outdoors

While there has always been a good number of gray squirrels nearby, this is one of the few fox squirrels I recall seeing near our home. That bushy tail may be one of the reasons behind their name.

About one and a half times the size of a gray, the fox squirrel is North America's largest. Here it's feasting on last year's box elder seeds.

Like the gray and red squirrel, the fox squirrel's color phase may vary from region to region.

Adding to its ample girth.

Smaller than both the fox and gray, the red squirrel, above, seems to be the feistiest of the three, particulary when defending its territory.

Here it's easy to see where the red got its name.   

The entire time I watched, this red seemed preoccupied in one of walnut trees growing along the north border of our property.

Here again, the red tends to a walnut tree. It seemed to concentrate on forks in the tree, perhaps enhancing future buds. Whatever, the red squirrels have established themselves in the area around the six walnut trees that are clustered into a small area. The gray squirrels, meanwhile, have been relegated to the hickory and oak trees back near the creek.

This pileated woodpecker gave me ample opportunity to try out our new camera. For half an hour or more it made two large cavities in a young cottonwood, one of seven within a stone's throw of the house. Whenever they visit they tend to ignore the huge cottonwood as well as the walnut, hickory, white ash and maple trees, instead focusing their attention on the young cottonwoods -- smoother bark, easier to penetrate, is my guess.

As you can tell from the photo sequence, the pileated's rountine was to pound away for a bit before tilting its head back as if to inspect its work, sometimes probing around inside the fresh excavation or even repositioning itself before renewing its efforts.

When it was time to leave it flew across our property, over the tops of our neighbor's woods, performing its trademark "swoop and dip" on the fly.

The late Bob Fowler, pictured above, was an avid fisherman all his life and there once was a time when he enjoyed the milieu of the duck hunter. There were also family vacations with his wife, Bonnie, and their sons, Teal and Brian, where they traveled to an island off the coast of the Carolinas.

There Bob fished and, come low tide, took the boys clamming. While Bob enjoyed many aspects of the outdoors, his real passion was on the river, whether it be canoeing or kayaking according to his longtime river-running partner, Pep Johnson.

It was in the early '70s when Pep and Bob Fowler first met. At the time their boys were both playing hockey for the Batavia Ramparts.

"It was brought to my attention that he (Fowler) did a lot of whitewater paddling," Pep said. "That was something I had always wanted to try."

No sooner did Pep Johnson make an inquiry, when Bob Fowler offered an immediate invitation, saying, "Let's do it."  And Pep Johnson was about to catch whitewater fever. Thus began a partnership that lasted more than three decades and took the pair to some of the wildest rivers in North America.

 

"When I first met Bob, he had been canoeing and kayaking for a time," recalled Pep. "We made our first canoes, they were one-man, solo canoes, whitewater canoes."

Pep is pictured above on Pennsylvania's Youghiogheny River.

As might be expected, during their early years, paddling together much of their canoeing was done close to home, with one of their first trips taking place on the Adirondack's Moose River, portions of which are class III & IV.

In whitewater terminology, rivers -- or various stretches thereof -- are rated anywhere from class I & II (mild) all the way class V & VI (wild -- and dangerous).

"We studied maps a lot," Pep said.

But river conditions can change, and that meant being vigilant while on the water.

"Whenever we came to a set of rapids we'd take out (the map) and study it, deciding how to paddle it or not attempt it at all," Pep said. "The latter decision was often determined by an obvious class V or VI set of rapids."

In the above photo, the pair look over some frothy whitewater on the Missinaibi River in northern Ontario.  

Their pursuit of wilderness paddling took them as far northest as Quebec's Gaspe' Peninsula, across northern Ontario, south to North Carolina and west to Utah.There were numerous stops in between with trips in New York, Pennsylvania, Maine and West Virginia.

The duration of their time on the rivers ranged from overnighters to 10 days. If the list of states and provinces seems extensive, the number of rivers was even more so -- and the degree of difficulty at times might be termed extreme.

"What was probably one of our scariest and hairiest rides was on the Youghiogheny River" Pep recalled.

On that occasion, the water levels were safe when he and Bob Fowler set out, but heavy rains far upstream the previous evening brought the river up to a dangerously high level. Finding a place to take out was not easy.

"The high water left no place to beach the canoes," Pep said. "Only dense, heavy brush was visible along the shore."

And it was obviously not a good place to attempt landing a canoe in swift water. Some hard work -- and rigorous paddling and scrambling -- finally got them safely ashore.

Another frightening moment occurred here in New York.

"Bob had always told me, if I spill, hold onto the canoe and don't let go of my paddle," said Pep. "Well, we entered a mile and a half stretch of the Indian River that was solid class III & IV the entire way.

"I got dumped and held onto the canoe and paddle, struggling to make it to shore. There was a huge boulder the size of a small house in the middle of the river and the current was taking me straight toward it."

That would be one time when Pep wisely bucked tradition.

"I let go of the canoe, and was then able to make it to shore," he continued. "When I looked back, I saw the canoe hit the boulder and then (it) pulled under."

It was several moments before the canoe popped back up to the surface on the downstream side of the boulder.

"There's no guarantee I would have done the same," Pep said.

Envisioning that last scenario prompted me to ask if he and Bob were "adrenaline junkies."

"At times," he began, "but more than that, it was the wilderness element. There were times we simply stared in wonderment at what we were seeing -- it was so beautiful."

Too, there was the mystique of the river.

"You never know what you might see around the next bend," he added, saying it wasn't unusual to spot moose and other forms of wildlife

The oversized tepee in the photo below provided a night's lodging prior to the start of a canoe trip on Quebec's Bonaventure river.

That's Batavian Bob Stevens on the left standing with Bob Fowler. For a number of years, Stevens was part of the wilderness paddling team. In the photo below, Bob Rodgers is seated in front of, left to right, Bob Stevens, Bob Fowler and Pep Johnson.

While their main objective was wilderness paddling, they did fish on occasion. Perhaps what may have been their biggest catch over the years was taken purely by accident.

"One evening after having set up camp, Bob Fowler caught three walleyes, all in the 16-inch range. He put them on a stringer and attached it to his canoe," said Pep, the idea being to keep them fresh for the following morning's breakfast.

"Well, the next morning, Bob walked down to the water and lifted the stringer."

Or at least he tried to.

"When he went to raise the fish from the water, something on the other end pulled back -- hard," Pep continued. "Again, he lifted and again something pulled back real hard. At this point, I heard him yell, 'Pep! Pep! Get down here.'"

Pep arrived in time to see his friend hoisting a northern pike, and a hefty specimen it was. The big fish had swallowed one of the walleyes up to its victim's gills and was then unable to swallow it or regurgitate it. Pep explained that Bob lifted the big fish clear of the water and pulled it right into the canoe. The pike landed in the bottom of the canoe with a thud and the walleye was dislodged. The pike was then released.

  Seems to be Pep Johnson's turn with the kitchen duties.

Two Bobs -- Fowler astern with Stevens manning the bow.

Bob Fowler on a stretch of flat water with Bob Stevens in the distance. 

Asked to reflect back on his thoughts of Bob Fowler, Pep never hesitated, not having to search for words.

"There's a bond that develops between guys that do these things for so many years," Fowler said. "When Bob was on the river he was always smiling and laughing. But more than that, if something were to happen, you knew that Bob had your back."

As a case in point, Pep related an incident that took place on West Virginia's New River. There is a bridge that spans the New River gorge, a bridge well noted for its use by bungee jumpers (that's how deep and steep the gorge is). They were on the river not far from that bridge when Pep was injured.

"Foot entrapment led to my knee being pinned between two rocks, resulting in torn ligaments and shattered cartilage in my knee." Pep said. "After that, I was unable to walk out. Bob carried both canoes out, then he lifted me onto his back and carried me out from the bottom of the river gorge."

The incident proved to be a minor deterrent. Shortly after Pep healed, they were once again making plans to run another river. 

The river runners' version of "on the road again."

It's been three years since Bob Fowler's passing and, for his river companions, things haven't been quite the same. Some, like Pep Johnson, are left with decades of whitewater memories, from sub-arctic terrain to the brown, desert backdrop and rock formations along Utah's San Juan River.

And while the wilderness waterways provided Bob Fowler and Pep Johnson scenic and peaceful settings, the rivers themselves were often turbulent and brawling -- just what seasoned river-runners hope for.     

Brady Smith arrived here from Australia in mid-August, long before cold temperatures and snow enveloped the region. So it wasn't surprising to hear him say, "I love it here." Asked how he's handling the sudden climate change, he stated, "I'm slowly getting used to it."

Brady was recruited from the land down under by GCC soccer coach Ken Gavin. Once the soccer season ended, he made his way to the college pool where he not only swims for the Cougars, he also works as a lifeguard. (Brady is one of five international students on coach Mike Kroll's swim team.)

"I love swimming," he said. "I was a swimmer for my school back home."  A phys-ed major aspiring to be an athletic trainer, Brady hails from the city of Brisbane in Queensland, located in Eastern Australia. Shortly after meeting Brady, I asked him about the toxic and deadly creatures that inhabit the Australian continent. I had read of and seen on the nature channel that of the 10 deadliest snakes in the world, nine are found on the Australian mainland. The other being a sea snake found in the waters off the Australian coast. I wanted to know, were they really as numerous and deadly as I'd heard - or was it a case of sensationalism and TV hype.

"They're for real," he said.

He then mentioned a few species of poisonous snakes with which he's familiar; the King brown, the taipan and the tiger snake. The brown and its subspecies have been known to inhabit populated areas, making it particularly dangerous. And while deadly reptiles garner most of the attention, spiders are very high on Brady's list of critters to be avoided, most notably the red-black and funnel web spiders.

"I don't like spiders," he said with emphasis. "My parents were having a barbecue and one of my mom's friends was bitten by a red-black spider."

(The Australian red-black is closely related to our black widow -- black with a red marking on the abdomen and it often cannibalizes the male after mating. They are also highly venomous.)

"She got pretty sick," he said of spider bite victim. "She had to be hospitalized -- but she made it." 

Asked about his outdoor pursuits back home, Brady said he did some fishing and snorkeling, the latter including a bit of spearfishing. But surfing is his first love.

"I didn't think I'd miss surfing so much. I surfed every day back home." This prompted the obvious question, "Have you had any encounters with sharks?" The look on his face seemed to say, "I'm glad you asked."

"I was with two buddies," he began, "we were surfing off Mujimba Beach. There's an island that's a 25 or 30 minute paddle out to sea. It's called Old Woman Island. About 20 minutes into the paddle, a big fish appeared maybe 15 meters away. It was a tiger shark. We knew it was a tiger because of the spots on its dorsal fin."

Thankfully, the shark in this instance was a bit curious and nothing more -- unlike his next shark encounter.

"A month later, off that same beach, four of us were just sitting on our boards about 50 or 60 meters offshore when a bull shark swam below us. I saw the shadow and told my buddies, "Swim in! Swim in!.....There's only one reason you say "swim in," so no one asked - they just paddled in."

We talked briefly about a few of the other poisonous creatures in and around Brady's homeland. One was the blue-ringed octopus, about the size of a golf ball, very pretty to look at and highly venomous to the touch. And the stone fish, so named because they are so perfectly camouflaged they look like a rock on the bottom. As a result, barefoot bathers sometimes step on them, receiving a strong dose of poison from the spines of their dorsal fin.

It was only last Thursday -- Friday in Australia -- when Brady's father found a 6 or 7 foot carpet python curled up on the patio. In relating this incident, Brady didn't even raise an eyebrow -- nothing out of the ordinary.

"Dad is big on fishing. He likes to fish off the beach. He's caught some big sharks that way," said Brady. "He likes fishing off the beach at Fraser Island - that's where the purebred dingoes (wild dogs) live. It's the only place in the world where the purebred dingoes reproduce. Anyway, while at Fraser Island dad once brought a tourist bus full of Asians to a stop so they could watch him fight a bronze whaler." (I later learned a bronze whaler is known in other parts of the world as a Copper or Narrow-toothed shark)

With the semester drawing to a close, Brady will be heading back home for a reunion with his family; parents Ken and Shelley Smith and younger brothers Lewis and Darcy. Thankfully for Brady, summer down under is just getting under way and he will no doubt find time to do some surfing.

These snow-covered spruce trees are nice to look at, and for me, they certainly help to bring on the Christmas spirit - and probably the end of my hunting season. While there are yet several days remaining in the deer season, it almost seems like opening day was a long time ago....and not a snowflake in sight. And that was only two weeks ago.

6:30 a.m. November 20th, hunkered down in a beech woods.

an overhead view a few minutes later....and just a bit more light.

It wasn't that long of a wait.

As the sun began to climb I couldn't help thinking how much I enjoyed carving my initials into the smooth gray bark of beech trees when I was a young man.....in those early years I probably wouldn't have allowed a good buck to sneak in undetected like I did on this day. I missed the deer, hitting an ironwood tree instead.

This is my nephew Regan. A polite young fellow, I believe he's stifling a laugh regarding his uncle's marksmanship.

The Bartz brothers and D.J. plot a strategy for the p.m. hunt. 

Most of the people in this article - myself excluded - are still hunting when time permits. And they probably will until the season ends. Mine already has. Time to think Christmas!

Submitted by Cheryl Chaddock:

Brad Chaddock of Oakfield bagged his very own monster 9pt. buck last Saturday morning with his bow. Brad is a dedicated bow hunter during the season. He and his dad, Rob Chaddock, of Elba, spend many hours throughout the year practicing archery and it has paid off. He has had very successful hunts in the past, but this is his biggest to date. Congratulations to Brad.

The above photo of the Tonawanda was taken about two weeks ago. While the foliage was still evident, there have been significant changes since.

Facing south from the creek bank at the rear of our place.

It's still early and a good morning to drive into southern Genesee and hopefully get a few pics of the Little Tonawanda and the surrounding countryside.

This is the Little T and 55 years ago wading barefoot and catching crayfish below that little riffle was great sport!

This redtail is eyeing me warily.

The falls on the Little T where it flows through Linden.

Though conifers - yet obviously not an evergreen - these larch stand out in contrast against the wooded hills.

The sun was climbing and so was the temperature...it was time to go home and do a little pike fishing behind the house.

Sadie is a 5-year-old chocolate lab and not only a well-trained retriever, but a prime example of the classic relationship between gunner and gun dog. During the past couple autumns, I've been privileged to spend a few mornings with Sadie and her owner, Doug Harloff. Each outing has been invigorating, being able witness firsthand a good wingshot and his loyal sidekick at work.

A short wait in the dark was followed by a pre-sunrise calm.

Low light as Doug & Sadie both wait for the morning's first flight.

Decoys are in place.

The onset of a retrieve.

The return trip - mission accomplished.

Time for a little TLC.

Checking the northwestern sky - no ducks sneaking in the backdoor.

 

Doug explains to Sadie that the ducks have stopped flying.

Look at Sadie's facial expression: "Whaddya mean we're leaving?"

Happily for Sadie, on the way home there was a bit of pheasant action. She's equally good at locating ringnecks. 

Having spent time with Doug and Sadie both in the cattails and afield, I come away with the impression these two are not simply an owner and his dog - they're good friends.  

Biking, canoeing, kayaking, cross-country skiing and mountaineering. To one extent or another, all the Marchese brothers -- Dave, Tom, Russ and Bob -- partook of these activities. It was 1995, after brother Dave invited his three siblings on a backpacking trip, when they first had a go at hiking up a mountain. 

"We hiked into Johns Brook Valley and camped at Bushnell Falls," said Bob Marchese. "The next day we climbed Mount Haystack in the rain and fog. At times you couldn't see your hand in front of your face. Mt. Haystack (elev. 4960 ft.) was the first high peak for Russ, Tom and me."

Left to right are Tom, Bob, Russ and Dave.

Despite the weather on their first climb back in 1995, the Marchese brothers began frequenting the high peaks when time permitted.

"Nearly 10 years passed before it entered our minds to climb the "trailess" peaks," said Bob, "and go for the '46.'"

Bob informed me there are basically two types of trails on the "46er" mountains -- those maintained with marked trails and those that are "trailess." The latter term at times implies nothing less than a pure bushwhack. The above photo shows the group preparing to scale a cleft in the rocky mountainside.

This photo was taken while descending Whiteface Mountain In the center of the pic and off in the distance is Mount Esther. Weeks later, upon reaching the summit of Esther, the Marchese brothers would have fulfilled their quest, thereby attaining membership in the AKD 46er's. 

Fifteen years after climbing Mt. Haystack, Dave, Tom, Russ and Bob Marchese stand atop Mt. Esther......46er's at last.

"It was a combination of jubilation and relief," said Bob. At their feet, atop Mt. Esther, is a plaque set in the rock by the Adirondack forty-sixers. In a bit of irony, just before the above and below photos were taken, friend and frequent hiking companion Eric Wohlers called their attention to the time -- the Marchese brothers had become 46er's at exactly 4:46 pm.

The plaque was set in place in honor of Esther McComb who in 1839, at the age of 15,  attempted to climb Whiteface Mountain from the north. In the process she became lost and thus made the first recorded ascent of the mountain so named for her.  

   

That's Eric Wohlers behind the Marchese brothers. Though he had climbed Mt. Esther a month earlier, he joined his friends for their celebratory climb.  

Bob Marchese, pictured above, has climbed many a high peak with his own family. Said Bob,  "My wife, Terri, and I climbed some peaks with our kids when they were little. When they were 2 and 3 years old we put them in kiddie carriers, backpacks made to carry small children. Today my daughter Olivia wants to be a "46er."  

Bob with Olivia. An aspiring 46er, Olivia accompanied her dad on numerous high peak climbs this summer.

Only 13 years old, and already an even dozen high peaks to her credit, Olivia seems certain to keep the family tradition alive -- not only sharing in the common bond of those who have climbed the Adirondack high peaks, but helping promote safe hiking and the preservation of the wilderness for future generations. And to Bob, Russ, Tom and Dave...congratulations!

Early Saturday morning, Alexis Aratari surprised herself by killing her first buck -- and then surprised herself further when she discovered that it was a 10-point deer.

"It was really shocking," she says. "My heart was going about a mile a minute."

The feat, which is impressive for anyone of any age, was even more incredible in Alexis's case due to the fact that she has only been hunting for two years.

"It's really rare to have girl hunters, especially teenagers, get that big of a buck," the 16-year-old explains. "So it was really lucky that my first buck was a 10-pointer. It was beginner's luck."

Alexis, who goes out hunting every day during the season, says that she spotted the buck at around 8:30 Saturday morning. When she shot at it with her bow, it dropped right away. Her father, Mike Aratari, who was in a tree on the other side of the field, had seen the buck earlier and hoped that she would get it.

"We both thought it was just a six- or eight-pointer," Alexis said. "When he heard the shot, he yelled for me to stay up in the tree and he looked at it and told me it was a 10-pointer. I couldn't believe it."

"Now he says he has to try to top it," she laughs. "He's been hunting for 20 years, and he's only gotten two 10-pointers."

Hunting is clearly in Alexis's blood. Along with her father, her uncle and aunt also enjoy the pastime.

"All my family is really proud," she says. "We sent them all pictures, and my uncle in Florida has been telling everyone about it."

So what exactly will become of the massive buck?

"We're sending it to get mounted, and we're going to put it up on the wall next to my dad's 10-pointer," she says with a grin.

Troy Emke and John Lawrence have 32 years of archery hunting between them. Ironically, both arrowed the largest deer of their bow hunting careers little more than 12 hours apart.

Both deer were taken in swampy environs, John taking his big eight point Tuesday evening just before dark. He knew he hit his mark, but rather than track the deer through the swamp after nightfall, he decided to let it lie and wait until morning. Wednesday morning saw Troy in his stand well before shooting light. The 10 point showed up not long afterward, prior to legal shooting time. Troy watched the deer amble around his stand, actually sniffing the hunter's tracks. At sunrise Troy let him have it from a distance of 25 yards and the big buck took off, running maybe 50 yards before he went down with a big splash.

Shortly after sunup this morning, while Troy was field dressing his deer, John located his buck. Like Troy's, John's whitetail was found lying in water. Both deer field dressed at approximately 175 lbs.

Saturday was the opening day of pheasant season and the hills of northern Wyoming County provided an eventful hunt. Above is John Lawrence with a ringneck and Jake, one half of his Vizsla tandem.  

John pays attention to the body language of both dogs. Here he gives a heads-up -- the dogs are beginning to "act birdy," both are tensing up with shoulders low to the ground as they work the brush.

Jake and Caille are hidden by the brush, but John sees the tops of the goldenrod moving and listens to the bells on the dogs' collars. When those bells stop, chances are the dogs have "locked up" on a bird.

The dogs work well in tandem, and their efforts weren't limited to hillside meadows.

Caille working the headwater of a beaver swamp -- not your normal pheasant habitat -- yet Jake pounced a ringneck as it tried to flee through the swampy confines.

Jake's swamp rooster -- note the wet feathers.   

Here we've followed dogs into cover more suitable for grouse and woodcock, but Jake and Caille flushed two roosters in this location.

Jake and Caille working the edge of the beaver swamp

 

Even after John gave me a heads-up I was a little slow on the draw here. Couldn't get the camera out of my vest pocket in time to catch Caille doing a "stop, drop and roll" in that puddle.

Jake and Caille worked the cover well, flushing seven roosters in the process. Time to get a little loving for a job well done. 

A fitting end to a great outing!

The above photo of the Canadea bridge was taken by Amy Joyner. The bridge spans the Genesee River near one of her husband Jim's favored locales for fishing smallmouth bass. He's taken countless smallmouths from this stretch, including what may have been his largest bronzeback, a smallie weighing close to seven pounds. Winding back and forth between large gravel bars, rocky bottomed pools and a backdrop of rolling hills, this stretch of the Genesee was a favorite for Jim.

And Jim never fished the river alone. He was always accompanied by at least one, sometimes two, friends. For years, even if Amy remained at their cabin, he was always joined by his other favorite girl and faithful companion, Candy. If Jim was wading the river, the 14-year-old chocolate lab was right by his side. No doubt, she knew this stretch of the river as well as Jim. Now, after so many years of enjoying each other's company, the time all dog lovers dread has arrived.

Candy, may your eternity be filled with winding shallow streams, gravel bars and rolling hillsides.   

Dozens and dozens of people turned out to Go Art tonight for the release of Jim Nigro's first novel, "Tapestry: A Life Walk Among Friends."

When Nigro was at best about half way through signing copies of his book, he said his hand was getting tired. When I arrived, the line out the door was at least 20-people deep. When I left, it was still at least 20-people deep.

For more about the book and Jim, click here.

Jim Nigro didn't set out to be a writer. In fact, when he was a kid, he didn't even really like stringing words together.

But with his love of nature and a life path that put him in a position to try some new things, Nigro just sort of fell into telling stories about hunting, fishing and observing what he found around him out in the wild. As for writing, it turns out, he really loves it.

The Batavian's outdoor columnist, in fact, has just published his second book -- a novel called "Tapestry: A Life Walk Among Friends."

The story revolves around two friends growing up in a small town much like Batavia, starting in the 1950s and going through the 1970s.

Nigro said though it's fiction and most characters are at best composites, about 90 percent of events in the book are drawn from his experiences or those of friends.

"Anybody who grew up here in the '50s, '60s or '70s will recognize their hometown," Nigro said.

Nigro's love of nature began when he was a small child visiting his aunt and uncle's house on Old Creek Road.

"I was knee-deep in mother nature at a very early age," Nigro said.

That love of nature and the friendships that grow from enjoying the outdoors together is the backdrop for Nigro's story.

Regular readers are aware of Nigro's outdoor adventures, which has taken him to various parts of the United States, including Alaska and such exotic locales as the Bahamas and the Sea of Abaco.

Along the way, the 60-year-old Nigro said, he's made some good friends and like anyone in life, had some rough patches.

In 1968, Nigro was about to embark on a military career -- all he needed to do was sign the contract -- but one afternoon, just after he had bought a sausage at the St. Joe's Lawn Fete, Nigro spotted a young woman walking by. Nigro dropped the sandwich right in the trash and walked home. He told his mother he was abandoning his military plans and going back to school.

That young lady was Claudia. They married in 1971 and have been together ever since.

After getting married, Jim got a chance to get a good-paying job in construction, so he wound up in that trade for about 20 years. Then he was offered a job -- through a connection of his father's -- at the Meadowlands, so he moved his family to New Jersey.

While Jim said he made some good friends there, it wasn't necessarily a good time.

"Ten years of staring at the New York City skyline, I grew to appreciate where I came from," Nigro said. "I was really homesick. I missed the little simple things like a ride from here to Elba or from here to Oakfield and all of those wide-open spaces."

The Nigros came home and Jim went to work at the Trojan factory and was there until it was sold to foreign investors and closed.

After that, Nigro decided to take advantage of a government program for retraining and returned to Genesee Community College to get a degree in commercial art.

After graduating, he had some scholarship offers, but not enough to pay for him to get a higher degree, so he had to go back to work and wound up in the landscape business, which he really enjoyed for about eight years.

Nigro started his writing career almost by accident. During his first year at Trojan, the Batavia Daily News was advertising for a part-time sportswriter and Jim applied. He didn't get the job because he didn't yet have a degree. The sports editor at the time figured maybe the job should go to somebody with a degree who didn't have a job.

A couple of years later, that editor was in JC Penney buying an engagement ring and Claudia mentioned that he knew her husband. They struck up a conversation and that led to Jim and the editor getting back in touch.

The editor wanted somebody to write a series of five outdoors articles.

That series became eight years of outdoors writing for the Daily. It also became fodder for Nigro's first book, "Dear Sam: Remembrances for My Grandson," a collection of true outdoor adventures and lessons Nigro wanted to share with his first grandson.

Ater the eight-year writing stint, Nigro and the Daily parted company and he came to really miss writing those columns. When The Batavian came along, Claudia contacted the online-only news site to see if there would be space for an outdoor column. Of course there would.

About this time, Jim decided that he really needed to write this novel, but he couldn't get it done while working full time. He and Claudia talked it over and decided they could get by if he quit his landscaping job to write.

"We decided to trust God," Nigro said, who with Claudia had by this time raised a son and a daughter (they now have four grandchildren).

And it's worked out fine, Jim said. And he got his book done.

Besides writing the book, Jim also drew many of the illustrations (there's also two photographs and one drawing by Claudia).

The book release party will be at 6:30 p.m., Thursday, at GoArt!, located at Seymour Place, 201 E. Main St., Batavia. The first copies of the book will be available and Jim will be there to sign personalized copies.

Boats are moored to their slips and the first tints of autumn are seen along the banks of Oak Orchard Creek. It was a great day to be outdoors. However, before we motored upstream, we began the morning on Lake Ontario.

John Lawrence, in back, Mike Ficarella in foreground, enjoying a balmy day. We're about two miles west of Point Breeze, off Lakeside Beach State Park.

That's the Somerset smokestack...... its actually located a short distance offshore, located around the point to the right and down the shoreline a few miles. Back in May I posted a photo of the smokestack as seen from Wheeler's horse farm on top of Molasses Hill in Wyoming County.

A gobi decided to make a meal of Mike's wobbling spoon.

A non-native species, this is a closeup of the gobi.

Out on the lake the wind began to pick up so John opted to motor up the creek.

John removing the weeds from his flatfish.

Heron scanning the creek while perched high in a tree.

 

Mute swan preening.

Turkey vulture swoops in for a closer look.

A bend in the river.

Another heron, this one doing its hunting closer to the water.

Soon it was time to head back downstream and lunch at the Black North Inn. Thanks John, for a great day!

Limited to working Saturdays, we began the construction of the cabin in late July. First we needed to make inroads through a tangle of dogwood thickets, sumac and wild grape vine until we reached what we felt was a suitable building site. Then we needed to make a clearing. Axes, chain saws, weedeaters and loppers were employed those first few outings. After that it was time to build the foundation, then cut logs - mostly maple but a few red pine - and haul them  to the work area. Most cutting was done within a hundred and fifty yards of the cabin, but when the tractor broke down, carrying them made it seem so much farther. The logs were then notched by hand and chinked with mortar. Above the logs rough cut cherry was used.

The cabin was completed a week ago, situated in the clearing from which the red maples and cottonwoods tower above the dog thicket. Deeper into the property, beyond the thickets, are the mature hardwoods, filled with hickory, oak and more maple. Directly north and east property are massive fields filled with either corn or soy beans and the whitetails who feed on them are here in prolific number. Some of my favorite waterfowling grounds are in close proximity as is the Alabama swamp.

While sitting around the campfire last Friday, I looked up into the night sky. Despite the fire's glow, the stars were incredible. To the north was Cassiopeia, the North star and, directly overhead, a spiral arm of the Milky Way. 

In a few weeks, a couple of long bows will be hanging from the cabin wall,  quivers filled with arrows, and a lake plain woodlot filled with adventure yet to come. But about ten p.m. last Friday evening I wasn't thinking so much about the upcoming hunting season. Sure, I'm looking forward to glimpsing antlers darting through the thickets, the cry of honkers and ducks on the wing, but  looking at the stars, that signature handiwork high overhead, I couldn't help thinking about what really  matters most - and Who is really in charge.

The sun had yet to rise and the 15-year-old angler was already at the water's edge. Standing on a large flat rock beneath a railroad trestle, he cast the surface plug far as he could downstream. The plug landed near the top of the pool. Then, instead of allowing the plug to remain motionless until all the ripples disappeared, the young fisherman began to reel in his line as soon as the lure hit the water. And rather than retrieve it slowly, alternately popping and twitching the plug, he reeled steadily, creating a tiny wake.

Within moments the young man noticed another wake, this one smaller, v-shaped and moving rapidly toward his incoming lure. While the wake may have been small, the fish about to intercept his surface plug was not. The water erupted and the young angler at once had his hands full, realizing he was into a mighty good fish. The fish on the end of his line was a jumbo smallmouth and it wasted no time tearing up the surface of that pool, jumping, somersaulting, bulldogging and ending the early morning calm. And just like that it was gone.

As the bewildered young angler stood with his mouth agape, a voice emanated from within a sleeping bag on the bank.

"Youdidn'tplayitlongenough." The voice belonged to Joe Mazzarella Sr. who could sometimes turn a sentence into a single word. That scenario took place 45 years ago this month on the banks of Oatka Creek where it flows near the Le Roy-Pavilion border. The young angler was yours truly. The action began the previous evening. What began as a simple overnight on the banks of the Oatka, turned into an introduction to smallmouths, aka the feisty bronzeback.

After setting up our camp, Joe Jr. and I helped his father with the crab scoop, seining soft shells from a thick weed bed. After nightfall crayfish began to emerge from their daytime lairs beneath rocks. By lantern light we could easily see them in the clear water, dozens of them on the creek bottom. Soon afterward the bullheads began to bite. Not long after that, a school of jumbo smallmouths invaded the pool.

Thus began my introduction into the world of the smallmouth bass, pound-for-pound one of the gamest fish that swims. Once the action slowed we crawled into our sleeping bags and fell asleep under the stars. My education continued just after dawn the next morning, when the aforementioned big smallmouth put on quite an aerial display before spitting the plug back in my direction. A few minutes later Mr. Mazzarella started a fire and I was able to temporarily forget losing the fish when the aroma of bacon and eggs filled the air.

I've lost numerous fish in my time, but none comes to mind like that Oatka smallmouth all those years ago. And too, whenever I think of that fighting smallmouth, wondering just how big it might have been, I can't help but think of Joe Mazzarella Sr.

A few years afterward, while working on the construction of the GCC Batavia campus, I saw "Joe Mazz" quite often. Whenever our paths crossed, he'd ask, "beenfishin?" or "doinanyhuntin?"

It was in the winter of '71 when Joe Sr. was heading to Silver Lake for a day of ice fishing. Weather conditions weren't good, but that wasn't about to stop him. En route to the lake, he happened upon an accident and, being the person he was, Joe Mazz stopped to help. A snow squall had enveloped the area and in near-whiteout conditions the driver of a truck failed to see Joe Sr. assisting at the scene.

That smallmouth was quite a fish and Joe Mazzarella Sr. was quite a guy.