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.