WORCESTER (b) BLACK COFFEE Youth Fishing Memories Pt 1

 

Memories and mysteries of youth fishing days. Memories are elusive and a particular quandary as you get older. Memories need nourishment in many forms; physical reminders; family members’ reminisces and so on. But if you have been separated from all your thoughts and reminders as a youth for say 30 years as is my case, why memories are darn near stretched to the vanishing point.

But I recall those cold April early mornings as my father and I zip up Rt 122 N in a black Ford Falcon wagon , fishing tackle in the rear, making our way to the east branch of the Swift River. A few streamers , pre-fabricated leaders and like Gadabout Gaddis, we are ready to wet the line.

Out of Tatnuck Square and up the long steady hill, pass the Worcester Airport entrance and you ask yourself: Is this not the perfect location for an airport? High above the city ; its main runway catapulting the plane nose first into the vastness. An immediate ascent. A smothering push of wind over and under the wings and you are flying. Bernoulli’s principal for this city of seven hills.

My father drank his coffee black with sugar and I a 14 yr old, liked my coffee with cream and sugar. We couldn’t, we didn’t, want to bring two different thermos. And one morning we hit pay dirt: lets go for black- no sugar, no cream. We brewed a pot, poured it into a thermos and each took a sip. Done. Coffee from this point on would be black. We were off.

My father worked for the US Postal Service as a clerk- sorting envelopes by hand according to addresses. If you recall the postal clerk in the movie “ Miracle on 34th Street” flinging, zipping envelopes into square slots; that’s exactly what my father did for eight hours each work day. He knew every zip code in Worcester and the surrounding towns.

I doubt there were many envelopes using the newly developed zip code process of 1963, but I’m sure, like any national program it took a quantum effort to achieve 100% compliance. As my siblings and I got older, setting up our own homes he would call one of us .

“ Hey you have a red notice from Jordan Marsh aren’t you paying your bill?” My father worked the 6PM to 2AM shift On Saturday’s he would put on a pot of coffee and wake me at about 4:45AM for a morning of fishing. We would load the Falcon, start the tiny engine and as my father pressed on to the clutch pedal and brought the column mounted shifter into gear, we popped forward.

Through the sleepy town of Barre, pass the band stand, angle around the town center and then left back onto Rt 122N again to the river’s small stone parking lot. There is a small wooden sign on a wooden post. In burned charred letters it reads: “East Branch of the Swift River.”

Car stopped. Rear door’s handle’s thumb plug pressed . Our hearts are pounding , we can’t wait to get our flies in the river. There is still a low, smoky light as we reach into the jumbled morass of rods, reels, hooks, tire irons and our grandfather’s brown suitcase. “Can you find my rod tip? I think its under the suitcase.” It takes us 10 minutes to make ourselves ready .

I think back on those mornings as I watched my father still somewhat groggy from little sleep wrench on his hip boots. I remember his smile most of all. I think he was enjoying a graceful father- son moment. I know I was.

 First the hip boots are wrenched on over our trousers. Then the fly poles are connected and rested against the car. Fly line is then threaded through the pole’s eyes , leader attached to the fly line. Our poles are 6’ long , the leader about 6’ too. To tie the fly to the leader we used a knot my father learned in the Navy during WWII. He called it a “tight” knot, I called it an unnatural version of the square knot. (These knots would not be diagrammed in Field and Stream’s “how to” section. ) But they worked.

If you got a fly tangled on a tree branch or on a submerged rock shelf , you knew that with a mighty yank and pull, something was going to give way. Maybe the branch, the rock ,maybe the rod itself , but the knot holding the fly to the line would remain intact. A river might run through us but, my Dad wasn’t Rev. Maclean and I not Paul, his son.

Down the embankment we stroll. Hip boots slogging. The dark, shimmering river is rumbling after a fresh rainfall. Silver foils of water roll over themselves skimming over hidden rock out crops. The river is only about 20 feet wide at this point, so a long overhead cast is not allowed. I mean this ain’t Wyoming.

Instead we had to employ a small pudgy roll cast ,often times snaking the line just under dense overhead tree branches. On some cold mornings, ice would clog the eyes of our poles. “ Its so cold ,” my father would say, “the fish can’t wait to get into our creels.” What he should have said, why don’t we catch more fish? I mean nothing. We caught so very few trout over the years. Maybe it was our presentation. Or the chomping sounds of our boots as we waddled slowly into the stream.

 I always claimed it was the darn knot we tied connecting the fly to the leader. Or maybe we chose a fly because it looked attractive – not to the fish- but to us. We could have used worms, but we were purists. Some mornings we could have used a hand grenade to stun the fish to the surface.

We would often split up- my father heading up river and me down. After about two or three hours of fishing my father having slogged to me would call out: “ Any luck?” I shook my head. I knew he wanted to go home. “ Couple of more casts and I’m ready,” I replied. And that was that. We would reel in our line, remove the fly and the leader material, and sitting on the rear bumper yank our boots off , store our gear and head for home. The Ford Falcon wagon served us well once again.

Our black coffee was cold. We would brew a new pot the next time we headed out for an early morning fishing expedition.

WORCESTER: Youth Fishing Memories Pt II

Worcester: Black Coffee & Youth Fishing memories Pt 2

 

There were many occasions when my father and I were accompanied by other less than enthusiastic members of our family on a fishing adventure. Usually my younger brother and my maternal grandfather would tag along. This of course meant that our 4AM assembling of perked coffee and fishing gear would instead occur @ 4 PM . But at this hour there would be no coffee, no half hazard placement of our fishing gear in the shadowy trunk. Instead we would pack soda, juice, some sandwiches ,  a six pack of Ballantine ale and a small pint of Seagram's 7. " To steady grampa's hands, " my father would say.

On these such trips we usually headed for Barre Falls Damn which corrals the Ware river. The damn is wrestled amongst a few central mass towns; Hubbardston, Barre, and Oakham. The entrance takes you high above the damn and parking is also high above the Ware river. I think all stream fishing requires a plodding walk to the stream bank .

There is an area provided for picnicking, trail walking and other non fishing related activities The up- river lays low in an expansive open field area and is about 50 feet wide with no trees to effect how you can cast. With such open space a long back cast is allowed. With little rapids and little movement ,the deep green water invited a dry fly.

On these occasions we would abandon our Mickey Fin streamer flies and still judging the correct fly by how attractive it looked to us, select a dry fly that met out approval. Mimicking the actual stream surface hatch? What are you talking about? A Caddis hatch? Isn't that a character in a Lewis Carroll story?

There is a measurable bend in the river and it was usually at this juncture that we would fish. The river has a small undulating rhythm moving to our left ,as it moves along its low cut banks We gathered the gear- fly rods and reels and for my brother and grandfather, two Zebco Zee Bees 202, tackle box and a can of night crawlers.

A fly fishing tackle box is what my father used to describe as : Quakerish. Nothing fancy just a simple small and compact design to serve a simple purpose- holding your flies. But with shore fishing, we usually brought a tackle box the size of a well…a bread box. Loaded with numerous sized compartments, we have it chock filled with every conceivable hook, bobber, lure, pieces of discarded lines, split shot.

In one compartment there is  the dried carcass of a worm that no one dares touch. And it is taking up a badly needed compartment! “I could fit six lures in that space,” someone said. I think every young fisher person has owned one or two Zebco Zee Bee 202 in their lifetime. The distinct “click” sound as you released the casting button is an unmistakable reminder of one’s youth. And the stark “zinging” of the reel as you reel in a fish or try to yank the hook free from something it has caught on to sings.

At the river’s edge there is a large rock, just perfect for my grandfather to sit. I always got him geared to go. The 202 is ready, the hook is on the line, ( with my father’s knot of course,) and I reach into a Maxwell House coffee can which contains the bait. Long, silvery,phlegmatic worms, or since they have the flat tail, nightcrawlers.

I thread the worm’s mouth onto the point, along the bend and onto the shank . Yes, worms do have mouths! I would cast as far up stream as possible to give the worm as much natural float time. My grandfather would hold the rod/reel in one hand and puff on a Lark cigarette with other. My father and brother have walked up stream and I find my special spot and  release about 15 feet of line and leader onto the water and pop the rod’s tip up and to my right. I flap my wrist and begin the methodical operation of pulling fly line from the reel.

With back cast after back cast being careful to not allow the line and fly to begin a descent unless over water, I ease the fly onto the water and watch a fine effortless drift begin( like a natural fly I hope.) It is a little upstream. Fortunately, I have achieved a darn good dry fly float. I await the trout’s lips to suck in its dinner. And then become mine!

I should have seen or at least heard my brother approaching. I should have seen the blue rod snap back, positioned for a cast. I didn’t. I guess I was concentrating on my fishing. Suddenly I heard the distinct click of the 202 releasing its line. From over my right shoulder a huge ball of night crawlers the size of a Civil War cannon ball was arching in the air and heading straight for my fly.

Like a drone fired missile, the glob came down directly on my fly. “Thunksh” was its sound. My poor #18 shot up from the water, somersaulted and in slow motion twists and turns and floats into the worm's spinning vortex . Like a like a scene from “Jaws” my fly slowly sank from view. If I had any expectations of catching a fish that day, twelve pounds of nightcrawlers on a #10 hook sealed my fate.

Ironically the only one to catch a fish that day was my brother. A seamless 16” rainbow trout. And here I am 45+ years later with a robust life behind me and I still ask the question: How on God’s green earth did the trout’s snout find its way through the mass of worm to the hook’s point? A true mystery.