fishing – S'amusing

To Adie, With Love…

A young lady will ‘meet’ her great grandfather for the first time, thanks to a small tin box of flies and a good story teller. She has the story teller, her grandmother, my sister, and soon will have the flies, a small metal box of fishing flies, tied by the skilled hands of her great grandfather, four generations earlier.

Imagine, a family heirloom, of sorts, being passed down, not to a daughter, nor a granddaughter, but to a great granddaughter. Not a fancy piece of furniture, nor a sparkling broach, but flies. From one long-passed outdoorsman to a young vibrant outdoors woman, three generations removed.

My dad was an avid fisherman who enjoyed making his own lures. He turned wood dowels into ‘plugs’* on a lathe, and strung eels for surf fishing in the rough waters off the duned beaches of Cape Cod. He tied flies, lures that mimicked real flies, to attract trout in the placid ponds populating the rural countryside of central Massachusetts. He was proficient, passionate and a perfectionist about both skills, making the lures and catching the fish.

I kept his tin of flies, and other lures, upon his passing, some 40 years ago, as a reminder of the man. But these feathered and fuzzy creations go back even further in time, at least twenty years prior to his death. Hunched over a folding metal table, squinting through bifocals balanced on the end of his nose, and surrounded with the tools of his ‘art’, he meticulously hand crafted faux bugs to the smallest detail.

Supplied with an array of brightly covered feathers, buck tails, various size hooks, a vise to hold them and thread to join all the components tightly together, he would produce stunning replicas of the local insects that he hoped would help him land the next ‘big one’. A reference book of flies always lay open next to him as he meticulously tied them to the exact specifications, as outlined.

This story isn’t about catching fish, though. It’s not about about tying flies, it’s about a man, his passion and preserving his love of the outdoors by gifting an ‘heirloom’. It’s about connecting with following generations to keep his story alive. And, it’s about love.

It’s very likely that if my dad was here today, then he, Adie and her dad would be at the closest fishing hole, enjoying the outdoors and each other’s company, maybe spinning yarns of ‘the one that got away’.

“Adie, I want you to have these flies. Use them to catch the big one!”

Love,

Great Grandpa Bottcher

Steve (srbottch.com)

February 2021

To Adie and avid young outdoors lovers, everywhere. ‘Keep a tight line’ and keep making memories.

And, to June, my big sister, Adie’s grandma

*Plug (Swimming Plug) – A hard plastic or wood artificial lure that is usually cast and retrieved or sometimes trolled.

Never Park In Front of A Lighthouse: A Father’s Lesson

Beavertail Lighthouse*, Jamestown, Rhode Island (USA)

Footnote: as background for this story, I read this year that the US government was removing this lighthouse from its inventory. People can bid for it. a nonprofit likely will get preference. Now, let your imagination take over and enjoy this personal story…

Jamestown Island, Rhode Island was a favorite destination for our weekend fishing getaways. Dad and I and a friend of mine would pack our Chevy station wagon with sleeping bags, cooking gear and tackle for an outdoor excursion that every fishing enthusiast would love, especially kids. I was a lucky son. And Friday was our getaway day.

The boxlike wagon held everything in an orderly fashion. This precursor of the minivan/SUV, our Chevy allowed the back seat to be folded down, creating a spacious interior that accommodated a wood frame built to hold a platform as long and wide as the open space. This was our weekend ‘home’.

My dad and friend, both big bodies, slept on top while I squeezed my lanky adolescent body underneath, pressed against our supplies and equipment that filled the space next to me. Any overflow gear was stored in our trailered boat. Sleeping on one’s back was the best option due to space limitations. The flatter we could be, the better.

While driving to Jamestown, I would lay belly down atop the platform bed, head resting on my crossed arms, looking straight out the windshield, not a safe nor secure position, for certain. A sudden stop and forward slide was problematic and any hotdogs I had carefully balanced spilled onto the front seat, condiments and all.

Jamestown, itself, was fascinating and mysterious with its variety of fish and other sea creatures: striped bass, blues, mackerels, flounder, tautog, conga eels, and blue crabs. We caught them all, or tried.

Stately homes lined the shoreline. A ghostly one, long since deserted, stood decaying among the offshore rocks. And two gigantic car ferries crisscrossed Narragansett Bay between Jamestown and Newport, adding to the seductive nature of the island.

The end of the island sloped downward into the Atlantic. ‘Beavertail’ described its outline perfectly. And standing post above the rocks, looking out at the wide open sea, was the historic Beavertail Light House with its far reaching beacon and mighty horn, alerting incoming ships of the dangerous promontory.

My dad was always teaching us with tidbits of information or observations to enrich our young minds, as dads often do. Sometimes, lessons came with real life examples thati left indelible marks in our memories, like paying attention to details. Missing or foolishly ignoring the warning sign on the lighthouse wall is one lesson I’ll never forget.

“DO NOT PARK IN FRONT OF LIGHTHOUSE HORN”

To this day, I still believe that he parked there for a purpose…

Lighthouse horns are LOUD!

Glad I wasn’t holding a frothy root beer🥤.

Steve (December 2021)

* They are landmarks: The Beavertail Lighthouse and the Watch Hill Lighthouse, both are in Rhode Island. Now, the U.S. Coast Guard is giving up ownership

Follow my blog for more stories. Find me at Srbottch.com

“Ice Fishing” in The Meadowbrook…A Tale of Sorts

It’s been a lean winter for ‘ice fishing in the Meadowbrook’…

…unlike last season, when the ‘giants’ were so plentiful, I could practically ‘fish’ from my window. Hopes were raised with a recent storm that put an abundant snow cover on my roof. But Mother Nature’s tepid temps have dashed any chance of ‘landing’ a big one, now.

As I sit in the mid winter comfort of my sun porch, I’m disappointed by the rapid snow melt, rivulets of water cascading off my roof and streaming down my gutters like a Spring trout stream, ruining any opportunity for a good ‘catch’. Yet, at the same time, I feel a sense of relief and contentment.

After all, ‘ice fishing in the Meadowbrook’ is fraught with challenges and danger. ‘Casting about’ a lengthy aluminum roof rake with frozen feeling fingers, and numb toes precariously gripping the icy rungs of a metal ladder, is not a sport for the timid.

Clearing these ‘monsters’ from roof and gutters requires strength, dexterity and the fortitude to take an ‘avalanche’ of snow smack in the face. If not careful or quick enough to dodge it, the glacial barrage will catch your collar and trespass down your neck, soaking the long-johns you struggled to pull on earlier to avoid this very thing, a cold damp body.

This was my challenge last winter. Miserably chilled, I continued my quest for a trophy ‘keeper’, because that’s what a fisherman does: goes after the prize.

After working the roof and watching ‘throwaways’ slide by on their way to the ground, the elusive ‘monster’ finally appeared from behind the last snow barrier. It was the ‘big one’, the one that nearly ripped off my gutter, where it spawned and grew like an ancient stalactite.

Clearing a path with a cautious drag of the rake across snow covered shingles, the ‘catch of the season’ suddenly lurched forward and hurtled toward me like a bobsled. The extended ladder absorbed the hit and saved it from ‘getting away’. As wet, cold and slippery as it was, I wrapped my arm around it and made a triumphant but careful retreat to the ground.

A 10 pounder, maybe 20. I smiled through lips so cold and cracked, they bled. Fishing for trophies isn’t easy, ‘ice fishing in the Meadowbrook’ neighborhood is as challenging as it gets. But the bragging rights you earn are worth every frost bitten digit you can’t feel.

Now? Now, it’s trophy time!

Ice Fishing

Every season can’t be as fruitful as the winter of ’14/’15, thankfully!

srbottch

dedicated to all who try to keep ice out of their gutters and survive to tell about it, we’re a hearty group