Co-exist with our brother, the wolf?

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Wolf pack wisdom

Rituals

It’s one minute before the alarm goes off and I awaken suddenly. The LED light glows 3:59am. If I move quickly I can short-circuit the radio and leave my wife’s side without her awakening. Success! I roll out of bed and feel the cool Northwest breeze through my window, the curtain gently blowing in the breeze. The temperature has dropped 20 degrees during the night. It must be just above freezing. Thoughts of early migrating greenheads are quickly painted on the back of my brain. The pine floor boards creak as I sneak down the steps to the warmth of the Vermont Castings Vigilant woodstove, still emanating heat from last night’s fire. I smell the French roast coffee and shuffle toward the life-affirming liquid. I fill my quart thermos and set up a new pot for the Missus to go off when she wakes two hours later. My little black lab, Boo, thumps his tail against the bottom step and wiggles his haunches inquisitively wanting to know if we’re going out to play. I tell him “not today, little man. We’ll play fetch-it-up when I get back. Today is Remi’s turn.” My heart aches for him.

I slide into my shadow grass wader jacket and grab my favorite camo baseball hat and headlamp and open the door into the night air. I hear a small but tell-tale crunch of hoar frost under my boots as I walk to the truck. The boat was loaded the night before and is already attached to the hitch as it sits sheltered in the garage. Some people believe that garages are for cars, but here in Vermont, we know better. Garages are for decoys and boats. The truck fires quickly and I turn the driving lights on. I look in the rear view mirror and smile at the amber colored guide lights on the 3’ high trailer guides. Something about the yellow tinted lights on the top of the posts give me comfort. It’s an affirmation that the trailer is still attached to the truck (which if you’ve ever experienced the opposite scenario is a nightmare). I pull out of the garage with mere inches to spare on either side of the trailer.

We all have little rituals that bring us happiness. On clear starlit nights I tune my AM radio to 1170 and listen for one of the strongest signals in the country, WWVA from Weirton, West Virginia. My father used to listen to that station when I was much younger on all night drives to his birthplace in Grampian, PA, where he would take us deer hunting. I recapture some of the youthful exuberance for the hunt when I hear the crackling of real country music over the airwaves. Listening mostly to static, I drive to the access to meet my friend and duck hunting partner, John. I can trust that John will have stopped for the all important donuts that will sit in his boat on his special “left handed donut rack” affixed to the side of the cockpit of his Barnegat-style sneakboat. Good partners are hard to find. Ones that you can depend on to almost read your mind and anticipate what needs to be done in any situation. Ones that respect rituals as a form of adding depth and texture to the tapestry of experience. Ones who never forget the donuts.

Arriving at the access, John is already prepping his boat for the launch. His yellow lab, Remi, waddles toward me and wags his entire rear end as if to say “Hello, old friend! What a grand day today. Glad to see you’ll be joining us.” The wind is bowing the tops of the trees in the access area and John comments “Looks like we might have a few new birds come down on this stream.” “I hope so” I reply. Everything proceeds like a Swiss clock. Bow lines are attached, trailer lights are unplugged, transom plugs are double checked, decoys are loaded on the bow of the two boats and blind bags and provisions are stored in the cockpits. The waters around the launch are calm as the bay empties out to the South and the tree line shelters us from the blow.

Once on the water, the wind makes its presence known, as ripples quickly turn to whitecaps blowing frosty fingers off the stern. Staying just ahead of the troughs we angle toward the nearest silhouette of a land mass to the Southeast. Spotlights cut through the night. The old Honda four stroke whines in a mellifluous melody as she propels us toward the far shore. John’s boat is running alongside mine in an even tempo, bucking the front of the waves with the bow smacking down on the backside of the troughs.

 Turning East at the mouth of the small confluence of streams we navigate past the singular mooring that stays in the channel year round. We head up the center of the channel. The water is low this year. It’s about 1’ lower than normal and the wild rice towers over the mudded shoreline of the creek. We bear left at the first fork and head through the first pool, flushing a flock of Canadas roosted on the protected oxbow. Loud “her-onks” surround us and dark wings beat powerful pinions just a few feet over our heads. I feel badly that we have disturbed them from their utopian slumber. At the next bend we cut our motors and begin to push-pole our way around the final bend to “our” pool. It’s not really “ours”, but we have installed our aqua-tecture in that location every year for the last eight years. It is a conglomeration of salvaged lumber and cedar posts, surrounded by cut cattails, with a bench, dog ramp, platform and shell rack.

Thirty yards out into the dark pool we set our spread of deceivers, blacks to the left and mallards to the right, woodies in front of the blind and greenwings off in their own little slack water. It’s all thought out beforehand. Decoy placement is paramount to our belief that birds will funnel to their own if given the chance. The standard “crescent moon” shape is employed to pull the low-strafing marauders toward the blind where the quiver magnets add motion in front of the blind. The spinning wings – if they are used at all – are set at the outskirts of the spread and are actually used to flare the birds toward us. These rituals are built on years of shared experiences and every piece of the puzzle has a reason for its being placed where it is serving a higher purpose.

We stash the camo’ed boats behind the blind and climb up the ladder into our hide. Covers are placed over the top to create shooting ports. Remi is sent to “his place” and takes a stand on the platform, head whirling from side to side as birds are passing in the dark in a parade of wings. There is still twenty minutes before legal. We sit down on the big bench made of a 2” slab of maple with bark still on the sides and pour ourselves another cup of coffee with maple syrup to sweeten it – the New England way. Slowly the last few minutes tick away and we are finishing our leisurely cup of joe. At 6:30 we stand for the last two minutes before legal shooting and as I stand up, I am smacked in the side of the face with something that takes my baseball cap right off of my head. “What the Heck!?” A squadron of low-flying teal has passed directly over the blind one of them tipping his rudder a bit too low and his port wing buffeted me in the cheek. “Holy cow! Did you see that John?! That little jet pilot just put the smack down on me!” John replies “This is war! Let’s see if we can shoot our way out of this mess!”

The next soiree’ of jet fighters comes in low and from the right, sweeping over our spread at Mach 2. Without time to speak, we both raise our guns and quickly swing through the flock leading our birds by several feet. The guns bark simultaneously and two birds fall in the blocks, one belly up and kicking wildly, the other stone dead. Remi leaps off of the ramp and hits the water at a full gallop. He marks both birds and retrieves them with a methodical style representative of his wisdom gained through the last eight years of hunting. Both birds are delivered to hand and he is offered a sugar coated warm cider donut as a reward. Remi looks at the offering, quickly consumes it and goes back to his stand as if to say “thanks, but this is my job.”

As we congratulate each other on a good shot, John smiles at the dog work. It is a known fact that when birds see humans congratulating each other that they are not paying attention to their surroundings and they know that they can safely, slowly fly overhead and let out a belly-rolling “QWAAAAK!” and be in no danger. And so it goes with this chapter. John and I are snapped back into the present by the derision leveled on our egos from the big greenhead. We reach for our guns and laugh, realizing that the wily old greenhead has bested us again.

We settle in to non-stop duck-seeking mode. Our eyes scan the horizons in a full panorama of possibilities. After five minutes of this intense focus on making birds appear, John breaks the silence with a gradually growing grin. I ask “What?” He looks down at the two greenwings on the bench. One is banded. He speaks with his best sarcastic tone “Well, I’ll be! My bird’s got a band.” I know I’m being baited. As I’m trying to think of a smart reply, I see movement behind his head.

Coming through the trees is a lone drake woodie. Before I can speak a word I shoulder my gun, lead the handsomely crowned drake from right to left over the spread and drop him as if I’d done this shot every day for the last year. The beautifully plumed bird drops into the decoys and goes belly up. I immediately notice the silver band on his leg and reply to John, “Well there’s no question who shot that one.” I grin from ear to ear. “You’re up” I calmly retort. John chuckles “well done Carleton!”

 A strong breeze whips over the golden arches of swamp maples and blows a fresh cover of wafting leaves into the pool. At the far end of the swamp, a gun is fired and a flock of big birds lifts from the tree line. They are bee-lining their way down the distant stream and then, in a group decision, execute a sharp right hand turn into our channel. They are low and fleeing from the danger. Right at us. Dead on incoming. We hunch down behind the front wall of our fortress of cattails. Without speaking, we both rise at the same moment. Our guns trace the rising mallards. John shoots twice as do I. Three birds drop into the high grass behind us and one, a drake, helicopters hopelessly toward us. Before I can speak, I gently nudge John toward the far side of the blind. He is busy marking his birds and turns to me and looks at me like I’m being rude, when suddenly the mallard drops to the floor right where he had been standing. “Sorry about that. I hope you understand why I pushed you aside.” I pick up the bird and place it on the bench. John is busy giving hand signals to Remi to his furthest bird. Remi takes the directions as if he was being given GPS coordinates and locates the downed mallard at the exact spot that his boss told him to seek it out. He retrieves the drake to hand, delivering it stylishly and with a proud half grin on his canine mug.

 

Over the next hour, we manage to squeak out a limit apiece of blacks, mallards and teal, and one stunning late-migrating drake bluewing taken on a straight up shot, similar to the one we practice on at the club known as the “springing teal.” He had been peeping in the tall grass behind the blind all morning but never got up when we shot, apparently too busy feeding to recognize that the loud guns of autumn were just past his immediate scope of vision. John shot him at a moment when I was trying to “look some ducks in” from the bay’s narrow mouth at the end of the swamp.

 For those of you who are not aware of the “looking in some ducks” technique you may want to experiment with it. It’s really quite simple. I stole it from my favorite author, Gordon McQuarrie, who explains that it is the art of staring a hole on the horizon until birds occupy that space and then luring them in through sheer will power. At least that’s the ritual we use when all else fails.

We pick up the decoys, noticing the slight stinging sensation of cold water on our ungloved hands. It’s something like mild sado-masochism that emphasizes the disparity between the comforts of a civilized lifestyle and the ruggedness of the true outdoors.

We bag the decoys by species, saving a special “early season bag” for the woodies and teal. Mallards in their own bag and blacks in the custom floating bag. Spinners in their allotted spot under the gunwhales of the boats and loaded bags on the bow, strapped down with bungee cords scavenged from roadsides around the county. I’ve been known to slam on my brakes without any warning and skid into the shoulder of any road to pick up an errant bungee cord sprung loose from some unwitting traveler.

Riding across the bay, side by side in our sneakboats, the sun glinting off of the rippling water and throwing sparkling white spray out from beneath the hulls, I feel a deep sense of belonging to this fraternity of watermen. My deepest inner Paleolithic energy is engaged. I am the earth, the water, the sky. I am the hunter I was meant to be. I light a pipe, sheltering the fire from my lighter by turning my back from the breeze stinging my face. It’s a ritual, much like many of the things I prize in life.

Bradley Carleton is the founder of and Executive Director of www.sacredhunter.org , a non-profit organization devoted to exploring the spiritual connection of man to nature through hunting, fishing and foraging. Sacred Hunter is also the fund-raising arm of Traditions Outdoor Mentoring.org, www.traditionsoutdoormetnoring.org, which teaches at-risk youth respect and empathy through bi-monthly hunting and fishing expeditions.

Opening Day Dreams

I had just fallen asleep and was dreaming of cupped Canadas on their final approach when the alarm turned on to the country radio station. The red LCD readout was blinking 4:00am. It had been a long, fitful night of sleep, tossing and turning. My mind had been racing about the potential problems that we might encounter the following morning. Would we be beat to the field? Would the wind come in from the wrong direction? Would the flock that had been feeding n the hayfield the evening before choose the next field over tomorrow? Were my reeds clean? Did I wax the reed channel after my last practice session in the truck? And now it was time to wake up. The aroma of French roast coffee from downstairs wafted into the room. Fromm beneath the comforter I could feel the cool night air gently blowing in through the North window of the bedroom, The curtains waved in the breeze. I was suddenly invigorated when I could smell the lake on the wind. The fragrance of summer’s weeds dying back and the pungent aroma of leaves decaying brought me inspiration. My feet touched the wooden floor and I was no longer groggy.

Downstairs I turned on the weather radio to listen to the NOAA forecast update. The lake level was at one of its historical lows and the long hot summer had held little precipitation for the wheat, barley or oat fields. Farmers were just getting around to their second cut. Wind was going tobe out of the Northwest at around 5-10 knots. The birds in my dreams just a few hours ago would be coming off the roost to the South and over the woodline from the Southeast of the field.

I had scouted the field the evening before and secured permission by calling the new owner at his South Florida home. He had told me to check with the guy who “normally hunted it” and I did. He was out of town, which, according to the owner, “if he wasn’t planning on hunting it…it’s all yours!”

By 4:30 the thermos had been filled and the donuts packed in the field bag along with 2 boxes of 12 gauge 3 ½” BB’s, the custom goose call from Dead Creek Calls, my handsome leather duckstrap, headlamp, choke tube box, face mask, and camo skin gloves. The layout blinds had been grassed the night before with winter wheat colored raffia attached to their stubble straps. The fullbody decoys with the flocked heads and the motion decoys and flags we already strapped into the bag of the truck. The boys would be here any minute. My black lab, Boo, whined, knowing that something wonderful was afoot. I let him out into the clear night to air out. He held his head high to and we both took a deep breath of the night air with its glorious fragrances. The cicadas were still singing in the willow tree on the North side of the house. Lights flashed over the hill and the first truck pulled into the driveway.

It was my old benevolent buddy who tolerated all my idiosyncracies and was ALWAYS on time, John Lesher. “Morning” we both muttered. “Looks like the wind is setting up right” he said. “Yep, as long as it doesn’t pick up to much and carry them to that next field” I replied. Another vehicle came from the North end of the driveway and spun in. It was my other faithful, but frequently late comrade, Chris Thayer. He was on time today. We reconnoitered there in the driveway and agreed that it all looked good. “Follow my truck, John, and make sure nothing blows out of it, OK?” “Affirmative” was the reply.

Next stop. Pick up our youngest and most enthusiastic shooter for the day, Sterling Pelsue, of Vergennes. We met him at the Mobil Short Stop and quickly stowed gear into my big white truck I call “Snow Goose”. Then off to the field.

Arriving at the hay field, we turned in through the small tractor opening and drove through the crunchy fresh cut hay to the mound in the center. Setting out the decoys with me, my crew has to accept that I am a bit of a control freak. I run the show like a general with obsessive compulsive disorder. Everything must be just so. Sometimes my troops chide me about it, but if it fails I am the first to admit I was mistaken. On this first day, no one challenged me. I walked up and down the center of the field trying to locate where most of the goose poop was concentrated, then after locating the “X”, I said, out loud “This is where the blinds will go.” We set the spread out in the dark, pacing up and down the mound, our headlamps casting strange funnels of light in the pre-dawn darkness. Two pods of 20 fullbodies shaped like cigars stretching out at 30 degree angles from the blinds, creating a landing zone in front of the blinds facing South. “God, I hope this works” I said to anyone who might still be listening. It was now 5:30.

“Alright boys, let’s go back to bed! Get in those blinds and cover up!” Minutes seemed like hours. I closed my eyes and dreamed of the majestic gray and black bombers dropping in to the spread. Feet down, cupped and committed. My heart raced with hopes for a good shoot. I always feel obligated to the guys I hunt with because they put so much faith in my ability to put them in the right spot at the right time. I took a deep breath and prayed for some sign that we were doing the right thing in the right place. I had just about fallen asleep in the comfort of the blind when it began.

A lone honk was heard in the distance from the South. No one said a word. Our hopes were obvious.

The sun had crept up over the mountain and hung lazily in the early morning clouds. A series of  her-onks came from behind us. It was two birds, “the scouts” checking for the field. They swung over slowly at about 45 yards up. “Let ‘em go” I commanded. “We don’t want to shoot the scouts. Let ‘em go back and tell the others that the coast is clear.” They flew back over the tree line and announced their news to the flock in the bay.

Five minutes passed. Nothing. Then I turned to my right to scrutinize the tree line. In between the tall maples and ash I saw the flash of black wings. I strained to see more clearly. Then, like the flock of flying monkeys from the Wizard of Oz, there they were. Topping the trees by mere feet a wave of 50 birds were quietly pumping their way toward us.

“Get down!” I said forcefully “Flag ‘em Thayer”…Chris gave them 3 flaps with the flag. A long her-onk came back to him from the lead bird. “Let’s not talk to them unless they start talking”. They circled once to the North behind us and then set up, black feet began dropping and the large majestic Canadas began chattering. “Hit ‘em with the feeding murmur” I said. The team broke out in low-pitched grunts, growls and groans as if the flock on the ground was feeling territorial about their feeding spot. That did it. The birds turned, locked their mighty pinions and craned their necks looking for a place to set down. They were aiming right for the “X”.

As they began to backpeddle, I hesitated for a moment, lost in reverence. John asked “are you gonna’ call the shot?” “Yes…. Take ‘Em!” I shouted, just as the first bird touched down. Everyone cut loose at once and the valley echoed powerfully with the reverberating sounds of autumn.

Chris, Sterling & John - Opener

CWD is so unnecessary...

Folks! Just stop feeding deer with "feeders" use food plots! C'mon! where are the biologists here?
http://www.theoutdoorwire.com/story/1342777895xc3zbak27z7.

Swimming Hole Rainbow

It’s hard to believe that he didn’t hear me enter the deep swimming hole carved in the rock cliffs of the old river. I hadn’t been particularly careful to be stealthy. Maybe it was the roar of the falls overhead or the way the shadows of the ancient maples dappled the light, filtering through to the surface. I must have been quiet and unknowingly camouflaged as I approached the foaming bubbles under the falls. The sensation of cold clear water over my body was invigorating, just what I needed after the long downward traverse into the ravine.

Serendipitously, I opened my eyes underwater in the cold, gin-clear stream and saw him. A large old trout, tail swishing gently back and forth behind the large rock embedded in the sediment to the side of the falls. Without, turning around, I back peddled like a sea turtle, slowly backing away from him, being careful not to attract his attention. For all he knew, I was never there.

I tip-toed out of the tail of the pool cautiously, trying to not stir up the gravel bed or make a sound. I walked up the wooded path to my truck and retrieved my fly rod. Returning to the hole I had dried off enough to concentrate on the approach. I assembled the old Diamondback rod and reel, tied an extra 12” length of 5x tippet on, and crawled up on the side of the far shore where the shadows obscured me from his view.

Over and over again I roll cast the red flannel tipped Zug Bug into the falls and waited for the current to draw it downward toward the submerged rock on the side. I cast eleven times and nothing had happened.

I took a deep breath and looked up at the cascading water. The sun poked through the canopy and there in the mist, a rainbow was formed hanging over the roaring falls. At that moment I felt blessed to be there.

I breathed in deeply and said “Thank You” out loud. I cast my nymph, once again, into the deluge. As I stripped the 6 weight sinking tip line back in, I got a sudden tug. The rod bent downward in my right hand and began to throb viciously. I took another deep breath and raised the rod above me head. He was hooked, and good! The dance began.

He leapt into the rushing water, and shaking his head in defiance, turned back to the deep pool. Suddenly, the line went slack and I reeled like a mad man. He was swimming straight at me, planning a reverse run into the downstream current. The line tightened again as he headed toward the boulders. I kept the line tight and tentatively stepped off of the shore into the clear water. It was cold and clean.

After what seemed like an eternity, the big trout began to tire. I gently towed him into the center of the powerful current, using its force to gain an advantage over his powerful thrusts. Reeling him in slowly and delicately, I reached down to tail him and saw that he was indeed a nice 20 inch rainbow.

As I cradled him out of the water, a beam of sunlight shone through the canopy above and caught his flanks glistening in effervescent crimson and green, like a rainbow suspended above the rushing water. Releasing the fly from the corner of his mouth, I said out loud, “Thank you, my friend” and set him gently back in the water.  Holding his tail with my right hand, I cradled his round belly with my left hand and pulled him back and forth to let fresh oxygenated water wash over his gills.

With a quick flick of his tail, he hunched his muscular shoulders and pulled out of my hands, headed downward to the deep hole of the falls.

As I looked up I saw the sun reflecting once again over the mist of the falls. The stream of light cast an ethereal crimson and green rainbow over the wooded falls.

Bad News, Bear?

If you’ve been hanging around Spears Store in East Charlotte or have been online at the Front Porch Forum, no doubt you’ve heard about Charlotte’s newest furry resident, our resident black bear. Numerous people have reported spying Ursus americanus, the common black bear wandering around East Charlotte.

As yet it has not been determined to be male or female (no one has had the courage or stamina to get close enough to verify this) although it is likely to be a young male in search of establishing his own territory. If it were female and over 150 lbs, she would be capable of reproducing and have cubs with her, but all reports have been that of a lone specimen. After 16 months of imprinting on their mother, males will wander in an effort to claim their own territory.

“Our” bear seems to have taken up residence somewhere on Pease Mountain based on sightings. Residents of Charlotte have noted him/her crossing Church Hill and Route 7, as well as the numerous reports of him/her raiding bird feeders that were still being used on the South and East side of the mountain.

If we look at the habitat provided and the food sources available within these sightings we can hypothesize that he/she is making it’s home range centered around Pease Mountain, based on the following factors; denning habitat available on the Southeast side of the mountain where there are numerous cliffs with an abandoned apple orchard at the base, water available at the pond on the West side of Route 7, thick stands of fallen conifers (from the Ice Storm of 1998) on the North side, plentiful oak and beech trees, berries, and of course, the bird feeders still being used.

A fact that is taken all too lightly is that most of us are not aware that the bird feeders we love so much are the bane of the black bear’s existence. They become habituated to available food sources and once they have learned that a source can provide sustenance without danger, they will return and eventually, the inevitable occurs; human/bear interaction. This usually evolves into an unfortunate scenario where the bear has to be “removed.”

On March 22 of this year the VT Fish & Wildlife Department sent out a press release that, in our community, has gone largely unheeded. "We are receiving reports of bears getting into bird feeders," said Fish and Wildlife’s Col. David LeCours. "People can help now by removing any food sources that may tempt the bears. That includes taking down bird feeders and not feeding birds until December 1." “Also, don't leave pet food outside, wash down your barbecues after using them, and secure your garbage containers,” he added. “And above all, never purposely leave food out for bears. Feeding bears may seem kind, but it is almost a sure death sentence for them."

Persons suffering bear damage should contact the nearest Vermont Fish & Wildlife office or local game warden prior to taking any control action on their own. Fish & Wildlife personnel will recommend appropriate measures or control strategies that can lessen the problem. Producers of bees/honey, corn, fruit orchards, and livestock interested in learning more about black bear damage, its identification, what to do if damage occurs, and where to go for assistance should contact our Game Warden, Chris Clark or Tom Cook, through the State Police barracks at 878-7111.

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.

Rudy’s “Holy Laker”

The coffee maker gurgles to life at 3:30am. Lights blink and steam begins to whisper its song of roasted fragrance.  Before the alarm radio turns on, I am up and feeling my way down the hallway steps, grasping the handrail with one hand and bracing against the wall with my left. I know I am sleepy and do not trust my feet on the polished wooden steps. I fill my favorite steel thermos, a gift from the Norbert Buchmayr Society, with the pungent French Roast and add a dash of real maple syrup.  Within minutes I am out the door, headed to the truck and surveying the night sky, looking for signs of weather. It looks like a clear day, the stars are still shining brightly and there is a wisp of wind from the Southwest. The pressure appears to be steady but the forecast is for clouds moving in and a barometer to be dropping later this morning.

In the truck, I search for my favorite old radio station, WWVA 1170am, from Weirton, West Virginia, which sometimes comes in on clear nights all the way up here near the Canadian border. There is something magical about radio waves that carry that far and I enjoy the crackling sound reminiscent of my radio youth of the 60’s. I chuckle to myself as I think “Times were simpler then”, recognizing that my grandparents used those same words when I was growing up. For them the world was changing in fearful ways; communism was a threat, kids played “rock and roll” and shook their bodies violently, as if convulsing in some primitive animalistic mating ritual. We could trust those we elected to office and our country was the world leader in productivity and prosperity. Now, my generation fears what the advent of video games where kids learn to kill without empathy will lead us. Government and corporations are blended together in one authoritarian entity dictating to us what we hear, see, feel and eat. The world is frighteningly complex. Just like it was for our grandparents.

But as I drive through the pre-dawn, with the window rolled down I can smell the lake turning over its summer depths and wafting inland. I inhale deeply. I swear I can smell the fish and the seaweed. It calms me.

Pulling into the boat access, I am alone. I wander down to the shoreline and breathe in the blessing of pre-dawn on the lake. Headlights pierce through the canopy of maples and oaks and reflect off of the lightly rippling surface of the lake in sparkling crystals of light. My friends have arrived, towing the old Hawk 18’ center console boat. We greet each other with our traditional teasing. “Barely made that 15 minute rule! I was gonna’ leave without you!” I say to Chris.  Our friend from Michigan, Rudy replies, “That would have been tough to do Carleton. Seeing as how we have the boat!” “Yeah, well. Details like that won’t stop me!” I reply. A round of “How are ya’ Bro’s?” breaks out at once between the three of us, like long lost brothers.

We launch the boat from Chris’ little Volvo wagon as he swears again that he doesn’t need anything bigger. There is a nice ripple on the water and a very slight shade of dark purple and green in the horizon to the East. The motor fires to life quickly and Rudy shoves us off the wooden dock. The smell of the outboard mixing with the fresh, clear water is intoxicating. As we pull out of the bay I am reminded of the scene from “The Perfect Storm” where George Clooney’s character describes the joys of pulling out of the harbor, “the fog’s just lifting. Throw off your bow line, throw off your stern. You head out to South channel, past Rocky Neck, Ten Pound Island. Past Niles Pond where I skated as a kid. Blow your horn and throw a wave to the lighthouse keeper’s kid on Thatcher Island. Then the birds show up; black backs, herring gulls, big dump ducks. The sun hits ya’. Head North. Open up to 12 (knots). Steamin’ now. The guys are busy; you’re in charge. Ya’ know what? You’re a goddam swordboat captain. Is there anything better in the world?”…I am lost in revelry, pretending I am a swordboat captain. It’s universal. Whatever boat you run, whatever lake or pond you pull into, whoever your crew is, you are a part of the Universe and you can feel your soul swimming in the dawn’s first light.

We pull out of Converse Bay and head South past Garden Island with the cliffs of the Adirondacks catching the first golden glows of the sun.  The spray from the wake is sparkling as drops of water fly in an arc from under the hull, wave after wave of compounded beauty. I’m sitting on the bow grinning as I take a pull of the travel mug of coffee and swear I am in heaven already.  Rudy and Chris are looking off in the distance, alone with their thoughtsand focused on this moment of transcendence.  

Chris is piloting his boat with a deft hand. Our faith in our captain is undaunted. We know that he has seen his share of storms and steadily maneuvered through heavy seas. We are bound together by a sense of supreme contentment, alive and aware of the present.

Slowing the boat down to 2.6 mph Rudy and Chris turn their backs to set the downriggers. I grab the wheel.  A brief discussion of which lures to use is quickly decided. Cop car down at 33’ and a Sausage and Gravy cheater down halfway to the ball on the port side. Starboard will be a Michael Jackson at 40’ and a Strawberry Milkshake for a cheater. On the port side, just ahead of the rigger, we play out a tadpole diver with a brokeback Rapala 100 pulls back. On the starboard side we feed out a lead core flyline with a Magog smelt imitation. Between sips on the coffee and jokes about jelly donuts, we all keep an eye on the rods. And then we wait.

As we are drifting in our conversation to the dangerous territory of politics, the flyline on the starboard gunwhale begins to sing. It whizzes. We all turn around quickly and someone yells “Holy Crap!” Rudy begins to laugh. He’s up to his tricks again. He likes to reach behind his back and tug the line real fast. We all laugh and are caught up in the moment, when the starboard rigger releases. This time it’s for real! “Fish On!” I yell. Rudy is closest to the line and grabs it, raising the rod over his built-for-a-center football shoulders. “It’s a pig!” he says as the rod begins to thump downward in a heavy pulsing action. Rudy steps back and reels in line, when suddenly; the line starts spooling out of control. The big fish is on a run. He dives heading for the abyss of Lake Champlain’s 300’ bottom. I hear Rudy say a quick prayer that he doesn’t go all the way to the bottom.  It is a moment of connectedness that transcends our short lives. His prayer echoes in silence off of the Adirondack cliffs. He waits patiently for the reel to stop screaming and gently at first, then forcefully, horses the rod over his right shoulder and reels down hard. Whatever it is, it’s heavy.

As if time were suspended, we all watch with amazement at the power of this piscatorial king of the deep as the fish fights to stay down. Minutes pass by like hours, all of us wondering if the 8 lb test line will break. Rudy skillfully plays the beast, letting him run when he wants and dive when he feels the urge. We all know that the trick to boating a behemoth is to tire him out and slowly work him to the rippled surface.

After four minutes of wrestling, the fish finally surfaces and rolls hard on his side to shake the hook. Rudy keeps his line tight and, once again, wrestles for control. The beast of the deep begins to tire. Like a large saturated tree stump, Rudy reels him in to the stern and steps back for Chris to net his trophy. Chris swipes under the exhausted fish and finds that he barely fits in the net, bending the pole. Into the boat he comes, eyes blazing with fury.

  

Rudy unhooks the spoon from his jaw with a pair of pliers and hoists the fish up to his chest. Even against Rudy’s massive torso, the fish looks like a monster. “Holy Mackerel!” I exclaim. “To be correct, Carleton, this is a holy laker!” retorts Rudy.

Pictures are taken and Rudy is crowned King for the Day.