Wind Swept Alligator
Zach and I headed to Alligator for a few hours of fishing today. Conditions to the landing were good, road getting a little soft. There were nine vehicle of various sorts. The lake is glare ice and the wind was like whipping straight down the lake at us, like at forty knots or so. There are four shacks on the ice today. As we started out, first the hat went, then the cover to the trap box, then the ATV was blown down lake. Seriously it was blowing. As usual the coves on the east shore have no ice and the rock point coming out of the landing is open. We checked on the old homestead and then traveled north toward Turtle Rock, where we set our traps. The wind was so bad you had to hold the traps or they would be blown away. The shore was great, we layed back in t shirts, on ice was like -20 or so. Soon we saw a couple walking or attempting to walk. I thought it was Chris and Rachel, so we went out to meet them. It was a guy name John and girl name Heather coming out to check on friends. They were walking…one step forward, two back. I carry slip on cleats which I gave to them and off they went. Fishing was slow, with only two flags. As we picked up to leave late in day, we saw John and Heather walking, so we gave them a ride back to landing. It was a real nice day, but the wind was just plain raw. Talked with a few other groups on the ice and none reported getting any fish today. As a side note, our bait guy is running low, price is now $5 a doz for shiners and $1 a smelt. I am thinking I can get a lot of salmon at shop and save for the cost of just bait. But where is the fun in that! The other part of the crew headed to Hopkins and reported no fish and just a few fishing. The old man did manage to flip his ATV backwards on himself. The cause, just being a MOMO. Sunday gang is heading back to Parks for perch.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Big John
February 19, 2010
I shudder at the thought.
Zach is fast coming of age and ready to go exploring the world on his own or at least with his friends. I look back a few years to the days of John and me and the exploring we did before caught in the web of life. Days long before cellular phones or even CB radios. Days before GPS and locator beacons.
See John was what I call an honor student, oh yeah straight “A’s” with that 4.0 average. I on the other hand had a -4.0 average. It wasn’t that bad, I think it was like 1.5. That and the daily PA call to make sure that I was even at school from Nick.
To make matters worse, John was respectable, like team captain or something of some sport played with a pig skin. On top of that is dad was a doctor and our principal. I couldn’t at the time understand why a doctor was working as a principal.
Big John, John’s dad, had to be one tough cookie, with a lot of trust to allow little John to hang with the guy that hit the social studies teacher on the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses with a snow ball during class.
To this day I have the upmost respect for Big John; I am only hoping that I can pass along that trust to Zach.
The trust in little John to make the right decision was deep, coming from years of training and instruction. Big John somehow knew that he would need it down the road.
I recall a Friday night in January, at the start of ice fishing season. It was snowing and the temperature was downright cold, like near zero.
I called little John to suggest we get a head start on the others and head to Duck Lake in the middle of the night, sleep in the Blazer and be on the ice at first light. John was all for it, so I packed and headed to his house for the pickup.
Remember we were still in high school, I just had gotten my license, and the road to Duck was not plowed during the winter, even though this was the first real snow, our life experiences were minimal to say the least. In fact back in those days, the drinking age was eighteen, but we won’t talk about that.
I never gave a thought to any dangers of our adventure, none whatsoever. We had a truck, some food, our friendship, fish traps and hand auger. We could survive anything Mother Nature could dish out.
I recall John’s brothers begging to go and Big John telling them not this time. I think he was trying to insure the some of the blood line remained behind. I know now that Big John was shuttering at the thought of us striking out for what was days without contact, days without knowing if we were alright and healthy. This is called stress.
The trip was a success and we caught many fish. What a time gone by.
But looking back I now find myself in Big John’s shoes, wow, what big shoes. Zach is asking to go on such a trip with his friends. What is my answer going to be? Big John is thinking, good some pay back for all this grey hair.
Big John as I am writing my third book, my thoughts are of you and Rita with each page and I wish to say many many “thanks” for your impact is more than you shall know. And by the way it looks like we all turned out ok, expect for that one that sneaks around looking for that one short fish in the creel or trap without a tag. No just kidding, it is reported to me by many that Jim is one of the finest wardens we have in the state and balances out for the one without any common sense. As you may noticed my grammar has not improved one bit!
With much admiration
Lorin
I shudder at the thought.
Zach is fast coming of age and ready to go exploring the world on his own or at least with his friends. I look back a few years to the days of John and me and the exploring we did before caught in the web of life. Days long before cellular phones or even CB radios. Days before GPS and locator beacons.
See John was what I call an honor student, oh yeah straight “A’s” with that 4.0 average. I on the other hand had a -4.0 average. It wasn’t that bad, I think it was like 1.5. That and the daily PA call to make sure that I was even at school from Nick.
To make matters worse, John was respectable, like team captain or something of some sport played with a pig skin. On top of that is dad was a doctor and our principal. I couldn’t at the time understand why a doctor was working as a principal.
Big John, John’s dad, had to be one tough cookie, with a lot of trust to allow little John to hang with the guy that hit the social studies teacher on the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses with a snow ball during class.
To this day I have the upmost respect for Big John; I am only hoping that I can pass along that trust to Zach.
The trust in little John to make the right decision was deep, coming from years of training and instruction. Big John somehow knew that he would need it down the road.
I recall a Friday night in January, at the start of ice fishing season. It was snowing and the temperature was downright cold, like near zero.
I called little John to suggest we get a head start on the others and head to Duck Lake in the middle of the night, sleep in the Blazer and be on the ice at first light. John was all for it, so I packed and headed to his house for the pickup.
Remember we were still in high school, I just had gotten my license, and the road to Duck was not plowed during the winter, even though this was the first real snow, our life experiences were minimal to say the least. In fact back in those days, the drinking age was eighteen, but we won’t talk about that.
I never gave a thought to any dangers of our adventure, none whatsoever. We had a truck, some food, our friendship, fish traps and hand auger. We could survive anything Mother Nature could dish out.
I recall John’s brothers begging to go and Big John telling them not this time. I think he was trying to insure the some of the blood line remained behind. I know now that Big John was shuttering at the thought of us striking out for what was days without contact, days without knowing if we were alright and healthy. This is called stress.
The trip was a success and we caught many fish. What a time gone by.
But looking back I now find myself in Big John’s shoes, wow, what big shoes. Zach is asking to go on such a trip with his friends. What is my answer going to be? Big John is thinking, good some pay back for all this grey hair.
Big John as I am writing my third book, my thoughts are of you and Rita with each page and I wish to say many many “thanks” for your impact is more than you shall know. And by the way it looks like we all turned out ok, expect for that one that sneaks around looking for that one short fish in the creel or trap without a tag. No just kidding, it is reported to me by many that Jim is one of the finest wardens we have in the state and balances out for the one without any common sense. As you may noticed my grammar has not improved one bit!
With much admiration
Lorin
MOMO
MOMO
I am pretty sure this is a Clifton term, as I have never heard it anywhere else. I also think Manny started the term. So what is a “MOMO”? Well a momo is just a word or term I would think, like look at that MOMO, or what a MOMO you are. You can also say hi MOMO. I have family members I call MOMO 1, MOMO2 and MOMO3, something’s depending on the action, your number changes. So I guess MOMO means doing something stupid, acting like an idiot, spilling your drink (your such a MOMO), goofing off (mud truck stuck in water) – what a MOMO. Or if you get all the fish – you’re such a momo. MOMO is not a swear word or a negative word per say, it’s just a word to describe something or someone, so take it in stride you MOMO.
I am pretty sure this is a Clifton term, as I have never heard it anywhere else. I also think Manny started the term. So what is a “MOMO”? Well a momo is just a word or term I would think, like look at that MOMO, or what a MOMO you are. You can also say hi MOMO. I have family members I call MOMO 1, MOMO2 and MOMO3, something’s depending on the action, your number changes. So I guess MOMO means doing something stupid, acting like an idiot, spilling your drink (your such a MOMO), goofing off (mud truck stuck in water) – what a MOMO. Or if you get all the fish – you’re such a momo. MOMO is not a swear word or a negative word per say, it’s just a word to describe something or someone, so take it in stride you MOMO.
Fear of the Dark
Maine Professional Guide Manual – Fear of Dark
This manual and its opinions are directed toward anyone interested in Maine outdoor recreation. You could be studying to be a Maine Guide, a hunter, trapper, fisherman, hiker, camper, bird watcher, snowmobiler or just out for a day in the woods. I have written his book to help you understand the Maine woods and how to survive our weather and conditions.
One of the chapters is in the manual is titled “You and the Dark”. With over thirty years hunting, guiding and traveling Maine, I have found a common thread with a lot of folk. It is universal to all; from about age nine to ninety.
Folks are scared of the dark! To this day I am still attempting to find the answer as to why folks are scared of the dark? Did a parent scare the kids, is it too much Monster Quest, are we scared of some strange creature – maybe Bigfoot? How often do you hear of anyone being attacked by a creature in Maine, let alone at night? Never!
Why is it that if we are with someone else our level of fear and rush of adrenaline disappears walking a camp trail? Companionship removes just about all fear of the dark, as does a campfire. We continue to hear stories of hikers, hunters and other confused recreationalist running madly through the woods, searching for a way out. Lost is only a state of mind. You are only lost if you have a planned point of arrival scheduled, otherwise you are just touring or wandering around, much like window shopping at the mall. There is not a creature in Maine that will go out of its way to hurt you, except for two, the black fly and mosquito. Now you might have a coon, fisher or bear investigate the smell of your cooking bacon or food, but not in search of you personally.
How to overcome the fear of the dark: try lawn sitting and looking at the stars, listen to the noise, cracking of branches, walking, snorting, yelling, crying, splashing and chirping. Sit the edge of the woods near a field on a cool crisp night, the sounds are amazing. The mouse and night squirrel going across the leaves sounds like a herd of elephants in the jungle. Work slowly more into the wood line listening. To improve your vision, close your eyes and hold them closed while you slowly count to ten, now open them.
This manual and its opinions are directed toward anyone interested in Maine outdoor recreation. You could be studying to be a Maine Guide, a hunter, trapper, fisherman, hiker, camper, bird watcher, snowmobiler or just out for a day in the woods. I have written his book to help you understand the Maine woods and how to survive our weather and conditions.
One of the chapters is in the manual is titled “You and the Dark”. With over thirty years hunting, guiding and traveling Maine, I have found a common thread with a lot of folk. It is universal to all; from about age nine to ninety.
Folks are scared of the dark! To this day I am still attempting to find the answer as to why folks are scared of the dark? Did a parent scare the kids, is it too much Monster Quest, are we scared of some strange creature – maybe Bigfoot? How often do you hear of anyone being attacked by a creature in Maine, let alone at night? Never!
Why is it that if we are with someone else our level of fear and rush of adrenaline disappears walking a camp trail? Companionship removes just about all fear of the dark, as does a campfire. We continue to hear stories of hikers, hunters and other confused recreationalist running madly through the woods, searching for a way out. Lost is only a state of mind. You are only lost if you have a planned point of arrival scheduled, otherwise you are just touring or wandering around, much like window shopping at the mall. There is not a creature in Maine that will go out of its way to hurt you, except for two, the black fly and mosquito. Now you might have a coon, fisher or bear investigate the smell of your cooking bacon or food, but not in search of you personally.
How to overcome the fear of the dark: try lawn sitting and looking at the stars, listen to the noise, cracking of branches, walking, snorting, yelling, crying, splashing and chirping. Sit the edge of the woods near a field on a cool crisp night, the sounds are amazing. The mouse and night squirrel going across the leaves sounds like a herd of elephants in the jungle. Work slowly more into the wood line listening. To improve your vision, close your eyes and hold them closed while you slowly count to ten, now open them.
Advanced Baiting
Advanced Baiting
I am not real sure what the means or how it pertains to the old man’s favorite fishing hole. But he always seems to know right where the fish are, bet it open water or ice fishing. It has taken me a long time to understand the concept of sewn on bait and if one really can get more Togue with them.
No matter where we go the old man likes to use natural pond or lake bait. So while the rest of us set tents, unpack rigging and put up rain fly’s, the old man sets out to get some live bait. For years I could never understand this idea. But finally when I was allowed to go set out the bait traps with him I got it. I was twenty one at the time, a long time to wait.
The old man had at least two or three live bait traps that he would set. The first was in close to shore, the second out in a channel and the third in deep water. Deep water could be fifty down at times. All traps would produce great bait, but he could never get the smelts.
The key was his bait food, a little cheese o’s, dog food, bread and the secret ingredient, hamburger. Sometimes he would roll everything together like a meat ball before putting in the trap and sinking it down, But never to the bottom. He used a gallon jug for a float and strong thin line to the trap. The line has a duck decoy weight on it; the trap was hooked by swivel about four feet up from the weight, so the tree was just off bottom. This helped his avoid crayfish and weeds.
When the time came to fish, he would head out the channel and make a pass on the shelf between shore and the first drop off; as usual he would hit a fish. Then he would angle to the deep water and bang another one would strike. This would happen time and time again.
I couldn’t take it much more; I needed to know how the hell he was finding these fish. Twenty one years it took, but here was the answer.
Bud, he said, there is no secret, expect for the bait traps. The bait traps lure the bait as the bait for them is slowly released. The bait fish go in the trap, the bait is now around the trap, as are bait fish. Hmmmmm, get it yet. The big fish want the little fish and bait used for the bait fish. The bait also attracts plankton, which attract more bait fish. Then the secret was out, in all these years you haven’t noticed that all my fish come when I pass the bait traps! No, because you put out so much line, eight colors or 60 yards of mono on the down rigger that the darn boat is nowhere near the trap when you get the strike, no one has put two and two together.
I am not real sure what the means or how it pertains to the old man’s favorite fishing hole. But he always seems to know right where the fish are, bet it open water or ice fishing. It has taken me a long time to understand the concept of sewn on bait and if one really can get more Togue with them.
No matter where we go the old man likes to use natural pond or lake bait. So while the rest of us set tents, unpack rigging and put up rain fly’s, the old man sets out to get some live bait. For years I could never understand this idea. But finally when I was allowed to go set out the bait traps with him I got it. I was twenty one at the time, a long time to wait.
The old man had at least two or three live bait traps that he would set. The first was in close to shore, the second out in a channel and the third in deep water. Deep water could be fifty down at times. All traps would produce great bait, but he could never get the smelts.
The key was his bait food, a little cheese o’s, dog food, bread and the secret ingredient, hamburger. Sometimes he would roll everything together like a meat ball before putting in the trap and sinking it down, But never to the bottom. He used a gallon jug for a float and strong thin line to the trap. The line has a duck decoy weight on it; the trap was hooked by swivel about four feet up from the weight, so the tree was just off bottom. This helped his avoid crayfish and weeds.
When the time came to fish, he would head out the channel and make a pass on the shelf between shore and the first drop off; as usual he would hit a fish. Then he would angle to the deep water and bang another one would strike. This would happen time and time again.
I couldn’t take it much more; I needed to know how the hell he was finding these fish. Twenty one years it took, but here was the answer.
Bud, he said, there is no secret, expect for the bait traps. The bait traps lure the bait as the bait for them is slowly released. The bait fish go in the trap, the bait is now around the trap, as are bait fish. Hmmmmm, get it yet. The big fish want the little fish and bait used for the bait fish. The bait also attracts plankton, which attract more bait fish. Then the secret was out, in all these years you haven’t noticed that all my fish come when I pass the bait traps! No, because you put out so much line, eight colors or 60 yards of mono on the down rigger that the darn boat is nowhere near the trap when you get the strike, no one has put two and two together.
The Start of Trapping
The Start of Trapping
I am not sure when I got the urge to start trapping, but it was early 70’s I guess. Back then Brian Giles and I at age twelve were exploring the banks of Meadow Brook in Bangor and watching Atlantic salmon in the pool next to what is now the Humane Society. We would see beaver, otter and muskrat on our travels. The start of this brook was from the bog off Stillwater Ave and Rudnicki’s farm. It also was known for a few trout in the spring. Now the brook is turned in to culverts, flows under the Bangor Mall parking lot, which adds gas and oil from run off, then crosses Hogan Road before ending the at the Penobscot River.
It might have been Dale Fugal, a son in law of Tom Davis of the Kittredge Road, maybe O’connor or Alton Bartlett, I am just not sure. But I was reading all about trapping and wanted to get started. Fugal suggested I start with water trapping on Meadow Brook and move to land traps. Thus I was under way. Traps were purchased through the mail, at Sears, from a relative of Fugal, Robert Pomery and later from Tom Stevens at Mowatt Fur in Brewer.
As I progressed from the water to land trapped, I wanted to trap fisher, fox and coon, but where. Soon I was knocking on the door of a large farm house at the end of the Kittredge Road. I was around fifteen or so, when this woman answered and invited me in to visit. Her name was Hazel Clark and her friend was Al Grass. Hazel was a relative of Don and Eleanor’s owners of Deans Landing and grandmother to Craig. Grass was from Vanceboro area, where Hazel had a camp on the head waters of Lambert Lake. I would soon learn that Clark was suing the City of Bangor, using Swift Tarbell for taking her land for the dump and her husband has passed away while trying to clear snow the big plow left in her driveway. She was convinced it was payback for her suit.
From this first meeting, she became like a second mother to me. I would spend days and days with her, talking, learning, playing cards, fishing, cooking and hunting.
My trap line continued into college and allowed me to get a good number of fisher on her property, which was college money. At the time fisher was worth $180 a pelt. There were also plenty of deer on her property and always visiting her pastures. Now Clark had no money, there was no life insurance, only a small disability. Needless to say there wasn’t much food, especially steak or hamburger. I recall wheeling into the drive one day, only to hear the crack of a rifle from the house. I looked up and there was a rifle barrel with Hazel at the second story window shooting out into the pasture. “Al get the truck now” she commanded. Trust you did what Hazel said. The truck was a two wheel drive mini Nissan. Down across the field they went. Al jumped from the truck, threw the two deer in the back and never missed a beat. He was a rugged, woods wise guy. It was a like a processing center, back to the barn, hang up, gut em, skin em, quarter and off into the kitchen for the nigh to package the meat. She never threw away a thing and only shared with those that might need. But you could rest assured, if you had stew or steak at Hazels it was moose or deer.
Money was so tight she started selling her lands, and then wanted to cut cedar posts and haul it to the mill. Mister that was work for a kid, but Al and I managed to make it through the snow and cut a tractor trailer load. We hauled the wood out on this tracked snowsled that was like a tractor and the part you sit on was towed behind, I think it was a Lombard or something like that. What a rig, rap the rope around the recoil and hold on. It had like a lawn mower bar handle and you steered it like a push mover with throttle. It was always in a state of constant repair.
Before long I was visiting Al and Hazel at her camp on Lambert Lake that is a book in itself.
When they talk about Maine woods woman, they can talk about Fly rod Crosby being the first guide, but let me tell you they don’t and haven’t made them like Hazel Clark.
These adventures would lead me into trapping with John Fahey and few others. Here it is thirty five years later and still trapping.
I am not sure when I got the urge to start trapping, but it was early 70’s I guess. Back then Brian Giles and I at age twelve were exploring the banks of Meadow Brook in Bangor and watching Atlantic salmon in the pool next to what is now the Humane Society. We would see beaver, otter and muskrat on our travels. The start of this brook was from the bog off Stillwater Ave and Rudnicki’s farm. It also was known for a few trout in the spring. Now the brook is turned in to culverts, flows under the Bangor Mall parking lot, which adds gas and oil from run off, then crosses Hogan Road before ending the at the Penobscot River.
It might have been Dale Fugal, a son in law of Tom Davis of the Kittredge Road, maybe O’connor or Alton Bartlett, I am just not sure. But I was reading all about trapping and wanted to get started. Fugal suggested I start with water trapping on Meadow Brook and move to land traps. Thus I was under way. Traps were purchased through the mail, at Sears, from a relative of Fugal, Robert Pomery and later from Tom Stevens at Mowatt Fur in Brewer.
As I progressed from the water to land trapped, I wanted to trap fisher, fox and coon, but where. Soon I was knocking on the door of a large farm house at the end of the Kittredge Road. I was around fifteen or so, when this woman answered and invited me in to visit. Her name was Hazel Clark and her friend was Al Grass. Hazel was a relative of Don and Eleanor’s owners of Deans Landing and grandmother to Craig. Grass was from Vanceboro area, where Hazel had a camp on the head waters of Lambert Lake. I would soon learn that Clark was suing the City of Bangor, using Swift Tarbell for taking her land for the dump and her husband has passed away while trying to clear snow the big plow left in her driveway. She was convinced it was payback for her suit.
From this first meeting, she became like a second mother to me. I would spend days and days with her, talking, learning, playing cards, fishing, cooking and hunting.
My trap line continued into college and allowed me to get a good number of fisher on her property, which was college money. At the time fisher was worth $180 a pelt. There were also plenty of deer on her property and always visiting her pastures. Now Clark had no money, there was no life insurance, only a small disability. Needless to say there wasn’t much food, especially steak or hamburger. I recall wheeling into the drive one day, only to hear the crack of a rifle from the house. I looked up and there was a rifle barrel with Hazel at the second story window shooting out into the pasture. “Al get the truck now” she commanded. Trust you did what Hazel said. The truck was a two wheel drive mini Nissan. Down across the field they went. Al jumped from the truck, threw the two deer in the back and never missed a beat. He was a rugged, woods wise guy. It was a like a processing center, back to the barn, hang up, gut em, skin em, quarter and off into the kitchen for the nigh to package the meat. She never threw away a thing and only shared with those that might need. But you could rest assured, if you had stew or steak at Hazels it was moose or deer.
Money was so tight she started selling her lands, and then wanted to cut cedar posts and haul it to the mill. Mister that was work for a kid, but Al and I managed to make it through the snow and cut a tractor trailer load. We hauled the wood out on this tracked snowsled that was like a tractor and the part you sit on was towed behind, I think it was a Lombard or something like that. What a rig, rap the rope around the recoil and hold on. It had like a lawn mower bar handle and you steered it like a push mover with throttle. It was always in a state of constant repair.
Before long I was visiting Al and Hazel at her camp on Lambert Lake that is a book in itself.
When they talk about Maine woods woman, they can talk about Fly rod Crosby being the first guide, but let me tell you they don’t and haven’t made them like Hazel Clark.
These adventures would lead me into trapping with John Fahey and few others. Here it is thirty five years later and still trapping.
The Duck Wash Out
The Duck Wash Out
John and I were on our way to fish Duck. It was spring and melt water was running hard. As we headed up the 32-00-00 we came to a beaver run off just before Deer Lake. The road had a gaping hole across it. I mean like ten feet wide and at least four feet deep. There was no other way to get to Duck from where we were, but across the gap. Being young, dumb and stupid, I knew that K5 Blazer could go anywhere. John and I calculated the distance versus the length of the K5 and figured it would work. I eased into the gap, sliding down; as the wheels touched I gave the K5 power. Power alright enough to lift her up toward the top edge. But then she froze. The rear bumper and trailer hitch caught the bank, going under power it pushed the front up. Here we sat, high and dry, both bumpers on the edge and four wheels off the ground. Much like a garage repair pit! Any sane person would have chains; come a long and maybe a shovel or two. Nope not us fools we were going fishing.
Six hours later we had hauled enough rocks to build a fort. The rocks had been placed in the gap under the tires and we jacked the front up to clear the edge. We did have a jack at least. More rocks were placed under the tires as the bumper cleared and the jack was removed and packed away. John hoped back in and as Jackie Gleason said “away we go”. Yeah we did for about four feet. The front tires pulled over the edge and got traction, but suddenly the K5 stopped and angled back. What the heck. We were now a see saw, with the frame resting on the edge of the gap and all four wheels off the ground again. A few more hours of jacking and placing rocks under the rear wheels and we were off to Duck fishing. The only problem was the wind had blown all the ice into the cove and we could get the canoe into the open water of the lake. We decided to come home via Springfield and Lincoln, a few more hours this way would save building a rock bridge the other.
John and I were on our way to fish Duck. It was spring and melt water was running hard. As we headed up the 32-00-00 we came to a beaver run off just before Deer Lake. The road had a gaping hole across it. I mean like ten feet wide and at least four feet deep. There was no other way to get to Duck from where we were, but across the gap. Being young, dumb and stupid, I knew that K5 Blazer could go anywhere. John and I calculated the distance versus the length of the K5 and figured it would work. I eased into the gap, sliding down; as the wheels touched I gave the K5 power. Power alright enough to lift her up toward the top edge. But then she froze. The rear bumper and trailer hitch caught the bank, going under power it pushed the front up. Here we sat, high and dry, both bumpers on the edge and four wheels off the ground. Much like a garage repair pit! Any sane person would have chains; come a long and maybe a shovel or two. Nope not us fools we were going fishing.
Six hours later we had hauled enough rocks to build a fort. The rocks had been placed in the gap under the tires and we jacked the front up to clear the edge. We did have a jack at least. More rocks were placed under the tires as the bumper cleared and the jack was removed and packed away. John hoped back in and as Jackie Gleason said “away we go”. Yeah we did for about four feet. The front tires pulled over the edge and got traction, but suddenly the K5 stopped and angled back. What the heck. We were now a see saw, with the frame resting on the edge of the gap and all four wheels off the ground again. A few more hours of jacking and placing rocks under the rear wheels and we were off to Duck fishing. The only problem was the wind had blown all the ice into the cove and we could get the canoe into the open water of the lake. We decided to come home via Springfield and Lincoln, a few more hours this way would save building a rock bridge the other.
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