Stories from

With high school football practice beginning this week, it seems fitting that a few of the late Daniel VanDetta’s charges were in town for their fortieth class reunion. Their story is worth telling, if only briefly.

Forty-one years ago, as the 1968 football season drew near, there must have been questions in the mind of Coach VanDetta. Not only would it be the last year at the Blue Devil helm for legendary high school grid coach, it would also mark the school’s first year of competition in a new league. The Central Western Conference, later known as the Monroe County League, consisted of Rochester suburban schools and was considered a grueling schedule in all sports.

As newcomers to the league, Batavia High was considered an underdog in several grid contests that fall. Football sectionals were still years away and New York schools allowed for an eight game schedule at the time. By the time the final game rolled around, Batavia had amassed a record of six wins and one loss. Despite the impressive showing, the Blue Devils were considered a huge underdog in the season finale against a formidable Rush-Henrietta team.  The undefeated Comets were the home team and loaded with size and speed.

On a gray November afternoon, the Blue Devils scored first – and last - to win by a final score of 20 – 14. Not only did the Blue Devils send Coach VanDetta out on winning note and a share of the league crown, they left an indelible mark in the annals of Batavia High football.

Time hasn’t diminished my memory of that November afternoon and the Batavia supporters in attendance that day, most of which spilled onto the field after the final whistle, filled with satisfaction,  brimming with an emotion that can only be described as Blue Devil pride.

In December of ’68 the Democrat & Chronicle released the results of the All-Greater Rochester Area football team, an area encompassing 10 counties.  That year the All-Greater Rochester Team didn’t consist of both offensive and defensive teams, voters simply selected the best eleven players.  Among the top eleven were Blue Devils Jim Dzierzanowski, Neil Kiersz and Jim Briggs, seen in top photo.

Second photo shows Bill Weld and Wayne Niebch, defensive line mates in ’68. Third photo shows myself and Gary Dawson flanking Thom Beers, the Blue Devil’s kick returner that autumn, now the creator and executive producer of hit reality television shows including Deadliest Catch and Ice Road Truckers.   

Crew of cutups from class of ’69….the more things change, the more they stay the same!

Left to right Jim Dzierzanowski, Rick Haitz, Neil Kiersz, Jim Nigro, Jim Briggs, & Jim Catino

Mirror image on Oak Orchard Creek

More photos after the jump:

Purple Loosestrife

Musk Mallow

Chickory

Woodland Sunflower

Timothy & Oxeye Daisies

Where Needled Giants Nod

Fur bearer's wake in a swampy backwater

On the way home - the calm before the storm

                                   "....America,

                                      America,

                                   God shed

                                       His grace

                                     on thee,

                                and crown Thy good,

                                   with brotherhood

                                      from sea....

                                 to shining sea!

It was billed as the trial of the century in West Jackson Corners as Cornelius Possum was brought up on various charges, including sleeping in church.  Cornelius is a notorious ne’er –do– well and his disruptive antics are the stuff of legend in West Jackson Corners.

A record number of visitors poured into the tiny village to enjoy the day’s events, beginning the annual town meeting– where charges were brought against and Cornelius and his co-defendant, the “village bum” After famous trial lawyer “J. Boliver Shagnasty” arrived on the scene, a jury was selected and the stage was set. 

The “legal” proceedings were framed by a plethora of activities ranging from horse rides, guided tours, games, food and demonstrations of life from a bygone era. Here are a few photos of yesterday’s event.

West Jackson Corners is name-sake of the same geographical locale as it was once known – say back around the turn of the last century.  West Jackson Corners village is located directly across the road from East Shelby Community Bible Church, and this Sunday, July 19th – the Annual Old Tyme Days – the population of the village will once again flourish as visitors come to get a look at life in a bygone era. 

Old Tyme Days, an annual event sponsored by Community Bible Church, always draws a good crowd. And why not, given the opportunity to step back in time, to the days when hot dogs and home-made pie cost a penny? When ice cream and lemonade were home-made and so was the bread. I almost forgot to mention the home-made jam, goats-milk fudge and home-made cheese.  

Not only can you eat for a penny – and eat well – there will be entertainment in the form of the West Jackson Players, the West Jackson Band of Renown and a barber shop quartet. Horse-drawn rides will be offered as well as weaving and spinning demonstrations, blacksmith and tinsmith shops and much more including old fashioned games and activities.

The family-oriented event lasts all day, beginning with an old fashioned worship service at East  Shelby Community Bible Church at 10 a.m.  West Jackson Corners is located seven miles southeast of Medina on the East Shelby Road. 

Photos courtesy of Jim Dolan.  You can see a full collection of Jim's photos at NewYorkStatePhoto.com 

Because wetlands are an important part of the environment, the Canadian-based Marsh Monitoring Program has been studying the effects of outside disturbances on the swamps, marshes, mini-wetlands and adjoining woodlands throughout the entire Great Lakes Basin.

 In their quest to determine the health of these wetlands as well as surrounding woodlands - the MMP enlists the help of volunteers who take a census of the amphibian and feathered inhabitants at selected locales.  A number of these volunteers work at collecting data for both birds and amphibians, others concentrate on birds alone while others focus on the frog population.

 Batavian Bill Moon is a local MMP volunteer who focuses on the amphibian population.  Waiting for a minimum air temperature of 60 degrees, he will select an evening during the months of April, May and June to visit nearby wetlands as dusk approaches. He waits for night to fall, then for a given time period, listens for spring peepers, green frogs and bull frogs, carefully charting the results. The nocturnal chorus, or lack thereof, speaks volumes for the Marsh Monitoring Program.

Due to the work of the program volunteers throughout the Great Lakes Basin, the MMP has established a ranking system, or report card so to speak, to evaluate the state of various wetlands stretching from Wisconsin to the St. Lawrence River. These wetlands range in size from vast swamps and cattail marshes to microcosmic wetland tracts.

Being among nature’s delicate species, the songbirds and amphibians serve as natural barometers, providing insight as to the health of the outdoors environment. As good indicators of air and water quality and other earth resources, such species are the first to be affected by various disturbances on the landscape such as Great Lakes water levels, housing or developmental sprawl, etc.   

The youngster in the above photo certainly seems to be enjoying himself. His cavorting may be the result of the adventurous week he put in – or it could be he’s merely thankful to be on shore. His name is Regan Miller, twelve years old when the photo was taken. Along with baby brother Ethan, mom Heather and Grammy, Cindy Stevens, Regan joined Claudia and I on a trip to Lubber’s Quarters, a small island in the Sea of Abaco.  Our stay would last a week and for Regan, the adventure turned into an eye-opening experience not long after he first entered the water.

Our rental home overlooked a protected cove. To the north and south were points of land where the cove meets the open water in the Sea of Abaco. Overlooking the south point was another home, with a large pier extending into the water a good ways.  Like all structure, piers attract fish and this one was no exception. Beneath the pier was a variety of fish, including a school of mangrove snappers. 

Swimming below the pier, I kept one eye on the snappers and the other on Regan.  Having passed through the pier, I noticed the visibility was suddenly reduced – no doubt caused by the constant wave action against the shore.  That’s when I saw a light colored flash streak through the water.  Though the water was slightly murky I was sure I hadn’t imagined the elongated, silvery flash. What I was unsure of was, had it rushed us, actually swimming in our direction with the speed for which the species is noted when ambushing prey? Were we being sized up? Or was the mad dash merely for identification purposes. 

That lightning quick flash was all I saw, yet it was all I needed to realize a barracuda had already staked out this area as its own. The water here was shallow enough to stand, and with my right arm I swept Regan behind my back, an action which signaled to the 12 year old something was up.  

Deciding the coast was clear, we backed off, swimming backward slowly, beneath the pier and toward the cove. We had emerged on the opposite side of the pier when the toothsome barracuda came into view, slowly, barely sweeping its caudal fin, its menacing teeth evident.  In the clearness of the undisturbed water we could see it was all of five feet long.  And he was persistent, following us, refusing to leave. About this time I turned to look at Regan. His eyes were big as saucers – and who could blame him.  Unlike big sharks, barracuda are not capable of biting off human arms or legs – but their razor sharp teeth can sever arteries in a heartbeat. And I was responsible for the 12 year old alongside me.

After a few minutes the barracuda came close – too close. I literally tapped the barracuda on it’s snout with the barbed end of my Hawaiian sling, hoping he would get the hint.  It did not, but rather turned slightly, staying close. Unwilling to yield its hunting ground, the menacing-looking fish wasn’t backing down. “Don’t shoot him” said Regan. The youngster was obviously reading my mind. “If I shoot this thing is it going to swim off or turn on me - or us?”  I wondered. With Regan beside me it was a gamble I would not take. 

Swimming backward all the while to keep an eye on the feisty fish, we were finally in knee-deep water. I signaled to Regan to head for shore. I don’t remember whether or not he took off his fins, but he made a B-line for the beach, the ‘cuda in hot pursuit. The toothy fish could have easily overtaken Regan, but it didn’t. Had it merely been curious? Or had it sensed the erratic heart beat of a frightened 12 year-old?  Perhaps it had been attracted by the flash of the stainless steel shaft of my Hawaiian sling?   Numerous documented reports of barracuda attacks show many of the victims had been wearing shiny jewelry. 

Two days later, we were swimming not too far from shore off a small point on the opposite side of the bay, and by this time, Regan had a negative outlook on barracuda in general.  It goes without saying there would be more barracuda. Though they were smaller in size, it didn’t matter to Regan. The teeth protruding from their mouth and menacing appearance were enough to make my young dive partner leery.  It was while looking to the limit of our visibility, expecting larger specimens to show up, we saw a pair of brown objects lying on the sandy bottom directly below us in less than six feet of water.  They were nurse sharks, so close we could see their gill slits opening and closing. 

The week wasn’t without its sublime moments. We were snorkeling off Sandy Cay, part of the Pelican Cays Underwater Marine Park when five spotted eagle rays swam past. They were some 12 – 15 feet beneath the surface, swimming in single file, the movement of their wings slow and deliberate, yet graceful. I dove to get pictures, frantically snapping and rewinding the underwater disposable. Its times like this I long for a Nikonos with a strobe flash.  On the way home we anchored the boat to dive for sand dollars when a pair of bottlenose dolphins swam past. 

One afternoon Regan and I were walking the north shore of the island at low tide. Walking carefully along an outcropping of dead coral, we saw a variety of smaller marine life in tidal pools. Then Regan, never ceasing to amaze me, asked, “Isn’t that an octopus?”  Sure enough, at the bottom of one of the tidal pools was a small, cave-like opening in the coral formation. And just inside that opening one could see a small octopus with its tentacles withdrawn. Directly in front of its lair were three conch shells. The shells were empty, their interior pink-orange. They had no doubt been the octopus’ dinner.  That same day it was time to depart and Regan had a seat next to the pilot. As we circled the island, I saw him gazing out the window at the turquoise blue water, no doubt thinking about the big barracuda.

This autumn Regan will be a sophomore at Batavia High where he plays football and basketball for the Blue Devils. Since our Abaco adventure he has grown at least a foot and filled out considerably. Not so surprisingly Regan says he’d like to return to the island, adding that next time he’d like to try his hand at actually hunting with a Hawaiian sling.  My question to Regan is this: armed with a sling, are you willing to swim back to the barracuda’s lair beneath the pier?    

Not too many years ago, on a sunny Father’s Day, I stowed an ultra-light fishing rod and my hip boots inside the hatch of the family vehicle.  I put two small spinners in a plastic container and headed for a stretch of the Little Tonawanda not far from our home. It was a low-key plan, intended to pass the time wading the Little T, and perhaps entice the bait fish population.

The action began right away, as strikes came one after another, with creek chubs and horned dace  wasting no time inhaling the tiny Rooster Tail as soon as I began a retrieve. Though the fish were small, the surroundings and the solitude were enjoyable.  The sole competition came in the form of a kingfisher and a slow moving snapping turtle, the latter easy to spot in the shallow water.

I came across a shaded area where a tree provided a respite from the mid-day sun. Here a few rusted strands of barbed wire spanned the narrow stream, remnants of yesteryear, lending more authenticity to the rural setting. Being careful not to puncture my hip boots on the barbs, I ducked between strands and continued on.  A short distance downstream was a riffle which emptied into a small pocket of quiet water.  

I cast the Rooster Tail directly into the riffle, allowing the current to take it into the small pool. I hadn’t turned the reel handle two or three times when something belted the tiny spinner. Whatever it was, it certainly hit much harder than the baitfish I had been catching.  The fish was on for a moment before the line went slack. I assumed it was a smallmouth, and made repeated casts with no results.  

I left the little pool, wading a few yards downstream when I felt another hard strike.  The fish provided a good tussle, and moments later I was pleasantly surprised when I beached a brown trout. The fish was vivid in color - dark brown along the back, a smattering of black spots across a golden brown flank. The fish was no doubt a holdover from the previous year’s stocking far upstream in Linden.  After inspecting and releasing the fish I began working my way back upstream, stopping at the little pool with the riffle. There I was rewarded with another brown, identical to the first and maybe the same fish I had hooked earlier.  It too was released. 

Before working my way upstream toward the car, I couldn’t help but savor the moment. Even the aroma from a nearby pasture added to the enjoyment of a Father’s Day in rural America. 

Originally the intent of the morning’s paddle was to get a photo or two of the otters known to inhabit Black Creek. Unfortunately, the semi-aquatic mammals were nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had moved farther upstream, into the Bergen Swamp.   There were numerous Canada geese on hand, adults, adolescents and goslings – and willing to have their picture taken.  

Bill Moon is a man with varied interests.  Since his retirement from the Genesee County Health Department, Bill divides his time between photography - he takes group photos of sports teams as well as nature pics – canoeing, camping and a bit of fly-rodding.  Through the years he has participated in at least thirty stage productions with Batavia Players, Batavia Rotary and the Forum Players.  But first and foremost among Bill’s endeavors is a lifelong interest in the sport of archery.

Bill was given his first bow by his Uncle John. Not long afterward, at the tender age of four, he scored his first bull’s-eye.  There was one minor problem – at the time he was standing inside a relative’s home.   With bow in hand and looking for a suitable target, he spotted a window. Taking aim at one of the small panes of glass between the mullions, Bill let fly and scored a direct hit. Despite having his bow taken away for a spell, Bill’s fascination with archery continued. A few years later his interest in the sport rapidly accelerated.

Bill was twelve when an uncle took him to see “Tembo” a movie featuring famed archer Howard Hill on safari in Africa. The footage made quite an impression, as Bill came out of the theatre with an infatuation for the sport of archery which has lasted to this day.  “Even if you had no fascination with archery or Howard Hill,” he said in reference to the film, “you will come away with an appreciation of the photography from the film,” said Bill in regards to the cinema work. He went on to explain, saying, “With no zoom lens available, they used an eighty pound camera mounted on a turret lens – 3 lenses in one.” 

Growing up in Hamilton, in New York’s Leatherstocking region, Bill made his first bow while still in high school. “It was a stick bow made from a hickory plank,” he stated. A forerunner of the bows he turns out today, that prototype proved to be a capable weapon afield. And it wasn’t far from home where he honed his shooting skills. ” There was a small woods down the street with rabbits, woodchucks, squirrels, snakes, tin cans, anything that presented a target,” he said.

Presently Bill enjoys attending various bow shoots, including the Great Lakes Long Bow Rendezvous and the Traditional Bowmen’s Rendezvous. Closer to home, he shoots with the Hawkeye Bowmen in Alden.  Needless to say, Bill also spends time shooting at targets in his backyard. Come autumn, it’s time to take to the woods.   

In addition to the longbows, Bill has crafted a number of recurves, and he also turns out wooden arrows, complete with turkey quill fletching.  Each piece of his equipment is – no pun intended - naturally good shooting. Conscientious and meticulous in his work, he’s been known to scrap a nearly completed bow and start from scratch.  The finished product speaks for itself. Well crafted and sweet shooting, Bill’s longbows are presently used by archers in five states – soon to be six as a Californian has one on order. Bill emphasized the making of bows is in no way a business. “Besides the desire to hunt, there was a longing to craft my own bow,” he said.  When friends and fellow archers saw the results, requests for a Bill Moon custom longbow began piling up. 

If you see a green pickup/ camper with a canoe loaded on top and a license plate reading “ARCHERY,”  its Bill enroute to a favorite getaway. And don’t let the canoe fool you – he probably has one or two bows along just in case.  

For the second straight year the Tonawanda Creek Carp Derby resulted in another good turnout. Ideal weather conditions attracted solo anglers as well as those who saw it as an opportunity for a family outing with upwards of forty entrants lining the creek bank for Saturday’s Carp Derby. 

Carp may not be much to look at, nor are they classified as a game fish.  However, once hooked they can put up quite a good tussle.  Several participants in Saturday’s derby can attest to that.  Shortly after the first lines hit the water, the Blecha brothers, Mike and Jeremy were the first to connect, accounting for three carp in a short time span. Their trio of fish ranged in weight from 7 to 10.5 pounds, with the latter specimen temporarily sliding into first place.  

Minutes later the Pietrzykowski brothers, Jake and Jeremy, got into the act.  Jeremy quickly set the hook after a carp inhaled his offering of corn kernels.  Minutes passed before he was able to lead the hefty bottom feeder into the shallows where Jake was waiting with the net. The fish pulled the scales to the 13lbs. 10 oz. mark.

Despite murky water conditions, there were numerous fish caught, all of them returned to the water after a brief weigh-in. The creekside camaraderie made the afternoon pass quickly and at the end of the day Jeremy Pietrzykowski  took home “Biggest Fish” honors, with the award for the smallest going to Randy Demers. 

There was quite a mix of folks lining the creek bank on this day, making for a festive atmosphere and a chance to renew old acquaintances and sample “chef” John Lawrence’s snacks hot off the grill - venison backstraps and pheasant tenders rolled in bacon.

FAMILIAR FACES IN THE CROWD: CARP DERBY PICS

 Joe Lawrence

 The Blecha Family

 Jimmy DeFreze, Jimmy, Sam, Bill & Mike Ficarella

 Dr. Joe Canzoneri with sons Nick & Mike

Mike DeFreze & Ben Buchholz

St. Joe's PE & Health Instructor Vin Romanotto

 Brian Jackson 

These obviously happy anglers are displaying a pair of crevalle jacks.That's my cousin Richard Silver in the stars & stripes windbreaker. Standing alongside is friend and fishing buddy, Ira Kanerick.

I remember hearing Richard once proclaim the waters off Montauk Point on the eastern end of Long Island, and area around Key West, as two of the greatest fishing grounds in the world. That was more than thirty years ago. But long before making that statement he plied the waters of Mill Pond and Black Creek in Byron, and the Tonawanda Creek where it flowed past Parker Grinnel's pasture on Dorman Rd.

Here the captain uses a cast net to collect bait fish.

Richard was born and raised in Brooklyn and it was always a treat to see him whenever he visited the home of our grandparents in fifties. He was a teenager then and I was but a little shaver and sometimes allowed to tag along with him to the above mentioned fishing holes. Later, after first serving with the U.S. Navy, then forming his own business, American Pipe & Tank Lining Co. Inc., Richard still found time to make the drive to Montauk Point where he fished for striped bass with Ira and charter skipper John DeMeo. I fished with this trio on a windy Monday morning in October of '77. We were after stripers but the waves were so bad we retreated into a tidal estuary. I wound up taking home several pounds of flounder from that trip.

Having been brought close to the boat, a shark decides to make bid for freedom.

After the hook has been set, a tarpon puts on an aerial display.

Still full of fight, the tarpon is worked carefully towards the boat.

Richard and Ira recently made a two day trip to Islamorada, in the Florida Keys and they were kind enough to pass along these photos. A variety of species, including but not limited to tarpon, shark, grouper and crevalle jacks, were more than accommodating. Along with the pictures was a note stating "The action was nonstop. If it swam, we caught it." Knowing these two long time friends, that's nothing out of the ordinary.

There’s been plenty of songbird activity around our home in recent days. The Northern Baltimore Oriole pictured here is nesting in the small woodlot next to our home, but each day makes numerous visits to our apple tree.

This mother robin is incubating her clutch of eggs in our mulberry tree

While the songbird nesting season is just getting underway, numerous waterfowl have already become new parents, as evidenced by a pair of geese keep a watchful eye on their brood of goslings.

Nominations are still being accepted for The eight annual Batavia Blue Devil Athletic Hall of Fame induction ceremony and dinner to be held October 17, at Terry Hills Restaurant. The Hall of Fame Committee is accepting applications through May 31. 

In honoring former athletes, coaches, administrators and various contributors, the Hall of Fame recognizes the great accomplishments and outstanding contributions of those associated with the Blue Devil’s athletic program. 

All nominations received by the committee, in addition to those already on file, will be taken into consideration.

The selection process includes the following criteria:                                            

1. In addition to outstanding athletes, coaches and administrators, the Hall of Fame will recognize outstanding contributors such as worthy booster club presidents, parent volunteers, team doctors, etc.   

2.  Athletes become eligible five years after graduation and coaches five years after retirement. Said time frame will also apply to contributors.

3. The nominee must have made an outstanding contribution to his or her sport, such as attaining all-league, all-county or all-state honors, all-time leading scorer, winning state championship, etc.

4. The nominee must be a positive role model, having displayed exemplary character while representing Batavia athletics and also in his or her life following graduation, worthy of being emulated by current and future students.

Nomination forms are available on the district web site at bataviacsd.org or by contacting the athletic director’s office at 343-2480, ext. 2003    

With a backdrop of blue sky and a budding cottonwood, Tom Shea and Tom Owstrowski are enjoying this afternoon's bluebird weather atop a roof in the town of Batavia. 

The plane ride into the Northwest Territories revealed a barren wilderness interspersed with pristine lakes and brawling, turbulent rivers.  As the plane descended for landing we had a birdseye view of the local terrain. Visible through the windows of the twin engine Otter were endless rolling hills studded with boulders, some the size of small houses.  We had flown just beyond the fringe of the North American tree line, into the home of the barren ground caribou, ptarmigan and other tundra denizens.  The few trees that do grow here are stunted spruce and willow, the ground carpeted with caribou moss and lichen.    

The lakes and rivers here teem with lake trout, grayling and very few northern pike. Not surprisingly we failed to hook a northern during our week long stay. Not that it mattered. Our tent camp was located at Nueltin Narrows.  As the name implies, “the Narrows” is a bottleneck in 135 mile long Nueltin Lake.     

It was the third week of June, 1982, and much of the lake was still locked in ice, including a large bay in close proximity to our camp.  The remaining ice was honeycombed, and I’ll never forget the sound it made whenever a breeze picked up – like ice cubes being swished around inside thousands of crystal drinking glasses.

Because the water was deep and clear, we could look down into the lake depths, sometimes able to see the shadow of a large fish swimming by – probably a big lake trout. But the fish weren’t all that cooperative to start with. We caught lake trout, but not a great number. That would change once the cold front passed through.   Gray skies and chilly air temperatures required warm clothing – goose down and wool – and thermoses filled with hot liquid, usually cocoa or chicken broth.

After three days the sun returned, and the lake trout action heated up.  They provided great sport on light tackle, and one evening they put on an aerial display – very uncharacteristic of lake trout.  It was close to ten pm when we found a small bay full of six to eight lb.  lake trout. They went crazy for yellow and red wobbling spoons called Five of Diamonds. I don’t know how deep a one ounce spoon can sink in three seconds, but that’s where the fish were. We began reeling after a three count and the lakers wasted no time attacking the spoons. Within seconds they were on the surface, jumping, rolling and just giving a good account of North Country forktails.  By 1:30 a.m. we were feasting on broiled lake trout. After dining on all that fresh fish it was hard to fall asleep – we were wired on protein!

We found a great set of caribou antlers while hiking and saw a number of ducks including scoters, eider and several ptarmigan. One afternoon a solitary otter persisted in following us. He gave us a wide berth, staying thirty yards or more behind the boat. Once we began trolling, the aquatic mammal had no trouble keeping up and followed us for a quite a while.   

In the short sub-arctic summer only the top few inches of earth thaws.  For this reason camp food is kept in a small underground chamber and cooled by the perma-frost.  Our hosts had stocked the food locker with pork chops, chicken, etc. That didn’t stop us from dining on lake trout whenever possible.

During the sub-arctic summer the sun sets late at that latitude and we never experienced darkness. Lowest light was between 2 and 3 in the morning, a dusk-dawn setting. Today Nueltin Lake is no longer part of the Northwest Territories. In 1993 a new territory called Nunavut was formed. In Inuktitut -the language of the Inuit - Nunavut means “our land”, essentially any Canadian land north of the tree line.  On April 1, 1999 Nunavut officially became separate from the Northwest Territories.

Our last evening at North Knife Lake was spent fishing from shore where the North Knife River spills into the lake. I was fishing upstream of the others when I heard my nephew yell. Though I couldn’t see him due to dense brush, the urgency in his voice was obvious. So was the sound of splashing. Thinking he had fallen in I came running. It turns out the splashing was a big pike on the end of Chris’ line as it wallowed in the shallows. It was a dandy northern for a twelve year old, one of several he caught during our stay. All too soon it was time to board the float plane, the first of a series of plane trips that would take us back to New Jersey.

We managed to have great fun during our Jersey years, Chris, his sister Samantha and my own young ones, Jami and Sam. I’d like to think they looked forward to my ceaseless antics. Come Halloween time, they were often on the alert, waiting for me to appear out of nowhere – a closet, bushes or in a window - wearing a gnarly mask. Being the oldest of the kids in the family, Chris always caught on before the others, laughing as they ran amok, seeking an escape route.   

And what a unique laugh he had – it was a combination chuckle/cackle. Recently my son and I were remembering Chris, recalling those early years when Sam said, “What I wouldn’t give to hear that cackle one more time.”

Chris would have celebrated his forty-first birthday next month. And though I may not hear his cackling laugh, I’ll settle for a few of my favorites from our North Knife Lake photo album - Chris’ early years.

Chris' First Northern Pike

His Big Northern

Time To Head Home

Until We Meet Again........

Much of Northern Manitoba experienced early ice-out in 1980 and in early June a float plane carrying Charlie Pace, Matthew Guido, my nephew Chris Carr and I touched down on the surface of North Knife Lake, 600 air miles north of Winnipeg. It turned out to be a fisherman’s dream as the action grew hotter with each passing day.

 The afternoon of our last full day in camp found us drifting a quarter-mile upstream on a sluggish river.  Gilles Lord, who served as camp manager and guide, had pulled a jumbo northern from this spot a week earlier.He now referred to the place as “Hog Alley.”  

We were casting spoons when Chris pointed to a surface disturbance a considerable distance away.  Charlie and Matthew were in another boat close-by. They too had seen the commotion atop the water. “What s going on over there?” I asked, motioning toward the surface activity. “Otters” Gilles answered.   Due to the distance from us it was hard to make out details, yet there appeared to be several of them.  We would soon discover they weren’t otters at all.                                   

 Early that morning we stowed our gear in two boats before embarking on a twelve mile boat ride to a place called mid-camp. Along the way we motored into a shallow bay, stopping long enough to catch a few lake trout for lunch. At mid-camp Gilles needed to unscrew plywood covers from the window frames. During the winter one or more black bears had entered the cabin through the windows and devoured everything in sight, including plenty of canned goods. For good measure the culprit bit clean through a cooking pot. The only thing that survived was a can of aerosol bug repellent.

After a lunch of lake trout fillets we motored into Gilles hot spot, a widening in a narrow river that emptied into North Knife Lake. As we drifted closer to the previously mentioned surface disturbance we discovered the “otters” were actually tails - very large forked tails. What’s more, they would point straight up into the air for second or two before sliding below the surface. But another would take its place. There was always two or three visible, literally pointing to the sky.  They were huge lake trout!     

A school of big lakers had invaded the river to gorge on tullibee, a variety of whitefish.  Matthew was the first to hook up. The arch in his fishing rod and line steadily peeled from his reel signaled a big fish.  Whatever was on Matthew’s line never jumped, it just bulldogged, hugging the river bottom and giving up line grudgingly.  Because Matthew’s reel was loaded with 8 lb. test line, it was nearly an hour before a monster lake trout was visible in the gin clear water.                                                                   

Hog Alley lived up to its name on this day, yielding some mighty big fish, with Matthew Guidos lake trout earning him a listing in the 1980 edition of the Manitoba Master Angler Awards, provincial annals celebrating trophy fish.

The months and weeks leading up to that first wilderness fly-in fishing trip can be a time of great anticipation. It’s been thirty years since my first trip via float-plane, and countless thoughts drifted through my mind while counting down the days to departure. But of all the wilderness scenarios I envisioned, none included the sight before my eyes on an afternoon in late May pf 1979.

A fourteen foot, semi-V hull fishing boat containing two wide-eyed fishermen was teetering precariously atop a beaver dam. Johnny Plasko sat in the stern, Phil Albanese occupied the bow. Both were wearing the “what do we do now?” look.

Friends since the fifties, growing up and attending school together in Newark, New Jersey, Phil and Johnny were beginning to understand life in the Canadian wilds was a far cry from metro New Jersey.  

In the moments before John and Phil’s boat became airborne I was attempting to lead a second boat around the dam. In this boat were Basil Pizzuto and Dave Ryder. Holding the bow line, I moved slowly through a flooded backwater. When we heard the roar of the outboard we looked downstream. We saw Phil leaning forward, both his hands clutching the gunwale. Behind him was Johnny, one hand on the throttle and his head held high, trying to see around Phil.

I worked side by side with Johnny in those years, and there was no doubt in my mind what he was about to do.

Johnny had the throttle wide open when they made contact with the beaver dam. They nearly cleared the barrier but the prop shaft caught in the mixture of mud and sticks.

I just shook my head and continued leading the second boat around the dam. That’s when the bottom disappeared. I may have found the underwater entrance to the beaver lodge. Big Dave reacted quickly, reached over the side of the boat and with one hand snatched me out of the drink before my chest waders completely filled with water.     

BURNTBUSH RIVER

The beaver dam spanned Soucie Creek, a narrow waterway that meanders through muskeg country for three miles before spilling into the Burntbush River.

Basil and I located the head of the creek three days earlier, barely an hour after the float plane dropped us off. Thanks to the Canadian Ministry of Mines & Resources, we had been studying topographic maps of the area several weeks prior to the trip.

That first trip down Soucie Creek saw us in a square stern canoe with a 10 hp motor – and we nearly swamped it several times. We returned to camp and decided to return another day – this time in a boat. 
 

Three days later we left our camp on Soucie Lake early in the morning, negotiated the creek with no problem, portaging around the beaver dam before coming to the river.

 A day’s fishing on the Burntbush had been quite productive. There would be several fish to clean for supper. And it was Phil and Johnny, who caught the largest pike and walleye, respectfully. Both fish came from the same pool at the head of a stretch of rapids. Unfortunately, Phil’s pike – a real trophy - didn’t make the return trip. I’ll explain why.   
 

Within minutes after entering the river the fish began to cooperate. Whether spin casting or trolling we caught fish. After a lull in the action Phi said he had a fish on. It looked to be a good one, judging by the arch in his rod. We watched his line zig-zag back and forth for several minutes before he brought the fish alongside the boat where Dave was waiting with the net. With one deft scoop of the net the pike was lifted from the water. To say the fish was big would have been an understatement. No one had a scale, but in pike fishing circles, this was the size of pike referred to as a “slob.” Lying in the bottom of the net, the big fish curled itself into a U - shape, straining against the mesh.   

Phil attached the pike to an old fashioned chain and clip stringer which already held a few fish – more pike and walleyes. No sooner was the fish back in the drink when it started thrashing to beat the band, banging the stringer repeatedly against the boat and creating a racket. Every few moments Phil would lift the stringer to look at the giant pike – and who could blame him – the fish was that impressive. And when he eased it back into the water the racket began anew. Soon the fish quieted down – or so it seemed. The next time Phil checked on his fish it was gone. At the end of the stringer were the two clips he had stuck through the pikes mouth. They were pried open. All that thrashing had been the pike repeatedly twisting and turning, in the process prying open the clips and freeing itself.  
 

NORTHERN LIGHTS

After dinner that same evening, the lake was mirror calm and here and there one could see surface rises. Casting a surface plug resulted in a strike which turned out to be my first pike caught on the surface. When I caught another there was a mad dash for the boats. “Let’s take this one, John,” said Phil as he stepped off the makeshift dock and into the previously mentioned canoe. Phil should have stepped to the canoe’s center but he didn’t and the canoe rolled, sending him into the lake. Phil stayed in camp to put on dry clothes and never did fish that night. As a result he and John missed an incredible light show. That’s Phil with the net trying to retrieve sunken belongings.

We had seen the northern lights the first few evenings in camp, at the time they appeared as ghostly vapors high overhead, there one second - gone the next. But on this night Basil, Dave and I were in for a real treat. By the time total darkness enveloped the lake - about 11 pm and the fish had long since retired. We were still on the water when we saw a small speck of light overhead. Within minutes that speck grew in size until it covered most of the northern sky. Three of us sat in the boat for a considerable time without talking, staring upward at spectacular shades of blue-green, pastel-red and brilliant white draped across the heavens.        
 

All things considered, it was an eventful trip. We lived on fish and potatoes that week, save for the night Phil cooked spaghetti and concocted a sauce using ketchup. Our coffee was made in an old style percolator pot. Sipped outdoors in early morning amid the aroma of evergreens, it was amazingly tasty.  
 

THE RETURN HOME

It would be a seventeen hour drive from the float plane base to North Jersey, including a stop at Timmins, Ontario, where Johnny and Phil caught a commercial flight. There was an additional stop at Customs on the U.S. side of the Thousand Islands Bridge. Here I need to add that Dave Ryder lived on the Jersey shore in a town called Neptune – well known throughout New Jersey, but certainly never heard of at the U.S.-Canadian border.

We pulled up to the U.S. Customs booth in the wee hours of the morning, unkempt and disheveled looking as could be. The Custom’s Agent looked at us and asked Dave, who was driving, “Where ya headed?”   

“Neptune,” replied Dave.

Quickly realizing the mistake, Basil and I whispered in unison, “Say New Jersey! Tell him New Jersey!”

Dave explained by showing his driver’s ID. Eyeing us warily, the Customs Agent let us go without incident.
 

Basil, Johnny, Dave and I worked together at the Meadowlands. Three years later our group – along with Phil - would make a trip to a desolate outpost in the Northwest Territories before a return to the James Bay Frontier and adventure on the Detour River.

Before either of those trips nook place I was fortunate enough to visit northern Manitoba and experience some exceptional shallow water lake trout fishing. Stay tuned!

Looking back, winter arrived somewhat early and made its presence felt in many ways. Early on it was pleasant enough, with calm, windless days and the countryside coated white for Christmas.

A few days we had that Winter Wonderland effect - Nice to look at – for a while.

This is our backyard, filled courtesy of Tonawanda Creek. On three separate occasions the Tonawanda spilled its banks this winter.  

Finally, signs of spring! These snow geese signal more favorable weather is on the way. They found a neighbor's farm a suitable stopover enroute to their breeding grounds in the far north. 

Soon it will be time to break out the spinning rod and head for Lakeside Beach State Park and hopefully, catch that narrow window – occurring some between late March and early May - when the Lake Ontario shoreline offers a mixed bag. For a short while brown trout, cohos and even a few lake trout will inhabit the shallows      

For years I’ve been told the catfish and walleye fishing really heats up after dark on the Genesee River – maybe this is the year I’ll find the time to give it a whirl.     

I know this is Western New York and weather-wise we may not be entirely out of the woods, but at the very least, we’ve got to somewhere near the edge.