outdoors

The months and weeks leading up to that first wilderness fly-in fishing trip can be a time of great anticipation. It’s been thirty years since my first trip via float-plane, and countless thoughts drifted through my mind while counting down the days to departure. But of all the wilderness scenarios I envisioned, none included the sight before my eyes on an afternoon in late May pf 1979.

A fourteen foot, semi-V hull fishing boat containing two wide-eyed fishermen was teetering precariously atop a beaver dam. Johnny Plasko sat in the stern, Phil Albanese occupied the bow. Both were wearing the “what do we do now?” look.

Friends since the fifties, growing up and attending school together in Newark, New Jersey, Phil and Johnny were beginning to understand life in the Canadian wilds was a far cry from metro New Jersey.  

In the moments before John and Phil’s boat became airborne I was attempting to lead a second boat around the dam. In this boat were Basil Pizzuto and Dave Ryder. Holding the bow line, I moved slowly through a flooded backwater. When we heard the roar of the outboard we looked downstream. We saw Phil leaning forward, both his hands clutching the gunwale. Behind him was Johnny, one hand on the throttle and his head held high, trying to see around Phil.

I worked side by side with Johnny in those years, and there was no doubt in my mind what he was about to do.

Johnny had the throttle wide open when they made contact with the beaver dam. They nearly cleared the barrier but the prop shaft caught in the mixture of mud and sticks.

I just shook my head and continued leading the second boat around the dam. That’s when the bottom disappeared. I may have found the underwater entrance to the beaver lodge. Big Dave reacted quickly, reached over the side of the boat and with one hand snatched me out of the drink before my chest waders completely filled with water.     

BURNTBUSH RIVER

The beaver dam spanned Soucie Creek, a narrow waterway that meanders through muskeg country for three miles before spilling into the Burntbush River.

Basil and I located the head of the creek three days earlier, barely an hour after the float plane dropped us off. Thanks to the Canadian Ministry of Mines & Resources, we had been studying topographic maps of the area several weeks prior to the trip.

That first trip down Soucie Creek saw us in a square stern canoe with a 10 hp motor – and we nearly swamped it several times. We returned to camp and decided to return another day – this time in a boat. 
 

Three days later we left our camp on Soucie Lake early in the morning, negotiated the creek with no problem, portaging around the beaver dam before coming to the river.

 A day’s fishing on the Burntbush had been quite productive. There would be several fish to clean for supper. And it was Phil and Johnny, who caught the largest pike and walleye, respectfully. Both fish came from the same pool at the head of a stretch of rapids. Unfortunately, Phil’s pike – a real trophy - didn’t make the return trip. I’ll explain why.   
 

Within minutes after entering the river the fish began to cooperate. Whether spin casting or trolling we caught fish. After a lull in the action Phi said he had a fish on. It looked to be a good one, judging by the arch in his rod. We watched his line zig-zag back and forth for several minutes before he brought the fish alongside the boat where Dave was waiting with the net. With one deft scoop of the net the pike was lifted from the water. To say the fish was big would have been an understatement. No one had a scale, but in pike fishing circles, this was the size of pike referred to as a “slob.” Lying in the bottom of the net, the big fish curled itself into a U - shape, straining against the mesh.   

Phil attached the pike to an old fashioned chain and clip stringer which already held a few fish – more pike and walleyes. No sooner was the fish back in the drink when it started thrashing to beat the band, banging the stringer repeatedly against the boat and creating a racket. Every few moments Phil would lift the stringer to look at the giant pike – and who could blame him – the fish was that impressive. And when he eased it back into the water the racket began anew. Soon the fish quieted down – or so it seemed. The next time Phil checked on his fish it was gone. At the end of the stringer were the two clips he had stuck through the pikes mouth. They were pried open. All that thrashing had been the pike repeatedly twisting and turning, in the process prying open the clips and freeing itself.  
 

NORTHERN LIGHTS

After dinner that same evening, the lake was mirror calm and here and there one could see surface rises. Casting a surface plug resulted in a strike which turned out to be my first pike caught on the surface. When I caught another there was a mad dash for the boats. “Let’s take this one, John,” said Phil as he stepped off the makeshift dock and into the previously mentioned canoe. Phil should have stepped to the canoe’s center but he didn’t and the canoe rolled, sending him into the lake. Phil stayed in camp to put on dry clothes and never did fish that night. As a result he and John missed an incredible light show. That’s Phil with the net trying to retrieve sunken belongings.

We had seen the northern lights the first few evenings in camp, at the time they appeared as ghostly vapors high overhead, there one second - gone the next. But on this night Basil, Dave and I were in for a real treat. By the time total darkness enveloped the lake - about 11 pm and the fish had long since retired. We were still on the water when we saw a small speck of light overhead. Within minutes that speck grew in size until it covered most of the northern sky. Three of us sat in the boat for a considerable time without talking, staring upward at spectacular shades of blue-green, pastel-red and brilliant white draped across the heavens.        
 

All things considered, it was an eventful trip. We lived on fish and potatoes that week, save for the night Phil cooked spaghetti and concocted a sauce using ketchup. Our coffee was made in an old style percolator pot. Sipped outdoors in early morning amid the aroma of evergreens, it was amazingly tasty.  
 

THE RETURN HOME

It would be a seventeen hour drive from the float plane base to North Jersey, including a stop at Timmins, Ontario, where Johnny and Phil caught a commercial flight. There was an additional stop at Customs on the U.S. side of the Thousand Islands Bridge. Here I need to add that Dave Ryder lived on the Jersey shore in a town called Neptune – well known throughout New Jersey, but certainly never heard of at the U.S.-Canadian border.

We pulled up to the U.S. Customs booth in the wee hours of the morning, unkempt and disheveled looking as could be. The Custom’s Agent looked at us and asked Dave, who was driving, “Where ya headed?”   

“Neptune,” replied Dave.

Quickly realizing the mistake, Basil and I whispered in unison, “Say New Jersey! Tell him New Jersey!”

Dave explained by showing his driver’s ID. Eyeing us warily, the Customs Agent let us go without incident.
 

Basil, Johnny, Dave and I worked together at the Meadowlands. Three years later our group – along with Phil - would make a trip to a desolate outpost in the Northwest Territories before a return to the James Bay Frontier and adventure on the Detour River.

Before either of those trips nook place I was fortunate enough to visit northern Manitoba and experience some exceptional shallow water lake trout fishing. Stay tuned!

Looking back, winter arrived somewhat early and made its presence felt in many ways. Early on it was pleasant enough, with calm, windless days and the countryside coated white for Christmas.

A few days we had that Winter Wonderland effect - Nice to look at – for a while.

This is our backyard, filled courtesy of Tonawanda Creek. On three separate occasions the Tonawanda spilled its banks this winter.  

Finally, signs of spring! These snow geese signal more favorable weather is on the way. They found a neighbor's farm a suitable stopover enroute to their breeding grounds in the far north. 

Soon it will be time to break out the spinning rod and head for Lakeside Beach State Park and hopefully, catch that narrow window – occurring some between late March and early May - when the Lake Ontario shoreline offers a mixed bag. For a short while brown trout, cohos and even a few lake trout will inhabit the shallows      

For years I’ve been told the catfish and walleye fishing really heats up after dark on the Genesee River – maybe this is the year I’ll find the time to give it a whirl.     

I know this is Western New York and weather-wise we may not be entirely out of the woods, but at the very least, we’ve got to somewhere near the edge.

In the early sixties, Silver Lake provided some of the best fishing in New York.  In hindsight it would seem that Y Camp - $30 a week at the time - was an inexpensive fish camp, if fishing was your thing,

In the summer of 1964, in a week spanning late June and the beginning of July, five campers lived a young fishermen’s dream. Each day at dawn, occasionally mid-day and again prior to the sun going down, they experienced a bass angler’s delight - or beginners luck. It also signaled a time when those five young men graduated from worms to artificial lures.   

The first day of camp Mike Hintorn, Dave “Bongo” Barton and the Doody brothers, Dan and Joe and I were on the dock two hours before reveille.  With everyone else in camp still sound asleep we had the waterfront to ourselves. 

Soon we would discover the excitement of surface fishing for largemouth bass. But before any of us reached for a topwater lure we began with an old standby – juicy nightcrawlers.

For the better part of an hour we flipped worms, but the only takers were bluegills, sunfish, stunted perch and one or two small bass. The problem seemed to be the aquatic growth. Dense beds of milfoil and foxtail prevented our baits from sinking down to the cool, dark recesses where the big fish lay in wait. Growing weary of the pan fish, we began to pay attention to periodic surface activity in the form of splashes and swirls. 

Hastily we bit through monofilament fishing line, removing hooks and worms. Mike Hinton, Dave Barton and Joe Doody reached into their tackle box searching for surface plugs. Dan Doody pulled out a Jitter Bug. I opted for a Hula Popper, a lure that, up to that moment, had gone unused. It was still in the box with instructions. I didn’t take time to read them. As things turned out, the fish didn't seem to mind.  For the next hour we experienced a barrage of surface strikes.

Later, after reveille had sounded, a camp counselor spotted us on the dock and came down to investigate. I remember his exclamation when he lifted our heavy stringer of bass. As he held them up for inspection, the soft light of early morning enhances their colors - deep red gill rakers standing out in contrast against dark green backs. The fish are all big, much larger than any of us had ever seen, much less caught. The counselor eased the stringer back into the water and for several moments we stared at the fish, watching their pectoral fins move ever so slightly, their gills open and close slowly. With campers beginning to cluster around the flag pole for morning calisthenics every fish was released.   

That morning signaled the end of worm dunking. And that was only the beginning of what turned out to be a memorable stay at Y camp. Each morning at dawn the five of us were on the on the dock anticipating surface strikes. And our efforts weren't limited to the early morning hours. After the evening meal until just prior to sunset, we were back on the waterfront. And the results were quite similar.

Later in the week we began probing the waters in front of the arts & crafts building. From there we moved further along the shoreline. Adjacent the camp infirmary was another dock, this one quite smaller, a bit dilapidated and largely unused – until Mike Hinton decided to give it a whirl. On that morning Mike was casting a Zara Spook. A floater-diver, the “spook” floats on top when still, then dives just below the surface on retrieve. That morning, Mike used the “spook” to fill a stringer with largemouth that would be the envy of today’s tournament anglers.

  In close proximity to the small dock was a black willow. Growing at the waters edge, it was an older tree with two trunks, one of which extended out over the lake. One afternoon I saw Dan Doody perched in the tree with his fishing pole in hand. Situated on the large branch reaching out over the water, he was using a jitterbug like you would use a jig, bouncing it up and down onto the lake surface. Below him were two sizeable bass. They were lying motionless on the bottom in waist deep water, probably on their spawning beds. Dan never did entice those fish to strike, but the fact that he shinnied up that tree with fishing pole in hand then clambered out over the water indicates just what a spell those bass had on us.     

Evening was time for singing around the campfire. Later, after returning to our cabin for the night, we would sit on our bunks talking and looking up at all the names on the rafters and the ceiling. They were telltale signs of the campers from bygone days. All had left their mark the same way - printed in toothpaste. We had done likewise, breaking out tubes of Gleem or Colgate. Soon afterward it would be time for lights out followed by vespers. When all the giggling stopped and the whispers had died down, there was only the sound of the lake at night. Bullfrogs called from the swamp a few hundred yards distant, their throaty chorus easily carried across the water. There was the occasional sound of an outboard, maybe a walleye fisherman heading to his trolling grounds. Without a doubt each of us probably fell asleep with fish on our minds, eager for daybreak and big bass hiding among the weeds. 

Nobody thought to take a picture that week. But that's okay. I doubt there ever was a need for a photo. I’m sure each of them has a mental picture permanently filed away somewhere where it can never be lost.

Early on I learned the northern pike is not only willing to strike, they often do so with gusto, ambushing their prey in a quick and vicious manner. This, combined with their toothy, menacing appearance easily captures a young angler’s imagination.

In the first Pike Dreams segment I briefly mentioned my uncle, Jim Nigro, who first introduced me to fishing before he moved away. I was in high school when another uncle, Jim Soccio, visited from his home in Coral Gables, Fla. He invited me for a days fishing on Seneca Lake. I was told I need bring only a lunch. My grandmother made me a bag full of sandwiches – pepper & egg, steak & peppers – lots of them.   

Our quarry would be lake trout and we would be fishing with Bob Cass, then the Chief of the Geneva, NY Police Dept. and a part time guide on Seneca Lake. We boarded Cass’ boat before dawn and motored down the lake to a small bay where Cass dropped anchor. He rigged five poles with sawbellies, large minnow-like baits favored by lake trout anglers.  

I was about to discover my uncle was not a fan of northern pike.

The sun was barely above the horizon, the lake was flat calm and my uncle and Bob Cass were making small talk when the drag on the bow reel started screaming. Cass scurried along the gunwale and the cabin, grabbed the rod out of the holder and set the hook- or tried to. A moment later the line snapped, sounding like a .22 being fired.        

“Wow. What was that,” I shouted.

“Probably a big pike,” replied Bob Cass.

I looked at my uncle.   “We gonna fish for pike now, Uncle Jim?” I was no doubt bug-eyed, the adrenaline pumping.   

“What are we going to do with pike? They’re no good,” he said with disdain.

“Too many bones” chimed in Cass.

Later Bob Cass showed us an article in an Outdoor Life magazine. The story was about a pair of young men from New York City who had ventured to Seneca Lake for a day’s fishing. The photos depicted two smiling anglers holding numerous northern pike, every one of them much larger than any I had caught up to that time. Their guide had been none other than Bob Cass. I couldn’t help but wonder if he bothered to mention all those pike bones.

It was about that time I reached into the bag of sandwiches. The bag would be empty before we returned to the dock.

We caught two lake trout that day, the first came in the morning while still-fishing sawbellies. Afterward the day basically turned into a long boat ride. The second lake trout was the bigger of the two, weighing 6 lbs. and was caught while trolling Seth Green rigs, the forerunner of today’s downrigger.

I came away from that outing unimpressed with lake trout. No small wonder, as I couldn’t forget the sound of the drag singing out early that morning as a big northern ran with the bait. It was but another moment which fueled my pike dreams in a big way.

And dream I did, one of which I remember quite well.  I was in a boat, stream fishing in a place much like Whiskey Run, a noted stretch of Tonawanda Creek. Obviously the fish on the end of my line was a large northern pike. One moment I was able to see it below the surface, its white belly clearly visible as it twisted and turned in the depths. The next moment I was holding it aloft in the boat. It was absolutely huge! It was longer than I was tall with a girth to match its length. It was the pike I had long sought, the trophy for the wall. But as dreamscapes are so often surreal, there was one minor glitch - the pike had a gaudy silver zipper running the entire length of its belly.  

Strange dreams aside, the pursuit for big pike continued, years later leading to some memorable adventures in the Canadian far north. And it was in those sub-artic waters where my perception of the lake trout took a drastic, yet positive change. I’m looking forward to sharing those experiences with readers soon.

My first northern pike came from the waters of Tonawanda Creek where it flows past Kibbe Park. That was in 1962, and while the fish wasn’t of legal size, it conjured memories of fishing trips to Ontario’s Kawartha Lakes region with my Aunt Faith and Uncle Jim. 

That pike, while miniscule in comparison, bore a strong resemblance to the muskies I watched my uncle battle up north. 

For the first eight years of my life my world evolved around my Aunt Faith and Uncle Jim. In 1958 they moved to my aunt’s hometown in rural Georgia and I missed them a great deal. Staring at that first pike and thinking of the muskies Uncle Jim caught, something clicked then and there. Strange as it may seem, somehow the northern became a link to my aunt and uncle.  

Not long after catching my first northern, Elmwood Avenue friends Donny Joy and Frank “Junior” Ficarella were fishing the Tonawanda from a row boat. They were located along the creek bank opposite the dike on Jackson Avenue. Junior was standing up in the boat, using an oar to shake loose lures that were caught in the trees. While Junior was trying to extract the lures, something took his bait. It turned out to be a rockbass. Junior reeled it in, then, deciding to have some fun, gave it some line. The fish promptly headed for the bottom. As he attempted to reel it back in, Junior discovered the fish was stuck fast.       

“See what I get for messin’ around”, he said. “Now I’m snagged.”

Still keeping his line taut, Junior felt it slowly coming toward the surface. Looking down into the murky water he saw a long, dark object. His first thought was he had snagged a railroad tie that had fallen from one of the train bridges upstream. Then his brain registered just what he was looking at. Much to Junior’s surprise, directly alongside the boat was a very dark colored, very long and hefty northern pike. The rockbass was clamped firmly in its toothy maw. The fish was apparently taking stock of the situation as it was lying just beneath the surface, moving only its pectoral fins. The big fish then opened its mouth, releasing the rockbass before drifting back into the murky depths from whence it came.

That same summer I was catching crayfish a few yards downstream from the dike. A blackbird, maybe a grackle, was perched atop a small tree branch on the opposite shore.         

I was aware of the blackbird, yet not paying it any mind – not until the water directly beneath it exploded. An obviously very big fish tried to eat that blackbird and to this day I’d always assumed it was a pike. Admittedly, I didn’t see the fish, just a lot of frothy white water. That incident shed some light on the pike’s nickname, “waterwolf. “ 

Time spent with my Aunt Faith and Uncle Jim, in addition to the above mentioned events on the banks of the Tonawanda were but a few of the catalysts leading not only to a lifelong infatuation with northern pike, they also paved the way for a series of fly-in fishing trips into the Canadian far north in search of Esox lucius, the “waterwolf.”

I’ll keep you posted.

It’s that time of year again. As the days grow warmer and the nights stay cold, the sap starts to flow.  Did you know that New York State is the third largest producer of maple syrup in the world? Maple producers are celebrating that fact at this year’s 14th Annual Maple Weekend™. This year the event takes place on March 21-22 and 28-29 from 10am - 4pm each day. Maple producers throughout New York State will open their sugarhouses to demonstrate the making of maple products "from the tree to your table." Almost 50 maple producers throughout

Western New York will participate. You can check this website for a list of participants: http://www.mapleweekend.com/locations.htm.

This free, family-oriented event gives you a chance to see how New York maple producers make some of the world's finest maple syrup and maple products. Visitors can see all aspects of maple making, from tapping the trees to get the sap, to boiling sap into maple syrup. Some producers will also demonstrate the making of maple syrup into other products including maple cream, maple cotton candy and maple sugar.

The public is encouraged to visit more than one farm as some producers use traditional methods while some employ new methods. Many of the farms will also have a variety of other activities including horse and wagon rides, snowshoeing, guided walks in the woods and kids' corners.

Mark your calendars for March 21-22 and 28-29, 2009 and take the family out to experience New York State maple!

My wife says she’s always had a bit of tomboy in her blood. When she was quite young she was often allowed to tag along with her father on odd jobs. In the 37-plus years we’ve been married, Claudia has replaced windows, fixed minor plumbing problems, tinkered with electrical, painted, put down flooring and – well, you get the picture. Whatever job she tackles, she usually won’t quit till it’s done. But there are exceptions - such as the day she set out to trim the spiraea hedge.

On that day Claudia wasn’t out of the house ten minutes when I heard the back door open. She came into the living room wearing a distressed look, the color drained from her face. Even before she had a chance to speak I knew she had seen a snake. But not just any snake.

What kind of snake curls up in your spiraea hedge? In all likelihood it has to be a rather large specimen with climbing ability and an appetite for small birds.

Anyway, Claudia said she was leaning into the hedge, trimming away when she was startled by thrashing and rustling from within the bushes. In the next instant she felt and heard a thud as something hit the ground. She looked down and saw a “black hose” slithering past her feet. The culprit was probably a rat snake, one I’d seen on a couple occasions, but only partial glimpses before it made haste into undergrowth. The species can grow to lengths of 5 or 6 feet.

Claudia doesn’t trim the bushes any more.  Is she squeamish? Not really.

She’s been skin-diving in plain view of reef sharks, and had a stare down or two with the toothsome barracuda. One year we were snorkeling off East Sambo Key near Key West. It was October, the sky was clear, the water was warm - and jellyfish were all over the place. Beneath the surface visibility was so-so yet numerous jellies were visible in any given direction. Whether it was a mass-migration of sorts I couldn’t say, but despite their numbers, the stinging drifters of the sea failed to deter Claudia.

She’s had a few experiences with fresh water species, one of which I remember well.

Claudia and I, along with Craig Gillard were fishing with fellow Batavian, Captain Ron Grazioplena, who had invited us out for a day on Lake Ontario. Three other fellows were along that day, a trio who previously told Ron they were going to make a video promoting the Lake Ontario fishery resources and asked Ron if he might like to be part of it.

We hadn’t been on the lake very long when the winds picked up and so too did the waves. Then one of the down riggers released. By that time seasickness was beginning to set in on the video trio. That being the case, Craig and I insisted Claudia fight the fish. And she did. After she set the hook, the fish took off on a straight line behind the boat. When the king’s initial run was over the line meter on the Great Lakes System reel indicated the fish was 643 feet behind the boat.

“Help me”, she whined.

“No, you can do it.”

“Here. You take it” she pleaded.

“Nope. It’s all yours.”

Fighting the fish was one thing. Trying to keep a tight line and maintain her balance as the boat pitched and yawed between wind-blown waves was no picnic. Forty five minutes later she had her fish on board, a 26 lb. king salmon, Claudia’s first.

Claudia was a bit spent by then, but she was faring much better than the “film crew.” Their faces nearly the color of fish bellies, they requested to be dropped off at the dock. Ron obliged them before taking Craig, Claudia and myself back out on the lake. Ironically, shortly after we were back on the water the winds died down. We caught several more fish that day, including lake trout, steelhead and a few more kings. For what its worth, Claudia was “high hook” that day, easily out-fishing the boys. The action was so steady we didn’t return to the dock until the sun was setting. 

When the situation has presented itself, Claudia has tended and mended some of nature’s babies. She has bottle fed numerous baby rabbits (Claudia calls them bunnies) before switching them to a diet of dandelion greens and clover. Not long afterward, they are released back into the wild.   Also under her “foster” care at one time was a baby raccoon, a woodchuck and two humming birds. (5 humming birds once flew into the Meadowland’s Grandstand window – only two survived, one couldn’t fly and the other was able to hover inches off the ground).

Hopefully we’ll fit another dive trip or two into our schedule, do some more fishing, canoeing and what have you. But those activities are by no means her priorities. In addition to Claudia’s full time job with the Genesee County ARC, she’s a grandmother to four boys, spends Friday evening’s with a church youth group and teaches a Sunday school class.

Claudia had another milestone this week, and recalling special moments and fond memories are one way of saying I love you Honey, “Happy Birthday!"

I haven’t seen our resident Great Horned Owl in some time now. I hear her once in a while, sometimes after taking the dogs out prior to sunrise. Or the crows let us know she’s about with their harassing cacophony. Being Great Horned owls are among the first to nest, even as early as late January, maybe she’s tending a clutch of eggs – or preparing to.

The last time I actually saw her was while canoeing with my grandson Sam. We heard the crows long before we saw the owl. The crows finally quieted down and we continued paddling upstream. That’s when my grandson got his first look at the awesome sight of a Great Horned Owl up close and on the wing. The owl had roosted in a black willow on the creek bank. She took flight as we drew near, willing to take her chances with the crows.

It might at first seem like a bad choice on her part, but perhaps she had good reason. Maybe she remembered me as one of the guys who tried to swipe her meal.

A late summer canoeing-fishing trip a couple years back resulted in one of those wildlife dramas that occur only when no one thinks to bring a camera.

Two days earlier I had hooked and lost a sizeable northern pike. At the time I was on the Tonawanda, about two hundred yards upstream from our home.  

The following Monday, John Lawrence and I returned in an attempt to relocate the big fish.

We weren’t far from where I had hooked the pike when John said “There’s an owl!”

“Where?” I asked, looking into the trees.

“It’s right there! On the bank!”

Along the east bank, right at the water’s edge, a mature Great Horned Owl was straddling a very-much alive hen mallard. One of the duck’s wings was swept back at an odd angle, obviously broken (actually, “mangled” would be a better word) during the owl’s attack. Judging from the owl’s size, about 26 inches tall, it was probably a female.

“Let’s get closer,” said I. We paddled in for a closer look. John, seated in the business end of the canoe, didn’t mind. He was in the bow, scant feet from a very intense-looking bird of prey with piercing eyes.  

Glowering at us, the owl stood its ground, not willing to give up the duck.

A notoriously nocturnal bird of prey, she pounced on that mallard at 4 pm. The fact that she hunted with the sun high in the sky came as no surprise. Besides being lethal birds of prey, Great Horned Owls are creatures of opportunity.

I was still in my teens when I became intrigued with the Great Horned Owl. My first encounter was at extremely close range, and awe-inspiring to say the least. It was late spring and I was hiking a clear-cut that would lead to the Hawley farm where I might find a woodchuck or two. There were woodlots on both sides of the clear-cut and from the woods to the east came the sound of crows, both numerous and frenzied. Though not far away, I couldn’t see them as the foliage was dense - both the woodland canopy and its understory.   Moments later – and with no warning whatsoever – this larger than life feathered critter with an incredible wing span exited the woods directly in front of me. Momentarily stunned, I literally stopped in my tracks. Seeing me as it cleared the wood line, the owl banked sharply to the right and kept flying along the clear-cut.

It took a few moments before I realized what I had seen. I knew it was a bird of prey, I just wasn’t exactly sure of the species.  I knew it wasn’t a hawk as it had a big round head. And there was something else strange, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on - at least not right away. Once realizing I had my first encounter with a mature Great Horned Owl, I set about to do some homework. Not long afterward I learned just what it  was about the owl that made the moment a bit surreal. Despite its size, it hadn’t made any noise at all. Even though passing by within spitting distance, the owl flew in total silence. Its feathers are made for silent flight. That’s how it hunts, like a stealth fighter of the woodlands. There is no “swooshing” sound as air passes through its feathers.

The sight of the Great Horned Owl emerging from the woods with no warning and passing so closely is etched in my mind. Up until that moment I was under the impression all owls were the size of the “wise” bird pictured on a bag of potato chips. I also learned that crows and owls have an intense dislike of one another.  

In addition to hunting in silence, the Great Horned owl possesses a powerful, razor-sharp beak, needle-sharp talons and the ability to swivel its head nearly 280 degrees 

Having gotten my attention that day long ago, I find the Great Horned Owl both fascinating and lethal. Through the years I have been made aware of just how deadly they are.

I’ve heard some great owl stories from folks who have spent considerable time in the wilds. Author and naturalist, the late Jack Denton Scott once documented a Great Horned Owl attack on a human. “The man should have known better,” Scott said of the ranger that was attacked. “But there is a lot of boy in man, and the ranger was wearing a muskrat fur cap while making his late afternoon rounds in the wilds of northern Minnesota. He never heard a sound until the fury fell upon him.”  The owl apparently targeted the muskrat cap thinking it was something to eat – or maybe not. Mother Nature is not without mistakes, nor does she always play by the rules. The ranger did not survive the attack.

The late Don Meyers once told me of driving down Sour Springs Rd. at dusk. Alongside the road is a small pond with a mallard house. “I was watching a muskrat swim across the surface of that pond,” he stated. The evening was calm, the surface placid, excepting the muskrat’s wake. Out of nowhere a large shadow swoops. “This big owl snatched that muskrat right off the water. It happened so close I could see the muskrat’s feet scurrying in mid-air.”    

Jim Joyner of Alabama, NY is an avid outdoorsman who spends a good deal of the year hunting, fishing and canoeing near his cabin in the southern tier. A while back Jim had an experience similar to the aforementioned ranger. Seated in his tree stand while bow hunting, a Great Horned Owl flew in without warning and knocked Jim’s hat off. Jim was fortunate in that the owl’s talons latched onto his hat alone.            

Going off the beaten path isn’t always necessary to encounter a Great Horned Owl.  All that’s needed is a food supply – and a city-dwelling owl has no problem locating items to feed on. Squirrel’s, domesticated animals such as cats, and barnyard fowl, like baby ducks have all found their way on the horned owl’s menu. A few years ago a friend of mine attempted to raise ducklings in his back yard. One morning he noticed one or two ducks were missing. A few mornings later more baby ducks were gone. My friend had no idea what could be preying on the ducks as he heard no commotion during the night. His first thoughts were a neighbor’s cat or maybe a marauding raccoon were responsible. After another raid on his ducks my friend spent the evening in his backyard covered with a sheet. Later that night a Great Horned Owl failed in its attempt at a fourth duck dinner.

At 5:15 Friday morning I was standing in our dimly-lit basement, sweeping water toward a pump. Out of the corner of my eye I saw movement to my left. Despite not having had any coffee yet, my eyes were not playing tricks on me. Out of the shadows emerged a round, furry gray ball. It was a rather large vole! Had it come inside to escape the flood waters or had it been wintering in our home? Whatever the reason, it showed no fear, first scurrying slowly past a stack of totes labeled Christmas decorations, then passing behind me and under a pallet.

Where is the Great Gray Owl when you need one?

Rarely seen in our neck of the woods, the Great Gray is North America’s biggest owl. Reaching a height of 33 inches and wing span that can top 5 feet, it rivals the Eurasian Eagle Owl and the Fish Owl as the world’s largest.  But looks can be misleading. A large head, long tail and fluffy feathers hide a body that actually weighs less than the Great Horned and Snowy Owl.  Physical characteristics aside, the Great Gray Owl loves to eat voles – or meadow mice as they are sometimes called. 

Once in a blue moon, maybe not that often, we are paid a visit by the “gray ghost” of the north. During those winters when its food supply becomes scarce, the Great Gray Owl (strix nebulosa) will temporarily relocate to more favorable climes, traveling as far south as the Great Lakes.

 The species name, nebulosa, is Latin for misty or foggy, and along with the Great Gray’s rarity, may be the reason it is sometimes referred to as the “phantom of the north.”     

For the most part a nocturnal raptor, the Great Gray will alter its hours in winter, hunting post sunrise and pre-sunset. At such times it may perch and wait for a meal or it may fly about in search of prey. The latter method requires extremely low flight, never more than a few feet above the ground. 

In the warmer months, the Great Gray has a variety of food sources including squirrels, weasels, chipmunks and mice. Ducks and grouse have also been included on their food group and in rare occurrences they have been known to take crows and even small hawks.

But it is the vole which the Great Gray is particularly fond of – particularly in winter.The vole is highly nocturnal in summer, but come winter it is active in the daytime. This may be a factor in the Great Gray Owl’s altered hunting hours during the coldest months of the year. One of the species method’s of hunting voles in winter is unique and worth mentioning.

Beneath the snow pack is a series of tiny tunnels through which voles scurry about. This network beneath the snow enables the furry rodents to access small trees and gnaw at the bark. (Have you ever wondered, after the snow melts in the spring, what happened to the bark at the base the maple saplings you planted?)  

Though the small mammals are out of sight, the Great Gray can still detect their presence. Every move made by the rodents, even beneath a thick blanket of snow, emits sound waves. With acute hearing, the Great Gray Owl is able to pick up the sound from a nearby perch. Its large, feathery facial discs act as receptors, reflecting the sound to the owl’s ears. Once honed in on its quarry beneath the snow, the Great Gray will descend on the targeted location. With talons clenched, it will smash into the snow pack, caving in the mini-tunnels below. Their travel network clogged, the voles become trapped. The owl then uses its feathered talons to sift through the snow, searching for its meal (as depicted in photo).               

Adult Great Gray Owls do fall victim to predation in their far north home range. They are on the hit list of Great Horned Owls, Northern Goshawks, marten, lynx and wolverine. But the biggest contributors to a decline in its numbers are logging operations and electrocution from power lines.

Friday night's rising air termerature and  warm  winds created a two inch layer of slush on the mantle of ice at Silver Lake in Wyoming County. Considering its early February, the conditions may have played a role in the number of ice-fishermen who turnout Saturday morning. Nonetheless, there were a few hardy individuals refused to be denied a day on the ice.

 Shortly after daybreak Saturday hard-water anglers were set up on the south end of the lake adjacent Macks Bait and Tackle. Maybe a dozen or more ice fishermen – and women – were scattered across the frozen expanse amid pop-up ice huts.   

As we were walking out onto the ice, we met a pair of ice-fishermen who had decided to call it a day. Tony and Tom Loor, of Niagara Falls, have been fishing Silver Lake for decades, both through the ice and in the open-water season. On this day the brothers were rewarded with a catch of 30 panfish, mostly bluegills and sunfish taken on mousie grubs. The Loors also fish the lake in warm weather as well. “We’ll be back in the spring,” said Tom, noting the warming trend. “Come spring we’ll be working this area by boat.” As they do in open water season, the Loors concentrated their ice-fishing along the east shoreline.     

 Despite the thawing conditions there was still a thick mantle of ice and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Some were jigging for panfish – bluegills, sunfish and perch. Others were intently watching tip-ups, hoping for northern pike, or maybe a walleye. Some, like Ron Skelly, employed both methods.

 A Perry resident Skelly, kept his children Abigail 10 and Ryan, 8, busy jigging mousies and wax worms while he rigged tip-ups with shiners. Their strategy paid off as evidenced by a bucket of hand-sized bluegills and a few plump sunfish. The shiner-baited tip-ups resulted in pair of decent northern pike, as evidenced by the photo.

When I asked if he had seen anyone take any really big northerns, the elder Skelly replied, “No, but when I took a peek through my Aqua-view I saw a fish under the ice about this big,” he said, stretching out his arms. He said the big pike never eyed his bait, but kept swimming.   

 For updates on ice conditions contact Mack’s Boat Livery at 585-237-5983 or email at fmalone@macksboatlivery.com  

There are annual reports of sharks attacking surfers, divers and, as of late, the lethal attack of a triathlete-in- training. The following account took place 50 years ago in Southern California waters and helped launch today’s intensive research and in-depth studies in shark behavior. I first read of the attack back in the early-seventies, possibly in “Blue Meridian” or “Blue Water, White Death.” The details in that first account were much the same as in the documented report available today. The major difference being the book claimed the surviving diver was beneath the surface when the Great White first appeared.

In June of 1959, Robert Pamperin and Gerald Lehrer took their girlfriends to the beach at La Jolla Cove, California. The women stayed on the beach while their boyfriends went into the sea in search of abalone, an edible mollusk found in the Pacific. Pamperin, age 33, and Lehrer, age 30 were free diving – using only masks, fins and snorkels. They were without wet suits. The water was estimated between 30 – 40 feet deep. The depth indicates the men were exceptional skin-divers.    

In their quest for abalone the pair slowly drifted apart by 15 meters or more.

Lehrer was near the sea floor when a very large shadow passed at extremely close range, blocking out a good deal of the sunlight filtering down. Looking up, Lehrer saw a huge fish with a white underside. Its large tail sweeping from side to side, the fish kept going, disappearing into a dense stand of kelp. A bit unnerved, Lehrer was making up his mind whether to continue searching for abalone or alert his buddy and head for ashore. Before doing either, he needed air.

After Lehrer shot to the surface, he heard Pamperin shout for help. Thinking his friend might be having a leg cramp he turned in the direction of the shout and saw his companion with his head up and unusually high above the surface, minus his mask. In the next instant, he saw his friend disappear beneath the surface. Lehrer swam quickly toward where he last saw his companion, took a breath and dove. Twisting and turning in a sandy pocket on the bottom, was a large shark, estimated to be 7 meters (approx. 23 ft.) in length.   Pamperin was in the shark’s mouth, his legs not visible, and being violently shaken from side to side. The predator’s large, triangular teeth – firmly clamped around Pamerpin’s torso, told Lehrer the shark was a Great White.   

After surfacing for air, Lehrer reportedly dove again, approached the shark and began waving his arms in a desperate and futile attempt to frighten it off.

Realizing there was nothing he could do, Lehrer swam toward shore. About fifteen yards from the beach he was met by an onlooker who had come to help. William Abitz had been standing on an elevated rocky point overlooking the attack sight. “He (Pamperin) was thrashing his arms and looked to be running from something. Then he went under,” said Abitz.

Within the hour a scuba diver dispatched from nearby Scripp’s Institute of Oceanography combed the sea floor and found no trace of the victim.

Further investigation revealed three events may have aroused the Great White.

Prior to Lehrer’s and Pamperin’s arrival at the cove, several fish had been taken by spearfishermen. Distress signals given off by speared fish may have been an attractant. Secondly, not far from La Jolla Cove was a harbor seal rookery, known prey of Great Whites. Lastly, and perhaps most significant, the previous evening a dead whale had washed up on the beach at La Jolla Shores, about a half-mile away. Currents and winds likely created a natural chum slick or “odor corridor” attracting the shark.        

Is the shark’s notoriety warranted? Do they swim about, endlessly looking to devour anything in their path?  

I’ve seen recent footage where a team of divers – one by one - exited a shark cage and swam among multiple Great Whites. The sharks, ranging in size from fourteen to sixteen feet, made what appeared to be curious, non-aggressive passes. Two of the divers actually placed their hands against the shark’s flanks as the big fish swam past.

Like any wild creature, sharks are unpredictable. And we play the percentages whenever we enter their realm.

At the conclusion of Monday’s post, Walter Maxwell and his fishing companions watched in disbelief as a monster tiger shark swam off with their homemade gaff. The shark came away the victor after an hour-long battle at the Cherry Grove, South Carolina pier. Down but not deterred, the trio spent the rest of that day and the entire evening fishing from the pier.

 At daybreak on Sunday, June 14^th, 1964 the anglers caught several skates – small rays – and rigged them on large hooks. Using a row boat, one of Maxwell’s companions took the skates a considerable distance from the pier and dropped them over the side. The only action early on came from smaller sharks which persisted in picking up the baits and running for a short distance before dropping them. Eventually a group of larger sharks moved into the area, one of which inhaled a skate, ran with it a short distance before cutting through the line. Not long afterward, while watching one of his friends fight a rather large shark, another fish took Maxwell’s bait. The fish was about thirty yards from the end of the pier when it jumped clear of the water. The noise made by the gargantuan fish as it landed back on the surface startled the anglers as well as the spectators that had gathered. As this was taking place, the aforementioned school of large sharks began inhaling the other baits. This resulted in more chaos – and broken lines.              

During all the fuss and ado, Walter Maxwell’s line was sizzling once again, and he jammed the butt of his fishing rod into the belly plate of his shoulder harness. Tightening the drag, he was instantly pulled against the pier railing and knocked off his feet. Struggling to stand, Maxwell had all he could do to control his fishing rod as it bucked and lurched. Moments later onlookers gasped as the shark once again breached the surface, this time 500 feet from the pier.

The shark then began a line-sizzling run to the northeast, in the process nearly stripping all 1400 yards of 130 lb. test line from Maxwell’s reel. At this point his friends began pouring water onto the scorching reel.  The giant shark was nearly ¾ of a mile from the pier before Maxwell was able to finally halt its run. The reprieve was momentary, however, as the shark began another powerful run, this time heading southeast. To everyone’s relief, with but a few yards of line left on the spool, rather than swim out to sea, the fish began swimming parallel to the beach.

 As the fight neared the five hour mark, Maxwell brought the leviathan alongside the pier. By this time it was after 6 p.m. It wasn’t until the next morning when the shark was weighed on government certified scales. With overnight temperatures in the 80’s, it was estimated the shark lost 10% of its body weight due to dehydration. Nonetheless, it still pushed the scales to the 1780 lbs. mark.

Eleven years after Maxwell brought his big “tiger” alongside the pier, big sharks hit the silver screen.  In the years immediately after Steven Spielberg’s epic “Jaws”, shark mania was at an all time high. Even today shark fishing became the rage on many fronts, with weekend shark tournaments being held up and down both coasts. From Martha’s Vineyard to Miami, from Port Hueneme to San Diego, teams of shark hunters head offshore in search of monster fish.

Despite the influx of shark fishermen and their state-of-the-art equipment, Walter Maxwell’s tiger shark remains the all-tackle world record for the species. His record catch came long before the shark gained such widespread notoriety. And he wasn’t fishing for a record. Nor was he looking to pad his wallet - he and his buddies went down to the Cherry Grove Pier just to fish on their day off. 

NOTE: This was the second in a three-part series on sharks. Friday’s post will feature a seldom told account, a catalyst behind the shark’s notoriety

Hi everyone! My name is Tasia and I currently live in Batavia. I am an undergraduate  student at SUNY Brockport majoring in journalism. For the next four months I am going to be doing an internship with The Batavian and am very excited to get to know the community better.

 I enjoy spending time with my husband and my puppy, Jake. I love being outdoors and can not wait for summer time. I hope to have a novel published someday and I am always jotting things down in a notebook.

I am excited to cover the area's school districts and be an active positive voice in our community.

The largest game fish are oceanic giants, often pushing the scales past the thousand pound mark. With little to fear, they swim about their cobalt-blue world in an endless search for food. The blue marlin, the swordfish, the giant blue fin tuna and the big sharks - the Mako and the Great White – are at the top of the food chain. For the most part, the only predator they need fear are sea-going fishermen, those willing to travel offshore in the hope of sampling their awesome power. The International Game Fishing Association’s record books are filled with outstanding catches of giant bill fish, huge tuna and mammoth sharks. Oftentimes, even more incredible is the story behind the catch. One such record belongs to Walter Maxwell and his story is quite unique when compared to the rest. Because it has withstood the test of time, in order to take a look at his accomplishment, we need to go back some 45 years.

 Walter Maxwell was a blue collar type, a fisherman without sponsors. Neither did he possess a sleek and speedy sea-going vessel in which to enjoy his pastime. He was, you might say, a weekend warrior, able to fish only when his schedule allowed. And needless to say, such a fisherman does not wet a line in pursuit of world records.

It was Sunday, June 14^th, 1964, when Maxwell managed to raise a few eyebrows among saltwater anglers when he landed a world record tiger shark. What made the feat remarkable was, unlike other salt water big game fishing records, Maxwell made his historic catch from a pier. Strange as it may seem, he nearly did it twice in a 24 hour period. The day prior to his record catch, he latched onto an even bigger tiger shark, only to lose it at the edge of the pier.     

On Saturday, June 13^th, the beach at Cherry Grove South Carolina was bustling with vacationers, probably none of which paid any mind to three anglers out on the pier. (Photo: Cherry Grove Pier)

At about 2 pm line began slowly peeling out of Maxwell’s large saltwater reel. He slipped on his shoulder harness and braced himself before rearing back on the rod, setting the hooks. The battle was underway.

The initial run was strong and steady as the fish took out several hundred yards of line, indicative of a very big fish. Maxwell knew then the fish on the end of his line was not your garden variety man-eater. During the next hour the shark made several more line-sizzling runs. A stone mason by trade, the muscular Maxwell was able to bring the big tiger shark alongside the pier. He was about to discover one hour is insufficient time to tire a shark of such proportions.

Their gaff consisted of a fiberglass vaulting pole with a stainless steel hook attached on the end. When one of Maxwell’s companions leaned over the railing and sunk the gaff hook into the tiger’s mouth, he was immediately slammed into the railing. Feeling the fish’s ferocity, he knew at once he wouldn’t be able to hold the monster that was thrashing violently in the waves ten feet below.

In the next instant Maxwell’s hooks came free and his buddy was left holding the gaff. The big fish then dropped into a trough between ocean swells and the gaff was yanked from his hands. The big shark swam seaward, the gaff protruding above the waves. How big was the shark? One of Maxwell’s companions said it looked like a heifer wallowing in the ocean swells. They estimated the fish to be eighteen feet in length and weigh in excess of two thousand pounds.

The following day Maxwell and his friends were at it again, this time with different results.  

NOTE: This is the first in a three part series on sharks. Wednesday we’ll wrap up Maxwell’s big catch before shifting gears somewhat, looking at sharks from an altogether different angle on Friday.  

All was quiet out at the Lazy Redneck Ranch this winter morning. Maybe you could have heard the sound of the sparrows tweeting and flitting up in the hayloft of the horse barn. Maybe the cats will chase the dog around the kitchen again. Maybe the grandkids are due for a visit. Soon enough, though, the ice will thaw and the endless work on the house that hometown tenacity built will begain again anew.

More than four years have passed since the excavator pulled up front of the Falker-Crandall homestead to dig the foundation for their new home (that's it up there). Since then, plenty of folks with the last name Falker or Crandall and plenty others, too, have visited that plot of land along Lockport Road in Oakfield, where a husband and wife decided that they weren't going to pay someone else to build their home. Nah. They would do it themselves.

You could see that house, too, standing proud, quite handsome, proof that as long as you've got the desire, the know-how and a few carpenters for relatives nothing can keep you from building your own home. Not that it's finished. Not by a long shot. Mark and Barb Falker-Crandall talk about their "expansion" plans with that audacity in their voice that lets you know they mean to keep on going, adding this, remodeling that, until they migrate to the big ranch in the sky.

"It will be one of those things that I'll work on until I can't pick up a hammer no more," says Mark. I can see him, too, decades from now, grizzled and grey, still swinging the ball-peen, tweaking this, patching that. It's his home, literally. Barb's too. They built it with their bare hands... and "with a little help from good friends and God," as Barb likes to say, they got it done.

Let's back up a little, though, back to that day the excavator arrived. It was August. Sunny and warm. Mark was stoked. He thought he was going to have off work a few months to lay the foundation and maybe even get up the walls of his new house. They would be out of the trailer in no time... Then the phone rang, and Mark was packing for Binghamton that same afternoon.

So he put in the call to his old school chum Wayne Shamblin, who was out at the site as soon as the plot had been dug. Wayne had the block all laid by the time Mark was home from Binghamton that weekend, and just like that, the Falker-Crandalls had a foundation.

That was how it went for the next couple years. They did what they could when they could and got help when they couldn't. Mark worked on the place mostly on weekends, until he started a night shift the following spring. Barb was going to school full-time and working full-time, plus the internship. "It was crazy," she admits.

"There wasn't a lot of sleep going on at that time," says Mark. He brags that the excavator work was the only part of the job that they didn't do themselves... with a little help from friends and family, of course. That's no exaggeration. They did the plumbing, the electrical, the drywall, all the structural work. Mark built a kitchen counter with a bar. Barb sewed the curtains and the doilies. Mark borrowed an aluminum break from one friend and got another friend to bend all the ductwork for the heating system.

When the trusses were ready to go up, Barb got together a bunch of folks from their church. Husbands and wives came out. They brought food. "It was like a good old Amish barn raising," says Barb. They raised the roof in a day.

What's more: they did it all with local goods.

Mark got the trusses from Potter Lumber Co. in Corfu. Most of the rest of the lumber, they had delivered by Trathen Logging Co. Windows and doors were got from Millwork Solutions in Batavia, where they scored an incredible deal on French doors for the back of the house. Their kitchen cupboards came from a shop in Indian Falls. Everything was local, got from hometown businesses, from people they knew who knew how to cut a deal. Heck, Mark even bought their furnace—brand new, mind you—at a garage sale.

Mark and Barb don't have the kind of spic and span credit that gets you a bankroll no questions asked. Like most of us. So they worked deals, borrowed from friends, even bartered. Once the trailer was hauled off the property, they sold that to pay for the insulation. When they needed dirt for fill—they also built the horse barn next to the house... from scratch—Barb negotiated with the construction crews who were then redoing the roads in Oakfield. She made them an offer they couldn't refuse.

"Twenty-two loads," she says, "and all it cost me was two homemade apple pies."

They got that raw, cabin-style look by going with rough cut lumber, as opposed to finished siding. That also saved them considerably. Aesthetics + cash in pocket = a job well done. "People tell us: 'Your place looks so nice. It looks like the little house on the prarie,'" says Barb.

Well, that's not exactly the name they went with.

"You want to know what we call it?" asks Mark. "We call it the Lazy Redneck Ranch." According to a sibling who shall remain nameless, Mark explains that he's been dubbed the lazy one—so lazy he built himself a house—and Barb's the redneck.

A redneck who knits doilies? "Yes," she says. "I play in the mud. I'll play tackle football, ride a horse, get out the four-wheeler... and... I like my guns."

She's also known to spoil a grandchild every now and then.

West Jackson Corners is a small village built by members of East Shelby Community Bible Church.  A namesake of the original settlement, it comes complete with a town hall, general store, water wheel, black smith shop, open hearth and much more.

            In the north east corner of West Jackson Corners sits an oversized tepee. Hanging above the tepee entrance is a sign reading “Swamp Stories.” The tepee was built by Charlie Ralph and during church festivities like “Old Tyme Days held in July or December’s “Christmas at West Jackson Corners,” Charlie can be found inside the tepee, probably warming his hands over a fire and more than willing to share local swamp lore with those who enter.

            Charlie grew up in the Alabama swamp, his homestead was in the area now occupied by the Swallow Hollow foot trail on the Iroquois National Wildlife Refuge. Charlie’ father also farmed a small parcel of their land, but only after clearing the standing timber. Charlie and his father began by cutting down large trees then using their team of Clydesdales to pull the stumps from the ground.

            In his youth Charlie and friends swam in the waters of Oak Orchard Creek just down the road from his home. On those outings they brought along a jar of salt – for the removal of leeches.   

            Generating income was tough in swamp country, so when a city fellow offered to pay Charlie and his friends for any water snakes they caught, they were happy to oblige.  Charlie never did find out what the man did with the snakes, only that he was willing to pay for them.

            In his early years Charlie traipsed around the swamp with a fellow he knew as “Trapper Jim.” Originally a cook on a Great Lakes tug boat, Trapper Jim took Charlie under his wing while he made the rounds along his trap line and also while acting as caretaker for a group of duck hunters from Buffalo who at the time owned a large tract of the vast wetland.

A mantle of ice lines a stretch of Oak Orchard Creek. This is the same stretch where Charlie Ralph used to swim in his youth. It is still a popular embarking point to access the swamp’s interior.

Several weeks from now, when thousands of waterfowl descend on the swamp, this empty nesting box will house a clutch of ducklings.  

One of the many species of fur bearers inhabiting the swamp, this fox emerges from cover.

The swamp has become popular with outdoor enthusiasts over the years. Birdwatchers, canoeists, kayakers, hunters, fishermen, hikers and nature photographers frequent the area. Come winter, the area takes on a different look. While somewhat desolate at this time of year, the swamp is perhaps more picturesque, and on calm, windless days, certainly quieter. But a couple months from now, in late winter or early spring, the spring peepers will make their presence known by celebrating the spring rain. Dormant for months, their nighttime chorus will herald the change of seasons. Soon afterward the swamp will once again be bustling with activity. 

Joe Lawrence grew up in the Town of Batavia countryside where the Tonawanda Creek flowed along the edge of the family property. As might be expected, he became a fisherman at an early age. It was in that same time frame, and under the watchful eye of his father, Bob Lawrence, when the hunting phase of his life began.

           Much of what Joe learned from his father has been passed on. Expeditions to Black Lake and the pursuit of bass, walleye and crappie have become yearly events for the Lawrence family and their friends.   

            Taking to the outdoors since the fifties, Joe Lawrence has no doubt stashed away plenty of fond memories, a good number being of the father & son variety.

            The younger Lawrence, son John, has developed into quite an outdoor tactician. Be it fly-rod, shot gun, or bow, John obviously paid attention during early years afield with his father. With the elder Lawrence as his mentor, John Lawrence mastered trap shooting relatively early in life, garnering All American honors by the age of fifteen. He would duplicate the feat three years later.

            While there have been many high points for the father and son tandem over the years, in speaking with John recently, it seems this autumn will be ranked among his favorites.            

            John put venison in the freezer early on in the bow season, bagging a very nice 8 pt. in October. For those who know John, that’s not so much of a surprise as it is his custom. Filling an archery tag early on enabled him hunt waterfowl and pursue pheasants  with Kaylee, his two year old Vizsla.

 And while John doesn’t take outdoor moments for granted, it was the season finale which had him buzzing. John and Joe Lawrence were deer hunting with friends Andy Webster and the Ficarella brothers, Billy and Jimmy. It was the tail end of the muzzle loader season and the group was hunting a parcel of land they own in north central Genesee County.   

            It seems fitting that, while in the company of his son and good friends, Joe Lawrence closed out the deer season in grand fashion. His hunting and fishing adventures have spanned six decades, yet it was on this outing last week when Joe took the biggest deer of his life, a brute whitetail sporting nine points, an inside spread topping 22 inches and main beams stretching 27inches. Early estimates put the deer well over 140 points on the Boone & Crockett scoring system. If so, Joe Lawrence will be listed in the annals of the New York State Big Buck Club. 

            Being able to share such a moment with his son and friends only enhanced the experience. What a great way to wrap up the season.