OT: The 'Eyes Have It (Very Long) (Probably Boring)

This past weekend was the appointed time for the 18th annual father and sons
gathering and worm-drowning event on near-to-shore-waters of the
once-declared-dead Lake Erie. The gathering has many traditions, as these
things tend to, including, but far from limited to: forgetting how to get
there (80/90 to 51 to something to 19 to something to 2 -- it's those
"somethings" that getcha), horrible weather, good food, heavy ethanol
intake, subsequent hangovers, copious bottom-bouncers being left on, well,
the bottom, horrible sock-brewed coffee in the camp store, and a low fish
count. Some held, some (none-too-regrettably) did not.

The site of the festivities is the venerable Turtle Creek Marina, a short
distance from Oak Harbor, Ohio. Oak Harbor, according to the sign, is a
place from whence oak timbers were once shipped. Less creative names exist,
I guess. But I digress. Turtle Creek Marina is your fairly standard RV
park/tent campground/boat launch ("rampage", locally), and golf cart usage
facility, but with the fine difference being (aside from some very nice
folks in the office) that the campground is home to "The Pond", a roughly
half-acre pond which is the location of many fine catches, some legendary,
most not.

Upon arrival Wednesday PM, and following the awfully steep learning curve
surrounding the construction of Dad's new condo, errrr, "tent", The Pond was
attacked. Rules state that (OBROFF) only fly rods may be used, and only
small (14 and smaller) dries may be used. Any fish other than a small
sunfish of the varying types that populate The Pond that chooses to take
said small dry may therefore be considered to have been successfully
attracted and fooled by the fisherperson using the small dry. No luck on a
streamer, only "skill" on a dry. Bull*** content in previous statement
freely stipulated, tho irrelevant. Being a highly trained and well-read fly
fisherperson (heh) I choose a black Gurgler, size 14 for the attack. Dad, in
his elder wisdom, chose a hopper, also 14. Many casts yielded many sunnies
and much fun. After once-around The Pond, the score was basically even. A
dozen or so little guys each. Then I heard: "Dan!" to which I, being Dan,
turned. I saw the best bass The Pond has ever put forth attached to the of
Dad's line, hopper in mouth. Not being experts in Bassology, we're not too
sure of the weight, but conservative estimates put it at about 3.5 pounds,
being about 20" in length, and of substantial, if unmeasured, girth. Not too
shabby. I was properly humbled and gave forth the proper congratulations and
admissions of general unworthiness to be in the presence of such a fine fly
fisherperson.

There are essentially two places other than camp to eat in the area, Wild
Wings, a tavern/restaurant that also serves as the back half of a gas
station, and the combination karaoke bar/tavern/restaurant a few miles down
the road (of unremembered name). That evening, we chose the karaoke place.

Poor decision. We arrived near to five o'clock local time. The dinner
"special" began at 4:30. It was a fried chicken plate, allegedly "ho-made"
(sic, and loaded with implications), and "good!". What the hell, says I.
Twenty minutes later, I was informed that they were out of the special. It
seems the couple at the ONLY other occupied table in the place had eaten the
last (and first, according to the amiable waitress) plate. Burger it is
then. About 4 bites into the burger (which I will admit was awfully tasty),
I again hear "Dan!". Being somewhat quick, I realize that the tone is not
one to boast of fish caught, but rather to call attention to a problem.
Looking, I notice that the French (freedom?) fries that accompanied Dad's
pork chops are in motion. Odd for a plate of fries. Not a phenomena often
observed. Seems the roaches that fell into the fries after cooking were
coming out the their heat-induced state of shock. How pleasant. We leave.

The state of Ohio is the home to a wonderful, if perhaps somewhat strange
form of retailing: the drive-thru liquor store. Pull into the barn, state
your needs, wait a minute as the attendant retrieves said imbibe-ables, pay
and move along. Wonderful. Nobel prize to the wise people that permit such a
business to exist.

Potables in hand, camp was reestablished and consumption began. At some
vague point, the alcohol got the best of us, and sleep crept in. Some time
in the middle of the night, the third part of the triumvirate arrived from
Nashville, and a quorum was achieved.

Upon waking, the horrible-ness of the coffee was again proven, and the
hangover was in fact worse than anticipated.

Licenses, bait, and other supplies purchased and properly stowed, the boat
was launched. The decision as to where to begin the fishing is one of
simplest. Simply emerge from the channel into the main body of the lake, and
look for "The Fleet", which consists of at least 100, possibly as many as
500 boats all doing essentially the same thing: drifting or slowly trolling
from one point to another with the hopes of boating a day's limit of the 2.5
million Walleyed Pike planted annually by the states of Ohio and Michigan in
hope of attracting said boats and the money they spend.

Ever been fishing in a place far from home, and been speaking with a local
who, commenting upon the poor fishing observed during your stay, said
something akin to "You should've been here last week, they were killing
'em!"? Annoying, isn't it? Well, as noted above, we have a habit of hearing
said remark. Not this time. The legal limit is 6 Walleye of 15" or longer
per license. We hit our 18 in about 90 minutes. Unbelievable. Lake Erie
walleye fishing is not exactly what most would refer to as "technical". Tie
a bottom bouncer to your line, attach garden-hackled rig to bouncer, drop to
the bottom, and wait. It becomes more difficult when all six poles hit at
once. Not all are walleye, some are "sheephead" (freshwater drum, me
thinks), some are stripers, some are perch. All are fun, and all were
gleefully welcomed to the boat in such a short amount of time as to not even
have warranted the application of a sunburn preventative. Non-walleyes were
returned from whence they came, and into the channel we returned. Upon
landing the boat, we were greeted by an officer of the Ohio DNR, who after
checking both license and creel, and realizing all was legal and fine,
informed us that it's good we kept to the limit, as over-the-limit citations
are currently set at 1000 dollars per fish. Truthfulness not guaranteed, as
perhaps the fishing was so good that the good officer simply wanted to
assuage the often succumbed to temptation to clean and secret away the fish
and return to the lake for another limit. We were not tempted, as the beer
had been on the ice a while, and there were whistles that needed wetting.

Reveling in our good fortune, we called the respective spouses, informing
them of our fortunes (to their great ambivalence), tended to various camp
chores, cleaned the fish, showered, and prepared for the evening meal.

My brother Dave is a chef. Professional variety. He's a good person to have
in camp. Team him up with some very good cuts of beef, various spices and
other cooking essentials, and a very well-prepared meal is soon to be had.
Not failing to live up to his reputation and skill, the steaks were
wonderful, the Cabernet delicious, abundant, and short-lived, and the
sautéed perch on the side quite tasty, too. Fishing derby on The Pond was of
course resumed, to the utter amazement of some of Turtle Creek's younger
tenants. Flinging a fly around to catch sonnies is apparently something of a
novelty in Oak Harbor, as we attracted quite the gallery. The day's honors
went to your correspondent, with the winning fish being a hearty 10 inch
largemouth. Suggestions to take him to the local taxidermist were rebuked.

Woke up to a strong storm, replete with 40 MPH gusts (or so) and a good
amount of rain. Spent the first few hours of the day doing essentially
nothing, hoping for a break in the weather. Erie's Triangle, as the area is
known, is a very shallow (for a Great Lake -- someone told me 20 or so feet
is the average depth) pool of water. Kicks up quick with the wind, but also
of course lays down nicely. Somewheres around noontime, the weather broke,
and bluebird skies ruled.

Gathered up the boat and assorted accoutrements and made for the water. Saw
a coupla hardier souls cleaning fish -- they had braved the 6 footers, much
to their reward. A slew of wallies lie in front of them, waiting their turn
to go under the knife. Partially out of respect for their fine catch, and
partially as reconnoiter, I asked what the color, location, and technique du
jour were. The response, "It don't fuckin' matter" ought to paint a nice
picture. Again, we did the "A" can shuffle (figure eights around a buoy) and
limited out -- 18 keepers -- in about an hour. Unfrickinbelieveable. Threw
something like 10 back -- too small. Maybe another 5 or 6 sheephead, a half
dozen perch, and a striper or two -- all in about an hour. A fine day.

Dave mustered up an old Turtle Creek tradition for dinner -- a chicken over
pasta concoction that must be experienced to be believed. Dee-lishus. Toss
in a coupla bottles of grape juice, and a dozen or so beers, and the makings
for a good bull*** session have been gathered.

Morning came much like that previous. Blustery was the consensus term. The
wind, however, had chosen to blow from the south west this morning, leaving
much of the Triangle in a relative lee, and causing the wave height to be a
mere two feet or so. Into the boat we went, hoping to muster up another
limit in time to eat lunch on shore. We had gotten spoiled the previous two
days, as the fishing, while certainly excellent, had slowed down to the
point that we were only taking four keepers an hour. Horrible, ain't it? How
does a boy deal with such horrible fishing? Not quite five hours and
who-knows-how-many figure eights of the "A" can later, our limit was again
achieved.

The evening's meal was a fine hamburger. Not the typical camp burger -- over
cooked, dry, and disgusting -- but a fine example of a true art form. Again,
the cabernet flowed. I recognize that it is not too often that a burger and
a cabernet are paired, but it was excellent.

The evening's derby was won by Dave, whose eight inch sunnie took the prize.
Prize being the right to have no responsibility to return pots/pans/and
plates to their pre-meal state of cleanliness. We scrubbed whilst he drank.

All told, the walleye take was 54 keepers. Threw somewhere around 20 more
back, along with untold numbers of non-targeted fish. Considering that the
total take for the past three trips combined was about 45, we considered
this to be about the finest fishing yet experienced. It truly was
unbelievable.

But -- I have pictures to prove some of it. They'll be up in binaries later.

Dan







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