The Evolution of Consciousness - or How I Learned to Stalk the Wild Asparagus

When I was a young man in high school in Beaver, PA, which in the 1960’s was the heart of the burgeoning steel industry, my mother used to hang our bed sheets out to dry on a line and I would marvel at the small rust colored rings that formed on the crisp white linens. It looked like tie-died “hippy” clothing. In the center of the ring was a tiny iron particle that had attached to the sheet by floating through the heavy air. Its origin was the steel mills spewing particulates and smoke into the air. We all took it for granted that this was “progress” and we should be grateful for the chance to live in such a prosperous country. It never occurred to me what we were doing to the environment. The “environmental movement” was just beginning.

They called it “ecology” and a very small group of eccentric individuals embraced this counter-culture, wearing peace signs and claiming they wanted to “get back to the land.” One of them wrote a book called “Stalking the Wild Asparagus.” 

In our high school, everyone was focused on Friday night’s football game and who had the fastest muscle car. This alternative group of rebels were joining what they called a “movement” that a lot of people feared would topple the status quo. My friends and I sat in the school hallways and made fun of “them”. We joked that Euell Gibbons, the author of “Stalking the Wild Asparagus” was actually a direct descendent of a simian culture and that the concept of “natural food” was foolish. Isn’t all food “natural?” Why eat vegetables that grow in a ditch when you can buy clean, unusually large and well-polished varieties in the supermarket?

Fast forward to the present. The “Environmental Movement” has evolved and been inculcated into the common fabric of our society. Everyone is at least aware of the impacts of pollution, ecosystem degradation, etc. We talk of habitat and clean water. We are aware of our problems, although there are still detractors who feel that the environment vs. the economy debate cannot be resolved. It’s one or the other. Personally, I believe that without a healthy environment, we cannot possibly sustain a healthy economy over time.

Our food is now produced by corporations that splice DNA together to create prettier, larger tomatoes, corn, soybeans, etc. and now we are headed toward the first genetically modified meat, farm-raised salmon that will not even need to be designated as a Genetically Modified Organism (GMO). Remember the sci-fi film back in the 70’s, “Soylent Green”, where the government produced a “super-food” that could replace all the other sources of nutrition? Are we headed toward a government sanctioned corporate-produced food supply?

Because of what I have learned over the years as a hunter and fishermen, I became fascinated with the concept that “pure” food could be healthier than processed food. After all, why did the venison, duck, goose, rabbit, squirrel, moose and bear taste so much better than anything I could buy in a store? I hypothesized that it had to do with the quality of life of the organism. My animals were free to roam the earth, seeking their sustenance from natural sources. Their life, although hard at times, was free and beautiful.

I postulated that perhaps that beauty, that freedom, that universal quality of spirit, was ingrained in their DNA and thus, in their flesh. By ingesting their flesh, with a blessing of gratitude, was I not then also absorbing their spirit?

Taken one step further, if I learned to locate plants that grew naturally in the woods, swamps, steams and ditches, would they not also have spiritual qualities like that of my animals?

I became more curious about this way of thinking and began to study the environments that might support such life. I asked some old-timers who seemed to know how to live well in spite of having few material possessions. It was these elders that taught me about fiddleheads, leeks (also known as “ramps”), dandelion greens, mushrooms, berries and nuts. Then one day, I met a man who showed me pictures of several pounds of my favorite vegetable, asparagus. Randy Bibeau, of Vergennes VT, has mastered the art of locating these wild edibles and he shared his knowledge with me.

I became obsessed with locating the dying stalks, gone to seed in the mid-summer heat, and drove hundreds of miles of back roads with my Northern Cartographic map by my side. Every time I spotted a plant I would mark it on the map with a circle with an “A” in the middle. I collected 20 spots in my first year. Randy had taught me that it is imperative that I search for these plots, although the actual stalks had passed and gone to seed, because the following year, those seeds would sprout quickly when the ground temperature reached the mid-60’s. During hot weather – like what we experienced here in VT during the first week of May, the plant can grow as much as 6” per day. During periods of unusual warmth, I learned to check on my plots daily, many of them yielding 3-6 newly sprouted stalks each day.

Recently I took my wife, Katie and her friend, Kelli Wellings of Addison, on an asparagus stalking drive. We drove down an old dirt road near a farm, where an old fence had once stood and now the barbed wire and aged posts hung drearily close to the ground. I was telling them about how the plant likes a saline habitat and thus, any time roads salt is used in winter, it thrives, when suddenly, I told Katie excitedly, “Slam on the brakes! There it is! There it is!” Katie and Kelli broke out laughing at my enthusiasm. Katie said something along the lines of “My God! You’d think he’d found a pot of gold! I haven’t seen you that excited in a long time!”

I literally jumped out of the truck and called back to Kelli, “Hurry up! C’Mere! C’Mere!” I sprinted across the desolate road and parachuted into the ditch. “Whoo Hooo!” We’ve struck the jackpot!” We picked a dozen spears and then, with a feeling of great accomplishment, crawled back in the truck. Further down the road we hit another patch, even larger than the first. Nice big, thick-stalked spears near an old mailbox of a deserted trailer. I was elated. The girls were fascinated by my unbridled joy at finding such a treasure. And the season had just begun. Asparagus “season” runs well into June in the Champlain Valley. 

On the ride home, I thought of my friend, Michael Hurley from Beaver, and how we used to make fun of old Euell, when all of a sudden I realized – Oh My God! I have become that person whom I used to satirize. Was I regressing physiologically to a simian or was I evolving into someone that found his spirit nurtured by a nature I had not understood?

That evening we dined on roasted asparagus and Lake Champlain poached salmon with sautéed wild leeks that I had harvested that morning. The sheets on the bed were clean and crisp with no iron deposits.

Long Live The King!

I had been watching the old tom for a couple of weeks. I was taking notes in my journal as to what time he awakened each day, where he roosted, what fields he favored during rainy days and which hens commanded his attention from the fly-down to the time they sauntered off to nest in the late morning warmth. He had worn his wingtips down to the heavy-vaned quills from strutting in defiance and aggression, showing the young upstart jakes that there would be no mistake who sat on the throne and ruled this pastoral kingdom.

During the late morning he wandered across the brook where the little wooden bridge arched over the gently gurgling waters below. Dandelions covered the greening field like a bright yellow quilt. In the distance, the Adirondacks glistened in pale blue, almost blending into the cerulean sky with wisps of wedding white clouds hanging above them. With the girls attending to their domestic instincts and dusting their bronze bodies in the light brown bowls of earth, his Majesty would strut amongst the fiddleheads and ramps up and down the streambed.

Late in the afternoon he would meander through the main field and cross into the sprouting soybeans to gather his harem for the night’s feeding session at the edge of the small meadow. Gnats and small insects would hatch off of the twigs of the budding shrubbery, grubs could be scraped up in the cooling earth and the occasional left over acorn might yield its sweet tannin- flavored meat to the flock. They would stroll about, chatting amongst themselves, gently purring and clucking tones of contentment.

About 7:45 the flock would head into the hardwood and conifer woods, scraping the forest floor as they went and picking up the opportunistic earthworm along the way. At the base of the roosting area, they would putt-putt to one another, choosing their trees with a flapping of their decisive, powerful flapping wings. I could hear the wing beats from 100 yards away, as I sat on a fallen log covered with cool moss. Every once in awhile I would catch a glimpse of wings, lifting the big birds up into the dusky horizon to light on a thick branch.

As the heavens turned a dark green and purple, the old tom would start to gobble to let his mates know which tree he had chosen for the evening. I sat quietly, choosing not to employ my owl call and just listen to the birds call to one another using soft tree yelps, which would be punctuated every 5 minutes by a boisterous deep-throated gobble. Then the woods fell silent.

It was dark. The three quarter moon had just begun to crest the Green Mountains to the East. I stood up and quietly walked out of the woods, placing each footfall carefully so as not to snap any twigs. I stuck to the logging road that wended by the old sugar shack. The walk home seemed short, my heart doubling the pace of my steps. I could feel it beating in my chest with the anticipation of the next morning.

This particular year I had not been able to manipulate my schedule to accommodate Opening Day and had to settle for the first weekend. My concern was that any one of a number of other hunters may have already played this bird, but he seemed unflustered and relaxed. My hopes were high as I lay in bed watching the reflection of the LED light on the alarm clock glowing an oddly calming green on the ceiling. As I began to drift off to sleep, a flock of geese flew over the house in the subdued moonlight, headed for the pond out back.

The fluorescent light of the clock read 3:58 when I opened my eyes. The alarm would go off in 2 minutes. No need to wake the wife with the local country radio station wailing the teen angst of some young girl who is “never ever ever getting back together” with some spurned adolescent boy. Maybe if it was Waylon Jennings or Johnny Cash, I might consider lying in bed and actually listening to some classic old tune, but I know better these days. The radio stations no longer play the kind of music that soothes old souls. So I turned it off before the inevitable.

I rolled off of the firm mattress and directly into my turkey camo laid out neatly at the foot of my bed on the red couch under the window. The curtain was being vacuumed out through the top of the window by a South wind circling around the house. It would be a warm day. I could feel it in my bones.

Walking down the dirt road, my boots were scuffing the gravel when I realized that it was dead silent and that I was not conscious of creating more noise than I liked. I began setting my feet down with more mindfulness. My plan was to walk the road to the culvert and short-cut through the woods to a slight rise where the birds funneled through the low point to the fence with the broken posts where the barbed wire was torn, creating an opening to the soybean field.

As I crossed through the fence opening and into the woods, I had that sixth sense that I was being watched. I felt my nerves go on edge. Was it a coyote? A roosted hen that had changed its course into another tree during the night? Something felt uneasy. I tip-toed through the moonlit trilliums and carefully placed each step, feeling for branches or twigs through my rubber soles. I stopped to listen for a moment next to an old oak.

My heart jumped into my ears when the owl went off right above me. “Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you awwwwl?” Then a thunderous gobble echoed through the night air. My heart moved back into my chest and decided to try to push its way out though my ribcage. I broke into a cold sweat and began gasping shallow breaths. “Calm down” I told myself. “Now you know where he is and all you have to do is wait.”

 

I leaned my vest and gun against the old oak and gently removed the hen and jake decoy from the backpack. I unfolded them and carried the decoys and their plastic stakes,carefully pacing off 20 yards to my left, toward the swale in the ditch. I strategized that he might not cross the ditch but would pass on the opposite side following his normal routine exit to the field. It would leave me with a shot of about 30-35 yards, for which I had patterned my 12 gauge using some 3 ½” #5 ‘s Then I returned to my tree and saddled up against the indentation in the trunk.

I cut a few small twigs with budding leaves out of the musty soil and speared them into the ground in front of me, creating a ring of natural cover. My 3-D leafy-flage suit blended in beautifully. I had loaded my gun back at the house and walked all the way in being ever conscious of the safety as I wound my way through the whip-infested woods edge.

I sat at the base of the old tree and listened to the prelude to a spring symphony. 

 Every 5 minutes or so, the percussive deep-throated bass of the lead singer would pierce the crisp morning air, ripe with hope.

Soon, I began to hear fly-down cackles and the beat of mighty wings in their descent to the earth below. I counted 6 fly-downs that I could hear. Then an even louder beating of wings and a solitary gobble from 100 yards away. Then silence. His Majesty was being attended to by his harem of hens. The Boss hen clucked loudly to him to follow her directly to the small green meadow.

I clucked and putted gently at first, and then realizing that I was competing with a half-dozen of the real birds, I picked up the tempo and veracity of my clucks. He answered, affirming his dominance with a powerful scream.

At this point I knew I had his attention, but the game was far from over. Was it just a courtesy gobble? Or did I sound more seductive than the real-life ladies around him? I clucked loudly again, with a powerful cut at the tail end of the monologue. Again, he answered. I had confirmed that he knew of my whereabouts and my intentions. Now, the real tricky part of the conversation; saying nothing. At all. For what could be a long time. He had stopped gobbling for about 15 minutes and my heart began to sink.

Had he left his strutting zone to follow his Boss Hen into the meadow? I began to think about my next strategy when a voice from my past, the ghosts of Chris and Curt McCuin, whispered in my head “When they stop talking, they may be coming in. Sit tight and wait.” So wait I did.

Constantly scanning the holes between the trees, the shrubbery and the deadfalls, I began to feel as if I was being watched.  Again.

Suddenly a piercing gobble came from right in front of me, not more than 60 yards away.

Then I saw it. Just the top of the fan. It was full and he was strutting behind a downed cedar tree. He must have snuck in using the cedar to obscure my vision the whole way.

I putted gently. He gobbled back.

But he did not move closer.

I clucked and cut. He gobbled back.

But he did not move closer

I purred with a gentle cut. He gobbled back. We were having a conversation about who should go to whom.

He did not move from his strutting zone behind the cedar.

This went on for the better part of ½ hour, when finally I saw him angling away from behind the tree and heading back to his harem.

What should I do?

Dare I try that no-call mouth gobble that I have used to entertain people at parties? The one where I just scream “Owl doodoodooodoodle?”

It was then I realized I had nothing to lose.

I breathed in deeply and tensed the muscles around my diaphragm in my chest, using my intercostals to add pressure. Then I let loose, praying that the sound emanating from my mouth would sound anything like a jake challenging this brute to breed the hen I was pretending to be.

At the moment he heard the scream, he spun around like someone had punched him in the back of the head and screamed back.

Then he began to run, full speed. Around the cedar and right in to the decoys, which he had not seen from behind the tree. He looked at the jake decoy with incredulity and stuck out his chest, reared back on his legs and prepared to terminate the young upstart. He held his head high and prepared to pounce.

It was then that my finger eased the trigger back and the deep barreled gun spoke. Eloquently, powerfully and permanently.

I rushed to his side and sat with him as he expired, praying as I always do.

“Great Spirit, hear me for I am small and weak. I need your strength and wisdom. Let me walk in beauty and make my eyes behold the red and purple sunset. Make my hands respect the things that you have made. Make my ears sharp to hear your voice. Make me wise so that I may understand the things you have taught my people. Let me learn the lessons in every leaf and rock. I seek strength, not be greater than my brother, but to fight my greatest enemy, myself. Make me always ready to come to you, with clean hands and straight eyes, so when life fades as the fading sunset, my spirit may come to you without shame. Take this, my brother, back into the Great Star Nation and know that I am grateful for his sacrifice. Great Spirit bless this, the soul of my brother, the turkey.”

In the distance my prayer was answered by another gobble from out in the meadow. There will be a new King this day. Long Live the King!

Sacred Trout Opener

The second Saturday in April is a sacred day for many Vermonters. After a long cold winter of sitting by the woodstove, the ice has finally retreated from many of the shorelines and the frigid mountain snowmelt  has begun to roil the streams and rivers of our little hamlet. Many of us will rise early, have a hearty breakfast of pancakes and sausages, then fill our thermoses full of hot coffee and head out to celebrate Opening Day of Trout Season.

The day is more about commemorating the end of winter, the beginning of sunny days and warm southerly breezes, even if sometimes a short round of flurries should blow through the valley. Standing on the shore of our favorite stream, perhaps beside a classic wooden bridge, all I can hear is the rush of water as it gurgles around rocks, forming eddys and emptying into deeper pools, where lies the prince of piscatorial delight, the evanescent rainbow trout.

This early in the game, the purist will try to coax this wise old salmonid out of his lair by bouncing a nymph along the bottom, perhaps a bead headed prince with some peacock hurl wrapped with rust chenille, tied over the winter, in anticipation of this glorious day. Or for the spincaster, maybe it’s a simple Panther Martin steelhead patterned spoon, or a straightforward salmon egg on a circle hook. Whatever the lure, it is our first offering to the aquatic world that so captivates our imaginations with the hope of hooking into one of Vermont’s most beautiful assets, the majestic trout.

Rainbows, browns or brookies, it matters not. These are, in most fisher-people’s opinion, the essence of the Green Mountain state’s wild allure.

Our friend, Sara Blum, fishing the great Winooski River

I have not been able to discern the origins of the quote but my friend, Chris Thayer, loves to repeat it at nearly every opportunity; “If you want proof that there is a Higher Power, look at  brook trout and orange juice.” Even the pagan can appreciate that whatever it was that created or caused evolution to unfold the genetics of the brook trout is nothing short of miraculous.

As we stand on the shores, dappled sunlight waving through the shadows of the still barren maples and willows, we are lost in the reflection of our faith that somewhere underneath the surface is lurking a monster rainbow, hungry from a long winter of hibernation and ready to strike with a voracious lunge. The line tightens and then runs slack. Is he running toward us? I lift the rod above my head and lean back to take up the belly of the 4 pound test.

Suddenly, the rod throbs hard downward and the fight has begun. He sprints into the rapid current and pulls out line, the drag whining in my hands. Across the riffles he horses himself toward the far shore where the rock wall plummets into the depths of the hole. He throws his shoulders into the line and flexes it until I think it’s going to snap, then releases the pressure. Is he still there?

I reel in some line and say out loud “Dang it! I lost him!” Then as I begin to accept that I have been beaten and reel in the line for another cast, a sudden wild thrashing echoes over the water.

He is airborne and headed back across the current. The sunlight flashes over his powerful rainbow-lit flanks and to my surprise I can see that the hook is still set in the corner of his jaw. I reel quickly to take up the slack as he make s another run toward me and then downstream, being careful not to create a snapping line when I get to the end of the slack belly.

I step into the stream and am now immersed in his world. The same earthly element that protects him unnerves me. I am now longer on stable ground. I must navigate the underwater environment of moss-laden rocks and small pock-holes. My goal is to meet him halfway to the center of the stream, working him into the current to tire him out.

Slowly, I reel in a little line, keeping the line taught but not stressed. Finally, as we both grow weary, he of the fight, and me of standing waist deep in rushing water, balancing my body by leaning into the current and staying off of slippery rocks. As he nears me, he finally relaxes and rolls up on his side, rainbow colors dancing in the sunlight and reflecting off of the surface. I tenderly draw him into the ash net with the rubber mesh (rubber mesh allows the fish to be unharmed by rough textured braided twine).



The Author's Wife, Katie Carleton, with a nice Opening Day Brown

 I cradle him softly in my left hand and gently remove the hook from the corner of his jaw. I support his belly with my left hand while with my right hand, my thumb and my forefinger come together in front of his tail. I tenderly swish him back and forth in the slack water allowing the oxygen to pour over his fiery red gills. He is regaining his strength.

Suddenly, he thrashes his powerful tail and pulls free. I utter a heartfelt “Thank you, my friend” and let him swim back into the rushing stream.

It is my habit to always release the first fish of the year. It’s a sacred ritual that I feel brings me good luck for the rest of the season.

Our friend, Kazmin Williamson, with a beautiful brookie

Bradley Carleton is Executive Director of Sacred Hunter.org, a non-profit that seeks to educate the public on the spiritual connection of man to nature and raises funds for Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org, which mentors at-risk young men in outdoor pursuits.

March Madness

For many of us, the outdoors holds a special attraction at this time of year. It is the “in between time” when weather can go from a full blown blizzard one day to a warm sunny day on the ice the next. It’s difficult to predict what traditional outdoor pursuit might play best given the vagaries of the forecasts.

We are anticipating the ice going out and the first run of bullhead up into the swamps, but the ice may still be safe enough to venture out into the sheltered bays for a last chance at some toothy pike known colloquially as “gators.”  Northern pike swim into the shallows in March to spawn and feed on the perch seeking the same procreative instinct. If we can identify safe ice (use a “spud” or ice chisel to test the strength and composition of the ice) and stay in shallow areas, or setbacks, where if worse came to worse, we might only be in 2-3’ of water. This is where we want to set up our tip-ups, or “jacks”. A big shiner or perch bait on a snelled hook tied on a steel leader with a few hundred feet of braided line should do the trick. And while we’re waiting for the toothsome monoliths, let’s jig for perch!

"Dot Com" On His Bucket

Sitting on a pickle bucket and tending tip-ups can be wonderfully peaceful – or nerve wracking intense. Depending on the bite- you may find yourself breathless after sprinting for one flag after another. Sunny days in the back bays can find you staring at the sky with wonder as the snow geese return north, barking in their cacophonous Hudson Bay dialect. Mallards are circling the swamp searching for open water and testing their aeronautic skills to determine which drake is a superior flyer and thus worthy of the hen’s reproductive attention. Robins begin singing their joyous melody and we are lost in reverie as nature begins to awaken from her deep winter’s slumber.

Suddenly, we get a tug on our ultralight rod and a school of perch begin nipping gingerly on our bait. The rod tip barely wiggles downward. We let the tip down toward the hole and count to three, allowing the piscatorial prevaricator to swallow the bait. Then we lift the rod quickly and it bows down toward the mysterious world under the ice.

Adrenalin pumps through our body the same way it has since we were young and were reeling in our first fish. It never loses its thrill. As the yellowbelly slips into the icy cylinder we raise the rod and reach out to the shining specimen. It’s a big hen, full of roe. (Some people eat these eggs, but I have tried them a dozen different ways and they still taste awful to me – and I LOVE caviar!)

A Big Hen

We are hypnotized by the beauty of the big perch, when motion catches our attention out of the corner of our eye. 

It’s a flag! One of our tip-ups has been tripped and we sprint for the trap. 15 year old Zachary Gregory, formerly of Charlotte, arrives first. As we approach we can see the reel under the ice, spinning. Carefully we raise the jack out of the hole and gently apply pressure to the braided ice line. We can feel the fish swimming with the bait. We let the line run through our fingers creating an ever so slight tension, allowing the pike to swallow the minnow and get the hook firmly planted in his jaw.

The reel stops whining. He is swallowing the bait.

We jerk the line quickly and set the hook.

Then the fun begins. It’s a heavyweight fight and this time the beast has the advantage. With his powerful jaw and razor sharp teeth he can easily turn and bite through the monofilament line above the leader. The battle rages on for several minutes before we can pull him closer to the hole. As his head appears in the translucent cylinder of ice, we are all proclaiming “Nice fish!” Our young protégé’ deftly works the behemoth into the hole and raises his head out far enough for us to use a gaffe (never put your hand near the mouth of one of these “gators”) and pull him out of the depths.

 Zack cradles the fish with pride and squats down on one knee for the hero shot.

Zack Cradles His Gator

 If you’d like to learn more about our outdoor mentoring program and meet Zack in person, please consider attending our first annual fund raising Wild Game Dinner on Saturday, March 23 at The Lodge at Shelburne Bay. Tickets are $75 and are limited to just 75 seats. For reservations, please call 802-238-6176 or email us at sacredhunter.org@gmail.com.

Derby Days

February means Derby Time!

Vermont has a plethora of ice fishing derbies, many of them very competitive, and yet some are more oriented toward fun and frolic than others. There are large high stakes derbies like the Islands Derby in North Hero, February 9-10. Prizes usually range in the $6,000 overall totals. This derby gets a lot of publicity and commonly posts some monster pike and healthy salmon and lakers. 

But derbies aren’t all about money. Take the Lake Dunmore Derby for example. It’s not a big derby, but those who have participated in it come back year after year for the camaraderie and excitement. This year it will be held on February 2-3 and I can’t wait for the party.

Best Beer of the Day - 8am!



For me, it’s about early morning laughter ringing across the ice, breakfasts of scrambled eggs and sausage, hot french roast coffee and the 8am beer (a silly tradition based on the old adage that “the best beer is the first one of the day.”) I am not advocating using alcohol to enhance the ice fishing experience – it’s just a silly tradition enjoyed only by the adults.

For me the joy is the experience, the long walk dragging sleds to the spot we have marked on our GPS’s, the gentle clanging of shanties being set up.

Shanty Set-Up

The young guys are responsible for the aerobic workout of drilling the allowed 8 holes per fisherman for tip-ups. Multiplied by the number of teammates, we are setting out 40 jacks. I love setting up the tip-ups in the pre-dawn darkness and watching the sky’s orange horizon fade to green and then to purple.

I’m primarily a pan-fisherman. Oh, I love to wrestle a toothy gator through an 8” hole, but the constant jigging and dipping my rod tip to play a finicky yellowbelly is what really turns me on. I change colored bibbits like most guys change their minds. Frequently, and with conviction. I weave the fat end of the spikes onto the hook so that the juices run clear, two or three of them per bibbit. Sometimes, I’ll really change it up and work a fathead minnow on an ice fly or a Swedish pimple tipped with mousies.

Jiggin Inside the Shanty

I love sitting in a shanty to start my day, in the half dark, staring down a 5” hole drilled by my Mora auger, and gently jigging my ultra light micro rod. My friend Rudy turned me on to the ultra lights. Even a medium sized perch feels like Moby Dick when you’re fighting him on a 4lb test line. The rod bows in honor and I lean forward with it, peering down the crystal cylinder into the depths.

My teammates, Eric Champney, of Charlotte, and currently serving in the Marines, Chris Holwager, of Vergennes, Eric Ovitt, of Monkton and Rudy Castro, lately from Wyoming, Michigan (this crazy Mexican can out-fish any one of us 4 to 1, and I think he wouldn’t miss this derby for anything, just to maintain the bragging rights by flying all the way in to Vermont so that no one usurps his crown.)

Tip-up at Sunrise

They all think I’m crazy because I would rather deftly maneuver a perch through a 5” hole than arm wrestle a pike. To each his own.

Before long the boys have moved in toward the shoreline and are whacking smallmouths and rock bass left and right. Holwager feels a huge tug on his medium weight rod and begins to reel in something that gets everyone’s attention. Ten feet away a flag goes off. The boys rush to the tip-up and find that something heavy is causing the reel to spin in a wobbly, but not terribly fast rotation. Ovitt bends over the jack and lets the line run through his bare hands sensing the big fish hasn’t yet swallowed the bait. He waits to set the hook.

Next to him, Holwager is steadily reeling and suddenly pulls up a sage green ice line with his hook through the braid. What the heck?! He keeps reeling and we notice that the green line is being pulled from the tip up 10 feet to his left. We begin to apply our misguided logic. “There’s nothing on that line Holwager! You’ve got the tip-up line!” laughs Castro. “No. There’s something throbbing on the end of this line and it’s not Ovitt!” he replies.

Minutes pass. He’s doing battle with an unknowable opponent. Ovitt lets the ice line go and Holwager leans back to lift a dark brownish-black object through the 8” hole. The head barely fits. As the top of it begins to emerge, the tell-tale whiskers shoot out of the icy depths. It’s a catfish! And a BIG one!

Holwager's Cat and Laker

We’re all crowded around Holwager and shouting things that I won’t repeat in a family magazine. Suffice it to say, superlatives abound,peppered with exclamations of utter amazement. Castro shouts “Woo hoo! We’re in the money boys!”

We drill a series of holes just a few inches into the ice and link them together, then drill one hole all the way through the 12” of hardwater and allow the man-made “pool” to fill with water. We place the fish in the pool and with a continual dialogue of congratulations, we return to fishing.

At the end of the day we keep the largest fish from the pool and pack them in the sleds for the long pull back to the trucks, and then to the weigh in station at Kampersville. Arriving at the station, we are pleased to learn that this is definitely the largest fish checked in today. But tomorrow is another day and anything can happen.

We head for home with high hopes and tired bodies. Tomorrow we will do it all again and pray that our catfish remains a winning fish. For now, we dream of sleep and an even bigger promise of tomorrow.


"We're In the Money!"

Bradley Carleton is Executive Director of Sacred Hunter.org, a non-profit organization that is being formed to educate the public on the spiritual connection of man to nature and raises funds for Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org, which mentors at-risk young men in outdoor pursuits.