The 29th day of the tenth month of Emergence

CHRISTMAS WISHES

Often you find them in the most unlikely places and in a different light.

The 27th day of the tenth month of Emergence

A great day to go salmon fishing.

Wolfeboro, New Hampshire.  I happened to go to the online cam this morning and noticed that the view over the big lake was not unlike this photo I too a couple of years ago in late April.

Thirty seven degrees and a cold rain today.

  Sounds like late spring.  Sky is overcast and the smelt are on the surface.  That only means that the predators are on the move.  Landlock salmon, rainbow trout, and smallmouth bass.  But it is generally the salmon and trout we look for.  A twinge of nostalgia as I mentally tie on a Red Grey Ghost and hope for the best.

We'll fish these flies as long as the weather stinks like it does this morning.  But then again this is the kind of fishing weather we hope for.  If the sun comes out we may have to go a bit deeper and use metal like a rainbow smelt.

Or maybe an Ontario Flasher.

But those lures are not as much fun to fish as the ones we use on the surface with light tackle.  Sure the uniform of the day, on days like this, starts with good long underwear, heavy socks, boots, heavy pants, sweaters and wind breakers.  Probably gloves.

  Mostly resemble the Pillsbury dough boy.  If we fell overboard, we would bob like corks until the water completely soaked in and then we'd sink like stones.  But hey, we're still indesctrutible.  Well----we were up to only a few years ago.

The 26th day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK - 10

Ten miles inland from Tavern Creek is the small town of Chestertown on the Chester River which flows into the Chesapeake.  This is an incoming storm just at sunset and is actually a tease for the new, yet to be released,  "THIRDi" CD which will include clouds, sky scenics, sunsets and sunrises.  An Artist's aid.

Remember to double click the image for larger resolutions.  I have changed the blog around a bit.  Please note and visit my Photostream, a new addition to this blog and what will eventually become my new website.

The 24th day of the 10th month of Emergence

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK - 9

Emerging from the creek, one is likely to notice a decomposing vessel left to face posterity alone in a marsh.  One can only imagine the stories that could be told about such a boat if only the previous owners could be found.

This is an old Skipjack sailing boat.  Stripped and left in the marsh to do the dust to dust thing.  Watermen, when their boats got to old to use, would simply sail them up a ditch in the marsh and leave them to rot.  Cheapest way to dispose of them.

The Skipjack type boat was introduced into the Chesapeake somewhere in the late 1800's.  It was used strictly for dredging oysters.  Prior to the introduction of this way of oyster fishing in the bay, watermen had to wield long and heavy hand tongs to extract the tasty morsels from the bars on the bottom of the bay.  But the Skipjack had a hand winch amidships that would allow two dredges to be cast into the water, dragged along the bars, and hand cranked one again to the deck.  Oysters and other debris were then sorted and the dredges thrown overboard and the whole process started anew.  This was the primary boat of the famed oyster wars conducted on the Maryland Virginia line between the watermen of those two states.  Fighting for space on the bay.

While there are probably a dozen of these boats still around, the trouble lies in finding a crew who knows how to handle a "Working" sail boat.  Furthermore, the abundance (or lack there of) of oysters in the bay is not sufficient to support a thriving industry.

Back in the day, the skipjacks would leave port on Monday morning and sail all week.  Some would have little boats with a single cabin and a couple of bunks where the sailors would spends the nights.  The catch would be off loaded each day to a ship called a "Buy Boat" seen in the distance in this image. 

The buy boat would simply off load the oysters from a number of skipjacks each day and return to port to sell the load once they were full.  This enabled the fishermen to stay on the water for extended periods of time and not have to sail back to port each day.

Here the "Wilma Lee" carries oyster spat, or young oyster seed, to a bar where the watermen will seed in order to provide a future generation of oysters.  This gives the watermen a bit of extra income in the off season as well as aids in the propagation of the oyster.

Once the tasty morsels made it to shore, the "Shuckers" would take over.  While not a dangerous job, it is tedious.  The knives used to open the shells could, if mishandled, put a significant hole in one's hand.  Believe me, I have visited an emergency room or two while pretending I knew what I was doing.  These folks know what they are doing and are super fast as well.  They get paid by the quart.  And you thought you had a tough job!

The 20th day of the 10th month

You all just gotta go to this website and see a bunch of slides from the 1940's.  No, not mine.  I'm that old but not that active back then.

http://extras.denverpost.com/archive/captured.asp

The 18th day of the 10th month of Emergence

SUNDAY COLORS

Sunday was the first time I have ever hit the mountains at or near the peak of the fall color change.  Well, they were I guess within a couple of weeks of peak. 

Remember to doubled click the images for full screen and a better resolution.

We started out in Asheville, to do of course, a little shopping and lunch at the Biltmore Village.  Actually a very nice place where they have all the big name stores so one could spend a week, but we only had a few hours.

The next step was on to the Blue Ridge Parkway, heading north and thinking that the higher and farther north we went, the more color.  This was one of those vacation type trips and hence the opportunities for photographing was more limited to what the good Lord gave us.  Traffic on the parkway was heavy and pulling off to the side of the road necessarily involved taking one's life into one's hands.  But I got a few shots.  No matter where you go, there is always somebody who wants to do something out of the ordinary (borderline stupid maybe).  At one of the turnoffs, everybody was looking out across the mountains at the longer view.  I of course turned around, rebel that I am, to look at the mountain behind everyone.  And here comes this gal climbing down an almost vertical cliff.  I figured at least I would get some shots of ambulance lights flashing, but she made it.

Now, when one gets on the Blue Ridge, one must be very aware of the level of gasoline in your vehicle's tank.  I thought I had enough, but by the time we got to Mt. Michell I had to ask someone where the nearest station was.  Fifteen miles, which was OK because I wasn't that bad.  A little mountain convenience store with one pump that worked and another that did not.  Also prices were a half buck higher than in the other four surrounding states.  Oh well, I guess that's what all those jerks in New York are demonstrating against.  The evil capitalist.  In this case a couple of true mountain men.  "How do I get back to Asheville?  Cain't rightly get thar from here."  Seems there was a motorcycle accident on top of the mountain and they had closed the road since we left the parkway. 

As you can see from the sign, Mt. Michell is way up there.  In fact the mountain goat and sheep in Alaska have absolutely nothing to fear from me.  By the time I got to the top of Mitchell, I was gasping for oxygen.  Never had that feeling before but I can tell you it's real when the air gets thin. 

Sheri is about half way to the top taking a picture of me while I take one of her.  Not very clear, but the point is look how steep the walk is.  The guy on the right is at a 20 degree list just to keep his momentum going.  At this point we are almost at the top and along comes a guy in an artic cat, giving people rides.  Now he shows up.  Murphy was a true optimist!

I guess it wouldn't be worth it all unless I had a shot from the top of Mt. Mitchell.  I mean, why do we climb a mountain in the first place.  Well, of course to see what's on the other side!  Duh!

The 15th day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

SOUTH CAROLINA STATE FAIR

Yesterday we went to the fair.  Our annual trek to see if the old man (me) will get on to some insane rides designed to raise the blood pressure of teenagers who are already apparently out there on something and certainly do not need more stimuli.  Me, my morning Pikes Place Roast is enough to insure that the blood is still moving at some acceptable rate somewhere in my body.

Well, my grand kids will be snickering about the two rides in which I did partake.  The first was senior citizen appropriate.  At least to the point that the operator said that they would hold my cane until I departed the thing.  My annual Ferris Wheel loop de loop.

This is one of the slides where a ten year old is in an absolute screaming delight,  and can do with an ice cream cone in his hand and not spill a drop.  I, on the other hand simply want to throw up.

Of course if you are an over aged, overachiever, seasoned citizen, this is the only way to look at this thing.  From the top down.

 People at the bottom just could not understand my screams of abject fear.  Three quarters of the way down the old inner ear kicks in..............now that's a ride. (The ear that is)

Sheri caught my "Oh I will enjoy this" expression.  Whether I want to or not.   Not so totally trusting as to why I would ever end up six stories up in the air in some plastic bucket with her laughing at my trepidations.  Not happy but not tooooo scared.  But certainly ready to get down and partake of all the Carnival grease sold in the form of congealed pork chop on a stick and french fries.

  Pass the Prilosec please.

The 14th day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK - 8

Sitting here almost 60 years later with my first Pikes Place Roast of the day, I am struck with the idea that a mid teenage person was allowed by his parents to venture out daily onto a huge body of water that regularly kills more careless souls every year.  But I guess they knew what they were doing or had some inordinate amount of trust in me.   I know I pushed that level of trust over the years probably much to their chagrin.  But in fact I was never alone on the bay....all one had to do was look. 

A waterman starting his day hand tonging for oysters.

A group of watermen clamming on the Chester River.

A group working a set of pound nets.

Another boat load working drift nets.

A patent tonger working an oyster bar just to the south west of Tavern Creek on the Swan Point Bar.

Or finally clammers culling the clams from the rest of the debris found on the bottom of the bay.

Every last one of these guys would have and do come to the aid of anyone in distress on the water.  Oh, yeah they would cuss ya for making them stop their work just to help some green horn, but help they would.  Or if they knew you, they would tease you in public for years for getting in trouble.

  It is amazing however, the stupidity of some who take to the water.  Or mabye it's just people who are unprepared and unaware.  Mostly folks that rent or lease boats for short vacation type trips.  Never been in a boat, never been on the water, have no clue how to get themselves out of trouble.  And, mother nature is very unforgiving.  I have pulled many folks off sand bars upon which they found themselves grounded.  One such comment was made to me by a father on a sailboat with his young son on board.  I was watching them ground themselves with a huge thunder storm forming to the west.  I knew that this had all the markings of a disaster in the making.  They were in the flats off the Tavern and between the islands.  He couldn't understand it.  "This boat draws three feet of water and the charts say I have three feet right here"  Well Duh!  Yeah, that's at high tide and now the tide is out.  I towed them to deeper water and the guy was still shaking his head at the charts.  I told him to stay in the area where he could see the markers for crab pots.  The pots always had to be in a water depth of at least an oars length. Rule of thumb.   Failing that maybe follow the buoys marked on his charts.  Good thing, as it turned out it was a bad storm!

The 13th day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK -7

Hunger overtakes all teenagers and even a shore lunch can become an adventure.  Think of it!  Small boat, a couple of pan stripers, a sand beach, and all the time in the world.

  Alone!  Except for a few gulls always looking for  handouts.  I learned at a very young age to stock the boat or back pack with survival gear...or what I thought to be survival gear.  A small black metal fry pan and a boy scout cooking gizmo that came apart to yield a cooking pot and plate.  Of course the pride of any kid on the shore was the fishing knife carried in a scabbard at the waist.  A fire, couple of fish, some new potatoes, and a couple or three stalks of asparagus heisted from the neighbor's garden.  Now I ask you, are there any kids today that could....or would.....do that?  No Ipods. No ipans. Just I.  And self sufficiency.  Scary stuff!

The general area I have been talking about is on the Eastern Shore of Maryland across the bay from Baltimore.  This old 1950's era postcard will give you an overview of the area.

Sorry for the quality of the card, but it is 1950 and a linen card which shows every thread.  But the color is good.  The line on the right of the card is Rt. 20 and at the end by the water is Gratitude.  Tavern and Swan Creeks are off the card to the top right, with Rock Hall the middle.  For those of you who know the area, it is a lot different today.  This image was made when RH was a sleepy workman's and waterman's town.  Back then it was what a young boy thought to be as wild as any place featured in a story written for "Field and Stream" or "Outdoor Life" magazines.  And it was real time!

The 12th day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK-6

I emerge from the creek into the flats between the two islands.  An area protected from the wind and tide, and realize it is a location of thought.  You know those places. 

A place where nature and the human mind careen into place and introspection comes barging into the frontal lobes.  I equate this morning to another spent many years later on Lake Winnepasaukee in a canoe.

You're all alone, not a ripple of  humanity.  And your mind wanders.  In this case to all the properties my parents owned on Gratitude and a childhood so idyllic.  Until I pass between the island this morning, I will have the opportunity to drift pieces of crab for small or pan sized stripe bass and white perch.  The water isn't over my waist for almost a square mile and the drift will be slow, so my mind can wander.

My dad wasn't rich by today's standards, but he worked hard, got ahead, and invested wisely.  I just wish he had taken me in tow in these regards, but water over the dam.  His investments were, other than a few stocks, in properties he bought and fixed up.  Living in them for a year or so and then turning them over.  He was a flipper way before reality TV became popular.  Along the way my sister and I were blessed to grow up in a couple of amazing places.  Gratitude being one of them.

He bought at Gratitude because this area along with Rock Hall were the launching pads for a number of fishing trips on the bay during his first job after college.  He graduated from Penn State in the early 30's and worked for the Interstate Milk Producers before ultimately becoming president of the Dairy Farm Products Division of the Borden Company in New York City.  He was going back to his roots so to speak in Gratitude.

The first place he bought was Miss Lotty Strong's place and we lived there during the summers.  I of course spent the summer there and was in charge of chores...Dad worked all week long and came down on weekends.

These are old photos taken by either my father or myself.  Not so great, but from an historical prospective are accurate descriptions of the area back in the day.  Double click for full screen.

During the fall and winter days, the house next door would take in borders for the weekend goose and duck hunting seasons.  Now, if my own experiences are any proof, the hunters could get rather rowdy in the evenings.  Of course we would all want to be sleeping at that time and it was really exciting to see the town's only policeman arrive next door with lights flashing at 2:00 AM.  So, Dad decided to buy the place and put an end to all "My rowdy friends".

That first summer, it was my job to paint the interior of the place.  Thirteen bedrooms, two parlors or living rooms, a commercial kitchen and dinning room.  This was hell for a teenager who only wanted to be on the water all the time.  But, we got er done.  Two hundred and thirty gallons of paint if I recall accurately.

Both of these two places were across Lawton Avenue from the water proper and he finally was able to purchase an old sea shanty shack type place across the street.  The original house consisted of three rooms straight from street to water.  We cleaned out the place by paying (donating) the fire company a couple of hundred bucks to bring a truck and turn the high pressure hoses in the front door and blowing everything out the back.  The back of the boarding house which I painted became part of the new place.  Rather than pay the telephone/electric  company's to take down the wires on the street, we cut the house in half, dropped the second floor onto the first, ducked the whole thing under the wires, and rebuilt it as an addition on the new place.  That's the section you see to the right in the following photo.

The bay window on the first floor in the building to the right (the living room) was taken from a demolition site Dad passed in New York City on his way to work.  It came from an old bar and had decorations etched into the glass with a black and gold sign painted in the lower corner with "Ladies Invited".  He bought it for five bucks and had to drive into the city to pick it up.  It made it all the way to Maryland in the back seat of his car that weekend.

The place is now been sold and is for some unfathomable reason is called "Silly Manor".  He sold this place and moved his summer residence to Chestertown, Maryland when he underwent a series of heart attacks and by-pass surgery.  He was probably one of the first five hundred in the world to have such surgery.  He wanted to be closer to the hospital.  He passed away a few years later, the victim of a head on crash driving from New Jersey to his beloved Gratitude.

The 11th day of the 10th month of Emergence

SAYIN GOODBYE!

I think that these guys are headed south.  It's been a couple of weeks without adding new feed to the feeder and I have not seen them around.  Next year guys it's been a great ride.

Remember to double click the photo for full screen and better resolution.

The tenth of the tenth

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK-5

The farther one goes into a creek like Tavern, on the fringes of the Chesapeake, the more one feel like he is in one of those Chinese finger toys.

  The harder you try to pull away, the closer and tighter the  memories and lessons become.

  These creeks are bordered with marsh land supporting such critters as muskrat, beaver and whitetail deer.  All kinds of feathered stuff abounds as well.  All one needs to do is be quiet, slow, and bright eyed attentive to what the good Lord put before us.

Edges and little tongues of water off the main channel offer unmeasured treasures, even if it is as simple as a reflection.

Or just an old snag that provides resting spots for red wing blackbirds, hawks, and the occasional bald eagle.  This eagle has returned to his nest of birth for a momentary safe feeling before he moves on to continue his life.  Or perhaps just a poignant farewell.

The marsh gives way to farm land as the lay of the land rises away from the creek.  Farming and hunting are the primary endeavors in this place.  Corn. soybeans and winter wheat are the staple crops.  Ducks, geese, and deer are the wild game of choice for the hunters.

An old blind is readied for the season.  In this area, farmers will leave a row or two of corn for the geese.  This gives them winter feed and the farmer a spot from which to shoot.

  So far, the roots seem to be soundly planted in the creek and I guess some of my own roots have taken hold through some of these experiences.  Only took a half century for it to sink in, but these roots have been there all along.

The 7th day of the 10th month

MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK - 4

It is funny, I can wander into a room of the house specifically in search of something.  Get there and have absolutely no idea why I am standing, looking around for something, that has totally vanished from my thought process.

But the texture, feel, look, and meaning of a particular morning on a hidden muddy creek on the eastern shore of Maryland's Chesapeake Bay is embedded in the front of my forehead as if it happened 30 seconds ago.  Yet it was over 55 years past.  Strange what we seasoned citizens must endure.

The fog slowly lifts revealing a marshland on either side of the creek.  A full tide allows my craft to snuggle into the grasses edge as I sneak around each bend.  Fishing is probably done for the day as the sun lifts and the tide wanes, but other natural wonders abound for a young man in his formative years.  These creeks along the eastern shore of the bay are simply mini highways into an incredibly productive farming country.  Such country can be found from the shores of the Susquehanna River in New York and Pennsylvania,  all the way south to the mouth of the bay at Cape Charles in Virginia.  Much of the area is similar.  Bear in mind that a hundred years ago, the only transportation in the area was by boat.  So a great deal of the property along the Bay is constructed with water access in mind. 

Sections of the creek open suddenly to show nature's hidden gems.  This doe has spent the night feeding on the corn and soybeans of the adjacent farm and is now bedded down for the remainder of the day.  Late in the afternoon, she will rise and start the feeding process all over again.

You can find these wonderment's if you know the area and are quiet enough not to disturb the critters.  Fields still open to the water's edge and the newest arrivals are on the morning feed.

A young osprey should have left the nest for the flight south around or on the 15th of September.  But being young, he hasn't learned the drill and still hangs out hoping that his parents are incoming with another fish for breakfast.  He'll get hungry in a day or two and start to hunt in earnest and move on south until sometime in mid march when he returns to the same area.

 As the tide starts to move out in earnest, I must leave the constricting shores of the creek and seek deeper water.  Even in my little craft, the bottom will come up too fast.  At the mouth of Tavern, I am looking south towards the bay bridge at Annapolis some 12 miles away. 

Immediately in front of my craft's bow is about three quarters of a mile of flats between the two islands.  One island on the west side of the flat and another on the east.  Our home lies to the east of the entire flat and over Swan Creek.  Baltimore lies to the West North West and across the bay.  The fog has burnt off and a welcomed warmth is building in the eastern sky.  The creek is quiet, but the flat is constantly moving with wind and tide.  The islands are destined for destruction from the ever eroding forces of moving water and sand.  But this day they offer protection from the building waves of the bay proper.

The sixth day of the tenth month of the year of Emergence

 MINDING THE ROOTS AT TAVERN CREEK -3

On a rare fall weekend trip, I quietly slip the boat from the dock way before anybody at our place even thinks of turning over and putting the feet on the floor.  Just before dawn the tide is beginning to swell and the boat is only inches below the top of the grey weathered boards of the dock.  The air is cool enough that a misty fog shrouds the shoreline and dampness begins to work into the body before the boat even approaches Rock Hall harbor.

The harbor at Rock Hall is only a few minutes run from Gratitude and is the place where one can buy gas for the boat and bait for fishing.  Normally, during the summer months, I would have caught some peeler crabs or soft shells the day before.  But this is a weekend trip and I must search for them or buy them.  In this case I dip a couple of soft shells that are hanging on a holding net in the harbor.  These are crabs that are hanging on the "Outside" of the nets and on the pilings, so there is no question of theft. 

The bounty of the bay is available for all and as long as a man's livelihood is not disturbed, critters can be captured wherever they are found.  Today, I am not so sure that this creed would still apply.  Twenty minutes into the morning, the boat is gassed and live bait obtained, and it's off back north into the mouth of Swan Creek.  As I enter the creek there are a half dozen poles buried in the creek bottom in a line off to the left between the inshore island and the end of Swan point.  This is a rudimentary channel marked by one of the local watermen years ago and maintained by anyone who notices a pole askew.  This is the hidden entrance to Tavern Creek.  Not seen from the main shore line and not deep enough to be available to most boaters.  Nature's hideaway.  A tricky entrance to another world.

There is an old dock on the left as I quietly sneak into the creek.  Still foggy.  Not a ripple on the water as I paddle my little 14 foot pile of plywood over a barrier sand bar at the mouth of Tavern.  The only sound in the stillness of the morning is an opportunistic splash against the shoreline.  A large striper captures a bait fish frantically seeking sanctuary in the roots of the tall phragmites plants that line the shore. 

Just past the little dock is a deep bend in the creek where the tides have created a little sandy beach below three or four scraggly old pine trees.  Dark water and a deep drop off is a great place to cast a half peeler crab.

But first the angry "Crank---Crank" of a blue heron scolding my intrusion to his idyllic world.  He will have to find another place to fish as I have taken over his domain.

The shore line ripples in the water left by the marauding striper and the departing blue heron slowly dissipate into the fog and quiet returns.  I make my first cast into that dark water, hoping the striper will return that way and pick up on the scent of the crab.  The only other sound is that of a red winged blackbird clinging on one of the stalks of grass deep in the marsh.

For the moment all is at peace on Tavern Creek.