ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 2 OF 4
Arriving in Fresno, we checked in to the Holiday Inn where the convention was to be held, and then looked up Ralph Tucker who, I will mention up front, turned out to be a wind bag. The "Convention" was a joke but we did meet a couple of escargot farmers who had a lot of snails chewing on lettuce leaves. Whether they were prosperous or not I cannot say but they were enthusiastic about the prospect. The local newspaper, the "Fresno Bee", had a reporter on the scene and the next day's edition had a front page picture of Yvette with her nose about three inches from an escargot. The caption said something to the affect that this French lady had come all the way from New Jersey to inquire about the prospect of taking the business there. It didn't take long to discover that the snail business wasn't for us. Ralph did, however, have something of interest.
It was a wine bottle opener called a Corkette. Ralph had been to England the previous year and had come across this gadget. It's a pump about three inches long with a three-inch hollow needle. It works by piercing the wine cork with the needle. You then pump the handle, forcing air into the bottle via the hollow needle. When you get enough air in the bottle, the pressure pushes the cork out. Ralph claimed to have United States rights for distribution of the Corkette. In retrospect, I doubt it. I asked for exclusive rights for New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York. I ended up having the entire eastern coast from Maine to Florida. You know the axiom about poker: You have to know when to hold them and when to fold them. At this point I should have folded. I didn't.
As we discussed the proposition further, there was an upcoming Home Show in New York City. Ralph claimed he had netted $10,000. the previous year and if I wanted to have the show this year I could. The cost was $2,000. I accepted. The five-day show was a flop of major proportions. Hardly anyone attended. I couldn't believe it, in New York. I got one order for the Corkettes. Fortunately, it was large enough to cover the show and our expenses, including meals and hotel.
Ralph, who claimed he was a freelance sports correspondent, was in town to cover the U. S. Open Golf Tournament out on Long Island at Southampton. We made an appointment to meet him there and when we did, he showed up with a black eye. He claimed he had been interviewing Lee Trevino, Mexican golf pro, and was holding up a tree branch so Lee could drive out of the rough when the limb flew back and hit him in the face. We made a date to have dinner at an upscale New York restaurant that evening. He arrived, under the influence, with a friend. During the course of the evening, Ralph excused himself for a trip to the restroom. While gone, his friend told us they had been here the evening before and Ralph, drunk as a skunk had tripped and hit his face on something. So much for the swinging limb. We left for home the next day and that was the last of Ralph.
We still had the rights to the Corkette so made plans to pursue the franchise. One of my Canadian Club buddies, Bob Newsham, had retired to Deltona, Florida. I was also acquainted with a retired Philadelphia food broker, Pat McGinnis, now living in Indian Creek Village, an exclusive gated community in Miami. Pat's wife had died and he was now married to a Polish concert pianist and the widow of a Polaroid vice-president. I do not recall her name. Knowing a bit about Pat, I saw in him the possibility of being a distributor.
I called Bob, made arrangements for a visit, where we were always welcome, and hit the air. Upon arrival I called McGinnis and made an appointment for the next day. We flew out of Orlando on an Eastern Airline plane that had just arrived from Puerto Rico and there was no time between flights to clean up the plane. Apparently, some of the passengers must have carried on open crates of chickens because the plane was full of feathers, plus all sorts of trash. We were still picking bits of feathers off our clothing when we exited in Miami. The McGinnis' picked us up in her Jaguar. His Jaguar was in the shop. When we arrived at the gate of their community, Indian Creek Village, the Mrs. was poking through her handbag, looking for a five dollar bill to tip the guard. Hundred dollar bills were flying around the back seat like snow flakes in a blizzard. I thought they were chicken feathers Yvette was still picking off her clothes. We had lunch at the country club and drove by the $7 Million home of Julio Iglesias. The McGinnis' were excellent hosts and we enjoyed a gracious afternoon. However, it was apparent that Pat was not interested in peddling wine bottle openers so we took the chicken flight back to Orlando. The plane had been cleaned up by the return. We spent a couple of days with the Newshams and then headed for home. In Nomad News No. 102 we will return to Fresno and continue our trip. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.99
ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 1 OF 4
One day in the early 1980s, on the front page of the "Wall Street Journal", there was a story about Ralph Tucker in Fresno CA who was raising escargots. Oui, messieurs/madams, real snails like in Ugh! It seems that Ralph had started a flowering business and was supplying the upbeat restaurants in the Fresno area with, what some folks believed were delicacies. We were living in Haddon Township, NJ, at the time. Just across the street was a large, one-story building that apparently had been unoccupied for some time. I'm sitting on the porch, reading the "Journal", and looking at that building. Bingo! If Ralph could raise snails in California, why couldn't I do the same thing in New Jersey.
I dropped the paper, went down to our office, picked up the phone and called Ralph. The saga begins. Ralph had scheduled a Convention within the next couple of weeks and I told him we would be there. As long as we were going to the other side of he world, we decided to make the trip worthwhile. The itinerary ended up being: We would fly to San Francisco, three days there; fly to Fresno for the convention. Spend three days there. Drive to Phoenix, AZ via the Mohave Desert, take our timeshare week at Flagstaff, fly to Boise Idaho to visit my wartime buddy Mike Spero. Stay a few days there. Fly to Salt Lake City. Rent a car and drive to Yellowstone Park for a few days. Fly back to Salt Lake City for a couple of days. Then fly home.
We pretty much followed that schedule except for the leg from Fresno to Phoenix. We were delayed in Fresno for a day longer than expected and when I looked at the map, I didn't think we would have time to drive so we switched to the airplane so we would arrive in Flagstaff on schedule. We still arrived two days late.
Back to day one. San Francisco was interesting because I was advised to moved there at one time. One of the buyers at Food Fair, Dick Hooker, had spent a number of years there and had suggested that I would like Frisco because of the coast and the fishing and sailing possibilities and not too far inland, fresh water fishing and the mountains were available. After giving it some thought, and as I look back, possibly my sheltering angel nudged me in a different direction, for which I am forever grateful.
The first day we drove to Pasadena to look up someone who was an Amway distributor. I forget why, or if we ever met him. There's a highway that parallels the coast and frequently we would see the ocean and the fog bank off shore that the sunshine kept at bay. It was late in the afternoon when we returned to San Francisco. There is a ridge of mountains between the road and the coast. The sun had declined and permitted the fog to move inland and as the fog followed the contour of the mountains, it looked like a giant waterfall descending over the earth. It was magnificent. I guess that is how the plague descended on the city.
We visited Fisherman's Wharf and became acquainted with sour dough bread, took a ride on a cable car, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and took the ferry to Alcatraz. At this moment in time, I believe Alcatraz would be a wonderful place to exile all 535 members of Congress, along with Obama and his 32 czars, and the nine U. S. Supreme Court justices. Here they would have time to read the Constitution of the United States and find out what's in it.
I think this would be a good place to stop, and then proceed to Fresno and Ralph Tucker in Nomad News No. 100
One day in the early 1980s, on the front page of the "Wall Street Journal", there was a story about Ralph Tucker in Fresno CA who was raising escargots. Oui, messieurs/madams, real snails like in Ugh! It seems that Ralph had started a flowering business and was supplying the upbeat restaurants in the Fresno area with, what some folks believed were delicacies. We were living in Haddon Township, NJ, at the time. Just across the street was a large, one-story building that apparently had been unoccupied for some time. I'm sitting on the porch, reading the "Journal", and looking at that building. Bingo! If Ralph could raise snails in California, why couldn't I do the same thing in New Jersey.
I dropped the paper, went down to our office, picked up the phone and called Ralph. The saga begins. Ralph had scheduled a Convention within the next couple of weeks and I told him we would be there. As long as we were going to the other side of he world, we decided to make the trip worthwhile. The itinerary ended up being: We would fly to San Francisco, three days there; fly to Fresno for the convention. Spend three days there. Drive to Phoenix, AZ via the Mohave Desert, take our timeshare week at Flagstaff, fly to Boise Idaho to visit my wartime buddy Mike Spero. Stay a few days there. Fly to Salt Lake City. Rent a car and drive to Yellowstone Park for a few days. Fly back to Salt Lake City for a couple of days. Then fly home.
We pretty much followed that schedule except for the leg from Fresno to Phoenix. We were delayed in Fresno for a day longer than expected and when I looked at the map, I didn't think we would have time to drive so we switched to the airplane so we would arrive in Flagstaff on schedule. We still arrived two days late.
Back to day one. San Francisco was interesting because I was advised to moved there at one time. One of the buyers at Food Fair, Dick Hooker, had spent a number of years there and had suggested that I would like Frisco because of the coast and the fishing and sailing possibilities and not too far inland, fresh water fishing and the mountains were available. After giving it some thought, and as I look back, possibly my sheltering angel nudged me in a different direction, for which I am forever grateful.
The first day we drove to Pasadena to look up someone who was an Amway distributor. I forget why, or if we ever met him. There's a highway that parallels the coast and frequently we would see the ocean and the fog bank off shore that the sunshine kept at bay. It was late in the afternoon when we returned to San Francisco. There is a ridge of mountains between the road and the coast. The sun had declined and permitted the fog to move inland and as the fog followed the contour of the mountains, it looked like a giant waterfall descending over the earth. It was magnificent. I guess that is how the plague descended on the city.
We visited Fisherman's Wharf and became acquainted with sour dough bread, took a ride on a cable car, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and took the ferry to Alcatraz. At this moment in time, I believe Alcatraz would be a wonderful place to exile all 535 members of Congress, along with Obama and his 32 czars, and the nine U. S. Supreme Court justices. Here they would have time to read the Constitution of the United States and find out what's in it.
I think this would be a good place to stop, and then proceed to Fresno and Ralph Tucker in Nomad News No. 100
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Nomad News Vol.4-No.98
ACROSS CANADA BY TRAIN NO. 2 of 2
In Nomad News No. 97, I had just arrived in Jasper after traversing the Canadian Rockies from near Lake Louise. Tremendous. Exciting. Massive. Stupendous. Words can't describe the wonders of he Rockies. I have seen the American Rockies and the Alps but nothing compares to the unending beauty of the Canadian Rockies and I still have some to go.
After a day in the Jasper area, the seemingly unending beauty continued most of the way to Vancouver. The highlight of this last lap was Mount Robson with an elevation of 12,972 feet and one of the highest peaks in the range with it's massive snow and ice-covered cap. As I recall, the train made kind of a semi-loop around the mountain as we had views from several angles. The trip from Jasper to Vancouver was overnight and for some reason I could not get a compartment. We arrived around 6 a.m. and without hardly any sleep, I was worn out. I went directly to my hotel and slept most of the day.
I was up at 6.00 a.m., had breakfast, then located the airport which was a couple of miles out of the city. I rented a Gruman American low wing airplane, and planned to fly to Mount Baker in Washington state. I forget the model but she was a four-place and turned out to be the most comfortable airplane I had ever flown. I don't know what it was but we became instant friends. She was quiet with good 360-degree visibility, and responded to the controls like we had been together for hours. She settled in the air just like a good wooden boat settles in the water. I wanted to loop her in the worst way but I had taken one of the personnel from the airport with me so I wouldn't have any problem with local flying restrictions, crossing the border, etc. and he said: "no no".
As we took off, I could see Mount Baker about fifty miles to the south. As the mountain's elevation is 10,781-feet, I started a slow climb so I would be at that elevation on arrival. As we approached, there were four o five little specks on the mountain's top. The specks turned out to be people on snow shoes. There were several active volcanic holes, emitting hot steam, that didn't look friendly. We circled the mountain a couple of times, and then headed back to Vancouver. Upon return, the airport operator told me the folks on the mountain were probably scientists checking things out as the mountain had been acting up lately.
The next day I took the ferry boat to Vancouver Island where the city of Victoria is located. The island, 290 miles in length, is the largest Pacific Island east of New Zealand. I believe the city is noted for some gardens but, if so, they didn't leave any permanent impression on my memory. The net day was more interesting. I took the Royal Hudson Steam Train to Squamich, about a two-hour ride. I had always been fascinated by train travel and the opportunity to travel in a train from the 1930s was something I couldn't pass up. The train had either been maintained in mint condition or restored. We arrived for lunch and I believe we were there for a couple of hours until it was time to return. Squamich was an old town, as well as I can recall.
The following day I departed for Ottawa, this time by the southern route. The return was straight through with no overnight stops. I had a compartment and a Dome Car so the Labatt 50 problem was taken care of. I don't recall if we spent one night or two nights on the road. All in all it was a great trip and one to be remembered, even if a bit hazy. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
In Nomad News No. 97, I had just arrived in Jasper after traversing the Canadian Rockies from near Lake Louise. Tremendous. Exciting. Massive. Stupendous. Words can't describe the wonders of he Rockies. I have seen the American Rockies and the Alps but nothing compares to the unending beauty of the Canadian Rockies and I still have some to go.
After a day in the Jasper area, the seemingly unending beauty continued most of the way to Vancouver. The highlight of this last lap was Mount Robson with an elevation of 12,972 feet and one of the highest peaks in the range with it's massive snow and ice-covered cap. As I recall, the train made kind of a semi-loop around the mountain as we had views from several angles. The trip from Jasper to Vancouver was overnight and for some reason I could not get a compartment. We arrived around 6 a.m. and without hardly any sleep, I was worn out. I went directly to my hotel and slept most of the day.
I was up at 6.00 a.m., had breakfast, then located the airport which was a couple of miles out of the city. I rented a Gruman American low wing airplane, and planned to fly to Mount Baker in Washington state. I forget the model but she was a four-place and turned out to be the most comfortable airplane I had ever flown. I don't know what it was but we became instant friends. She was quiet with good 360-degree visibility, and responded to the controls like we had been together for hours. She settled in the air just like a good wooden boat settles in the water. I wanted to loop her in the worst way but I had taken one of the personnel from the airport with me so I wouldn't have any problem with local flying restrictions, crossing the border, etc. and he said: "no no".
As we took off, I could see Mount Baker about fifty miles to the south. As the mountain's elevation is 10,781-feet, I started a slow climb so I would be at that elevation on arrival. As we approached, there were four o five little specks on the mountain's top. The specks turned out to be people on snow shoes. There were several active volcanic holes, emitting hot steam, that didn't look friendly. We circled the mountain a couple of times, and then headed back to Vancouver. Upon return, the airport operator told me the folks on the mountain were probably scientists checking things out as the mountain had been acting up lately.
The next day I took the ferry boat to Vancouver Island where the city of Victoria is located. The island, 290 miles in length, is the largest Pacific Island east of New Zealand. I believe the city is noted for some gardens but, if so, they didn't leave any permanent impression on my memory. The net day was more interesting. I took the Royal Hudson Steam Train to Squamich, about a two-hour ride. I had always been fascinated by train travel and the opportunity to travel in a train from the 1930s was something I couldn't pass up. The train had either been maintained in mint condition or restored. We arrived for lunch and I believe we were there for a couple of hours until it was time to return. Squamich was an old town, as well as I can recall.
The following day I departed for Ottawa, this time by the southern route. The return was straight through with no overnight stops. I had a compartment and a Dome Car so the Labatt 50 problem was taken care of. I don't recall if we spent one night or two nights on the road. All in all it was a great trip and one to be remembered, even if a bit hazy. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.97
ACROSS CANADA BY TRAIN -No. 1 of 2
I have mentioned a couple of times that once upon a time, I owned a plot of land on Clear Lake, Ontario along with five fishermen friends. Over the years we met a lot of "locals" and became quite friendly with a few. Two were Art and Kathy Eberhard. Art called everyone "Chicky". The Eberhards lived in Ottawa and had a summer home on Clear Lake. One year I decided to take the train from Ottawa to Vancouver. The Eberhards invited me to stay overnight with them in Ottawa, leave my car in their driveway, and then took me to the train and picked me up on my return.
I had a compartment so I could take a nap when I felt like it, the train had a Dome Car, I believe they called it, where I could sip my Labatt 50 Ale and watch the scenery go by. I also scheduled an overnight stop at Winnipeg, Edmonton and Jasper. The first day, I saw nothing but trees and more trees. From Winnipeg to Edmonton, it was sunflowers. They're still embedded in my mind. I rented a car and stayed a day in and around Winnipeg. I can't remember anything special about the area although I did visit a zoo that was quite nice.
The following morning I checked the schedule to find the train was three hours late. Today, I compare this to the European fast trains that operate on such a punctual schedule. Through the sunflowers to Edmonton where I had scheduled a day stayover.The train is four hours late in arriving. In the morning I rented a car and drove around the area. Here again, I don't recall anything outstanding except the zoo may have been in Edmonton. I was up at five the next morning and checked on the train. It will arrive six hours late. My original schedule would have given me nearly a day at Jasper, near the northern end of the Rockies. I thought this would give me enough time to ride around and sight see the Rockies at that point pretty good. With this unexpected time problem, this wasn't going to happen. I still had the car so I pulled my map out. The road south from Edmonton to Calgary, about fifty miles east of Lake Louise, was straight as an arrow. The distance was 185 miles. I figured I could drive to Lake Louise and then back up to Jasper through the Rockies and arrive about 8 p.m. The decision was made. It was "wide open" all the way with my fingers crossed that the law would not be out that early.
My sheltering angel, which I wasn't aware of at that time in my life, must have been with me as I made it without mishap. From Calgary, I could see the Rockies for the first time in my life. I stopped for a bite of breakfast, filled the gas tank, then hit the road. I bypassed Lake Louise and Banff as they were a little distance off the main road. I had a 35mm camera and every time I came to a spectacular view, I would pull off the road, place the car in neutral, leave the engine running, hop out, take the picture and then reverse the process. This went on for miles, one spectacular view followed by one even more spectacular.The Canadian Rockies are distinct from the American Rockies as glaciers have produced sharply pointed mountains and deeply gouged valleys. The American Rockies are more rounded.
Around noon I arrived at what proved to be the only emporium the entire distance. I picked up a Coke and something to eat on the road. There was a sign pointing to some water falls on the left of the highway. As they were about a hundred yards, I decided to take a look. I pulled into the parking area, following my usual process. Here, however, the falls were not visible and no one was around, I decided to lock the car and pushed down the lock button, shut the door and as I did, I realized the key was in the ignition and the engine was running. Too late. I was locked out in the middle of the Rockies. My first thought was: Break the window. Luckily, the window was down about an inch, so I decided to walk back to the store and see if they had a wire coat hanger that I could use to hook the button. The gentleman was very nice. After some rummaging around, he found one. He loaned me a pair of pliers, I fashioned the tool, and on the first try, hooked the knob and pulled it. I returned the pliers but kept the coat hanger in case I should pull that stupid stunt again. From that point on, I always kept the window open about an inch.
A short time later, I arrived at the Columbia Ice Fields; a glacier that was about fifty yards from the highway. There were several cars stopped there and the occupants were walking on the ice. I decided to take the time and join them, which I did. About four o'clock I came upon a Ranger Station. As it appeared, I wasn't going to make Jasper by 8 p.m. so I stopped to see if they had a phone that I could call the hotel and tell them I might be a little late, but that I would be there. There was no phone but the Ranger told me he would radio the information through to the hotel. I thanked him, and then hit the road. I pulled into the hotel parking lot at 8:05. How's that for planning?
This is getting a little lengthy, so I am going to sign off and continue on Nomad News No. 98(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
I have mentioned a couple of times that once upon a time, I owned a plot of land on Clear Lake, Ontario along with five fishermen friends. Over the years we met a lot of "locals" and became quite friendly with a few. Two were Art and Kathy Eberhard. Art called everyone "Chicky". The Eberhards lived in Ottawa and had a summer home on Clear Lake. One year I decided to take the train from Ottawa to Vancouver. The Eberhards invited me to stay overnight with them in Ottawa, leave my car in their driveway, and then took me to the train and picked me up on my return.
I had a compartment so I could take a nap when I felt like it, the train had a Dome Car, I believe they called it, where I could sip my Labatt 50 Ale and watch the scenery go by. I also scheduled an overnight stop at Winnipeg, Edmonton and Jasper. The first day, I saw nothing but trees and more trees. From Winnipeg to Edmonton, it was sunflowers. They're still embedded in my mind. I rented a car and stayed a day in and around Winnipeg. I can't remember anything special about the area although I did visit a zoo that was quite nice.
The following morning I checked the schedule to find the train was three hours late. Today, I compare this to the European fast trains that operate on such a punctual schedule. Through the sunflowers to Edmonton where I had scheduled a day stayover.The train is four hours late in arriving. In the morning I rented a car and drove around the area. Here again, I don't recall anything outstanding except the zoo may have been in Edmonton. I was up at five the next morning and checked on the train. It will arrive six hours late. My original schedule would have given me nearly a day at Jasper, near the northern end of the Rockies. I thought this would give me enough time to ride around and sight see the Rockies at that point pretty good. With this unexpected time problem, this wasn't going to happen. I still had the car so I pulled my map out. The road south from Edmonton to Calgary, about fifty miles east of Lake Louise, was straight as an arrow. The distance was 185 miles. I figured I could drive to Lake Louise and then back up to Jasper through the Rockies and arrive about 8 p.m. The decision was made. It was "wide open" all the way with my fingers crossed that the law would not be out that early.
My sheltering angel, which I wasn't aware of at that time in my life, must have been with me as I made it without mishap. From Calgary, I could see the Rockies for the first time in my life. I stopped for a bite of breakfast, filled the gas tank, then hit the road. I bypassed Lake Louise and Banff as they were a little distance off the main road. I had a 35mm camera and every time I came to a spectacular view, I would pull off the road, place the car in neutral, leave the engine running, hop out, take the picture and then reverse the process. This went on for miles, one spectacular view followed by one even more spectacular.The Canadian Rockies are distinct from the American Rockies as glaciers have produced sharply pointed mountains and deeply gouged valleys. The American Rockies are more rounded.
Around noon I arrived at what proved to be the only emporium the entire distance. I picked up a Coke and something to eat on the road. There was a sign pointing to some water falls on the left of the highway. As they were about a hundred yards, I decided to take a look. I pulled into the parking area, following my usual process. Here, however, the falls were not visible and no one was around, I decided to lock the car and pushed down the lock button, shut the door and as I did, I realized the key was in the ignition and the engine was running. Too late. I was locked out in the middle of the Rockies. My first thought was: Break the window. Luckily, the window was down about an inch, so I decided to walk back to the store and see if they had a wire coat hanger that I could use to hook the button. The gentleman was very nice. After some rummaging around, he found one. He loaned me a pair of pliers, I fashioned the tool, and on the first try, hooked the knob and pulled it. I returned the pliers but kept the coat hanger in case I should pull that stupid stunt again. From that point on, I always kept the window open about an inch.
A short time later, I arrived at the Columbia Ice Fields; a glacier that was about fifty yards from the highway. There were several cars stopped there and the occupants were walking on the ice. I decided to take the time and join them, which I did. About four o'clock I came upon a Ranger Station. As it appeared, I wasn't going to make Jasper by 8 p.m. so I stopped to see if they had a phone that I could call the hotel and tell them I might be a little late, but that I would be there. There was no phone but the Ranger told me he would radio the information through to the hotel. I thanked him, and then hit the road. I pulled into the hotel parking lot at 8:05. How's that for planning?
This is getting a little lengthy, so I am going to sign off and continue on Nomad News No. 98(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.96
TALES FROM MY TACKLE BOX. No.2
In poking through the remnants of my old fishing tackle box, I came across an Epperman lure, made in Atlantic City NJ. The lure is a round piece of lead about 3/16" thick, tapered and rounded of near the edge. A large hook is embedded near the top, and it is painted red and white.
It actually is a jig, dropped over the side of a boat and moved up and down to attract the fish. We used them for casting from the "Sneaky Pete", Jules "Pete" Verga's 26' Carl Adams sea skiff, for striped bass in and around the Barnegat Light inlet, New Jersey. I had my friend, Bill Priggemeier, a tool and die maker who had a machine shop in his garage, make a mold for a half-size Epperman. I would then attach a clump of bucktail to the hook's shaft. I used to make a lot of my own lures, taking all the material with me on Canadian trips so I would have something to do If the weather was too inclement to fish. I had considerable luck with this modified Epperman while trolling for Smallmouth Bass on Baptiste Lake, near Bancroft, Ontario.
I forget how I became acquainted with Rangers Lodge on Baptiste Lake. I don't believe it was on one of my nomad wanderings; maybe I will recall later on. Baptiste is about 5000 acres with a median depth of 17-feet, deep, but has plenty of shallow bays along the shoreline where we trolled for Smallmouth Bass that ran around two-pounds each. Deeper areas were great for Walleyes which ran around two to three pounds, also. Both fish are great eating at that weight. The lake also contains great Catfish, The site consisted of a Main Lodge and a series of small log cabins.
I always rented a small cabin. I visited Rangers, a week at a time, for seven or eight years. On my first visit, the cabin next to mine was occupied by two men from New Jersey; Hap Mills, an insurance agent, and Bill Forget His Name. Two men, from Olean, New York, who had been guests for years were called "Mr. Back to Back. They fished mid-boat back to back. Early each morning they were on the lake fishing for catfish. Meals were family-style and Mr. Back to Back insisted on a bowl of fried catfish, three meals a day. That is, along with the regular menu. You could eat them or leave them. I was never strong on catfish, but I ate some three times a day.
Getting back to Hap Millls and Bill, we all fished every morning, came in for lunch, ate it and then fished to around 4 o'clock. Then it was Happy Hour with Hap and Bill. I had my ever-present Labatt 50 Ale. Hap and Bill sipped Scotch along with those little red-skinned peanuts. I joined in the peanuts which they had an unlimited supply of. One day a chipmunk showed up and Hap threw him a peanut which he put in one jaw, waited for another peanut for the other jaw, then took off for his lair. This process was repeated until he had enough stored peanuts. It was a daily ritual. On the third day, Hap said: "I wonder if we could get him drunk." He then dipped a peanut in his Scotch which the chipmunk placed in his jaw. After the next peanut, he took off as usual. I forgot to mention, there were two low steps up to the porch. On the third trip back he was walking slightly sideways. He picked up his cargo and left. On the next trip, he was definitely walking sideways. He jumped off the second step to the first, and then rolled off to the ground and staggered off. We didn't see him the couple days remaining. Before you say we were cruel, maybe we were but we knew you could recover from a hangover. And, he was there the following year but we didn't give him any spiked peanuts. (Copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
In poking through the remnants of my old fishing tackle box, I came across an Epperman lure, made in Atlantic City NJ. The lure is a round piece of lead about 3/16" thick, tapered and rounded of near the edge. A large hook is embedded near the top, and it is painted red and white.
It actually is a jig, dropped over the side of a boat and moved up and down to attract the fish. We used them for casting from the "Sneaky Pete", Jules "Pete" Verga's 26' Carl Adams sea skiff, for striped bass in and around the Barnegat Light inlet, New Jersey. I had my friend, Bill Priggemeier, a tool and die maker who had a machine shop in his garage, make a mold for a half-size Epperman. I would then attach a clump of bucktail to the hook's shaft. I used to make a lot of my own lures, taking all the material with me on Canadian trips so I would have something to do If the weather was too inclement to fish. I had considerable luck with this modified Epperman while trolling for Smallmouth Bass on Baptiste Lake, near Bancroft, Ontario.
I forget how I became acquainted with Rangers Lodge on Baptiste Lake. I don't believe it was on one of my nomad wanderings; maybe I will recall later on. Baptiste is about 5000 acres with a median depth of 17-feet, deep, but has plenty of shallow bays along the shoreline where we trolled for Smallmouth Bass that ran around two-pounds each. Deeper areas were great for Walleyes which ran around two to three pounds, also. Both fish are great eating at that weight. The lake also contains great Catfish, The site consisted of a Main Lodge and a series of small log cabins.
I always rented a small cabin. I visited Rangers, a week at a time, for seven or eight years. On my first visit, the cabin next to mine was occupied by two men from New Jersey; Hap Mills, an insurance agent, and Bill Forget His Name. Two men, from Olean, New York, who had been guests for years were called "Mr. Back to Back. They fished mid-boat back to back. Early each morning they were on the lake fishing for catfish. Meals were family-style and Mr. Back to Back insisted on a bowl of fried catfish, three meals a day. That is, along with the regular menu. You could eat them or leave them. I was never strong on catfish, but I ate some three times a day.
Getting back to Hap Millls and Bill, we all fished every morning, came in for lunch, ate it and then fished to around 4 o'clock. Then it was Happy Hour with Hap and Bill. I had my ever-present Labatt 50 Ale. Hap and Bill sipped Scotch along with those little red-skinned peanuts. I joined in the peanuts which they had an unlimited supply of. One day a chipmunk showed up and Hap threw him a peanut which he put in one jaw, waited for another peanut for the other jaw, then took off for his lair. This process was repeated until he had enough stored peanuts. It was a daily ritual. On the third day, Hap said: "I wonder if we could get him drunk." He then dipped a peanut in his Scotch which the chipmunk placed in his jaw. After the next peanut, he took off as usual. I forgot to mention, there were two low steps up to the porch. On the third trip back he was walking slightly sideways. He picked up his cargo and left. On the next trip, he was definitely walking sideways. He jumped off the second step to the first, and then rolled off to the ground and staggered off. We didn't see him the couple days remaining. Before you say we were cruel, maybe we were but we knew you could recover from a hangover. And, he was there the following year but we didn't give him any spiked peanuts. (Copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.95
TALES FROM MY TACKLE BOX NO.1
When we lived in Mayland, about 15 miles west of Crossville, our barn burned down and I lost most of my fishing tackle. What I salvaged, I placed in another box and it has been gathering dust in my workshop. I pulled it out the other day and as I surveyed the little that was remaining of my years on the lakes of fun, I picked up my favorite lure, a lure called a Flatfish, and the one I caught more bass with than any of the other lures. The Flatfish is a slightly curved lure, slim and sleek; something like a pretty lady. This brought to mind, one of my Canadian trips. Not the pretty lady, the Flatfish.
I believe I mentioned in another Nomad News that I had acquired, with five other friends, a plot of land on Clear Lake in the Rideau chain and had a small cabin built. One year I went up Labor Day weekend and stayed for the remainder of the week. At the end of the week, I decided to stay over and just follow the road west to no place in particular. Just see where the road would take me. I traveled to near noon and a sign appeared reading"Round Lake Lodge" and an arrow pointing north. I turned and followed the road for about 50 miles, as I recall, to the lodge. The place looked deserted. A row of boats, turned upside down, lined the shoreline and there was no sign of life. As long as I was there, I decided to ring the lodge doorbell. The door was opened by a young woman and a young child, seven or eight years old. When I inquired about lodging, she replied they were closed for the season. I told her I just wanted to fish that evening and stay overnight, she accented. She was very pleasant and fixed me some lunch and then I headed for my usual nap.
When I awoke and looked out my bedroom window that had a view of the lake, the woman and her daughter were righting two of the overturned boats.
I picked up my rod and gear from the car and headed for the beach where Mrs. Pleasant indicated which boat was mine. I opened my tackle box and looked at the double tray of lures, deciding which I would need that evening. The little girl came over, clutching a nondescript fishing rod in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. I watched with kind of pride as she perused my hundred dollars worth of lures. After a thoughtful look, she said: "You don't have anything good there." Talk about deflated pride, I replied: "What's good." She leaned her rod against the boat, took the paper bag and turned it upside down. Out popped three or four silver-colored lures that remotely resembled my faithful Flatfish, but they were bulky and fat. I said: What do you call those? "Canadian Wiggler." "That's what good, eh." With a "Yep", she put the ugly lures back in the paper bag, picked up her rod, and haughtily skipped off to join her mother. We were to rejoin at 7 o'clock. I fished without getting so much as a tap until it was time to return. Mother and daughter returned ten minutes later with half a dozen Walleyes weighing about a pound and a half to two pounds each; perfect for filleting. The Walleye, sometimes called Walleyed Pike, is a member of the Perch family and most delicious when fried, especially in an old frying pan with a chunk of fat to grease the pan, over a camp fire. That is how we devoured them that evening.
I blamed my lack of luck on not having any knowledge of the lake. Well, you have to blame it on something when a seven-year old kid with a brown paper bag can out fish Hawkeye
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
When we lived in Mayland, about 15 miles west of Crossville, our barn burned down and I lost most of my fishing tackle. What I salvaged, I placed in another box and it has been gathering dust in my workshop. I pulled it out the other day and as I surveyed the little that was remaining of my years on the lakes of fun, I picked up my favorite lure, a lure called a Flatfish, and the one I caught more bass with than any of the other lures. The Flatfish is a slightly curved lure, slim and sleek; something like a pretty lady. This brought to mind, one of my Canadian trips. Not the pretty lady, the Flatfish.
I believe I mentioned in another Nomad News that I had acquired, with five other friends, a plot of land on Clear Lake in the Rideau chain and had a small cabin built. One year I went up Labor Day weekend and stayed for the remainder of the week. At the end of the week, I decided to stay over and just follow the road west to no place in particular. Just see where the road would take me. I traveled to near noon and a sign appeared reading"Round Lake Lodge" and an arrow pointing north. I turned and followed the road for about 50 miles, as I recall, to the lodge. The place looked deserted. A row of boats, turned upside down, lined the shoreline and there was no sign of life. As long as I was there, I decided to ring the lodge doorbell. The door was opened by a young woman and a young child, seven or eight years old. When I inquired about lodging, she replied they were closed for the season. I told her I just wanted to fish that evening and stay overnight, she accented. She was very pleasant and fixed me some lunch and then I headed for my usual nap.
When I awoke and looked out my bedroom window that had a view of the lake, the woman and her daughter were righting two of the overturned boats.
I picked up my rod and gear from the car and headed for the beach where Mrs. Pleasant indicated which boat was mine. I opened my tackle box and looked at the double tray of lures, deciding which I would need that evening. The little girl came over, clutching a nondescript fishing rod in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. I watched with kind of pride as she perused my hundred dollars worth of lures. After a thoughtful look, she said: "You don't have anything good there." Talk about deflated pride, I replied: "What's good." She leaned her rod against the boat, took the paper bag and turned it upside down. Out popped three or four silver-colored lures that remotely resembled my faithful Flatfish, but they were bulky and fat. I said: What do you call those? "Canadian Wiggler." "That's what good, eh." With a "Yep", she put the ugly lures back in the paper bag, picked up her rod, and haughtily skipped off to join her mother. We were to rejoin at 7 o'clock. I fished without getting so much as a tap until it was time to return. Mother and daughter returned ten minutes later with half a dozen Walleyes weighing about a pound and a half to two pounds each; perfect for filleting. The Walleye, sometimes called Walleyed Pike, is a member of the Perch family and most delicious when fried, especially in an old frying pan with a chunk of fat to grease the pan, over a camp fire. That is how we devoured them that evening.
I blamed my lack of luck on not having any knowledge of the lake. Well, you have to blame it on something when a seven-year old kid with a brown paper bag can out fish Hawkeye
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
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