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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
Well another Year is upon us and I want to share a few thoughts that came to mind while nestled this winter. I hope you enjoy reading this brief history of the Isle of Que…I tremendously enjoyed writing this one.
-Jim
SUSQUEHANNA FOLKLORE – A TREASURY
The majestic Susquehanna River, the historic Isle of Que…having been fortunate enough to spend over 60 years of my life growing up in this location I often like to remind young people, when speaking to them that; “History is not something that always happens someplace else”. The Central Susquehanna River Valley is rich in history beginning with the river. More than 400 Million Years ago the Susquehanna River was born; few valley residents know that the Susquehanna is one of the three oldest rivers in the World! Geologically speaking, the river dates back more than 300 Million Years with its exposed bedrock ledges dating back over 400 Million Years. The water of the Susquehanna flowed before the continents divided in the time of Pangaea. About 200 Million Years ago during the divide of the continents it is believed that Africa ran into North America and the great upheaval that resulted from that collision formed the mountains and resulting river valley that we know today as the Susquehanna Valley. Our knowledge of just what this valley may have looked like back then is limited but what is known is that over those millions of years; the river carved out what is one of the most beautiful river valleys in the world. Today we can canoe and kayak among the countless bedrock ledges, paddle among the hundreds of islands in the river all the while knowing we are on an ancient river that continues daily to witness silently, the hand of the creator.
About 12,000 years ago early man first appeared in our valley after the last ice age. These early Native Americans consisted of small nomadic family groups following the migrating hooved animal herds through our river valley. I like to think that these early men and women may well have taken the time to stand on what is presently my river bank and witness the Great Spirit releasing the sun from behind the mountains to the east to warm and brighten their day. The ancient ones called those mountains, “The Keepers of the Sun” as they believed the Great Spirit kept the sun behind those mountains at night but released it every morning, just as it happens for us today. Did that ancient Native American father sit and watch his children at play in the river, or take advantage of its bounty to feed his family much as I have done today.
When the French Explorer, ‘Etienne Brule’ arrived in our river valley in 1616 the Indians of the Isle of Que told a beautiful story passed down from the time of the ancient ones of how the river got its name.
Thousands of years ago in an Indian village on the Isle of Que there lived a young Indian maiden and a young Indian brave. Both had fallen in love with each other, but it happened that this young maiden was the daughter of the village chief. The chief forbid her from seeing the young brave and in a moment of anger banished the young brave from the Isle of Que to live his life in the land of the keepers of the sun. Legend has it that it happened in the spring at the time of the Strawberry Moon. All through that summer on calm evenings just as the last rays of the setting sun lit up the eastern shoreline the young brave would appear and call out the word, “Susque” meaning, “are you there.” She, standing on the shore of the Isle of Que would answer with the word, “Hanna” meaning, yes, I am here.” It is said that by the time of the Harvest Moon both had died from broken hearts. The village chief, in his grief, proclaimed, “From this time forward this river shall be called the Susque-Hanna in memory of the two young lovers.” Some say their spirit lives in this valley even today and on calm summer nights just as the last rays of the setting sun strike the eastern shoreline you may still hear their spirits calling one another, “Susque-Hanna” My friends laugh and say it’s just the call of the black crowned night herons that I hear, I just smile and shake my head.
It is thought that the map maker who was with Etienne Brule may have been the person who named the Isle of Que. Because the island was a long narrow strip of land that much resembled the braid or Que of the French Voyagers, it is believed that the shape of the Isle resembled the shape of the hairstyle. The real story behind the etiology of the name has been lost to time but this one seems to make more sense than others that I have heard.
In the history of the Isle of Que a man named of Conrad Weiser played an important role between the Indians and the first European settlers. Known as the “Great Interpreter,” Conrad Weiser was an agent appointed by William Penn to represent the conflicting cultural interests between the Indians and settlers. Indians believed that humans belonged to the land and could no more own the land than you could own the air we breathe or the water that flows. Indians also believed that if a person dreamed at night and in the morning told that dream to another it would come true. This belief resulted in an interesting event between a village chief on the Isle of Que and Conrad Weiser. William Penn had presented Conrad Weiser with a custom made Pennsylvania Rifle, the envy of settlers and Indians alike. Early one morning Conrad was walking along the shore of the Island when he was approached by the village chief. Upon greeting, the chief said, “my brother I had a dream last night and in my dream you gave me your fine Rifle.” Knowing the Indian ways Conrad replied, “My brother I to had a dream last night and in my dream you gave me this land called the Isle of Que.” Knowing that Conrad Weiser had called his bluff, the chief replied, “Done, but my brother I believe it is good that we dream no more.” Years later the settlement of Weiserburg was formed on the Isle of Que.
A few years after this event a settler on the lower end of the Isle of Que shot and killed an Indian walking along the shoreline and that Indian turned out to be the only son of Chief Seneca George, the chief of the Seneca nation. Word of the killing reached Seneca George and days later he arrived on the banks of the Isle of Que with 95 warriors seeking revenge for the death of his son. His party of warriors greatly outnumbered the settlers that lived here but Conrad Weiser had learned of their journey down the river. A council fire was lit and Conrad convinced the chief that the settler had been arrested and was jailed in the settlement of Carlisle. Gifts were given to the chief and a massacre was averted. Sadly after the war party headed back up the north branch of the river the settler was released as it was not a crime to kill an Indian during that period of history.
On October 16, 1755 after settlers in the Penns Creek Watershed had violated many of the terms of the land treaty with the Indians a band of warriors attacked the Penns Creek settlements driving the survivors down the creek to the settlement of George Gabriel known as Gabriel’s Blockhouse on the north end of the Isle of Que. The settlers battled that day with the Indians but being out numbered that night with the cover of darkness they crossed the river escaping to the eastern shore and up to Fort Augusta where news of the Indian attack was relayed down river to Fort Hunter at Harrisburg. Days later Capitan John Harris and a company of militia rode up the west shore of the river to investigate what is known as the Penns Creek Massacre. Upon reaching the remains of the burned blockhouse, Capt. Harris and his militia were ambushed by the Indians that resulted in seven of his men being killed by the Indians and another three drowned in the river while trying to cross in an attempt to escape to Fort Augusta. The Indians then retreated back up the Penns Creek Valley taking many women and children captives to their villages in New York State. The section of river just south of Shady Nook known as the eel walls is thought to be the area where the settlers crossed the river in their escape to Fort Augusta. Today this area of the river is a natural ford across the river even at moderate flow and just below this ford is some of the deepest water in our area and believed to have been where some of the militia drowned while fleeing the Indian ambush. Native American history on the Isle of Que spans at least 8,000 years as evidenced from the artifacts found on the island by the Charles family and others. Written history of our area only spans about 400 years so the history before then came from the storytellers passed down from generation to generation.
Living here affords us all the opportunity to view ancient bedrock from the millennia, walk in the footsteps of our Indian brothers, read the exciting history of our forefathers or paddle quietly on this ancient river in the presence of the creator.
At Isle of Que River Guides we would like the opportunity to provide you, the key to unlocking the treasures of the majestic Susquehanna.
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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
Thanks again for sharing some time with me as I reminisce about life on the river. Here are some memories near and dear to my heart! -Jim
DIGGIN COAL
When I was a kid (1950’s) most every home on the Isle of Que was heated with a hot air or hot water coal fired furnace. Many of the families I knew also had coal fired cook stoves or coal/gas stoves that not only cooked their food but also heated the hot water for use in their homes. Every home had a cellar and in one of the corners of that cellar was the coal bin. In our house our coal bin was a walled area about 10’X12’ with a window that would swing in, providing an opening for the coal shoot to fit in. The coal shoot would direct the coal from a dump truck to the coal bin. Our coal bin held about 9 tons of coal which lasted from fall until mid-January. At our house our coal source came from the Susquehanna River as was the case for most homes on the Island.
Both Anthracite (hard coal) and Bituminous (soft coal) were washed down the river from the hard coal mines on the north branch and the soft coal fields on the west branch of the river. The hard coal came from the deep mines of North Eastern PA and the soft coal came from the strip mining operations in the central & western counties of PA Both types of mining washed the coal as part of processing the coal for market. Most of the coal that washed away in processing ended up in the many small streams that eventually fed into the North and West Branches of the river. The end result of this washing process of the coal were very large beds of coal that would form on the main stem of the river south of the confluence of the North and West Branches.
The Isle of Que was home to several commercial coal dredging (Digging) outfits and many private hand diggers who used the coal for their own homes. The commercial diggers focused most of their efforts on digging fine coal silt that we called coal dirt. Coal dirt would bed in the river in what resembled a large sand bar. Coal was lighter in weight then any of the other stone in the river so coal beds sat on top of the other river cobble. The commercial diggers used large suction dredges to remove the coal from the river bottom and loaded the coal dirt onto large (60’X20’) coal barges for transport from the digger (dredge) to the loader barge at one of the many landings along Front St. on the Island. The loader removed the coal from the barges and loaded it into dump trucks which took it to a storage site (the coal pile) for later distribution to the local power plant or Susquehanna University which both burned coal dirt as fuel. The pusher was a paddle wheel tug that was used to push loaded and empty coal barges to and from the digger. It was great fun as a kid to be asked to ride along on the pusher, jumping from barge to barge to tighten or loosen lines and dropping spud irons into place to hold the barges until they were needed on the digger. It is important to keep in mind that all of this equipment and barges were home made by the owners and most were powered by model “A” car engines. Family names like the Kinney’s, the Gemberling’s, Keller’s, Houseworth’s and Charles were all coal diggers on the Susquehanna.
My family was one of the many private diggers on the island hand digging stove coal for use in our furnace. Hand digging coal from a bed of stove coal was hard work for anyone but about age 11 it became a right of passage. The tool used for hand digging coal was called a coal screen which was a steel framed scoop covered with wire mesh screen and about a 6’ or 8’ wooden handle. In order for this to make sense I need to explain the dynamics of a coal bed. I’ve already said that coal is lighter then the other river rocks so a coal bed sits on top of the other rocks. As coal settles into a bed it tables it’s self according to size with the larger coal at the upstream end of the bed, stove coal in the middle and coal dirt at the down stream end of the bed. A bed of coal often covered one to three acres of river bottom. Usually the head (upstream) end of the bed was in shallow water and the tail (downstream) end in about 3 or 4 feet of water. Coal beds often formed in the channels between two islands with the larger coal in the shallow water of the channel and the coal dirt at the start of the deeper water below the channel. Most private diggers were not competing with commercial diggers because most stove coal was located in water to shallow for their barges. They would dig stove coal when they could and sell it to people in town but their money was in coal dirt which could not be hand dug.
The first order of business for a private digger was to locate a bed of coal. This was usually done in April or early May and was a fun time for me because at about age 6 or so I would get to run the motor. Our boat was a 16’X4’ wooden flat which my father had made and propelled by a 5 hp. Sea King motor. While the river was still high enough for us to motor around my Dad would stand on the front deck with a 14’ white pine boat pole and sounded it on the bottom of the river every 4 or 5 feet. The ring of the boat pole striking the bottom would indicate what type of rock was there. Solid bed rock sounded different then large river cobbles, when the pole hit coal not only could you tell it was coal but what size it was just from the sound and feel of that white pine pole. Why did we do this, because the earlier in the summer you located a coal bed the earlier you could claim it as the one you were going to dig. Once you spread the word where you were going to dig it was an unwritten rule that no one else would dig there until you were done with that bed. In our case we would need about 9 tons to fill our coal bin and that was about 18 to 20 boat loads as a 16’ flat held about ½ ton of coal. It was usually July until the river was low enough to hand dig coal. The water over the bed needed to be waist deep or lower as you stood beside the boat, dug the coal screen into the bed of coal, shook the screen so any material smaller then the wire mesh size would fall through the screen. Then you put the screen on the side of the boat picked out any sticks or slate and dumped it into the boat. After the first 15 minutes the digger would fall into a rhythm repeating the process over and over again until the boat started to fill with coal. A normal load of coal was about a half ton but how full you made the boat depended on how low the river was and if there was a south wind blowing. If the water was very low you could not put as much coal in the boat because you would not get it close enough to shore to be able to unload the boat. If there was a strong south wind blowing the waves would be higher then the freeboard on the sides of the flat and you would risk filling the boat with water on the trip back downstream.
Once at the boat landing with a load of coal Dad would back our car down to our landing and we would fill burlap feed bags with coal, put them in the trunk of our car, drive up to our coal bin window and dump each bag into the bin. This was repeated over again until the boat was empty. Those that chop their own wood are said to be twice warmed – much the same with digging your own coal. I learned very quickly as a young man that if we dug enough coal to last until after Christmas we would enjoy a better Christmas then if Mom and Dad had to buy coal Mid-December. Diggin coal was part of growing up on the island, it was something I thought every kid did and as my wife says from time to time, ” it was a very small island wasn’t it Jim.”
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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
Growing up on the Susquehanna has provided me with and incredible opportunity to commune with nature and enjoy the outdoors. Here is glimpse into the vernacular that is associated with life on the Isle of Que and the Susquehanna. -Jim
RIVER RAT TONGUE
The other day I had a friend of mine and his son out for a boat ride. We motored up river about a mile, shut off the motor and drifted down between the islands in an effort to not scare wildlife on the river. “Jim, what kind of bugs are those rafted on the water,” my friend asked? “Coffee Bugs,” I answered without giving it much thought. His puzzled look made me realize that the rest of the world does not speak the local River Rat Tongue. “Black Water Beetles,” I said, as I dipped the boat pole into their midst to see them scatter and then re-form their raft as we drifted by.
I had shown them the Eagle’s nest which by this time was empty of its two Eaglets. “Maybe we’ll see an Eagle down around the Fair Play,” I said, again realizing they had no idea what I was talking about. Lady Fair Play is a location on the river where coal would bed on the river and the old coal dredgers would say, “We’re diggin at the Fair Play.” (You always dug coal, not dredged coal.) Today, without the coal beds it’s just a spot known to a handful of us that were kids back in the 50’s when coal was still king on the river.
“Jim, what are those things all sitting on that branch in the water,” asked my friend’s son. “Snake Doctors,” I replied – “Dragon Flies,” I corrected myself. When I was a kid all new comers to the Diving Rock (our swimmin hole) were all told Snake Doctors were poisonous and if bitten you would die. Snake Doctors would often land on your shoulders or head while swimmin and it was great fun to watch the new kid yell and duck under water to avoid getting bitten.
A little Green Heron flew up from the shore line grass and sat on an overhanging limb almost at eye level. The sun lighting up the irradiance colors of what appears to be a rather drab colored bird. “Well, what do you call them,” asked my friend, now realizing that everything must have a local name. “Scallywags,” I replied, “we grew up calling them Scallywags.”
As we drifted past the eel walls I remembered getting Hellgrammites with my dad and the net would often have dragon fly nymphs along with the Hellgies. Those dragon fly nymphs were always called Galley Nippers. Galley Nippers could be used to fish for Rock Bass and we often put them in the bait bucket with the Hellgies. A glance at the big Sycamore tree at the eel walls reminded me that we always called them Button Wood Trees. Walleyes were called Susquehanna Salmon and Fallfish were always called White Fish.
The coal barge that Dredged the coal from the river was always called the Digger. The paddle wheeled tug that moved the coal barges around the river was called the Pusher and the barge used to move coal from the coal barges to the waiting dump trucks was called the loader. Most of us kids ran around the river in a 12ft. X 4ft. flat bottom wooden boat that was called a Skipper, it could be propelled nicely with a 5hp. Motor and I guess we looked like we were skipping across the water.
As I make future trips on the river I’ll try to record other terms we used while speaking in the Local River Rat Tongue.
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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
The summer of 1955 was much like this summer...hot and dry but at age 8 none of that mattered. Like most kids, the only thing that mattered during summer was playing. Here are a few things that I learned along the banks of the Susquehanna that summer! -Jim
BIG MEDICINE
It was the summer of 1955… I had turned eight years old the previous November and for a River Rat Kid an important year in the transition to manhood. This was the year of the BB Gun, in fact not only a BB Gun, but taking the green row boat up to the railroad bridge by myself and riding my bicycle to the Isle of Que playground. I WAS TRULY “BIG MEDICINE”
Free from the confines of North Front Street, the world was my oyster. (I had no idea what that meant). The rules that governed my new found freedom were simple; I could not leave the Isle of Que, I could only go to the playground in the morning, (supervised activities) I could only take the boat up to the bridge to fish and swim and only shoot my BB gun around the house.
While fishing and shooting BB gun I was often accompanied by my 6 year old Brother Tim. What a great role model I must have been teaching him all the ins and outs of being eight years old. Important things like how and where to catch hellgrammites for bait on our way to the bridge to fish or how to mix two caps full of bleach to five gallons of water and dump it in the back yard to bring worms to the surface. It saved time digging worms but you had to use them in the next 4 or 5 hours as the bleach would kill the worms. Since the coal barges were in front of our house using 20 or 30 worms in 4 hours was not difficult when catching Rock Bass.
Shooting BB gun was my new found passion. The rules for shooting were pretty simple; birds if they were pretty, don’t shoot, if they were brown or black they were bad and should be shot, no shooting the neighbors cats, no shooting Mom’s canning jars in the basement and no shooting my Little Brother. One of my favorite targets where bullfrog tadpoles, they would swim in the shallow water along the shoreline, their plump heads made a great target. In the 50’s all the homes along the river threw their trash and garbage over the riverbank which provided an endless supply of glass bottles to shoot (no plastic back then) and an occasional rat or mouse. A pack of 100 BB’s cost a nickel and although there was an endless supply of targets to shoot there was not an endless supply of nickels.
My Dad was a great Dad but he did not believe in an allowance, he figured some chores done everyday was a fair exchange for three squares, clean clothes and a place to sleep at night. Money for BB’s came from two sources, collecting glass soda bottles for the return deposit and working for my neighbors. The going rate for child labor in those days was usually five cents per hour. The problem was there was competition from the older boys in the neighborhood who had graduated to motor boats and 22’s. Gas was eighteen cents per gallon and a box of 22 shells was twenty-five cents a box so neighborhood jobs for an 8 year-old boy were few and far between. Collecting soda bottles was my preferred source of funds, two cents for a regular bottle and five cents for a quart soda bottle. Finding three regular bottles for a pack of BB’s took some hunting but finding an empty quart bottle was like finding the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, people didn’t let quart bottles laying around. Every now and then Max Valsing the town jeweler would ask me to catch Hellgrammites for him to use for bait and Max paid twenty-five cents for a dozen. Two dozen “Hellgies” took about an hour to catch and at fifty cents and hour I WAS REALLY “BIG MEDICINE”. I just wish Max would have fished more often, Dad and Max were good friends and I always hated when they fished together because Dad would always offer to have the boys get bait, but Dad did not pay fifty cents for two dozen “Hellgies”. The fact was my Dad didn’t pay anything to have the boys get bait. Now, don’t get me wrong Dad was a fair man and my own boys will probably allege slave labor on my part.
My struggle with childhood economics did have one positive affect; I became a very good marksman. I quickly learned to pick my shots; fire superiority was not an option, no shooting five shots when one well placed shot would do. I often joke with my Son who is in the Army that those in the military should have to buy their own shells. It would result in a lot less shooting, a lot more kill shots and the cost of war would go down. This theory is based on my tour of duty in Viet Nam as well as my experience as an eight year old.
The summer of 1955 was memorable, although Mom did not cut her apron strings they did get stretched quite a bit by the time school started in Sept. That summer was like being Huck Finn, bare foot, carefree and everyday an adventure. Trips in the green row boat started to extend beyond the train bridge which allowed fishing for more than just Rock Bass, catching Small Mouth Bass was now an option and bringing home a stringer of bass for us to eat really made me “Big Medicine”.
I’m still not sure why we called the green row boat a row boat… because we never did own a set of oars. In those days you used a boat pole to propel the boat and the way to pole a row boat was to stand on the front seat and pole from the pointed bow of the boat. The stern of the boat always faced the direction you wanted to go and a 14 ft. white pine boat pole was the choice of most river rats. Swineford’s Sash & Door Shop located a half block from our house milled the best boat poles.
Times have certainly changed from my summer of 1955. The green row boat was made of white pine boards, it was 14’ long and equipment consisted of a bail can, an anchor and the boat pole. No motor, no padded seats, no life jackets or cushions and no license or registration. My bicycle was one speed, as fast as you could peddle. No helmet, no bike shoes or shorts, no motocross pads and no gears to shift. One of my favorite neighborhood activities was bike chase where the person that was it, chased the other kids while all of us were riding bikes. Getting close enough to tag another person without wrecking both bikes was quite a skill to be mastered. “We had some spectacular wrecks”. Back then shooting BB gun did not require adult supervision, no safety glasses, no special range or backstop. If you were not responsible there was no time out or being grounded, the gun was taken from you, for perhaps weeks at a time.
In spite of all the hazards that must have existed I survived the summer of 1955, no, not survived but thrived the summer of 1955, THE YEAR I BECAME “BIG MEDICINE”
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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
Thank you for taking a moment to share a few minutes with me as I reflect on the beauty of the Susquehanna and grace of a new day. -Jim
THE VEIL
I peeked through the curtain as I clicked off the alarm, 5:15am but I could already see the river was socked in with fog. As the coffee brewed my phone rang, the voice on the other end was my client for the day requesting we change from a 6:30 start to a 9am start because of the fog. The customer’s always right so, “no problem, see you at nine”.
As the coffee brewed I decided to have it on the riverbank deck, although I couldn’t see five feet, the rest of life on the river doesn’t stop just because it’s foggy. Through the fog I can hear the voices of geese coming down the river and like apparitions they appear just for a moment and then disappear into the veil of gray once more. I can see a bright spot in the fog, comfort to know the Great Spirit has released the sun from behind the mountains on the eastern shore, no wonder the ancient ones called them “THE KEEPERS OF THE SUN”, the Great Spirit releasing it each day to brighten and warm our day.
I can hear the Splash, Splash of a carp spawning in the shoreline grass, although unseen the timeless cycle of life continues, another mystery from the creator. The clatter of crows on the Scout Island, a hawk or great horned owl has stirred their protest. More geese headed for the low grass bars down river to feed and lounge for the day. A brief glimpse of the far shoreline appears as a mere shadow in the endless sea of gray. The sun getting brighter now, the world outside the confines of the river valley is enjoying a bright sunny morning. For me the Creator has provided a mystery, a reminder to not take my day for granted. A reminder that listening to the sounds of morning is just as exciting as seeing it blaze forth on a clear summer morning.
The veil is drawn once more, Mother Nature has become the maiden whose beauty is yet hidden, and I hear the chorus of the birds pleading for her to lift the veil of gray. Then after hours of waiting, hours of anticipation, hours of being immersed in the mystery, in what seems like an instant the veil is removed. The warmth of the sun touches my face, maybe the hand of the Creator. In awe I look upon the perfection of his creation, beauty beyond words. And as the veil is removed I realize it’s not the face of the maiden that I had envisioned, but instead the face of God, saying… I created this moment just for you.
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Some thoughts about the river I call home...
My first post on River Chat, just a little story on how it used to be and my concern for some things that are occurring on the river today. -Jim
ROCKIES DEMISE
It’s the summer of 1953, chores were done and I had just finished listening to the Lone Ranger on our Philco radio. As I opened the back door, I heard Mom’s voice call, “Jim, where are you going,” like she needed to ask, “I’m going to catch Rockies,” I replied. Life for a 7 year old on the Isle of Que was all about catching Rock Bass. Our boat landing had a private access ramp cut in the riverbank and in the 1950’s there were three coal dredging outfits that operated from access areas located on the Isle of Que. One of these outfits was at our house so at any given time there would be 3 or 4 – 60ft. X 20 ft. coal barges tied up to the loader barge all of which created the perfect home for hundreds of Rock Bass.
Hours were spent lying on our bellies on the front deck of the barge drifting a worm on a #6 hook under the barge and waiting for the tap-tap-pull of another rocky. Catching 20 or 30 Rockies, an occasional bass or yellow cat were common for most afternoons at the river. Swimming would often interrupt our fishing and on occasion 4 or 5 of us kids would see how many Rockies we could catch, which often exceeded 100 fish. Although catch and release was not practiced then we very seldom kept any Rockies, it was almost like they were pets and we knew in a few days we could catch them all over again. As I got older we would take our wooden flat up to the train bridge and go from one pier to another, fishing for Rockies under the big cut stones dumped to form the base of the bridge piers. By this time in my fishing career, age 10, the 4ft. steel rod that I used to fish with was permanently bent from catching what might have been over a thousand Rockies, mostly the same fish caught over and over again.
By 1960 the coal dredging industry had died out on the Susquehanna withno outfits operating off the Isle of Que and just a few abandon barges tied along the river bank to catch Rockies under. The 1960’s lead to summer jobs, The Marine Corp and a tour of duty in Viet Nam. Returning back to the island in 1969 I graduated to fishing for Bass and Walleye, not to be bothered with those little Rockies. Now married and raising two sons on the bank of the Susquehanna I once again found pleasure introducing my boys to the joy of catching Rockies from under all of our neighbor’s jon boats. By 7 years old my oldest son, Nick, was answering my wife’s question of where are you going with the same familiar words I had used 20 years prior, “I’m going to catch Rockies.” That same boy now 41years old, works as a Trout and Salmon fishing guide in Alaska.
Unfortunately, my 7 year old grandson, Jimmy Charles will not have the same experience as my two boys and I had. He won’t be running over the river bank calling back to his mom, “I’m going to catch Rockies.”
About five years ago we started to notice fewer and fewer Rock Bass spawning in the shoreline grass in the spring of the year. Many a fun afternoon was spent drifting the shoreline casting a small marabou jig or black wooly bugger catching dozens of Rock Bass with our fly rods. In 2009 our search for Rockies yielded no fish, they just disappeared. For the Charles family a part of our heritage has disappeared with them.
I can only hope our Smallmouth fishery does not go the way of the Rock Bass, maybe as attention is focused on the Smallmouth issue on the Susquehanna my grandson’s son, may one day answer his mother. ”I’m going to catch Rockies.”
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Susquehanna... long and flowing, sooth my soul! |
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