In a continuance of the saga of my spring fishing trip to New Hampshire, I felt compelled to introduce you to the "Playas" on that trip. There are six of us who have now done this thing for 42 years. Quite a feat to say the least. This is the first of two installments.
Evidence shows that there are basically five of my friends who comprise this group of anglers who have gone each spring to the semi-wilds of New Hampshire's Lake Winnepasaukee, in search of the lowly landlocked salmon. We would gather generally on the last Wednesday in April and stay until the following Sunday. In no particular order I would like to introduce them.
Frank, "Abe" or at times "Boat Ride"
Basically Abe is our host and has been so since 1968, the first year. That year, he and his father co-hosted me, so it was no big thing. We went just to prove that there were really salmon in the lake and more importantly that we could catch them.
Abe and I graduated High School together. He went on to college at Colgate and then to Penn Dental, followed by a hitch in the army as a dentist. I recall visiting he and his lovely wife at Fort Leonard Wood, in Missouri. At that time, I was working for Merrill Lynch in my first two years of training to become a commodities broker. I was in Chicago where I had gone for a two week training period, which turned into six months. When I finally left the windy city, I and my wife took a detour to visit with the young dentist "Captain" and wife in Missouri. We then drove back to our New Jersey home through some of the more scenic back roads of W. Virginia and Virginia. Sometime around then a book was written about the "Blue Highways" and we followed the same on the map from old Miss to Westfield, NJ.
After discharge, Abe started a dental practice in Oldwick, NJ which is central to that state in Hunterdon County. We, at the time lived in Gladston, NJ, which was only a few miles from his office and home. Needless to say he became our family dentist and remained so almost to his retirement. Since the beginning, just about every tooth in my mouth has fallen out, but I don't think he had much to do with that.
The two of us roamed around most of the farms around his home in Biddle, NJ and became members of the Black River Road and Gun Club in Pottersville, NJ. My late father in law introduced us to the club and we were subsequently offered membership. The club maintained a couple hundred acres of prime hunting land and over two miles of one of the most pristine trout streams in the state. It was one of the few streams which had a natural spawn of brook trout. Abe and I would each go on to preside over the club some years later.
The lake property and house in New Hampshire was owned by his grandmother. With her passing, Abe's farther and sister owned the place and then as in most families the property went to the offspring. In this case to Abe and his sister, and now to their children. The property was some hundred acres of deep woods and probably 200-300 yards of shore line.
Abe acquired the name "Boat Ride" because he was always driving the big boat and often not finding any fish for his passengers. He was then labeled as driving the tour bus and not performing his duties of guide. It's tough living with our crowd. If you perform, you are one thing and if you don't, your another. I think you will discover that there is no such thing as winning in this group.
"The House Magpie" on the left and our host, "Boat Ride" on the right
John, "Green" or the "House Magpie"
John was Abe's room mate at Penn Dental. Yep another dentist! A very nice guy who started out using a spinning rod and a plastic lure called a "Repala".
Now remember the rest of us are purists. That is, when trout or salmon fishing, nothing replaces a well tied artificial fly, on a leader, on a fly line, cast or held by a fly rod and reel. So one of Abe's best friends shows up with a "Wall Mart" spinning rod and reel, and a "Repala".
A "Repala"!
A Repala is a plastic thing made to swim just under the surface of the water and imitate a three or four inch minnow. It has three or four treble hooks and is very unsportsman like. I think in his second year he showed up with a "Wall Mart" (green fiberglass I think) fly rod. He now became a full member of the club.....but.
He insisted upon using a huge ghastly yellow fly called a "Barns Special". This fly is meant to imitate a young perch, which is about the fifth most tasty bait on a salmon's shopping list. It is designed to catch fishermen at the tackle store. The rest of us use flies that approximate the most prevalent fish in the lake and number one on the shopping list, a smelt.
Over the years, John began to get the message and changed his ways to include other fly patterns such as the Red Grey Ghost. That fly has caught more salmon on our trip than any other single fly. So John went from trip goat in the early years pretty consistently to only a modest goat in our later years. Being a goat means you have not caught any fish. Don't get me wrong. We all have been goats. Your humble writer himself being one for a solid two and half years. There is nothing wrong with that, other than it is painful as hell when it happens. And the others, "Friends" make sure the pain is inflicted and real.
"Green" shows how to troll a Rapala on a green Wall Mart fly rod
John is of the opinion that the slower one plays poker, the better and more successful he will be. He also holds his cards tightly and very, very slowly opens his hand one card at a time. He does succeed in driving the other players from the table to do some minor chore or other and be back in time for him to bet. His success is also inversely proportionate to the amount of adult beverages consumed. Or course that could be said of any of us at the table, although two of us went through AA along the way. That trip does test one's resolve. The title of "House Magpie" was they result of way too much Vodka one night. He got very talkative and actually played his cards a lot slower (if that is possible) as a result.
John is also the only one to suffer a heart attack while on the trip. He felt ill, but was not diagnosed until he returned home. Thank God. He is in good company though as one of us has had a blood clot, another a stint in the chest, and the third a triple or quad by-pass. None of which are good enough excuses to miss a fishing trip, but amazingly we are all still on the green side of the dirt. I mean if you can't physically fish, you can at least drive the boat.
Bill, "Willy the Cape", or the "Bead Merchant"
"Willey the Cape" displays his professional angling style.
As in any group of men who at seventy something years and still consider themselves to be in high school, nicknames have a tendency to stick. Bill's is no exception and "Cape" refers to his physical similarity to a chicken or capon, when dressed for bed and in a bathrobe. I think this name, not the least bit humorous to the reader, was probably created back when when copious amounts of adult beverages consumed by the group.
Bill lived in Hunterdon County, NJ and was introduced to me by another member of the group a few years after our first trip north. He ran a Christmas shop in Hunterdon County, just outside of Oldwick. The shop sold all sorts of decorations including beads and hence the "Bead Merchant" moniker.
Bill is a tad bit older than the rest of us, has had a couple of wives but is the last one would think of when one conjured up the dashing, Hollywood, concept of a ladies man. But, who knew! He is a consummate fisherman with almost as much experience in salt water as fresh. Bill loves to analyze why the fish are biting or not biting which drives the rest of us nuts. He also has a tough time making decisions, which really does push our nerves to the breaking point. He is always asking for other opinions before he finally pulls the trigger on a conclusive decision.
Consider this.
A backwoods cabin, deep in the New Hampshire woods, six men all sleeping in sleeping bags, in their long underwear (for at least three days), and Bill has to have sheets on his bed. Pajamas and bathrobe with slippers. That's Bill, and that image gave him the name "Cape". He looked like a dandy chicken dressed up like that.
This is the man who never learned, in some forty two years, how to play poker! We would have to explain the rules with each deal, each year! If anyone could bluff at our card table and win, it would be he! We play nickel, dime, quarter, dealer's choice......All the time! If the ante is a nickel or dime, top bet is a quarter. We don't look to make money at this game, just have fun. If Bill bets a quarter....everyone folds their hand. Everyone. He never bets, let alone raises. He could have a royal flush and still only bet a nickel. But that's bill.
He has had more real and imaginary physical problems up there than anyone. Too cold was his excuse a lot of years for not fishing. His hands would get too cold. Or his feet. The rest of us would just layer up and not complain. Poor circulation I guess.
One of his wives tried to keep his diet on the straight and narrow (this is not the place to do that) and put him on a low cholesterol regime. He showed up at the lake that year with a dinner comprised of a turkey sausage dish. Abe, upon seeing what he was expected to eat, reacted at the top of his lungs in the way only one of us could. "Cape, what is this ....? Insert a crass term referring to excrement. I have to admit it was pretty bad, but we never went hungry.
Three guys would each bring a dinner, one breakfasts, and one lunch materials. One night we ate leftovers. Needless to say there is enough cholesterol to stop up the Lincoln and Holland tunnels combined. One year every one of the dinner people brought the same green vegetable.......Canned pees. We ate those things all week long! To this day, I still look at canned peas with a modicum of disdain.
And who of us could forget the call from the bathroom one day. One of us was making a run to town for something (Probably more beer). It was a plaintive call that compares in the north woods to that of a lonely loon. You know that long sound one hears during the night from over a calm water surrounded by echo. Plaintive, pleading as only an old horny bird can make, in the still of the night, when looking for his mate. "Don't forget Feenamin!"
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