Dad: Thanks for all the great memories
This being Father’s Day, I feel compeled to write about fishing for my Father loved nothing more than fishing. Dad has been gone now for almost 30 years, but memories of him that I call to mind the most are of the times we spent fishing and hunting together.
There are still many things that remind me of our fishing adventures from his many antique lures and old reels that reside in his old brown steel foldout tackle box to his 12-foot Montgomery Ward boat, which I still use on occasion.
Another reminder of him, which is dear to my heart, is his old fishing vest, which my daughter, Heidi, quickly claimed when she saw it in my hunting and fishing locker about 20 years after he died.
It had its own ambiance, emitting essences of dead fish, rancid bait and stale smoking tobacco.
Dad would stock the vest with essentials when we fished from the boat, so he wouldn’t have to move about any more than necessary.
Along with hooks, lures, snaps, swivels and sinkers there was always room for a pack or two of Lucky Strikes and matches, which in tougher times when the mills were down were replaced with “Bugler” smoking tobacco and “Top” cigarette papers, so he could roll his own in order to save a few pennies.
I still remember the first time he took me fishing. I was about six, and Mother wasn’t real enthused, but she went along with him. We headed out to Cranberry Glade Lake (which is still a great bass fishing lake) with his friend, Jonesy, who had a small fishing boat.
It was the fact that we were fishing from a boat that had Mother concerned.
Dad and Jonesy laced me up in a small flotation vest and put me in the middle seat.
After shoving off, they maneuvered the boat into the trees and anchored.
I was using an old Pflueger casting reel and one of those antique steel rods.
Dad and Jonesy wouldn’t even dare let me try to cast myself. I ended up with a bird’s nest (tangled reel) just about every time I tried to cast, even after I was twice that age.
After sitting patiently for a while, my bobber went down, and I reeled in a sunfish that couldn’t have been over three inches long.
I remember Dad asking Jonesy if he had put it on my line and he said, “No. He caught it himself.”
I caught the first fish that day, and maybe the biggest, as I don’t recall either of them catching any bass.
That was the first of many fishing excursions with my Father.
We fished Cranberry many times over the years, and we also fished the Yough Dam, Somerset Lake, High Point Lake, Dutch Fork Lake, Virgin Run, a water reservoir near Star Junction, Bentleyville Dam and the Monongahela River, which only held catfish at that time.
It is a shame that Dad missed the turnaround on the Mon, which was horribly polluted during my youth.
He sure would have enjoyed fishing for sauger, walleye and bass, and he would have been in his glory catching lunker hybrid white bass and large drum fish, which are so plentiful today.
I remember so many things about our fishing trips, and, ironically, many are connected to mishaps or near mishaps.
We would take our tent and camp along the upper Allegheny River near Emelton for several days at a time, fishing at night and sleeping during the day.
One night we were anchored along the edge of some moving water, when a severe thunderstorm came out of nowhere. I wasn’t unable to get the anchor free, and the boat was taking on water over the stern, so I pulled out my knife and cut the anchor rope, allowing the boat to race with the current.
Dad didn’t get over losing the anchor for a day or two, but since he was a non-swimmer, I knew it was the best thing to do at the time.
Another day, a snapping turtle took us for a ride around Virgin Run Dam. The turtle picked up one of our baits and swam off.
Braided line is back, but that was all there was in those days, and most of it was strong enough to pull a truck, if it was not compromised by a sharp edge.
Well, we couldn’t raise that turtle.
It must have been a huge one. We tied the line off on a mooring cleat, figuring the turtle would tire out in time, but that never happened.
After a trip around the lake at trolling speed for what seemed an eternity, we gave up on the turtle having to come up for air and finally cut the line.
In one of my earliest trips to the Yough, I was shocked to find out how deep the lake was compared to the other places we fished.
I was on the stern operating the five-horsepower motor, and Dad was trolling as we moved along. All at once he hooked a really nice perch and told me to bring the boat around and anchor off the spot for there was probably a school of perch in the area.
I brought the boat around and slid an anchor over the side. I let out 50 feet of rope, but still did not have the boat anchored. I told Dad to untie the other anchor rope and hand it to me. After connecting the ropes together, I let the 100-foot of rope down, but still no bottom was to be found.
There were no fish finders in those days, but one thing I knew for sure was the bottom was at least 100 feet down.
Another time, Dad took a couple of my friends and myself fishing at Dutch Fork.
One of the guys went to the car for his lunch or something and locked Dad’s only keys inside the trunk.
We were at least 50 miles from home with no extra keys, and cell phones had not yet been invented.
Luckily, the car was unlocked. We were able to remove the back seat and punch a hole through the trunk liner, which was little more than thick cardboard. My buddy slipped through the hole and retrieved the keys.
Fortunately, Dad wasn’t a car fanatic and did not get real upset. The only time the hole could be seen was when you looked in from the trunk.
Dad’s favorite live bass baits were minnows, hellgrammites and crawfish, especially soft-shell crabs when we could find them.
Dad would get in the creek with the seine and throw it on the bank after working it along the bottom of the riffles and under the undercut banks.
I would sift through the leaves and debris, sorting out various aquatic critters.
Avoiding crayfish pincers was one thing, but hellgrammites could be even worse if they latched on to you. When looking through the leaves, you had to be especially careful how you picked them up.
Occasionally, Dad would corner a water snake and wouldn’t say anything, unfolded the seine with the snake inside as I reached in.
I was not afraid of water snakes if I saw them first, but they can give you a start while slithering around in a seine, giving Dad something to chuckle about when he went home and told Mother about it.
Many days afield with Dad also come to mind, especially when I bagged my first squirrel, rabbit and pheasant and especially the day he saw me double-up on a pair of ducks that I flushed from some reeds.
Dad was really proud as a peacock as a couple of nearby hunters said, “That boy can really shoot.”
Unfortunately, to this day I still have enough digits on one hand to count all my doubles.
I remembered how excited he was when I called to tell him I killed my first buck.
He had me signed up on a buck pool at the neighborhood tavern, and I nearly won, holding the lead until the last day of the season.
Yes, there is not a day that I go fishing or hunting that I don’t think of Dad.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad.
Thanks for all the great memories.
Herald-Standard Outdoors Editor Rod Schoener can be reached on line at rschoener@heraldstandard.com.