Greener Grass
I really don't like fences.
Really. The
problem is, there are more and more of them all the
time, and it seems
that every year more and more of them are sprouting
posted signs.
Of course, I had a posted sign on the fence around my
old yard, but
that's different. Even though people would like very
much to have
fished in the front yard (and sometimes do in spite of
the signs), it
is still different. After all, it is just a house on a
city lot
that happens to be on the water. Once upon a time it
was pretty
good water, too, according to the prior owners, but
time, people, and
an ever larger sewer facility upstream have not helped
it a bit.
But the fences I am talking about are the ones out
in the
country, usually in an area where I have been fishing,
or would like to
fish. Usually in very pretty country, too. Often there
is
not a house in sight. Of course, even if there is no
water in
sight, and I am not even sure there is any hidden
water, I still want
to try it. Why else would anyone post normal looking
land if it
were not to hide some wonderful fishing from the rest
of the world?
No matter how good the public water is on a
particular
river, stream, or lake, the part that's posted looks
better, often much
better, even if you can't see it. Probably even better
yet if you
can't see it. Now that I am no longer a kid (ha), I
just sigh,
and drive on. Usually. But that is now, and, as my dad
used
to say, ‘twasn’t always thus.
I don't know when it started. Memory fails me.
I'm sure it was when I was aged in single digits,
though. At that
age, people thought it was cute that I liked to fish,
and looked the
other way. I got away with a lot, I think. And, or
course,
there weren't many fences then, and even fewer posted
signs.
I guess the first place where I fished that I
instinctively knew I shouldn't was the Teft's lily
pond. I
recently had the opportunity to look at it, and, from
50 plus distant years. TINY
is the operative word. However, Minuscule
might
be better. It was a small man-made cove, with two
entrances to the main lake. Only a canoe (we did not
know what kayaks
were back then) could make it through the openings.
Even
without a posted sign, I somehow I knew that they
didn't want me in
there. Probably it was because they were the only
people in the
immediate area with a fence. So I had to go. Bob, my
summer
companion at the time, and I decided there had to be
some big pike in
there, or why would they want to keep us out. So we
got up at
4:00 am, at the first hint of light, when no sane
adult on summer
vacation would be awake to see us, got in the canoe
(quiet, right?) and
snuck in there.
No, we did not get caught, any of the many times we
did
it. Nor did we ever catch anything, either. Did that
cure
me? Not a chance.
I once lived on Long Island, outside of New York
City. We were about two miles from the salt water,
well within
bike ride range for fish happy kids. Where we liked to
fish was
really a very picturesque place. In the 1600s, a tidal
pond had
been created to drive a mill. What they milled is
probably lost
in antiquity, and it had long since fallen into
disrepair and then
some. But, after 300 years, the tidal gate on the pond
actually
still worked. At high tide, the gate would swing
inward, letting
the salt water into the pond. As the tide went out,
the gate
would swing shut, containing the water, which would
then be used to
drive a long gone water wheel. Since there was no
longer any water
being drawn off to run the wheel, the gate only opened
on spring tides,
but it none the less kept the pond brackish.
This pond had several
things going for it. First and
foremost, it was surrounded by a chain link fence,
with barbed wire on
the top, and "NO
TRESPASSING" signs
everywhere. Secondly, it
contained a wonderful population of large (for us)
White Perch, Eels,
and Blue Crabs.
Fishing this place was a challenge. To get in, we
hid our bikes in the bushes and walked to the area
above the tidal
gate, which was a very busy two lane road. Sometimes
we fished
for Bluefish (snappers we called them), about 5 inches
long) on the
other, salt water, side of the road. Access on the
salt water
side was so difficult that we fished with only one
hand, the other
hanging onto the railing between the road and the
drop-off to the water
while standing on a four inch ledge. Cars were
constantly rushing
by on the other side of the railing.
I remember we
had to carry
the live minnow bait, very small, in our mouths
because of the lack of
space
and the need for both hands to be otherwise
occupied.
On
the brackish (pond) side of the road, between the road
and the pond,
the bottom of the chain link fence had several strands
of barbed wire,
reaching down to within about a foot of three four
inch conduits,
carrying telephone lines, or power, or something. If
we slipped
down onto these pipes on our backs, we could then
slide under the
barbed wire while holding it up with our hands. The
second person
would slip the tackle, bait, etc. to the first one in,
and then get in
himself. The endpoint was a wooden bridge/dock from
which we
fished. Here we had some fine days, particularly when
the spring
tide opened the gate, and the white perch swarmed to
the incoming
current to catch the surprised silversides and
killifish that got swept
in with the current. At other times, when there was no
spring
tide, we could get a gunny sack full of blue crabs
using the old
chicken neck on a string trick, or we could get half a
gunny sack of
nice eels using very strong hand lines.
Occasionally the local constabulary would find us,
and
yell, from their cruisers on the road, for us to get
out, which we
would do, for a couple of days.
One day we obediently left as requested. When I
started to
go home, however, I discovered I had left something
inside. So I
went back in, as luck would have it, just as the
officer returned to
check us out. He stopped in the middle of a blind
corner of this
busy little road, and told me to get out and come with
him. As I
started back out under the fence, I, accidentally of
course, got my
clothing stuck in the barbed wire. As the cars piled
up behind
him, complete with screeching brakes and angry
honking, he became more
and more frustrated, until he finally said "I'll let
you go this last
time, but get out as fast as you can and stay out" and
he drove
off. I unhooked myself, and we were outta there in a
matter of
seconds.
That, I believe, is as close as I have come to
actually
getting caught poaching! But it, also, was not a cure.
When I was a teenager, I discovered, quite by
accident,
the best wild Brook Trout fishing I have ever had,
before or since.
Posted, of course! I also realized that I no longer
could
be classed as “cute”, and therefore I had to be a bit
more
sophisticated (cunning?) in my approach.
About a mile or so from my home there was a city
reservoir. It was not very big, but was very pretty,
and very
wild. Essentially, there was no access. Perfect. Not
that I expected to catch much, but there was this big
fence, with these
big posted signs, and that was sufficient to get the
juices flowing.
This was obviously another
hide-the-bike-in-the-bushes-and-walk-in
spot.
I guess people were more trusting then, because I
found
that the fence was very visible along the paved road,
all 300 feet of
it, but disappeared into the woods and ended a short
way up the dirt
portion. Why? I think because the access was really
terrible. There was a thick woods to beat through,
followed by a
very steep bank extending right down to the water and
the ever present
alders. This was an unusual reservoir, because it
never changed
levels. All year, even during the driest of summers,
it remained
full. Later I found that they had a series of
reservoirs further
up the hill that fed this one, and they fluctuated.
But not this
one, so the edge of the water was solid undergrowth.
It was
obviously unfishable with fly, and, at best,
marginally fishable with
spinning gear.
Perfect! It should be loaded with fish. It
wasn't. I never had the first sign of fish in the main
reservoir.
During
several attempts, I managed to fish the entire
south side, right up to where the little brook fed in.
I mean
little. I call brooks this size "step-across creeks".
But
there were very small (1 inch) trout darting about. It
was as I
approached this section, and actually found some
relatively shallow and
weedy water, that I caught a few Pickerel. Chain
Pickerel were
not common in this area, the big brother Northern Pike
being the more
common species, but these were actually Pickerel. I
had been
catching small Pickerel out of a couple of tiny
stagnant ponds in the
city park, on fly, and they were
fun, so I enjoyed
the possibility of
having a second locale for doing this.
The next trip I brought the fly rod to have a try
in this
shallower water, where I could maybe get a few casts
off, and I did get
a few smallish Pickerel.
As I was walking to another spot through a small
gully
with a trickle of water in it, I heard a sound, and
stopped. It
sounded like feeding Trout, coming from up the gully a
ways.
Investigating, I found a beaver dam, behind which the
water was dimpled
with rising trout, some actually leaping out of the
water. It
looked wonderful, and I even had a couple of dry flies
with me, who
knows why or what type.
Knowing the skittishness of beaver dam Brook Trout,
I
crawled up to the base of the dam, and dropped a cast
of maybe 10 feet
into the water. I couldn't see the fly, but I heard a
loud
splash, set the hook, and got a nice 10 inch Brookie.
You know
the type. They look almost black from never seeing the
sun, but
the colors are all there. The heads are huge because
of the lack
of food, but they are still very pretty fish. Of
course, I
spooked all the other fish with the commotion of the
fight. But
after a few minutes, they stared rising once more.
Then I
discovered the problem with this spot. About 15 feet
from the
dam, and paralleling it across the entire gully (I
can't call it a
valley!) was a wall of impenetrable alders. On the
other side, it
was wide open, and full of fish. But there was no way
to cast
there. It was getting late, so I trudged home to think
it over.
A few days later I went back. It was a late April
evening, and one of those late cold fronts had swept
over the
Adirondacks. It was cold. But the trout were at it
again. This time I got two before they left the area
close to the
dam and retreated behind the alders. Were they smart?
Sure
seemed it. I had thought about it a while, and had a
brilliant
idea, or so it seemed at the time. I removed my
clothing, took
out my pocket knife, and waded buck naked into the
water. When I
heard the skim ice on the edges of the pond tinkle
from my wake, I
should have quit right then and there. But I was young
(17 or so)
and knew I was tough. I had to go in chest deep to get
to the
alders, and then reached down as far as I could and
cut them off about
3 feet below the surface. It took much too long, I had
no towel,
and the air temperature was about 30. You get the
picture. I got
dressed, shivering a lot, and jogged as best I could
through the woods
back to the bike, and pedaled as fast as I could home
to the hot shower.
But, two days later, the entire pool was
accessible, and I
had many evenings of fine dry fly fishing that year.
The next
year, someone or something had removed the dam, and it
was all
over. But for a while I had my own private Trout pond,
owned, of
course, by the city. And, of course, it was posted.
The
brightest part of this was that I discovered a second
pair of beaver dams in the same area, and these were
fairly shallow,
out in the open, full of weeds, and apparently
containing lots of
food. These dams held Brook Trout in the 14-15 inch
range, and
they were well fed and sassy. But I had a very hard
time catching
them at first. I finally got one, took it home to Dad
for
his breakfast, and found out when cleaning it that it
had been eating
very small bugs of some kind. I knew nothing of
fishing
entomology at that time, but thinking back on it I
believe they were
probably some sort of Scud. All that mattered was that
I tied up
some flies that looked a bit like them, and the Trout
loved them.
There is a sort or moral to this story, unrelated
to the
posting of the water. My Dad loved to eat Trout, and I
made a it a
point to try to bring him home a single nice sized
Trout every trip,
releasing the rest. I fished these dams regularly all
spring,
keeping just one fish each trip. By the end of the
school year,
there were no more Trout in the dams. I had apparently
caught
them all, keeping just one at a time. This was a
lesson I learned
well, and am now a died-in-the-wool catch and release
fisherman.
If fishermen in general do not fish catch and release
just about
everywhere, there will be no fish. And I wiped this
population
out single handedly.
I have recently, 60 years or so later, gone back to
the
same spot. I really wanted to go see if the fish had
repopulated these
spots. Unfortunately, the fence now extends all around
the area,
and the posted signs are bigger, meaner, and more
numerous. And I
am no longer cute.
Now,
you would think that if someone wanted people to stay
out of somewhere, he, or she, would let it be known
somehow. A
fence would be nice, or a sign, or something. Maybe
the thought
is that if you don't put up a fence or signs, people
might ignore the
place. Who knows? Here's what happened. Is it really
poaching? And, no, I couldn't have dreamed it up, it
really
happened to me.
I think I was still in high school, but I could
drive, so
it must have been late high school or home from
college for a few
days. I was exploring after dinner on a nice spring
evening, on a
brook that ran right through the city, and then on
into the
country. Not much of a brook, but it was close, I did
not have
much time, it was a beautiful evening, and I needed
some woods
time. I came to one of the rare spots where the alders
had not
made it completely impossible to fish, and there was
access through a
wall of trees to a convenient parking spot off the
dirt road in the
undisturbed corner of a farmer's recently plowed
field. It even
looked as if it had been used for a parking many times
before.
I walked across the road to the meadow where the
stream
flowed, and worked it a ways. I did nothing, but it
was a nice
evening, and exploring is always fun. As I moved
along, I did
hear the sound of a tractor working in the area where
I parked, but I
thought the farmer was finishing the work in his
field, and didn't give
it a thought.
At dusk, I returned to the car to find that the
farmer had
erected two very large diameter poles (sort of like
telephone pole
segments) on either side of the access to his field,
and had strung a
heavy chain, with a large lock, between the poles,
completely blocking
my egress from the field back to the road. I could not
help but
laugh a little, even though it was now dark, and I did
not feel that I
would enjoy walking to the nearby farmer's house and
asking for help.
I thought about it for a while, and then smiled. I
quietly started the car, without lights. It had dawned
on me that
the poles had been set within the hour, and they could
not be
particularly well stuck in their holes. I gently
bumped one of
the poles with the car, and it moved quite a bit. I
backed up,
got out, and was able, with some difficulty, to gently
lift the pole
out of the hole. I set it down, drove over the chain,
and, with a
large grin, gently set the pole back in the hole. When
I was
finished, it looked exactly as it had before. I even
erased the
footsteps and car tracks. I drove off down the dirt
road a bit,
until I was out of sight of the house before turning
on the car
lights. I chuckle to this day thinking of the farmer
when he
finally investigated as to why I had not shown up to
ask for help.
There is one other story that somewhat proves that
I was
doing nothing wrong by fishing posted spots. One day I
climbed
over a chain link fence gate to fish a posted pond,
and when I jumped
off onto the inside, I was standing right on top of a
$20 bill.
In the 1940s, that was a lot of money for a kid. I
figured someone was
looking out for me and did not care if I poached or
not.
On a sadder note, this past summer I returned to my
old
home stamping grounds to try to fish some of my
favorite childhood
spots once again. I did not plan to fish the old
posted areas
(except maybe one), but to fish the public and
un-posted spots. I
expected things to be changed after 50+ years, but not
really the way I
thought. I believe there were as many, if not more,
fish then
there had been when I was a kid. Maybe I fish better
now, or
maybe there is really a lot of catch and release going
on.
I
don’t know, but checking my records from then, I did
catch more
now. Also, the encroachment of civilization was no
where near as
great as I had thought it would be, living as I do
here in
Florida. Upstate
New York is
severely depressed, and not
growing. The streams are still
there, unimpeded by
houses or
dams. But I could not believe the extent of the posted
signs. On some of the back country uninhabited dirt
roads there
was a posted sign every 100 feet for mile after mile,
with no open
access to some of the prettiest water you could ask
for. The
state has tried to get access in some areas, but it is
a trifling
portion of the total stream mileage. I wonder if this
a result of
our national propensity so sue at the drop of a hat?
At one point
I found a public fishing access (so labeled) with a
parking lot big
enough for 8 cars, but with only 200 yards of open
water to fish
between the continuation of the posted signs in both
directions.
I am thankful for all the national parks and national
forests where I
can fish unimpeded.


Skip
was one of a few founding fathers of the Florida Sports Fishing Assocciation
(FSFA) in 1968, along with such men as Don Seib, Bill Leffingwell,
Bill Sargent, Jerry Stewart and others. This new organization met in
a room at the Today newspaper office. Their goal was to promote sport
fishing by learning and teaching light tackle techniques, primarily.
Skip was instrumental in introducing many of the skills and tackle used
in the south Florida area Miami, the Keys and Florida Bay.
Commercial trolling for king mackerel became a passion and part time
occupation of his, although through all of his life, he was a light
tackle and fly fishing enthusiast.
After retiring, his passion became fly fishing, practicing catch and
release with barb-less hooks. Skip passed away November 19, 2013 and
the FSFA posted this tribute to
him on their website.
Press
- Bill Sargent Outdoors - TODAY - Tuesday, July 20,
1971: Old Water Trick
Brings Record Bonito - Skip Mackey's
bucket-of-water trick
has worked again as he landed a world-record
17-pound, 13-ounce
bonito. Mackey already holds two International
Spin Fish Association
records for a 17-pound 6-ounce bluefish on
six-pound test and a
25-pound barracuda on six. On Sunday Mackey
landed a 51-pound
tarpon which beats his own FSFA record of
17-pounds on a flyrod