roofing and the rock pile came garter snakes galore!
Rock pile captures tended to be one snake per flipped rock. Not every rock, of course, but there were a lot of rocks. Sheet metal roofing turn-overs could often uncover more than one garter snake and I’d grab as many as I could. I don’t remember keeping them and didn’t know to use a pillow case at the time. There was one sweep were I carried a bucket and returned with five in about five minutes. I remember because somebody, Aunt Bid I think, said “Look at this, the gosh darn kid has already got five of them”. I also remember cutting one’s head off and cutting him open to discover what they ate. It was a worm but afterwards I felt the knowledge not worth the price. When I learned how to read I looked such matters up in books.
Garter snakes are not big biters but they are big poopers. Not a particularly pleasant aroma but you get used to it, as the price of doing this business, and it becomes the smell of success. Not unlike how your hands smell after a successful fishing trip.
Because garter snakes do not bite what happened one evening made an impression. I flipped the tin and there was a not-garter snake that reared back and bit me as soon as I reached for him. I dropped the tin and headed back into the house for dinner.
A decision faced me as I knew three things: a) it was not a garter snake, b) it bit me and c) some not-garter snakes were trouble. I figured I ought to tell somebody but also figured that some things could change that might include my being forbidden to catch snakes. Dying was also on my mind; decisions, decisions. I decided to just eat dinner and see how events unfolded.
In hindsight I am so sure it was a milk snake that I can almost see it now. From a practical stand point the real danger was zero (ah books) as the only indigenous venomous snakes were timber rattlesnakes – which Pop assured me he knew where to find but would not show me.
The question is; what should I have done? Probably I should have mentioned the bite but then again I lived didn’t I! And when you’re headed down that sawed-off path “sometimes you just have to say, what the spawn”. I never told anybody until now. Hope I don’t get in trouble.
ML
3/2/07
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
6. Shaving 1 says: Never take your eyes off the swamp
Every sawed-off sportsman knows when they have encountered another sawed-off sportsman. The telltale sign is they are using an item outside of it’s manufacturer’s intended design. As Shaving #1, I knew immediately when I and my sawed-off sportsman father crossed paths with “Willy” who was fishing for crabs in Saint Marks swamp using fish heads on a rope. Overall it was an effective procedure, catching 3 - 4 crabs with each “cast” (dropping the fish head into the water); however, it had caught the attention of another inhabitant of the swamp. An 8 foot American Alligator was “hovering” about 20 feet away – and watching.
Of course when sawed-off sportsmen cross paths they immediately go into what they’re doing, what they’re using, and how they came up with the idea. As I am merely a shaving and not personally sawed-off or a sportsmen, I cared little for the conversation and directed my attention to the swamp and specifically the alligator. Then the gator submerged. I sounded the alarm (“Hey, hey he’s under”), the sawed-offs took a look around, and the gator emerged about 5 feet from where he’d been. Not close, but still watching.
The sawed-offs went back to their conversation. All the while Willy is “reeling in” his line, picking off the crabs, checking the fish heads, re-“casting”, and repeating. Again, the gator submerged, again I sounded the alarm, again the sawed-offs took a look around, this time they decided the gator had gotten bored and moved on. I’d been in the field too long to turn my back on the swamp, but I directed my attention to the sawed-offs. As I’m listening to them regale one another with their stories – comparing scars as it were – Willy continues to reel in his line.
This time more than crabs come out of the water. The gator is rising silently out of the water and headed for Willy’s feet. Not knowing what else to do I start to scream like my hair is on fire. Mostly out of annoyance, the sawed-offs look at me and then to where I’m pointing – right at their feet. Both sawed-offs yelp and fall back. Ironically, Willy’s chosen method of escape is the crab-crawl backwards to safety. Crabs, fish heads, and rope abandoned Willy escapes.
Never take your eyes off the swamp.
MS-L
2/11/2007
Of course when sawed-off sportsmen cross paths they immediately go into what they’re doing, what they’re using, and how they came up with the idea. As I am merely a shaving and not personally sawed-off or a sportsmen, I cared little for the conversation and directed my attention to the swamp and specifically the alligator. Then the gator submerged. I sounded the alarm (“Hey, hey he’s under”), the sawed-offs took a look around, and the gator emerged about 5 feet from where he’d been. Not close, but still watching.
The sawed-offs went back to their conversation. All the while Willy is “reeling in” his line, picking off the crabs, checking the fish heads, re-“casting”, and repeating. Again, the gator submerged, again I sounded the alarm, again the sawed-offs took a look around, this time they decided the gator had gotten bored and moved on. I’d been in the field too long to turn my back on the swamp, but I directed my attention to the sawed-offs. As I’m listening to them regale one another with their stories – comparing scars as it were – Willy continues to reel in his line.
This time more than crabs come out of the water. The gator is rising silently out of the water and headed for Willy’s feet. Not knowing what else to do I start to scream like my hair is on fire. Mostly out of annoyance, the sawed-offs look at me and then to where I’m pointing – right at their feet. Both sawed-offs yelp and fall back. Ironically, Willy’s chosen method of escape is the crab-crawl backwards to safety. Crabs, fish heads, and rope abandoned Willy escapes.
Never take your eyes off the swamp.
MS-L
2/11/2007
Saturday, February 17, 2007
5. Interview with a Sawed-off Sportsman
ML: Thank you for doing this interview.
Sawed-off Sportsman: No problem. I did this once before and it worked out pretty
well.
ML: You mean interview yourself?
SS: Yes.
ML: When was that?
SS: I don’t have to answer that question.
ML: Then why did you ask it?
SS: Got to use a line out of a movie.
ML: Which movie? No wait, I know, you don’t have to answer that either, right?
SS: Correct-a-mundo.
ML: How long have you been ‘sawed-off’?
SS: I once heard someone say that people don’t change, they just become more and more like themselves. That’s been my aspiration.
ML: Earliest ‘sawed-offness’?
SS: Well I remember the garter snakes clearly from about 4 years old at my grandfather’s place. My mother said that when I was little she harnessed me to the close line in the backyard, you know so I could move around, and I took an unusual interest in worms.
ML: Were your parents ‘sawed-off’. I mean is this…..approach, genetic?
SS: My mother had her own shotgun and always accused my father of knocking the biggest pike off her line on their honeymoon. My father was experimental sawed-off. Two adventures of his ‘yut’ come to mind. Once he wondered if a deer could be killed with a .22 – he reported “no problem”. Another time he was experimenting with black powder and a rabbit ear shotgun that likely took cartridges. As he later said, the only mistakes he didn’t make involved tying the gun to a tree and pulling the trigger with a string. Had he not, neither one of us would have lived.
ML: And your children?
SS: Ah yes, the shavings; they vary. Shaving 1 doesn’t come across as sawed-off – she makes you take your shoes off before coming into her townhouse – but then there’s the 20 year old turtle and 600 guppies in the plastic garden pond in her dining room. Shaving 2 is not naturally sawed-off but she knows what she’s doing because I taught her some stuff before she knew what I was doing. Shaving 3 likes to get sawed-off if he can bring along a bunch of his friends. Shaving 4 is an extremely serious menace to both salt and fresh water teleosts; comes back from 8 hours on the high seas and goes down to the pier to relax by catching pinfish.
ML: And Mrs. Sawed-off?
SS: She wants me to abandon my aspiration and stop teaching the children stuff. I tell her “Honey, I gotta be me” and she says “Please stop.”
ML: So how many episodes of “Adventures of aSS” can we look for?
SS: I saw that.
ML: I meant to be amusing, have I failed?
SS: Nice shot.
ML: And the answer to the question?
SS: I don’t know how long we have. Who does?
ML
2/9/07
Sawed-off Sportsman: No problem. I did this once before and it worked out pretty
well.
ML: You mean interview yourself?
SS: Yes.
ML: When was that?
SS: I don’t have to answer that question.
ML: Then why did you ask it?
SS: Got to use a line out of a movie.
ML: Which movie? No wait, I know, you don’t have to answer that either, right?
SS: Correct-a-mundo.
ML: How long have you been ‘sawed-off’?
SS: I once heard someone say that people don’t change, they just become more and more like themselves. That’s been my aspiration.
ML: Earliest ‘sawed-offness’?
SS: Well I remember the garter snakes clearly from about 4 years old at my grandfather’s place. My mother said that when I was little she harnessed me to the close line in the backyard, you know so I could move around, and I took an unusual interest in worms.
ML: Were your parents ‘sawed-off’. I mean is this…..approach, genetic?
SS: My mother had her own shotgun and always accused my father of knocking the biggest pike off her line on their honeymoon. My father was experimental sawed-off. Two adventures of his ‘yut’ come to mind. Once he wondered if a deer could be killed with a .22 – he reported “no problem”. Another time he was experimenting with black powder and a rabbit ear shotgun that likely took cartridges. As he later said, the only mistakes he didn’t make involved tying the gun to a tree and pulling the trigger with a string. Had he not, neither one of us would have lived.
ML: And your children?
SS: Ah yes, the shavings; they vary. Shaving 1 doesn’t come across as sawed-off – she makes you take your shoes off before coming into her townhouse – but then there’s the 20 year old turtle and 600 guppies in the plastic garden pond in her dining room. Shaving 2 is not naturally sawed-off but she knows what she’s doing because I taught her some stuff before she knew what I was doing. Shaving 3 likes to get sawed-off if he can bring along a bunch of his friends. Shaving 4 is an extremely serious menace to both salt and fresh water teleosts; comes back from 8 hours on the high seas and goes down to the pier to relax by catching pinfish.
ML: And Mrs. Sawed-off?
SS: She wants me to abandon my aspiration and stop teaching the children stuff. I tell her “Honey, I gotta be me” and she says “Please stop.”
ML: So how many episodes of “Adventures of aSS” can we look for?
SS: I saw that.
ML: I meant to be amusing, have I failed?
SS: Nice shot.
ML: And the answer to the question?
SS: I don’t know how long we have. Who does?
ML
2/9/07
Saturday, February 10, 2007
4c. Four-man fishing
Four-man fishing is a semi-logical outgrowth of two-man fishing.
Two-man fishing was invented to deal with a ‘good news/bad news’ situation. The good news was that about 150ft off the Gulf side of Captiva Key there was a zigzag pattern of concrete structures on the bottom (presumably beach erosion control) which attracted many fish. Of the many species present the snook were to kill for; really big snook. The bad news was it was too far to cast.
First instinct was to get a swimming pool raft and snorkel back out to the spot with mask, flippers, bait bucket and rod & reel. Reflection suggested that the rod & reel would likely end up on the bottom; poor treatment of the reel which was marginal anyway. That being the main anticipated problem, Plan B was Plan A minus the rod& reel in the water.
Terry was a militant non-fisherman which usually means someone with an extra supply of beginner’s luck if you can just trick such people into actually fishing. I assured him that I, not he, would be “fishing”. He would be standing on the shore merely appearing to be fishing as he would be holding the rod & reel. That, plus the possibility I would get the hook in myself and he could reel me in screaming, secured his participation.
It was a good plan but not a good enough plan. The snook were there but the sheepshead nailed the shrimp first and quickly and they are hard to hook.
Four-man fishing was invented to deal with the line abrasion problem with sharks hooked from the beach. Another rule of sawed-off sportsmanship is nothing succeeds like excess. Oh, they might be able to saw through 20 pound mono but they were not going to saw through ski rope. Big hook, 3ft steel leader, big swivel (off a defunct cast net), 200 feet of rope and…ah the part of the plan that needed some planning.
You don’t really get a good feel for how hard a big fish is pulling, in a tug-of-war sense, because the reel drag gives up line. You just know he’s leaving. Consequently, tying the rope around my waist seemed problematic a priori. Hand holding the rope sounded dicey so I tied a sturdy 5in diameter steel ring to the beach end of the rope. With about $11.57 already invested, and still not knowing who would win the pulling contest, I decided to accommodate up to four people on “Team Human’. As these people would likely be some of my children and their friends, handles were fashioned from two foot pieces of stout bamboo that were each attached to the steel ring with carabineers and about three feet of rope, i.e. little chance of getting tangled up (speaking of being pulled through the water screaming). The plan was that on some morning when it was SS: 0 / Sharks: 3, I’d walk/swim the baited hook out to the second sand bar, come back and give the standard Ahabian pep talk to those assembled – “What say ye lads? I think ye do look brave. Will ye join hands with me on this?” – and we’d drag the next one out of the Gulf.
As events have unfolded since the invention of four-man fishing the necessary deployment conditions have not come together. But the apparatus is generally with us, stored securely in the bottom of the Fisherman’s Quiver in a black plastic bag. So when all is said and done, two-man fishing didn’t work and four-man fishing has not been tried. And though the weather outside is frightful, the August beach beckons.
ML
2-2-07
Two-man fishing was invented to deal with a ‘good news/bad news’ situation. The good news was that about 150ft off the Gulf side of Captiva Key there was a zigzag pattern of concrete structures on the bottom (presumably beach erosion control) which attracted many fish. Of the many species present the snook were to kill for; really big snook. The bad news was it was too far to cast.
First instinct was to get a swimming pool raft and snorkel back out to the spot with mask, flippers, bait bucket and rod & reel. Reflection suggested that the rod & reel would likely end up on the bottom; poor treatment of the reel which was marginal anyway. That being the main anticipated problem, Plan B was Plan A minus the rod& reel in the water.
Terry was a militant non-fisherman which usually means someone with an extra supply of beginner’s luck if you can just trick such people into actually fishing. I assured him that I, not he, would be “fishing”. He would be standing on the shore merely appearing to be fishing as he would be holding the rod & reel. That, plus the possibility I would get the hook in myself and he could reel me in screaming, secured his participation.
It was a good plan but not a good enough plan. The snook were there but the sheepshead nailed the shrimp first and quickly and they are hard to hook.
Four-man fishing was invented to deal with the line abrasion problem with sharks hooked from the beach. Another rule of sawed-off sportsmanship is nothing succeeds like excess. Oh, they might be able to saw through 20 pound mono but they were not going to saw through ski rope. Big hook, 3ft steel leader, big swivel (off a defunct cast net), 200 feet of rope and…ah the part of the plan that needed some planning.
You don’t really get a good feel for how hard a big fish is pulling, in a tug-of-war sense, because the reel drag gives up line. You just know he’s leaving. Consequently, tying the rope around my waist seemed problematic a priori. Hand holding the rope sounded dicey so I tied a sturdy 5in diameter steel ring to the beach end of the rope. With about $11.57 already invested, and still not knowing who would win the pulling contest, I decided to accommodate up to four people on “Team Human’. As these people would likely be some of my children and their friends, handles were fashioned from two foot pieces of stout bamboo that were each attached to the steel ring with carabineers and about three feet of rope, i.e. little chance of getting tangled up (speaking of being pulled through the water screaming). The plan was that on some morning when it was SS: 0 / Sharks: 3, I’d walk/swim the baited hook out to the second sand bar, come back and give the standard Ahabian pep talk to those assembled – “What say ye lads? I think ye do look brave. Will ye join hands with me on this?” – and we’d drag the next one out of the Gulf.
As events have unfolded since the invention of four-man fishing the necessary deployment conditions have not come together. But the apparatus is generally with us, stored securely in the bottom of the Fisherman’s Quiver in a black plastic bag. So when all is said and done, two-man fishing didn’t work and four-man fishing has not been tried. And though the weather outside is frightful, the August beach beckons.
ML
2-2-07
Monday, February 5, 2007
4b. Sharks (n = 2/13)
There seem to be two main obstacles to landing a shark hooked from the beach.
First, because the angle of the line with the shark’s body is nearly parallel, they have a most excellent opportunity to saw on the line with the very rough skin on their tail. Their business end is defeated with a strong hook—three feet of 120-pound steel leader attached to the hook at one end, and a big swivel at the other. The big swivel is attached to a pointed snap and swivel. Then the experimentation begins.
Having lost a good many sharks in the surf, I discussed the situation at a salt water tackle store and the guy said, “Kid, you need a bigger reel.” A bigger reel would hold more heavy- test monofilament line, which the shark would have more trouble sawing through. Now I’m not cheap, but I do not like to own equipment that’s better than I am and I felt unworthy of owning a big salt water bait reel. Plus, casting is not such a reel’s strong suit. I skipped the self-psychoanalysis and told the guy I was using a big spinning reel. He said, “Kid, you need as much 100-pound mono as you can deal with and this tool to tie a nail knot.” Under ten bucks and we’re back in business! At present we’re using about 15 feet of 80-pound mono- leader, tied at one end to the pointed snap and swivel, and at the other end with a nail knot to the main line of twenty pound mono. With a reliable drag, line strength and capacity are virtually interchangeable. It’s a very good reel (my wife bought it for me), so this ought to work and two times out of about 13 it has.
This brings us to the second problem:
They cheat! The devils jump. I’m talking straight up and clean out of the water, and spin while they’re in the air. I am also suspicious they are spinning underwater. This spinning business, of course, can easily take up some hard-to-predict amount of the 80-pound leader, getting their skin on the 20-pound main line.
However, this jumping is not without its own recreational aspects. One morning I was standing on the beach about 8:00 as the “women & children” time zone begins. This little girl, about nine, comes walking over.
Little girl: “What are you fishing for?”
SS: “Sharks.”
Little girl: “No you’re not.”
SS: “You see that place out in the water where it goes from sort of white to darker? You watch that place.”
Unbeknownst to my small skeptic, Mr. Shark had been messing with half a lady fish since before she came over and took off right about the time she said “No you’re not.” So, I set the hook and the shark went right straight up in the air.
Little girl: “[silent pause] Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…..”( decreasing font size indicates decibel level as she runs away)
A sawed-off sportsman always enjoys these educational interactions with the public but there remained the basic problem of line abrasion.
ML
1/31/07
First, because the angle of the line with the shark’s body is nearly parallel, they have a most excellent opportunity to saw on the line with the very rough skin on their tail. Their business end is defeated with a strong hook—three feet of 120-pound steel leader attached to the hook at one end, and a big swivel at the other. The big swivel is attached to a pointed snap and swivel. Then the experimentation begins.
Having lost a good many sharks in the surf, I discussed the situation at a salt water tackle store and the guy said, “Kid, you need a bigger reel.” A bigger reel would hold more heavy- test monofilament line, which the shark would have more trouble sawing through. Now I’m not cheap, but I do not like to own equipment that’s better than I am and I felt unworthy of owning a big salt water bait reel. Plus, casting is not such a reel’s strong suit. I skipped the self-psychoanalysis and told the guy I was using a big spinning reel. He said, “Kid, you need as much 100-pound mono as you can deal with and this tool to tie a nail knot.” Under ten bucks and we’re back in business! At present we’re using about 15 feet of 80-pound mono- leader, tied at one end to the pointed snap and swivel, and at the other end with a nail knot to the main line of twenty pound mono. With a reliable drag, line strength and capacity are virtually interchangeable. It’s a very good reel (my wife bought it for me), so this ought to work and two times out of about 13 it has.
This brings us to the second problem:
They cheat! The devils jump. I’m talking straight up and clean out of the water, and spin while they’re in the air. I am also suspicious they are spinning underwater. This spinning business, of course, can easily take up some hard-to-predict amount of the 80-pound leader, getting their skin on the 20-pound main line.
However, this jumping is not without its own recreational aspects. One morning I was standing on the beach about 8:00 as the “women & children” time zone begins. This little girl, about nine, comes walking over.
Little girl: “What are you fishing for?”
SS: “Sharks.”
Little girl: “No you’re not.”
SS: “You see that place out in the water where it goes from sort of white to darker? You watch that place.”
Unbeknownst to my small skeptic, Mr. Shark had been messing with half a lady fish since before she came over and took off right about the time she said “No you’re not.” So, I set the hook and the shark went right straight up in the air.
Little girl: “[silent pause] Mommy, Mommy, Mommy…..”( decreasing font size indicates decibel level as she runs away)
A sawed-off sportsman always enjoys these educational interactions with the public but there remained the basic problem of line abrasion.
ML
1/31/07
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
4a. First shark
We vacationed as often as possible at Grayton Beach and fished as much as possible from the beach; always with Mr. Shark in mind. Everybody knew they were around; dusk and dawn were best and according to their movie manifestations cruised the surface with dorsal fin beckoning. Consequently I fished for them with the biggest bobber I could buy and a pinfish about six inches underneath the bobber.
Then I bumped into somebody who knew what he was doing. Fishermen have a reputation for “secrets”: places, baits, techniques. In fact I’ve never met one who wouldn’t enthusiastically tell you everything he knew. And this was no exception. Shavings 3 & 4 were whacking pinfish on #10 gigs and shrimp in the surf so I wandered East to see what this guy was up to. He was fishing for sharks with cut squid on the bottom. I mentioned the dorsal fin business but he assured me the bottom was the place to be. I ask him if squid was good but he said live bait was always best. I told him we had plenty of live pinfish so he rigged one up, walked out to chest deep water and cast it as far as possible.
The rest of the tutorial included leaving the bail open, finger loosely on the line, until the shark started frankly swimming away as they were inclined to fiddle with it before they got serious. This, plus making sure no swimmers were near-by as sharks tended to run parallel to the shore not straight out to sea. It did not take long. Shavings 3 & 4 got their picture taken with the big rod and a four foot black-tipped shark strapped to the hood of his old International jeep (guy was a class act).
The next morning, sans big bobber, bail open, finger on the line, standing on the second sandbar…. it starts. Just a few line wraps at a time and after about a minute off he goes. I’d been standing there thinking “I’m gonna catch a shark. I’m gonna catch a shark. I can’t believe it, I’m gonna catch a shark”.
With the second attack in Jaws you get only a brief glimpse of the shark. It was a lot like that. Out of the water comes the back third of the fish and then thunders down. I kid you not, thunders. I had a new thought; “not that shark” as I turned and headed for the beach as fast as possible.
All useful fishing knowledge seems to come from acquaintances or personal experience. Experience here taught a) forget about those swivels with gently curved snaps; use the ones that come to a point, and b) cast from, but linger not on, the second sand bar. There is symmetry to shark fishing’s possible outcomes; we’re not talking about carp or skipjack.
ML
1/26/07
Then I bumped into somebody who knew what he was doing. Fishermen have a reputation for “secrets”: places, baits, techniques. In fact I’ve never met one who wouldn’t enthusiastically tell you everything he knew. And this was no exception. Shavings 3 & 4 were whacking pinfish on #10 gigs and shrimp in the surf so I wandered East to see what this guy was up to. He was fishing for sharks with cut squid on the bottom. I mentioned the dorsal fin business but he assured me the bottom was the place to be. I ask him if squid was good but he said live bait was always best. I told him we had plenty of live pinfish so he rigged one up, walked out to chest deep water and cast it as far as possible.
The rest of the tutorial included leaving the bail open, finger loosely on the line, until the shark started frankly swimming away as they were inclined to fiddle with it before they got serious. This, plus making sure no swimmers were near-by as sharks tended to run parallel to the shore not straight out to sea. It did not take long. Shavings 3 & 4 got their picture taken with the big rod and a four foot black-tipped shark strapped to the hood of his old International jeep (guy was a class act).
The next morning, sans big bobber, bail open, finger on the line, standing on the second sandbar…. it starts. Just a few line wraps at a time and after about a minute off he goes. I’d been standing there thinking “I’m gonna catch a shark. I’m gonna catch a shark. I can’t believe it, I’m gonna catch a shark”.
With the second attack in Jaws you get only a brief glimpse of the shark. It was a lot like that. Out of the water comes the back third of the fish and then thunders down. I kid you not, thunders. I had a new thought; “not that shark” as I turned and headed for the beach as fast as possible.
All useful fishing knowledge seems to come from acquaintances or personal experience. Experience here taught a) forget about those swivels with gently curved snaps; use the ones that come to a point, and b) cast from, but linger not on, the second sand bar. There is symmetry to shark fishing’s possible outcomes; we’re not talking about carp or skipjack.
ML
1/26/07
Monday, January 29, 2007
3. By the dark of the moon
We needed more snakes.
Having long been incensed by TV nature shows repeated claim that “snakes see poorly”, absent a shred of data upon the topic, we had begun an evoked potential study of the visual acuity of the snake that was easiest to come by – banded water snakes. Using Tim’s set up we had done a few experiments with water snakes captured the previous Fall. The arrival of an NSF summer undergraduate, Sheena, had exhausted our water snake stock so it was off to the creek to get some more.
Much lore and some data from nighttime road hunting suggested snakes were not out-and-about much under a full moon. A side effect of this suppression of snake ‘walkabouts’ was not apparent until we saw some data. To wit, if they are hold-up under a full moon then they will make up for lost time after a full moon. And though the moon be fullish and bright the nights immediately after it is full, it rises progressively later each night! Thus, by three nights after a full moon there is an early period of no moon; and snakes are anxious to get back in business.
Shades Creek at the end of Monarch Drive is full of minnows, pretty good sun, but not many ‘snake rocks’. They had to be more abundant than daytime trips revealed. Plus it is shallow, sandy bottomed, in town and you can literally drive into the creek so parking was close in case anybody ‘cracked’. In short, the perfect place to take a motley group ranging from the fairly sawed-off (Bob the veterinarian who raised leopard geckos), to two NSF summer undergraduates (Sheena and her roommate, Sonja) through two geeks (Tim and Mark). Mark, the fMRI foreman, was the least prepared for the events that unfolded. We bumped into him in the parking lot before kick-off. He says “what’s up”? We says “we’re going snake hunting, wanna come?” Mark says “neat”. I think he figured it was like the legendary snipe hunt. He found out different.
So thirty minutes after sunset three nights after July’s full moon, six adventurers, six flash lights, two snake bags, one snake stick (you never know) did not even get their feet wet before Bob spotted the first midland banded water snake (N. sipedon pleuralis).
The rest is history. We caught 32 and four got away; all in just under 60 minutes and 200 yards. I was surprised. Mark was way past surprised beginning with borderline apoplectic but rallying to grabbing a few himself.
We counted them the next morning. Kept five for experiments and one gravid female as Bob and Mark wanted to try some fMRI snake obstetrics. The rest went back in the creek the next night and I can imagine their story. “First there were these bright lights. Then we got graded up and put in this weird flying hole. Then they dumped us into this place with invisible sides. Then they put us back in the weird hole. Then they flew us back and dropped us in the creek. We swear, that’s what happened”!!
Bob and Mark never got around to the fMRI but the snake had her 14 babies and into the creek they went. Around October another one had five babies which, timing considered, likely resulted from a mating in the “weird hole”. At least one Casanova wasn’t complaining about his close encounter.
I’ve long thought a more systematic study of snake movements and moon phase was in order but never did it as the driving was far and typically turned up only half-a-dozens snakes on a good night. Here we had 36 snakes per hour in 200yds of creek. And in peoples’ backyards! So residents of the banks of Shades Creek looking for a good science project might consider this opportunity. For I write of adventure not far away… or long ago.
ML
1/24/07
Having long been incensed by TV nature shows repeated claim that “snakes see poorly”, absent a shred of data upon the topic, we had begun an evoked potential study of the visual acuity of the snake that was easiest to come by – banded water snakes. Using Tim’s set up we had done a few experiments with water snakes captured the previous Fall. The arrival of an NSF summer undergraduate, Sheena, had exhausted our water snake stock so it was off to the creek to get some more.
Much lore and some data from nighttime road hunting suggested snakes were not out-and-about much under a full moon. A side effect of this suppression of snake ‘walkabouts’ was not apparent until we saw some data. To wit, if they are hold-up under a full moon then they will make up for lost time after a full moon. And though the moon be fullish and bright the nights immediately after it is full, it rises progressively later each night! Thus, by three nights after a full moon there is an early period of no moon; and snakes are anxious to get back in business.
Shades Creek at the end of Monarch Drive is full of minnows, pretty good sun, but not many ‘snake rocks’. They had to be more abundant than daytime trips revealed. Plus it is shallow, sandy bottomed, in town and you can literally drive into the creek so parking was close in case anybody ‘cracked’. In short, the perfect place to take a motley group ranging from the fairly sawed-off (Bob the veterinarian who raised leopard geckos), to two NSF summer undergraduates (Sheena and her roommate, Sonja) through two geeks (Tim and Mark). Mark, the fMRI foreman, was the least prepared for the events that unfolded. We bumped into him in the parking lot before kick-off. He says “what’s up”? We says “we’re going snake hunting, wanna come?” Mark says “neat”. I think he figured it was like the legendary snipe hunt. He found out different.
So thirty minutes after sunset three nights after July’s full moon, six adventurers, six flash lights, two snake bags, one snake stick (you never know) did not even get their feet wet before Bob spotted the first midland banded water snake (N. sipedon pleuralis).
The rest is history. We caught 32 and four got away; all in just under 60 minutes and 200 yards. I was surprised. Mark was way past surprised beginning with borderline apoplectic but rallying to grabbing a few himself.
We counted them the next morning. Kept five for experiments and one gravid female as Bob and Mark wanted to try some fMRI snake obstetrics. The rest went back in the creek the next night and I can imagine their story. “First there were these bright lights. Then we got graded up and put in this weird flying hole. Then they dumped us into this place with invisible sides. Then they put us back in the weird hole. Then they flew us back and dropped us in the creek. We swear, that’s what happened”!!
Bob and Mark never got around to the fMRI but the snake had her 14 babies and into the creek they went. Around October another one had five babies which, timing considered, likely resulted from a mating in the “weird hole”. At least one Casanova wasn’t complaining about his close encounter.
I’ve long thought a more systematic study of snake movements and moon phase was in order but never did it as the driving was far and typically turned up only half-a-dozens snakes on a good night. Here we had 36 snakes per hour in 200yds of creek. And in peoples’ backyards! So residents of the banks of Shades Creek looking for a good science project might consider this opportunity. For I write of adventure not far away… or long ago.
ML
1/24/07
Friday, January 26, 2007
2. What's in a name
More than the answers to all of life’s riddles can be found in the movies.
The Missouri Breaks was a western with a cast that could not be ignored. Jack Nicholson, Marlon Brando and a good many others whose faces, if not names, you would know. It was great. However the few people I talked to, that also saw it, hated it. Cross examination of their opinion clearly revealed that it was not the movie they loathed but the character Marlon Brando played- Robert E. Lee Clayton. And he was law enforcement.
Tom (Nicholson) was the co-leader of a gang of horse thieves pretending to be start-up ranchers. Jane, the daughter of the local horse baron, pursued Tom romantically and eventually over came his amusing coyness.
One afternoon, riding face to face on the same horse (Fully clothed, the PG rating came from Robert Lee’s ‘methodologies’.) Jane, who was pretty sure that Tom, et al. were up to things other than they affirmed, attempts to get a handle on how long her new beau is likely to last.
Jane: Are you an outlaw?
Tom: No, why do you ask?
Jane: You have all those guns.
Tom: I’m a sportsman.
Jane: A sawed-off shotgun!?
Tom: I’m a sawed off sportsman.
I knew as soon as he said it…that’s it, that’s what we’ve been doing, sawed-off sportsmanship. No, not stealing horses, you can have my share. And no, not using sawed-off shotguns; it’s against the law. Rule One of the “Sawed-off Sportsman’s Code” is never break the law. In fact, one worthy of the label is generally a deep student of the fish and game laws…at the time and place. However, bonus points accrue to activities causing new law to be written.
ML
1/18/07
The Missouri Breaks was a western with a cast that could not be ignored. Jack Nicholson, Marlon Brando and a good many others whose faces, if not names, you would know. It was great. However the few people I talked to, that also saw it, hated it. Cross examination of their opinion clearly revealed that it was not the movie they loathed but the character Marlon Brando played- Robert E. Lee Clayton. And he was law enforcement.
Tom (Nicholson) was the co-leader of a gang of horse thieves pretending to be start-up ranchers. Jane, the daughter of the local horse baron, pursued Tom romantically and eventually over came his amusing coyness.
One afternoon, riding face to face on the same horse (Fully clothed, the PG rating came from Robert Lee’s ‘methodologies’.) Jane, who was pretty sure that Tom, et al. were up to things other than they affirmed, attempts to get a handle on how long her new beau is likely to last.
Jane: Are you an outlaw?
Tom: No, why do you ask?
Jane: You have all those guns.
Tom: I’m a sportsman.
Jane: A sawed-off shotgun!?
Tom: I’m a sawed off sportsman.
I knew as soon as he said it…that’s it, that’s what we’ve been doing, sawed-off sportsmanship. No, not stealing horses, you can have my share. And no, not using sawed-off shotguns; it’s against the law. Rule One of the “Sawed-off Sportsman’s Code” is never break the law. In fact, one worthy of the label is generally a deep student of the fish and game laws…at the time and place. However, bonus points accrue to activities causing new law to be written.
ML
1/18/07
Thursday, January 25, 2007
1. Problogue
I was about 10 years old walking the bank of a creek feeding into an inlet of
Watts Bar lake in east Tennessee; looking for snakes. I had a store bought cane
pole with me because the last time I’d left the pole plus night crawler on the
bank I met my first carp who had the pole bobbing up and down about 100 feet
from shore. Fortunately a near-by boat retrieved the pole and carp. Thus began
my vendetta with Cyprinus carpo but those are other tales.
It looked like good black snake territory but there in the middle of the creek swam three, foot-long, shiny fish; taunting me. They’d probably been talking to the carp. I don’t remember if a conventional approach was tried. If it was it failed as some other tactic was plainly needed.
In east Tennessee there grow thorn trees. The trees aren’t especially big but the thorns are. And store bought cane poles come in sections. Thorns come off thorn trees and fit, well enough, into the metal section connectors of store bought cane poles.
Now I know what you’re thinking. ”Fat chance kid”. It’s probably what I was thinking and possible what the three skipjack (Alosa chrysochloris) were thinking. As I said, they had probably been talking to the carp.
Well the story two of the skipjack carried back to Mr. Carp hopefully wiped the silly grin off his face. “On the first throw, we couldn’t spawning believe it”.
This was not the first, or the last, sawed-off sportsman adventure but it does capture the genre.
ML
1/17/07
(Title by ED)
Watts Bar lake in east Tennessee; looking for snakes. I had a store bought cane
pole with me because the last time I’d left the pole plus night crawler on the
bank I met my first carp who had the pole bobbing up and down about 100 feet
from shore. Fortunately a near-by boat retrieved the pole and carp. Thus began
my vendetta with Cyprinus carpo but those are other tales.
It looked like good black snake territory but there in the middle of the creek swam three, foot-long, shiny fish; taunting me. They’d probably been talking to the carp. I don’t remember if a conventional approach was tried. If it was it failed as some other tactic was plainly needed.
In east Tennessee there grow thorn trees. The trees aren’t especially big but the thorns are. And store bought cane poles come in sections. Thorns come off thorn trees and fit, well enough, into the metal section connectors of store bought cane poles.
Now I know what you’re thinking. ”Fat chance kid”. It’s probably what I was thinking and possible what the three skipjack (Alosa chrysochloris) were thinking. As I said, they had probably been talking to the carp.
Well the story two of the skipjack carried back to Mr. Carp hopefully wiped the silly grin off his face. “On the first throw, we couldn’t spawning believe it”.
This was not the first, or the last, sawed-off sportsman adventure but it does capture the genre.
ML
1/17/07
(Title by ED)
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