other people’s fish – jim lawless

Editor’s Note: Chad Wilde is a gifted writer and good friend. This story, about his late Uncle Jim, is the first in a new series that Chad is sharing on The Connecticut Yankee. It's a great piece that hits home for me and may for you, too. Many thanks for reading.

Most days spent fishing can be swept into an amalgam of memory.  Yes, we go fishing and we either catch fish or we don’t.  These are all good days.  But other days are different and leave different wakes behind them.

Some days, something remarkable happens.  And when the experience moves higher from commonplace we are left with ringing stories to recall many years later.  They can leave behind something funny, poignant, or powerful.  These are the stories you want to hear told when close by a campfire. 

For me, I can’t get enough of these tales.  I willingly share mine.  But more than sharing, I like to hear others recall their own great fish stories.  I’m good at prodding them forth.  I enjoy saying things like, ”Hey, tell them about that time”…….and then watching eyes light up slightly as someone has just had their stage set perfectly for them to tell a good story. 

People enjoy telling about their great memories. 

I’ve heard some of the stories told by my Uncle and friend, Jim Lawless many times.  I loved to hear him tell me about several of great fish he had found himself associated with through his long life of outdoor pursuits.  

We would, perhaps, be at our annual Fishcamp and he would have a Busch beer in one hand and a White Owl cigar in the other.  Below his push-broom moustache a smile would creep and I would sit back and listen to a story I had heard before but wanted all the same to hear again.

My Uncle Jim was a self-depreciating angler, and among our group he was known either as “Fishless Jim” or “Camp Squaw.”  The former sobriquet given for obvious reasons, the later truly an expression of appreciation since he always took good care to ensure our camp was well fed and as comfortable as the weather would allow.  

As an angler, Jim was a bonified worm dunker, passionate ice fisher, and horrible fly fisher.  But he wasn’t really always fishless. 

In thinking of him, I recall words written by Thomas McGuane about his own father:

“Uncle Ben, was my father a good fisherman?” 

He Smiled and said, “No, Tommy, he was not.  But no one loved it more.” 

And this sentiment accurately applies to Jim.  In his life, he took such pleasure from the streams and still waters of Eastern Connecticut and beyond.  He was in his element waded thigh deep in the Natchaug or Farmington rivers casting for trout, on the ice of West Hill Pond checking a flag (most likely empty if it was his flag), or in the Adirondack Mountains with his brother Ted fishing remote ponds for native Brook Trout.  

Here are several of his finer stories.

the snob 

As mentioned, Jim was a horrible fly fisher.  We both took up fly fishing fairly late in life.  While my own fly fishing improved over time, Jim never truly caught on to it.  He would tell me how proud he was of me in my progress.  We both found the medium more art than leisure and though he never truly got it as a fly fisherman he did own a fly rod and a small box of flies, which he would occasionally put to use.  He would mix in a bit of fly fishing with his preferred method of dunking worms, but rarely found success. 

He never fully committed to fly fishing, since he was more comfortable with a spinning rod.  “I never catch anything on my fly rod,” he said to me. 

“Jim,” I replied, “you never catch anything on your spinning rod either.”

He laughed, “Well, this is not true.  I mostly don’t catch anything on my spinning rod.  Not never.”

One day his work brought him to a meeting near the Farmington River.  Jim decided that he would bring only his fly rod, to remove the temptation of using his more familiar spinning gear, and after the meeting ended he would go fish the Farmington.  He arrived in the afternoon at Peoples State Forest, rigged up his fly rod and tied on a dry fly which he schmeared with flotation gunk, donned his waders, and marched into the water. 

In his words, his casting sucked.  He didn’t know a damn thing about mending line, and his drifts were useless.  All the same, he was out there and he was fly fishing.  As his fruitless efforts naturally returned no results another angler arrived, we’ll call him New Guy.  

This angler was a sharpie according to Jim, or at least Jim thought he was.  This guy had all the fancy gear, you could tell.  He looked exactly the part of a Farmington River fly angler.  

Jim grew a bit self-conscious.  He could feel New Guy watching him.  Finally, he turned around.  New Guy asked him if he minded that he fished just above where Jim was flogging the water.  Jim, being a solid fellow said of course not.  

Now what Jim didn’t realize is that New Guy had just ‘high holed’ him.  He pulled a fast one and committed a breach of angling etiquette.  This subtle move is certainly frowned upon by those of us who regularly fly fish, those of us who are not horrible fly fishers.  

New Guy was essentially cutting in line, something that even second graders know is inappropriate.  The underlying wisdom here is that when fly fishing one generally works from down river upwards since all trout position themselves facing up current.  Essentially, you are trying to creep up behind them.  New Guy had just deprived Jim of potentially doing so. 

Jim was glad to be left alone and he continued his usual anticipated skunking in peace.  He glanced upriver several times at New Guy.  When he did, he noticed that he was constantly changing flies.  Jim chortled to himself, thinking, You can’t catch a fish without your fly in the water. 

What Jim didn’t know here is that New Guy was likely attempting to ‘match the hatch’, and more directly mimic the insect activity that was taking place.  Farmington River trout can be pretentious in what they are eating, difficult to catch.  New Guy was making sophisticated alterations to his pattern, perhaps downsizing from a 22 to a 24.  

With all of his amendments to presentation, New Guy’s luck was no better than Jim’s.  It was shaping up to be one of those fishing trips that no one really remembers.  But then, something changed. 

As Jim casted his line and watched his admittedly shitty drift a trout rose and dimpled the surface and took his fly.  Jim lifted the rod, and lo and behold, found himself tight to the fish.  He must have made some commotion, as New Guy began wading down to him.  As Jim netted his catch, he was amazed that it was a Tiger Trout and a fine one at that.  

Together, the two anglers admired the fish, and then Jim released it.  Naturally, New Guy asked what fly the fish took.  Puzzled, Jim considered his response here.   

He told me, “Chad, I really didn’t know what fly it was.  A Grey Ghost, or whatever.  It was just what I had decided to tie on.”

Jim looked directly at the New Guy and said honestly, “Trout fly.”  

In my personal opinion, a perfect response.  We had a good laugh, Jim and I, the last time he told me this story.  He said to me, “I must have sounded like such a snobby bastard.” 

For the record, it was an Adams of an undetermined size.  This unknown detail decided upon years later thanks to the fact that he compared it to flies found in the bins of a fly shop, and he had retired the fly that Tiger ate for posterity. 

brad somehow caught it 

Jim and his brother Ted were quite fond of the Adirondack Mountains and began in 1983 to take annual pilgrimages to the area on or about Memorial Day weekend to fish a series of remote Trout ponds in a wilderness area in the region.  They had no clue at first what they were doing, but they had a map and a 1972 Dodge Tradesman van that had been converted into something of a make-shift camper van, they had a flat-bottomed boat, worms they’d dug up at home, and plenty of beer. 

The wilderness area they arrived at was certainly not a luxury campground.  At best, you were allotted a nasty outhouse and a beat-up old picnic table, but it was free camping so it fit the budget.  Their early trips were largely unsuccessful, and it was a pain in the ass to drag the flat-bottomed boat to a featureless disc of water where they would troll worms behind wobblers and swill beer.  But it was a trip these brothers took yearly, and gradually they found waters that produced fish. 

And they would take these fish, Brook Trout with vibrant pink flesh, to eat.  And they would fry them and serve them with baked beans and home fried potatoes.  And they would share time together, and drink beer. 

When a thunderstorm blew up one day, they were forced to retreat to shore, dock the boat, and seek shelter.  They found enormous boulders uphill from the pond leaning together forming a sort of cave.  It wasn’t much, but it allowed enough of a dry place to build a small fire and wait it out, while drinking more beer.  Good times to be shared. 

In later years, they began to invite others on their annual trip.  And one year they invited some guy named Brad.  The thing was, Brad wasn’t a great fisherman.  And if Jim made this claim, which he did to me every time he told me this story, he must have truly been god awful.  Since the flat-bottomed boat wasn’t large, they decided to leave Brad on shore while Jim and Ted took to their usual routine of rowing in turns and trolling whatever pond they had gone to this fateful day.  

Brad wasn’t mad at them.  He took his low rent fishing pole, a six pack of beer, and a pack of smokes and carefully proceeded to creep out onto a fallen tree that laid in the water.  Here, he sat down crossed legged and began chain smoking, drinking beer, and doing what fishing he could while Jim and Ted fished the pond proper from the boat.

After a while, Brad began screaming at the top of his lungs.  Jim and Ted immediately rowed their boat to the log he was positioned on assuming he had impaled a finger on a hook or fallen victim to some other calamity.  But no, Brad was hooked into an immense fish.

“Chad,” Jim told me, “I have no idea how he caught that fish.  The log he was on had all sorts of limbs and shit in the water below.  His pole was a K-Mart special and his line had to be years old.  How that fish didn’t find one of those snags or otherwise break him off, I have no idea.  But he landed it, without a net.” 

“How big was it?”  I ask, but I already know.  

"A 29-inch Brown Trout," Jim said.  "And to make it more complex, how the hell did a Brown Trout get into this remote Brookie pond anyhow?  That thing must have eaten so many Brookies that we should have been eating!"

They had a camera with them, and I’ve seen with my own two eyes that gigantic Brown Trout.  Brad’s finger stuck unceremoniously through the gills of the fish, holding it up like the trophy that it was.  All the better dead, that fish.  However the hell that massive Brown got into that pond didn’t matter anymore, it would eat no more native Brook Trout. 

jim got a flag

Jim was an avid ice fisherman.  Many times, I have enjoyed sharing the ice with him.  While he rarely caught a fish, he made a mean breakfast sandwich.  As “Camp Squaw,” Jim was always well organized and well prepared.  He’d tell you that the key to a good Clam Chowder while ice fishing was to bring a couple extra cans of diced clams to add to the soup.  He is dead on in this assessment. 

In the 1970s, Jim’s father, his brother Ted, and Uncle Jerry took up ice fishing.  Naturally, Jim joined them, interested in this new novelty that would force these men outdoors in the harsh New England winter and jam them together in a homemade ice shanty. 

The shanty was cobbled together from plywood and a series of hinges that allowed it to be folded for transportation and erected on the ice.  It was heavy as hell, and rickety to boot.  It didn’t do much to provide warmth but at the very least it broke the wind and gave some basic modicum of relief from the elements to allow for proper beer drinking.  He would bring his dog, Sunset, an Irish Setter, and the poor dog would lay there shivering on the ice while all the flags stayed down and the men drank beer while waiting for them to go up. 

Eventually, Jim obtained his own gear and the shanty fell into utter disrepair and thus by the wayside.  He continued ice fishing and a favorite spot of his was West Hill Pond.  I went with him several times.  On one occasion prior to the trip I recall asking him how the fishing had been of late since I don’t regularly fish the pond. 

“Oh, very, very poor,” he told me. 

To me, this was fine since I’d be going with my Uncle and friend and I was sure he’d be making something delicious to eat.  We got skunked, the fishing was indeed very, very poor.  But even the slow days were sweet.  I only remember this day, because afterwards I stopped at a jewelry store and bought the ring that my wife now wears on her left hand. 

But one day, Jim had different luck on West Hill.  The fishing wasn’t very, very poor this day. 

He was fishing with Ted and their friend Jack.  Upon showing up in the morning, to his chagrin, he realized he had left his fishing license at home.  Now Jim was an extremely ethical angler. He never took more than his limit, and he abided by most of the rules of the game.  On this fateful day, he decided not to set his tip ups and risk a run in with a warden. 

Really, an easy decision.  Besides not having a copy of his fishing license, it didn’t really matter after all if he did set his tip ups since he wouldn’t catch anything anyway.  Just less work to do in breaking down at the end of the day, he reasoned. 

As the morning wore on, both Ted and Jack were having luck.  Jim started to feel a bit left out, a bit antsy, so he struck an agreement with Jack.  They would alternate flags.  First, Jack would take a flag and then on the next one Jim would fish it.  A fair and equitable solution, and only bending the rules really, no harm no foul since this day they were practicing catch and release.  

As Jim’s turn in the rotation came, he and Jack made their way to the standing flag.  Jack held Jim up, saying that he thought he was going to take this flag.  He assured Jim that he would indeed let him field a flag, but just not this one.  He could absolutely have the next one.  Jim reluctantly agreed.  Jack caught a shitty pickerel. 

They sat back down and drank beer.  After a while, Jack looked out across the ice and announced that a flag was up.  The men walked to it, and this one was to be Jim’s turn since Jack had mucked up their rotation taking the last flag and earning himself a shitty pickerel.  When they arrived at the flag, the spool was spinning quickly.  Something had taken the bait.  Jim pulled the trap from the ice, took up the line, and set the hook. 

He knew instantly that this was no small fish.  It felt solid and as it neared the hole in the ice, this assumption proved true.  When he had landed it, it was the single biggest trout he had ever taken through the ice.  A 19-inch male Brown Trout.  

Jim had a moment of pause here.  

The fellows had no camera to document the catch.  Jim considered that he would take the fish and have it mounted.  But this day, they were fishing catch and release and he just couldn’t kill such a magnificent animal.  

Jim told me that in the glistening winter sunlight he had never seen spots so radiant and lovely, mixed in with the black patterning of the trout were crimson dots that looked to him as red as fresh blood.  It had the sheen of a winter Brown to it, silver on its shoulders and yellow bellied, its jaw slightly kyped.  It was a true work of art as it slipped from his hands and swam back into the depths of the pond.

All these years later, I just wished that Jim had decided otherwise and took what should have been Jack’s fish to be mounted.  I’ve never seen that fish, but I feel I have from the sheer number of times I’ve asked Jim to recount the tale.  In my mind’s eye, it is what it had been for Jim.  The prettiest fish either of us had ever seen. 

And while this is good and well, in my heart I’d love to have seen that fish on his wall where he could have pointed to it and said, I’ve got a story about that fish.  Fishless Jim, he deserved that mount, but he just couldn’t have killed such a magnificent animal.

after all 

My Uncle and friend Jim Lawless passed away last spring.  He had been sick for a while with Pulmonary Fibrosis.  He had survived a double lung transplant, but he was never the same after.  He soldiered on through a variety of ailments after the transplant.  He could no longer drink beer, and O’Douls just doesn’t taste the same.  His kidneys failed eventually and his condition choked the enjoyment from his life.  He tried as hard as he could, and at the last he just couldn’t drag his feet to slow the circle down. 

The last time I saw him fish a river well, on his own two feet in waders, was in 2016 on the Natchaug River where we had met on a fine spring day.  I saw him catch a number of Rainbow Trout on worms and an ultra-light spinning set up.  I sat back that day on the shore and watched him in his element for a good long while.  We had a long talk that day, and he wasn’t fishless. 

At our annual Fishcamp last year, he was a shell of himself.  He was always cold and he wasn’t as strong as he had been.  He had no energy to fish, and I drove him down to the Natchaug River where he stayed in the car and watched the current for a while.  A week or so later, he died peacefully at home surrounded by his daughters and wife. 

At his funeral, the family had constructed a board with many photos of Jim through the years.  As I looked at them, I realized how many of those photos I had taken myself, the fishing photos.  I would print them for Jim, and I think he put them in his fishing photo album.  I’m grateful I was there to take so many pictures with him, and I’m grateful for all the stories he and I traded. 

Jim’s stories, they live on.  As does his memory.  And I know that this year at Fishcamp he’ll be telling them, and drinking beer, with my own Dad.  Out there on the other side of the Natchaug River, at the campfire we all will someday share.

Turkey Manifesto

Editor's note: This is a guest post from my good friend Tommy Baranowski. In a way his story is different than others shared here because it's the first one about hunting to ever appear on The Connecticut Yankee. In many ways, however, Tommy's story is very similar because it's about his passion for the outdoors, an appreciation for putting time in and achieving success, and making memories with family and friends.

First off, I must admit that I've only been hunting for a few years. I never really gave it much thought or attention when I was younger, even though my father is an accomplished lifelong hunter, and my younger brother is no slouch either, whether with a bow or any sort of firearm. I didn’t get sucked in until a good friend Justin Benvenuto started upland bird hunting and took me to a spot I was extremely familiar with along the Farmington River. It was MDC-owned property that I had been fly fishing for years fittingly named The Boneyard. My love for hunting started right then and there.

Ever since that day I’ve been completely engrossed in the sport, though it’s not easy putting down in words exactly why. Maybe it’s the challenge of something new. Maybe it’s the adventure of the whole thing. Maybe it’s the interaction with nature and seeing animals in a different way. Maybe it’s the thrill of going out there and coming back with food for the table. Or maybe it’s just spending more time outdoors with friends and family making new memories. Whatever it may be, I truly enjoy doing it and the spring of 2018 has been a memorable one with some significant milestones under my belt.

This story starts in early spring 2017 when I got a bug up my ass to go turkey hunting. My father and I talked it over and got permission to hunt a large, private piece owned by one of his sporting clay partners. So we set out one May morning and long story short, it didn't go as we had hoped. In hindsight, some birds were around but we were sitting in the wrong spot and calling way too much. More importantly, we flat out went into the whole thing blind; no scouting all, just waltzed in and sat down. While we weren’t able to get out again that season, I told myself the following spring would be different.

If duck hunting has taught me anything over the past few seasons, it’s the importance of putting time in to scout. I extended that same line of thinking to the turkey fields this year. Before the season started, I drove up to the property one morning for first light. I parked, started walking and right on the dirt road there’s a Tom staring at me—a good sign! As I walked the cornfield, its edges were littered with turkey tracks—another good sign! 

The next scouting trip was an evening trip. It was a bit windy, but I called a few times with a box call and could have sworn I got a gobble back. I walked over to the edge of the field and about 30 yards away were two big Toms walking off into the woods to roost. Right then I knew it was those birds gobbling back to my call. I was amped! I picked out a couple of trees to sit at the base of and cut a clear shooting path through the briers between this spot and where the decoys would go in the field. The stage was set.

The 2018 spring turkey season started on a Wednesday, so like all other weekend warriors I had to wait until the following Saturday to get out. The day finally came and I met my father at the property for 4:45 a.m. After a quick walk to our spot and decoy setup, we dug in and the waiting game began. As the sun crept up there was a light layer of fog hanging over the field. We soon started hearing the first birds gobbling from their roost and on the ground. From our vantage point, the turkeys were off to our left.  After a few calls from my dad’s box call, we had a nice exchange going but could tell they were heading away from us. The next call he made got a gobble back and while still out of sight, it seemed the birds had changed direction and were looking right at us. Not a moment later my dad whispered, “There they are. Look at the tails!” Thanks to the fog that’s all we could see, two big fanned-out turkey tails moving towards us. Holy shit this is happening…

I sat at the ready with the gun resting on my knee. After a few more light calls, the birds’ ghostly whitish-blue heads came into view. It was surreal how well they stood out through the fog; that scene is one of the more vivid memories from the entire hunt. The turkeys were in a small group of about six moving in our direction when the two Toms in full-strut broke away and headed directly toward our decoys. Directly is not the right word—they were actually zigzagging in front of one another cutting off each other’s display. That was something cool I hadn’t seen in person until that day. Holding steady with my check on the buttstock and staring down the barrel, I could see that one of the birds had one distinctly long beard. The other had two beards that stuck out against the background of the field as vividly as their heads. My game plan was to take the double beard first and if the other bird hung around, take him next.

At this point, the pair of Toms were just beyond our decoys. While trying to control my breathing so my goddamned glasses didn't fog up any worse than they already were, I squeezed off the first round. The bird was stone dead from a perfect shot. I moved the barrel over to the second bird, squeezed the trigger and the gun didn't fire. Since I was using a ridiculously large 3.5” 2 ¼ oz. shot shell, the gun didn't cycle the next shell all the way. I looked at the ejection port, touched the bolt and it guided the next shell right into the breach. I then zeroed in on the second bird that only walked a few yards away and took my next shot. Just over an hour after sitting down, two large Toms lay in front of us on a misty field. Now you must keep in mind, my father next to me has probably forgotten about more hunting trips than I have been on. That being said, this was the first time I had taken an animal in his presence. It was a rather special moment for both of us and as we were getting up I said to him, “It only took me 33 years to do this!”

Approaching the first bird I could now see that what I thought was a double bearded Tom was actually a triple with the longest of the three beards being 10 ½ inches. The second Tom that I thought had a single beard was actually a double with the longer of the two also at 10 ½ inches. What absolutely amazing animals! It wasn’t until I was face-to-face with a wild North American turkey that I could truly appreciate how stunning these animals really are. Their features left me in awe—the sheer size of the birds, their almost fake looking iridescent feathers, giant spurs on the back of their legs, the beards and wing tips that drag on the ground when in full strut. My father and I shook hands, took a few photos and began to haul the harvest back to our trucks.

It was too early to be making phone calls to any sane person, but as soon as it turned a decent hour I called my boy Dustin, the foodiest foodie I know, and told him we had some work to do. Dustin had been perfecting his smoking skills for a while and smoked turkey is just what I had in mind. I got home, cleaned the birds, put the breasts in a simple brine in gallon Ziplocs, and drove to Dusty’s place. We then tied up the breasts, set a timer and put them in the smoker, which was already fired up with golden delicious applewood. About two and a half hours later we took them out and coated one in honey, one in maple syrup, and one with butter and herbs. We then wrapped the breasts in tinfoil filled with bone broth to finish.

It was a goal of mine to harvest my first turkeys and eat them in the same day. The end result was incredibly good and it was truly special for me to be able to share a meal like that with close friends. There's an almost indescribable feeling that comes along with hunting and gathering your own food—a sort of sense of pride and accomplishment. Just knowing that I went out there, put the time in and got this meat myself, not from a store. I plan on turkey hunting for a long time to come and continuing to learn along the way.

Summer Daze

Time is flying by at mach speed. Back in May our family was blessed with another baby girl. She's growing like a weed and doing new things everyday. She also makes it three girls vs. one guy in our household. While heavily outnumbered, I'm holding my own and still getting on the water when I can. It's been a fun summer so far and we're about to kick it up a notch with a trip to Cape Cod tomorrow--it's become a great tradition and one we hope to continue for many years. Enjoy your families and fish when you can.

Endeavors

Editor's note: it has been some time since the last post here, but for good reason. My wife and I recently welcomed a new addition to the family--another healthy baby girl and future fishing partner. Life has been busy, but incredibly good to us. To get the blog going again, here is an enjoyable piece from my friend Chad. To me, it's about taking a needed break from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and soaking in lasting memories with family. My own wolf pack leaves for a respite on Cape Cod soon and we plan on taking Chad's advice. You should too. 

endeavors - for my wife, amanda

who knew such pleasure ever
our pedestrian endeavors
pass so quick through the stations
quick like a week’s vacation.

where we were just there together
time slipped like a joyful endeavor
those good times we take
on the beach at the lake.

times move on right in front of me
for me and my family.
we take stock of what we got
and we leap from the dock.

we drink our fruit soaked with wine
beneath the smell of the pines
where we laugh and we stand
with our feet in the sand.

we go down by the water
me my son and my daughter

and I watch her in the light
happy wife happy life.

and we go there on and ever
toiling through the real life endeavors
took down while still warm we learned
all the good times we’ve earned.

and we wouldn’t trade it never

our pedestrian endeavors
right there waiting in the stations
a weeks vacation gets taken.

Sometimes I Think About Dying

Editor's note: This is the second of three guest posts from my buddy Chad. This is a heavy one. The author is not dying, is quite well, and sometimes thinks about dying. Who doesn't? It is, after all,  an intrinsic part of life itself. Chad wishes to thank his father for taking him fishing, and his wife for giving him children to take himself. 

hot humid night already. late june, and already the dog days. 

the sound of his door opening, the handle. his small boy footsteps on the floor, towards the big bedroom. pause. she hears all this. turns. momma? his steps down the hallway towards the kitchen. she sits at the table, amidst the spreadsheet of all the bills.

hey buddy. he has the picture in his hands. has been carrying it since.

momma. he pauses. holds the picture to his belly. pauses. thinks. can i have a drink?

sure bud. what do you want? some juice? or some cold water?

yeh. cold water. could i have some?

sure buddy. come here. she scoops him up. his hair is damp. he holds the picture. 

he takes a long drink, the water sounds going down his throat. gasps. his breath fogs the inside of the glass, his breath moves over the ice water. he drinks again. her hands smoothing over his damp hair. what you got there buddy?

this? this a picture of me and daddy.

in the photo his daddy is holding a 2lb bass. his other arm is around the boy. taken what? a year ago. the boys hair is longer then, it is a cool march day and they are fishing together. the boy, he holds his fish pole in the picture. his own. they waited for a fish to bite his bite. the bobber jumped. the boy reeled in the fish all by himself.  the story she knows well, loves more for within it is her husband still living. 

i love that one.

me too. this one my favorite.

they sit quietly. his small body in her lap. his head on her collar bone.

momma?

yes river.

when he gonna come home? to our house. 

two tears run her cheeks. she swallows hard. again.

oh buddy. i love you so much. 

much later he creeps down the stairs to the fishing room. in the basement, so much cooler. laying there on the thin rug over the concrete floor. in the dark. with the exotic smell of fur and feathers and wool and dampness over everything. what he deemed the smell of his father, looking down from all the pictures on the wall. the great fish. the hero shots. the maps. the books on the shelves. 

the rods in the racks, the reels, the machinations and results of his fathers heart there together in the cool late dark.

this is the place, he thinks in his boy thoughts and curls up on the floor.

  

he isn't in his bed the next morning. a thousand heartbeats as she calls, carrying the girl more tightly to her breast, racing now. she finds him there in the morning.

and so it goes. he still has that picture with him and she doesn't know what to do about any of it at all. but she finds him there, in the morning.

buddy.

she kneels to him. touches his arm. she's holding the girl cradled in her arm. as the panic crests and the relief rolls over her. and she takes him up as he wakes. takes him up with her and holds the parts, the pieces, she has left.

and he senses her heart there in the fish room and he holds to her tighter in the gauzy morning light. and he says good morning, momma.  and the girl reaches for him and pats his head.  

later that day, she don't know a damn thing about it, but later that day she takes down the rod he told her was the one to start with.  it being one of maybe 12 or 15 rods that hang in the fish room. and she takes the boy and girl down to the hipskies ponds and they try together and laugh at the outcome. but they try. and they laugh.

and he is then tired after fishing. and they both fall asleep on the ride home. and she weeps to his ipod and due tramonti plays. and in that quiet car, with the air conditioning running, she remembers and she steals that moment of weakness she rightly earned.

Quality Time

It's always special sharing your favorite places and things with the people you care about. On this day, I was lucky to have the company of my father along the Farmington River. \ He donned chest-waders for the first time and wore binoculars around his neck. We ate a stream-side lunch in a remote location and he pointed out several warblers, orioles and Kingfishers. He went exploring while I fished, but came trampling through the brush when I screamed "fish on!" The healthy rainbow trout took to the air four times before finding the net and my father snapped a fine photo prior to releasing it. It's days like this one that I'll look back on and smile. 

The Greatest Generation

My last surviving grandparent passed away yesterday. My mother's father, John Redman Lambert, lived a long, full life. He was a WWII veteran that stormed Normandy and suffered through the Battle of the Bulge. He received two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star for his service to our country. MyGgrandfather was sharp as a tack--he was a great poet, editor and writer, a serious Jazz drummer in his day, and, like many of us, he loved fishing. He will be deeply missed, but I know he's in a better place now; bailing moby striped bass with a smile on his face. Rest in peace, Grandfather.

John R. Lambert   9/12/1922 - 4/24/2010

Family On Ice

Introducing family and friends to fishing is vital to keeping the sport alive. Yes, some anglers are self-taught, but most are shown the light by a relative, friend or mentor. My uncle and I had talked about taking out his two sons and my younger brother out for a day on the ice for some time. The stars finally aligned and that day came last weekend. 

The main mission of this trip was ensuring that good times were had by all and if we were lucky, to put a few fish on the ice.  Well lucky we were, but only with the forecast. The weather was absolutely gorgeous and the kids were peeling off layers by 10 a.m.  The fishing, however, left much to be desired and it wasn't for the lack of trying either. 

It was still dark upon arrival and the thought of walking on ice in an unfamiliar location may have been intimidating at first.  They all jumped in unison too, as the first pressure crack roared across the lake.  Soon comfort set in and we got to work.  Even if we weren't going to catch, we still were going to put on a show. Two pop-up shelters were erected on a day that didn't require any.  Over 25 tip-ups laced a few acres of the lake, baited with shiners imitating the land-locked alewives that call this place home.  We made the ice look like Swiss cheese with the gas augers for jigging missions too.

A few flags did fly, but the fish, most likely smallmouth bass or yellow perch, were not committing to our baits.  Even jigging proved fruitless, as the fish signals on our electronics were few and far between.  During down time, which more or less was a good portion of the day, the kids kept busy by searching for alewives that perished and rose to the lake surface, only to become incased in the ice.  Once located, the chisels came out and the alewives were freed and put on a sharp hook and dropped to the bottom of the lake.  It didn't help the cause, but it sure seemed like a good idea!  All in all, our guests enjoyed every second of the day, vowing to join us again soon.

In rare form, we were off the ice by 2 PM and made it home to witness the UConn men's basketball team topple #1 ranked Texas, which made a good day even sweeter.  Another highlight was testing my new Flip Video camera. Unfortunately, there wasn't too much action to capture on this trip, but this will be a very useful tool down the road. Here's a short clip I put together after messing around with the camera for the first time.