It was only last Sunday when Claudia and I saw our first flock of geese. By Wednesday the skies were filled with myriad waterfowl, a good sign that spring is almost here.

Spring offically arrives at 1:32 pm Saturday, March 20th, but thousands of geese can't be wrong. If their arrival signals an early spring, it's okay with me. 

Stacy Wirth provided this picture. She was driving on Brookville Road in Alexander today when she spotted the Bald eagle dining on a deer carcass.

Zach Walsh casts his lure into an inlet of the Tonawanda Creek by Law Street, near where he lives. The 16-year-old said the inlet is one of his regular springtime fishing holes. Last spring, he said, he caught a pretty good pike there. Zach was kind enough to fill me in on a few other good spots right in the neighborhood.

Most of these photos are scenic Alaska shots, while others depict a way of life totally foreign to the rest of North America. Taking pictures proved far easier than prospecting for gold! 

Pioneer Peak

Maybe I'm jumping the gun a bit, itching to see a robin, or the first flock of geese in migratory formation.  Whatever the reason, I thought it a good time to pass along these photos taken by Mark Stryker of Alexander.  With the exception of the Scrub Jay pictured above, these photos were taken last summer near his Alexander home.

House Finch, Goldfinch in left bottom corner

After entering Mike Hilchey’s town of Elba home, the first thing that caught my eye was the number of fishing rods lining the wall. Turning to hand him my jacket, I saw the glass covered display cases full of vintage spoons and spinners. And that’s just inside the entranceway.   

As Mike leads Claudia and me through a narrow hall, we see a few paintings on the wall, mostly waterfowl, including one signature Roy Mason watercolor. Entering the den was like stepping back in time five, six, seven decades and more. Here was the treasure trove of vintage fishing lures: hand-carved wooden lures with glass eyes, bronze spinners, deer hair frogs & mice for the fly-fishermen, even a tiny Redeye Wiggler made for the fly-rod. And that barely scratches the surface of his collection.  

There’s a good story behind many of the lures in my old tackle box. Such is the case with the wobbling spoon pictured above. Called a Red-eyed Wiggler, it was at one time manufactured by the Hofschneider Tackle Co. in Rochester, N.Y. I was twelve years old on the day I made a mental note to purchase one. And I doubt I ever clipped it to my line without thinking of two former Batavians who, back in the day, were virtually inseparable. You see, they were the reason I went out and bought a “wiggler”. Before I tell you about them, I first need to fast forward a few years.

I was an up and coming northern pike fisherman on the day I walked into Barrett’s Batavia Marine to see the late Paul Levins. I wanted Paul to show me how to make a slip-bobber rig for catching northerns. I was strolling between used gun rack and the counter when I heard Paul’s voice from the back of the store.  “That’s a nice pike,” he said.

It was a nice pike, big as any I’d seen up to that time. Having seen the fish, I walked right into the mix, immediately asking “Where’d ya catch it?” The proud angler was from the east end of town, I had seen him around, but didn’t know him personally. “Under the Jackson Street Bridge,” he replied.  It wasn’t long before I learned the pike in question wasn’t caught at said locale. As is common practice among anglers, I don’t blame him for trying to keep his hotspot a secret.

What’s more, at the time the fibber’s account made perfect sense to me. The reason being, it had only been a few years earlier that I was standing atop the old Lehigh Railroad Bridge – which was adjacent the South Jackson St. Bridge - when I saw a rowboat passing below. In it were the aforementioned pals who grew up on Batavia’s southside. Pat Pullinzi was doing the rowing while Mike Lovria tended to his fishing gear.

That’s Tim Sawyer  rerigging his fishing gear. Minutes earlier, something inhaled the Spin ‘N Glo tied to the end of his line and raced downstream a ways before breaking water. When the  fish breached the surface, we saw that it was a big king salmon, tinted red with age, and boy, did it launch itself out of the water. It didn’t flop about, but rather had its body perfectly parallel to the river surface, high above the water and facing downstream. Kind of looked like a big muscle with fins - then it crashed back into the river and kept going. The fish had no doubt spawned in this same stream, spent the next 4-5 years at sea gorging itself on anchovies and the like. Its biological clock said it was time to return to the place of its origin and procreate. Chasing down Tim’s lure had put a temporary halt to those plans. The fish made one long run and the battle was at a standstill. The line was still taught, but there was no movement. The big fish had wrapped the line around submerged brush before continuing on its way.

The spring of 1997 had been quite damp in Batavia, gloomy even by Western New York standards. Still, I was surprised to get my first tan of the year inside the Arctic Circle. Not to be confused with the polar ice cap at its northern extreme, much of the Arctic Circle is full of lush growth, crystal-clear rivers, mountains and, during the month of June, 24 hours of sunlight. During our stay the sun was visible 24 hours. Each morning, between midnight and one a.m., the sun would skim the horizon before once again beginning its ascent. 

Through the courtesy of Lester and John Lines, the owners & operators of the Aurora Mining Company, Tim Sawyer and I had set up our camp on Harrison Creek in the East Crazy Mountains of east-central Alaska.

This being grizzly country, we armed ourselves accordingly, carrying a high powered rifle and a .44 magnum wherever we went. A couple weeks before our arrival, seven grizzlies had been spotted ambling down the grassy slope of Mastodon Dome (so called for the prehistoric remains once unearthed on the site). All seven bears eventually made their way to the Lines’ camp, passing through without incident. An avid hunter, Tim had seen the big bears up close, the previous year taking a grizzly measuring nearly nine feet.  

The seven hour flight was nearly at an end, and only then did I bother to look out the window. Looking down I noticed the glare of the sun, reflected off the snow and ice-capped peaks of the Wrangell Mountains. It was 10:30 pm. I wouldn’t experience darkness again for a month.

Monday is the Winter Solstice, officially the first day of winter and  the shortest day of the year. With three months (at least) of snow, wind and ice in the offing, I'd like to take one last look at autumn, and some of the locales Claudia and I canoed, hiked and cruised along the back roads. 

TROUT STREAM.......

(written Sunday, May 25, 2005.. by me... FisherMOM)


Fishing. When I hear that term my heart skips a beat and I ever so slightly gasp for a breath. It always puts a grin on my face and a smile in my heart. Even in my mind’s eye, fishing can take me to a place of seclusion and peace. I envision a lazily flowing stream, dogwood trees, round and flat stones, and Brown Trout. If I sit long enough, I can even hear the gentle gurgling of the stream. Usually it’s a quiet stream, but once in a while, it’s almost as if the stream pushes some water a little stronger than before, making a big gulping sound. And at night, you would swear that God turns up the volume on the creek. With the silence of night, the creek’s gurgling is amplified and the soothing effect is intensified. Regardless of how many different species that I love to fish for, the trout stream is usually my first vision of fishing.

I fished a trout stream this weekend. As a matter of fact, most summer weekends, that is where you will find me. I have trout fished since I began to fish four years ago, but this weekend, I believe that I learned some important things about trout fishing. Things that I have read about, but have never had luck about. I tried things that I always believed would hinder my trout fishing, yet they enhanced it.

When I fish for trout, I try to be as camouflaged as best I can, and I do believe that helps. I wear green or brown waders, and a shirt that blends in well with the background. If it is not a camouflage shirt, then it is a natural green T-shirt.

Years ago, when I started fishing, I was told by a local man that the trout stop biting when the sun hits the water. And for the most part, I never had much luck when the sun was out. I tried something different this weekend. Usually, when the sun is out, I stand away from the shade and cast into it. This weekend, I stood in the shade and would cast into the riffles in the sun. That technique paid off. I was using a size 2 yellow Panther Martin inline spinner. I stood downstream and would cast the lure upstream into the riffle and reeled the lure back at a moderate pace… just fast enough to make it spin in the current. I believe that the sun shining on the blade helped to attract the fish to them.

I also learned a couple of things just by chance. After I had fished in the sun for a while, I decided to run the lure along the bank under the shade. It’s all rocky and rooty here and very easy to get a snag. So in the creek I got close to the edge and would cast upstream. On my second retrieve, the lure snagged a little on a rock that I could see. With a tug, I freed it and the lure bounce up over the rock and from the backside of the rock, from somewhere I could not see, a trout came barreling after the lure, but missed. I was awed! I mean, I knew that trout hid in places like this, but I just never realized how small of a place that they could hide, undetected. I thought maybe it saw me, I was pretty close, but I had to try my luck again. So I cast again and brought the lure back, but missed my target. With a second cast, I brought the lure back over the rock and BAM, trout on.

It was incredible! It was almost at point blank range and it didn’t know I was even there!

So this brings me to my second lesson for this weekend. That is that I CAN sneak up on them from behind and fish them at close range. I had a few more chase the lure after this, but they swam past me, mouth open.

Later on in the day, it came time to carp fish. David, Celeste and myself went downstream to fish for carp. Here the creek runs more slowly and you can barely hear it, if at all. After getting my carp rod set up and waiting for a while, I decided to go further downstream to where the creek splits and turns into the most beautiful place that I have ever fished. I have never caught a trout down here, but I wanted to change all of that with some of my new found techniques. Plus, I had bagged four trout already; I needed five to make it a personal best day. I got into position and started to cast upstream in the middle of the stream. Nothing.

I stopped and began to seriously survey the creek. To the right of me was a little shade made by some small trees and brush. Here, the creek bent and this caused some uneven undercut in the bank. I have always heard that this was a trout’s haven, even though I had never caught a trout in an area such as this.

Slowly I made my way deeper into the stream to reach my destination. The creek only came to about my knees. When I was about six feet away, I crouched slightly and gently casted the lure upstream. On the third cast, it was very close to the bank, and on the retrieve, I caught a trout!  Nothing huge, but a nice spunky brown trout that was about 10 inches long. What a feeling of accomplishment!

First of all, I was very close to my quarry and secondly, I caught a trout in an area that had never yielded to me before, yet I knew that they were here. I continued upstream and had another bite but didn’t catch it. My motto became “No guts, no glory” as I fished dangerously close to fallen trees and limbs. By the time that I reached the mouth of the creek that opened into the wide flat that we were carp fishing in, I spotted some kayakers, helping me to decide that it was time to end my fishing day anyways.

I caught 5 brown trout that day, but saw many more chasing the lure that I didn’t catch. You say 5 trout… blah, that’s nothing. But for me, 5 trout in a day, in a part of the creek that is not stocked yearly, is a personal best. I cannot stay in the stream all day because, well, I mean, I COULD, but my family is camping with me. BUT, I do spend as much time as I can in it!

On Sunday, the creek waters had fallen and the current wasn’t as strong. The same retrieve speed of the lure on Sunday, ended in it getting stuck because it sank too quickly. I am sure that the trout still stay pretty much in the same places, but the lure retrieve changes as the creek level changes. Who knows, I may go back next week to higher waters, and have to adjust again. You can almost never fish the creek the same way two days in a row.

As I reflected on my Saturday of trout fishing, I was very content. Content with my catches and content with all that I had learned. I learned things that I knew by reading, but had never truly been successful at accomplishing. I also learned that even though I may think that I am fishing in a dry area, chances are, there are many strikes at my lure that I do not see, and that the trout are there, just waiting. I know this now because so many times that day, I saw trout chase the lure and never touch it.
They didn’t touch it only because they didn’t catch it.

Though I once fished the little stream in my early years, I never knew it had a name. Not long after we moved to Creek Road, a former neighbor, the late Anthony Torcello, told me it was called Celery Brook. It seems that back in the day, the White Swamp – where the stream originates- was once drained and used to grow celery.

It was 7:10 a.m. this morning when the high-pitched honking was audible several moments before they came into view. Finally, they appeared, coming out of the northeast, each group nothing more than a dark slit in the overcast gray. It was one of those vast throngs of Canada’s that spread across the sky. Along the southern edge of the flock were smaller fowl, their wingbeats much faster than that of the geese. They were ducks, and the scene reminded me of a squadron of fighters accompanying much larger bombers.

Despite the size of the flock, they were flying too low to be migrating. I’m guessing they came from the Sandwash, only a couple miles distant. The flock on the Cedar Street quarry has more than doubled in the past month.

They’ve been staging for weeks now. Huge flocks of geese, Canada’s making their stopover on local waterways and impoundments. In recent weeks they’ve been dropping into freshly cut corn fields in vast numbers. Great rafts of honkers sitting on Lake Ontario have been taking advantage of the spillage in the massive grain fields in Orleans County. There seems to be a great number of geese still on hand throughout the region, indicative of the weather. I hope the trend continues.   

The afternoon began with a lengthy canoe ride and troublesome wind gusts - and the wind was at our back. The return trip promised to be a real hoot.

We were in a wetland measuring nearly a square mile, a cattail jungle dotted with potholes – all of which held and incredible number of ducks. We took no guns along, no cumbersome bags of decoys and no retriever. With the opening day of ducks season two days away, we were scouting, searching for the ideal location - a thick stand of cattails to conceal the canoe from incoming waterfowl.  

On this day the tops of the cattails were bent over by the stiff wind and yet myriad waterfowl were having little difficulty negotiating the elements. Ducks were vacating the potholes in great numbers. By the time we left they had easily number into the thousands. While countless numbers took wing, many came zeroing in to our location. Once realizing their mistake, they applied the brakes, at the same time quickly scrambling to gain altitude. 

Having a prior commitment, I knew I wouldn’t be back on opening day. Not that it mattered. Two   hours spent amid the marshy environs had been reminiscent of a waterfowler’s bygone era. An that was fine by me.

It’s been an enjoyable autumn on many fronts and there is much to give thanks for. There were a handful of goose hunts, at least one memorable bowhunt, a few scenic canoe rides, and the chance to wet a line on two occasions. And I managed to take in at least one high school football game each weekend. But the scene that readily comes to mind is that of a gray October afternoon when an overcast sky turned the surface of the potholes black, the tops of the cattails bending in the wind and countless ducks on the wing. I felt like we had paddled back in time, right onto the cover of a 1950’s Outdoor Life magazine.  Happy Thanksgiving!

It's that time of year when retrievers tend to shine, really making their owners proud. After considerable time invested in training, many a Lab’s owner will now savor the moment as their charge leaps from the cattail blind or camouflaged duck boat in pursuit of downed waterfowl, or maybe work the swale for upland game. Yet many a Lab isn’t trained to perform in the woods, fields or swamps – they are simply family pets and good companions. Such is the life of “Hurricane,” one of three Labs owned by the Kehlenbeck family of Alabama. And while not your conventional Lab, Hurricane possesses many character traits for which Labrador retrievers are noted.  

Attentive and focused......

though not always!

Always happy when getting attention.

Stately in appearance.......

and noble-looking.

but most of all, they're good friends.

The above photo depicts Oak Orchard Creek little more than a quarter-mile upstream of Lake Ontario. From the creek mouth to Waterport dam, this is a much wider stretch of stream with a more diverse fishery than found upstream. But on this day, with the exception of few bumps at the end of the line, neither the trout nor salmon were willing to cooperate.

I never know what I might come across while driving the back roads.  Take this morning for instance, when I saw a standardbred race horse swimming in a horseshoe-shaped pond.

Joe Lawrence is on a roll. Last year he closed out the deer season with a monster whitetail scoring 144 on the Boone & Crockett scoring system and placing him high in the New York State Big Buck Club’s muzzleloader division. (The Batavian, Dec. 20, 2008 – Father & Son Memories). On Saturday, the opening day of archery season in New York’s southern zone, the elder Lawrence did it again. He began his fortieth bow season by taking another massive whitetail that is all but certain to make the NYS record book. The big buck sported ten points and weighed a whopping 202 lbs. field dressed.

It was late afternoon when the buck appeared, already displaying rutting tendencies by chasing after four does.  “I used a grunt to call to turn him, and he stopped and looked in my direction,” Joe said. “I hit the grunt call again and he came right to me.” He made the shot from a tree stand at a distance of fifteen yards.