Cove Lake State Park was a caldron of life where many moments unfolded. I was first taken there with Scott’s family in about the 5th grade to fish for bream. Cove Lake figured again and again in such outings, then school trips and finally as a place we could drive ourselves.
The indigenous northern banded water snakes were, for some unknown collection of reasons, numerous and especially big. I once saw one lollygagging next to the bank in the picnic area with a fair sized bullhead in its mouth (making the snake better than fair sized for a banded water snake). There was a rumor that dynamite had once been used to take care of the “snake problem”. If true, it didn’t work.
Water snakes are most easily caught in streams by finding them under rocks. Except for their foolish tendencies at night (to be out in the open chasing fish with almost total disregard for approaching flashlights), if the snake sees you first (typically falling off a bush limb into the water) it is adios muchacho. In the open water of a lake they are invulnerable – almost.
It is easy to always be prepared to transport a snake obtained under a non-herpetological auspice (say church picnic, high school class trip): simply bring a pillow case. Should said pillow case make the return trip too full to fit in a pocket no one ever asks why. In fact, fellow travelers usually tell new group members “Don’t ask”.
And so it was as I walked alone along the tree-lined edge of the lake just past the bridge. Floating in the water, with mostly only his head out, was a monster of a banded water snake…..about 15ft from shore. This was one of those moments that no one would believe without the snake; but I had no experience upon which to base an approach that stood any chance of success. So I developed the ‘Niagara Falls !! approach’ – “slowly I turned, step by step, inch by inch”.
There are at least two barehanded lethal tricks you can play on flies resting on a surface.
The first one involves clapping your hands together allowing for a) the fly is faster than you are but, b) must go up – lead them. The second is more scientific. If you start shaking your hand about two feet above a resting fly he may not fly. Because motion detectors adapt to constant stimulation, you can slowly move your shaking hand closer and closer to the fly and he may not fly. If patient, you can end up in the unusual position of having your shaking hand six inches above the still resting fly. Then WHAM; they ain’t that fast.
I feel the water snake was likely deceived by my ever so slow approach since I ended up within lunging distance – and did so.
This banded water snake was huge, measuring around a half-inch over the record (51in.) as recorded by Roger Conant author of A Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians (1958). I alerted Roger Conant to the breakthrough and he responded, as he never failed to do, with a typed letter on Philadelphia Zoological Garden stationary and his swooping, yet clear, signature. One of these correspondences hangs framed upon my wall still today.
In the event, the snake died. I mailed it to Roger Conant who found it slightly shorter than advertised but noted that he had once measured the same snake several times and had come up with several slightly different lengths. He did, however, note the interesting belly pattern markings which he had not observed in water snakes from its vicinity and would be pleased to add it to the institution’s collection. That’s “PLEASED” to add the snake I caught to the “COLLECTION”!! I myself was ecstatic to have Roger Conant as a pen pal. There were more snakes; there was only one Roger Conant.
ML
1/4/07
Friday, February 1, 2008
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
17. Clarence just won't listen
I had the occasional good fortune to go deep sea fishing with a band of four who needed six. The format was a 12 hour bottom-fishing trip, out of Destin, with a captain who took his fishing seriously. Because Captain Harold had to drive the boat, holding it in position over the structure, he could not fish himself and therefore took the fishing of his party’s members seriously. He was alleged something of a grump who, rumor had it, once returned at noon and threw the party and their money off the boat because they kept missing the multiple opportunities he had given them to catch grouper and snapper.
As I did not know what I was doing, I was more than happy to receive instruction from the Captain who was a willing, though concise, coach who did not like to see the same mistake made twice.
The trick to catching a grouper of significant size is to beat him quickly or he will swim back into the structure from whence he came and cut the line. There’s just enough skill involved to leave one feeling that they had something to do with catching the fish the Captain had found. When the first grouper came-a-calling I reacted as if it were a bass and up came the line – no fish, no bait . The Captain leaned down from his perch and said “Let him have it longer”. So I let the next one have it longer and up came the line – no hook, sinker or leader. The Captain leaned down and said “not that long”. Over time I got the hang of it and managed a 40-pounder out of a Volkswagen about 90 feet down.
The problem child was Clarence. A more affable person I’ve never known which was good because when he wasn’t at his day job as the school’s fiscal officer he was down at the gym shooting hoops or lifting weights. Clarence was big and strong.
Clarence, a regular on these fishing trips, was in a love/hate relationship with Captain Harold; Clarence loved the Captain and the Captain hated Clarence (or so Clarence claimed). Clarence would attempt to cheer the Captain by doing things like wearing one of those tourist baseball caps with “Captain” day-glow painted on it. Unfortunately the Captain was a “…and it’s my vessel” kind of guy. Clarence’s evidence that the Captain hated him was that once upon a time Clarence hooked a big fish and the Captain gunned the boat forward which Clarence claimed was an attempt to flip him into the Gulf. I do not doubt the Captain gunned the boat but I am certain it was to catch the fish despite what he knew Clarence was about to do.
What Clarence was about to do was described to me many times before I actually saw it happen. The only thing clear from the description (because the tellers always started laughing so hard they couldn’t talk) was that upon hooking a big fish Clarence would back up and bend over, e.g. not proper technique. When a fish shows up proper technique (as I understand it) is to lower the rod tip from about 10 o’clock and reel up the slack until you feel the fish again. Then lift the rod up as high as possible and then quickly lower it reeling in the slack line as fast as possible and repeat until the contest is settled one way or the other. The point is to be able to use the rod leverage and show the fish no slack line so he can’t swim back into the structure and cut the line off. It takes some practice.
Then I saw what Clarence did. Fish hits. Clarence backs up (into the middle of the fishing area), bends over, and starts wrenching the fish up by turning the reel handle. Well it worked. After the mate gaffed the fish he yells up to the Captain “Captain you gotta see this”. The Captain had had his back to the spectacle (probably gnawing the wheel). The mate holds up the fish for all to see the deep gashes along its head where Clarence had pulled him out of the coral!
The Captain summoned Clarence to the upper level and proceeded to communicate. The conversation was so long, and we could not hear what was being said (but we knew it was not ‘good’) that when Clarence descended the ladder we all circled him and ask “What’d he say”. Clarence said: “Oh, he said I did great”.
Years later Clarence admitted the true content which was approximately “Most of these wussies aren’t strong enough to catch a great fish; you are. BUT NOT DOING IT THAT WAY!!”
Shaving 4 always out fishes me for bass because he uses those silly plastic worms. I tell him I like to feel the fish HIT. He, on the other hand, says he likes to HIT the fish. Which just goes to show it isn’t whether you catch or release but how you play with the game.
ML
12/10/07
As I did not know what I was doing, I was more than happy to receive instruction from the Captain who was a willing, though concise, coach who did not like to see the same mistake made twice.
The trick to catching a grouper of significant size is to beat him quickly or he will swim back into the structure from whence he came and cut the line. There’s just enough skill involved to leave one feeling that they had something to do with catching the fish the Captain had found. When the first grouper came-a-calling I reacted as if it were a bass and up came the line – no fish, no bait . The Captain leaned down from his perch and said “Let him have it longer”. So I let the next one have it longer and up came the line – no hook, sinker or leader. The Captain leaned down and said “not that long”. Over time I got the hang of it and managed a 40-pounder out of a Volkswagen about 90 feet down.
The problem child was Clarence. A more affable person I’ve never known which was good because when he wasn’t at his day job as the school’s fiscal officer he was down at the gym shooting hoops or lifting weights. Clarence was big and strong.
Clarence, a regular on these fishing trips, was in a love/hate relationship with Captain Harold; Clarence loved the Captain and the Captain hated Clarence (or so Clarence claimed). Clarence would attempt to cheer the Captain by doing things like wearing one of those tourist baseball caps with “Captain” day-glow painted on it. Unfortunately the Captain was a “…and it’s my vessel” kind of guy. Clarence’s evidence that the Captain hated him was that once upon a time Clarence hooked a big fish and the Captain gunned the boat forward which Clarence claimed was an attempt to flip him into the Gulf. I do not doubt the Captain gunned the boat but I am certain it was to catch the fish despite what he knew Clarence was about to do.
What Clarence was about to do was described to me many times before I actually saw it happen. The only thing clear from the description (because the tellers always started laughing so hard they couldn’t talk) was that upon hooking a big fish Clarence would back up and bend over, e.g. not proper technique. When a fish shows up proper technique (as I understand it) is to lower the rod tip from about 10 o’clock and reel up the slack until you feel the fish again. Then lift the rod up as high as possible and then quickly lower it reeling in the slack line as fast as possible and repeat until the contest is settled one way or the other. The point is to be able to use the rod leverage and show the fish no slack line so he can’t swim back into the structure and cut the line off. It takes some practice.
Then I saw what Clarence did. Fish hits. Clarence backs up (into the middle of the fishing area), bends over, and starts wrenching the fish up by turning the reel handle. Well it worked. After the mate gaffed the fish he yells up to the Captain “Captain you gotta see this”. The Captain had had his back to the spectacle (probably gnawing the wheel). The mate holds up the fish for all to see the deep gashes along its head where Clarence had pulled him out of the coral!
The Captain summoned Clarence to the upper level and proceeded to communicate. The conversation was so long, and we could not hear what was being said (but we knew it was not ‘good’) that when Clarence descended the ladder we all circled him and ask “What’d he say”. Clarence said: “Oh, he said I did great”.
Years later Clarence admitted the true content which was approximately “Most of these wussies aren’t strong enough to catch a great fish; you are. BUT NOT DOING IT THAT WAY!!”
Shaving 4 always out fishes me for bass because he uses those silly plastic worms. I tell him I like to feel the fish HIT. He, on the other hand, says he likes to HIT the fish. Which just goes to show it isn’t whether you catch or release but how you play with the game.
ML
12/10/07
Saturday, December 1, 2007
16. Surf and turf in Urbana-Champaign
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
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
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
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