The Fishing Expert
Fishing in the old days was very good if you knew where to go and what to use as bait. As a youngster I fished little, but my grandparents were into it and had great fishing experiences. It was the reason they first went there. They had a distant cousin who was a “vested expert fisherman.”

Short story: My best friend's stepfather owned part of Seber Shores (East Shore). He had a large boathouse, rented boats and cottages, and sold swamp lots to be filled for lake and creek lots. He also had a bait shop and a license to catch minnows with a 50-foot net. My friend and I earned extra money in the summer filling lots from the gravel pit, catching minnows, and doing other odd jobs for him.

My grandparents' cousin came in from fishing one day with no fish. We saw him and inquired as to his luck. His response: “They aren't biting or I would have caught some.” My friend picked up on it and told my distant relative that he wasn't as good as he thought he was.

Back came a challenge: “Put your money where your mouth is.”

The deal wound up this way: If we each caught three bass or more, he would give us five dollars each. If we each caught two or less, we’d give him three dollars each.

As we headed for the creek, you could see him smiling confidently, but still watching where we were heading in case we returned with something.

After we were out of sight, we swung into the channel toward my friend's place. We went up to the old barn and played a little basketball. After staying busy a few hours, he and I went to one of the empty minnow ponds where we had kept some bass and bullheads from our netting that spring. We netted six nice bass, placed them on stringers and took them back to settle the bet. We were paid, but only with our promise to keep this a secret.

For the remainder of his or my grandparents’ life I never told anyone. And never again did I hear my distant cousin proclaimed to be the fisherman he really was.

The Ice Cometh, The Dock Goeth
In the ‘50s my grandfather and my great uncle were tired of putting in and taking out the dock each year. Both were ex-railroad people who knew the longevity of railroad ties and bridge timbers, so they decided to build a permanent dock. They cribbed and spiked long bridge timbers and railroad ties together and built a dock filled with large stones, then gravel, then sand, topped with dirt and finally grass.

The following winter the ice came; by the time we returned to Sandy Pond the dock had jackknifed. From the side it looked like a teepee. “Just not sturdy enough.” said my uncle.

Most of that summer was spent rebuilding. This time they widened it. They offset the ties and bridge timbers so they overlapped each other before spiking. They drove rebar before adding stone, gravel, and sand. On top they placed a concrete cover. I think we used welded wire (but not rebar) in the concrete.

On our first visit the following spring we found some of the larger stones, a couple chunks of concrete and one lonely railroad tie from the front.

To my knowledge no one ever found the remainder of the dock.

Oooops!
There were two gentlemen always racing about from the dock by the old Bayview Hotel. They had small aluminum boats outfitted with racing type engines. One was named Brownie. His boat was almost always a shade faster. It was called "The Silver Slipper." It was silver and reminded me of a fast mosquito flying across the water.

If you had seen and remember these gentlemen, Brownie’s advesary was Walt, my hero. His boat was an Arkansas Traveler so close in design and color to my own, that the engines appeared to be their only difference. With a boat so close in looks to mine it allowed second fastest on the Pond to be more than adequate in my mind. (If you saw me, I was the well tanned, toe-headed kid hanging around hoping for a ride. Random thought: It seems unfair that the 4,000-pound, 1978 Cruiser's Inc. cuddy cabin day cruiser that I now use could pass those two speed demons of my past like they were standing still.)

I was privileged to have the use of a boat and motor since the late 40's. It started with my grandfather's Arkansas Traveler, a 12-foot, V- bottomed aluminum boat powered by a Johnson 2 horsepower engine. It was not very fast, but for a boy who may have been 80 pounds soaking wet, it was the Indy 500. Soon my grandfather added a powerful 5 horsepower Elgin. Not as dependable, but again as fast.

The 12-foot boat was really too small for a family outing and soon my grandfather purchased a new 10-horsepower Johnson and a 16-foot molded plywood Whirlwind boat. He did not trade the Arkansas Traveler. I found out years later he had given it to my dad so that when he wanted to go for a ride, he would not have to wait for me to return from where ever I was. We were both happy.

My dad did not boat much and I was limited only by my ability to obtain gas and oil. I was strong enough to pull up the boat at night, remove the engine with the carrier, and return all essentials to the boathouse. The next morning I was capable of having the proper life saving equipment, mixing the proper gas and oil, and knowing to fasten and chain and lock on the engine. (I was often reminded of the chaining operation). When underway, I knew the rules of the road. I was aware of the shallows and most other obstacles in the Pond. I was also adept at checking to see that the water pump was functional and backing down the engine when the telltale change in engine pitch indicated weeds were on the prop.

True to its reputation, the 5-horsepower Elgin died one day and it was a long row from the beach. My dad was handy with engines. He shortly diagnosed at least one bad coil, probably two. The following weekend we returned with two new coils, new points, plugs and a pledge from me to do a few chores. Then my dad went to work. Within a few hours, he removed the engine, replaced the above parts, greased and cleaned the engine. He placed the engine back on the boat and when started, it purred like a kitten. I could hear the sound of power that was missing before and could not wait to take it on a run across the lake. I was immediately told that the mechanic had the honor of checking it out.

As he pulled away from the dock I could see and hear the difference. I turned to go back up to the camp. I knew it would be a while before he returned. I was just stepping off the dock when the engine sound changed drastically. I turned and saw my dad standing, then fooling with the anchor, then playing with an oar (like it was a gun and he was shooting at something in the water).

Minutes later he started rowing back to the dock. At first, I was afraid that the repair needed repair. Then I thought he was pretending. When he was within a hundred yards I knew that he had lost the engine. I was devastated, he was angry. When he had tried to drop the anchor it was knotted and would not reach the bottom. He used the oar to try and get a position by visually sighting in both directions. This was only partially accurate because the boat was drifting from a brisk wind.

I bore the brunt of his anger. To him, it was me who had knotted the line (not), me who had broken the coils (not), and probably me who caused the brisk wind (also not). As he was telling me that this was the end of my "boating career", and that rowing was better for me anyway, I heard my great aunt behind me. "Bernard, you stop right now. How many times have I listened to you and Les tell this boy to chain that motor? Did you chain it?

My dad was silent.

We didn't speak of the motor for a week. The following week there were two young fellows with a hand pump and diving suit over the approximate location where the motor disappeared. After the day's dive they informed us that it was so mucky below that even if you could see down there, anything that heavy would have sunk into the muck. They stepped around the bottom, trying to feel for the motor, but after getting stuck themselves and then pulled free from above a few times, they said it was too dangerous. We were all disappointed.

The following week I had a new 7 horsepower Elgin. I also was never again reminded to make sure I chained my engine. Life at Sandy Pond was once again great.

At a little get-together just before Dad's death, we talked about old times. He told the story of the lost motor and how he had been so ashamed and embarrassed that he had contemplated not returning to Sandy Pond. We all agreed that it was good that he returned.

PS: That 12-foot Arkansas Traveler is today owned by a close friend and rests beside a small creek waiting for my friend to return and challenge the fish near Gouverneur, NY. He insisted on paying me $100 – which is more than my grandfather paid some 60 years ago.

Love's True Test
In the early Spring after the first warm rain, the Lake Ontario bull heads come into the creeks to spawn. They are the best eating when they feed in colder water and above the sand. River bullheads often have a muddy taste. The best time to fish is between 8 and 11 p.m.

Years ago, I normally used two poles from the shore, each on forked sticks pushed into the ground. Each pole had two hooks, each hook with a juicy night-walker (worm). In approximately half-hour stints the fish would bite so frequently that you could not keep both poles baited and in the water. (I later learned to pre-bait detachable hook sets to enhance my total catch, but still could not keep the poles baited and in the water for those busy periods). I often caught around 40 one- to two-pound fish in an evening. On some occassions I would go home, switch gear and go to another creek from about 1 to 3 a.m. and blind dip for smelt with a net. Fresh smelt were my favorite.

Not long after I met my present wife, I took her with me to fish for bullhead. It was rainy and cool. For a half-hour we would cuddle together under some dock boards. The next half-hour was devoted to keeping up with the fish. Then cuddle again, then fish, then cuddle, then fish . . . We had a great time.

The next morning I was cleaning fish. She came out and asked if I would like fresh fish for lunch. I told her yes and gave her a couple. (For those not familiar, a bullhead is like a small catfish. They have skin, not scales. To clean, you remove the skin, the head, and all but the meat and bone. They have one main bone with the body bones attached. When you cook them, you do so with the bone in and just pull it away with one movement when they are cooked.)

My wife is from Long Island and was unfamiliar with cooking fresh water fish. She asked me how I liked bullheads prepared. I explained that my sister used pancake flour and then pan-fried them, and her way was my favorite.

A while later my wife announced that lunch was ready. I went to the table expecting the tender white meat encased in a crisp coating of oil-fried pancake flour and egg. What I saw was a large pancake with the form of a bullhead in the middle. (She could not get the flour to stick to the fish so she made a batter, which also didn't stick. The pancake cooked, the fish did not. I still ate it, though I believe I have not had fried bullhead since.)

It’s 33 years later and my wife still tells everyone that after she saw me eat that fish she knew my love was real. (She has since become a good cook.)