outdoors

Though I once fished the little stream in my early years, I never knew it had a name. Not long after we moved to Creek Road, a former neighbor, the late Anthony Torcello, told me it was called Celery Brook. It seems that back in the day, the White Swamp – where the stream originates- was once drained and used to grow celery.

Flowing out of the swamp, the little creek meanders through woods, fields and through another small woodlot before emptying into Tonawanda Creek. It seemed like a good place to capture the season’s first snowfall.

 Skim Ice

Cattails mirrored on a placid surface

Snow-capped Queen Anne's Lace

Autumn remnants

Time to head  home

It was 7:10 a.m. this morning when the high-pitched honking was audible several moments before they came into view. Finally, they appeared, coming out of the northeast, each group nothing more than a dark slit in the overcast gray. It was one of those vast throngs of Canada’s that spread across the sky. Along the southern edge of the flock were smaller fowl, their wingbeats much faster than that of the geese. They were ducks, and the scene reminded me of a squadron of fighters accompanying much larger bombers.

Despite the size of the flock, they were flying too low to be migrating. I’m guessing they came from the Sandwash, only a couple miles distant. The flock on the Cedar Street quarry has more than doubled in the past month.

They’ve been staging for weeks now. Huge flocks of geese, Canada’s making their stopover on local waterways and impoundments. In recent weeks they’ve been dropping into freshly cut corn fields in vast numbers. Great rafts of honkers sitting on Lake Ontario have been taking advantage of the spillage in the massive grain fields in Orleans County. There seems to be a great number of geese still on hand throughout the region, indicative of the weather. I hope the trend continues.   

The afternoon began with a lengthy canoe ride and troublesome wind gusts - and the wind was at our back. The return trip promised to be a real hoot.

We were in a wetland measuring nearly a square mile, a cattail jungle dotted with potholes – all of which held and incredible number of ducks. We took no guns along, no cumbersome bags of decoys and no retriever. With the opening day of ducks season two days away, we were scouting, searching for the ideal location - a thick stand of cattails to conceal the canoe from incoming waterfowl.  

On this day the tops of the cattails were bent over by the stiff wind and yet myriad waterfowl were having little difficulty negotiating the elements. Ducks were vacating the potholes in great numbers. By the time we left they had easily number into the thousands. While countless numbers took wing, many came zeroing in to our location. Once realizing their mistake, they applied the brakes, at the same time quickly scrambling to gain altitude. 

Having a prior commitment, I knew I wouldn’t be back on opening day. Not that it mattered. Two   hours spent amid the marshy environs had been reminiscent of a waterfowler’s bygone era. An that was fine by me.

It’s been an enjoyable autumn on many fronts and there is much to give thanks for. There were a handful of goose hunts, at least one memorable bowhunt, a few scenic canoe rides, and the chance to wet a line on two occasions. And I managed to take in at least one high school football game each weekend. But the scene that readily comes to mind is that of a gray October afternoon when an overcast sky turned the surface of the potholes black, the tops of the cattails bending in the wind and countless ducks on the wing. I felt like we had paddled back in time, right onto the cover of a 1950’s Outdoor Life magazine.  Happy Thanksgiving!

It's that time of year when retrievers tend to shine, really making their owners proud. After considerable time invested in training, many a Lab’s owner will now savor the moment as their charge leaps from the cattail blind or camouflaged duck boat in pursuit of downed waterfowl, or maybe work the swale for upland game. Yet many a Lab isn’t trained to perform in the woods, fields or swamps – they are simply family pets and good companions. Such is the life of “Hurricane,” one of three Labs owned by the Kehlenbeck family of Alabama. And while not your conventional Lab, Hurricane possesses many character traits for which Labrador retrievers are noted.  

Attentive and focused......

though not always!

Always happy when getting attention.

Stately in appearance.......

and noble-looking.

but most of all, they're good friends.

The above photo depicts Oak Orchard Creek little more than a quarter-mile upstream of Lake Ontario. From the creek mouth to Waterport dam, this is a much wider stretch of stream with a more diverse fishery than found upstream. But on this day, with the exception of few bumps at the end of the line, neither the trout nor salmon were willing to cooperate.

Having moved upstream in search of warm water species, Mike Draper works a rubber worm in hopes of enticing a bass or pike.

The creek bank along a stretch of stream known as "Fiddler's Elbow."

Drake mallards and a lone hen soaking up the sun.

Doug Harloff plying the waters of Marsh Creek, a feeder stream spilling into the Oak Orchard at Twin Bridges.

On the return trip empty boat slips signify the close of the boating season.

I never know what I might come across while driving the back roads.  Take this morning for instance, when I saw a standardbred race horse swimming in a horseshoe-shaped pond.

"Nitroglycerine" is being tended to by owner Frank Zambito and trainer/horse farm owner Fred Haslip.

I think he's smiling at me!

Swims over...back to the barn.

Left to right Nitroglycerine, Frank Zambito and Fred Haslip.

Joe Lawrence is on a roll. Last year he closed out the deer season with a monster whitetail scoring 144 on the Boone & Crockett scoring system and placing him high in the New York State Big Buck Club’s muzzleloader division. (The Batavian, Dec. 20, 2008 – Father & Son Memories). On Saturday, the opening day of archery season in New York’s southern zone, the elder Lawrence did it again. He began his fortieth bow season by taking another massive whitetail that is all but certain to make the NYS record book. The big buck sported ten points and weighed a whopping 202 lbs. field dressed.

It was late afternoon when the buck appeared, already displaying rutting tendencies by chasing after four does.  “I used a grunt to call to turn him, and he stopped and looked in my direction,” Joe said. “I hit the grunt call again and he came right to me.” He made the shot from a tree stand at a distance of fifteen yards. 

Snow geese mingling with Canadas

A closer look at the "snows"

Vultures take flight

Get ready...

Here they come

Calling 'em in

Fetch 'em up!

Turkey vultures are normally seen gliding high overhead, soaring on thermal currents, those columns of rising warm air that enable them to cover miles while conserving energy at the same time. Last Wednesday I took these photos along the edge of an evergreen forest. Seven were roosting in a dead hardwood with several more situated in a splintered pine.

While a few birds flew back and forth between the edge of the pines and the dead tree, for the most part they were unalarmed, staying put for several photos.    

Above photo depicts one turkey vulture spreading its wings while another preens its feathers. There is much speculation as to the reason for this practice. Some believe the wings are used as solar panels to generate body warmth while others tend to think they are utilizing the suns ultraviolet rays to kill bacteria picked up from diseased carcasses.

They are ominous-looking creatures, and with their featherless heads, turkey vultures may not be much in terms of appearance, yet they perform a valuable service by cleaning up carrion. Even from high overhead, the turkey vulture employs its keen sense of smell to locate food, one of the few birds of prey able to do so. 

Every so often I stole a glimpse heavenward. The early a.m. sky was crystal clear, the lightshow overhead spectacular. Orion, Pleiades, Cassiopeia and both Dippers stood out clearly while the spiral arm of the Milky Way appeared to be a misty vapor spanning the dark expanse. 

Doug in foreground, Jim in background, setting decoys.

The canoe is loaded to the max with decoys, packs, shotguns. Amid the gear sits Sadie, Doug Harloff’s chocolate Lab. I’m seated in the bow while Doug mans the stern. Some distance ahead of us a small beam of light pierces the darkness - a headlamp worn by Jim DiCasolo. Situated in his canoe are more decoys and Quaker Hill Dee Dee, Jim’s chocolate lab.

Doug looking for incoming geese.

A forty minute canoe ride – including one portage – took us to our destination, a brushy clump of growth that would serve as a blind. Before getting situated there was the business of setting out decoys. Already the first hint of light penetrated the horizon, bringing with it silhouettes of ducks zipping past at close range.     

Sadie doing what she does best.

With the last of the decoys set, both canoes were then pulled into the “floating island” and covered with camo-mesh. As daylight increased it became easy to identify ducks on the wing. Mallards, blue wing teal, black ducks, woodies and even pintails were on the move. But duck season was still a month away.

Jim DiCasolo scans the sky.

We were here for geese, and once the first flocks were heard, Doug and Jim went to work on the calls.  Both felt it would be a spell before they got any response, as the honkers were heading for the feeding grounds. We looked forward to their return trip.

Before long a pair of Canada’s came in, dropping into the decoy set. The shotguns barked and a second afterward, Sadie and Dee Dee leapt in, swimming to the fallen birds.

Dee Dee, 11 years old and still going strong.

It was obvious both dogs had been taught well. Whenever a flock of geese came into view, or even low flying ducks, the dogs locked in, following intently with their eyes. Dee Dee and Sadie were a joy to watch, and on this day, six hours spent standing in thigh deep water passed quickly.      

With Autumn offically arriving at 5:18 p.m. tomorrow, I'd like to share these late summer photos taken last week.

Purple asters and goldenrod are two of the more prolific wildflowers in the area.

Note the bumble bee at the top left of the goldenrod.

Asters close up.

Virginia Creeper with a headstart on the autumn foliage.

"Creeper" enveloping willow and cottonwood trunks.

Windmill marsh as seen from observation tower on Albion Road, Oakfield.

Backwater south of Windmill Marsh.

With autumn nearly upon us, and early goose season underway, I got to thinking about the late Albert Frieday. I decided to call his son Bill.

I was still in high school when Bill’s younger brother Steve introduced me to the sport of waterfowling. We mainly hunted geese in corn lots and later I came to relish the mileu of the duck hunter. Steve entered the Marine Corp after graduation, and upon his return, we took up where we left off. Steve wasn’t home a week when we headed off in search of new places to duck hunt. Our first day of scouting for new hunting grounds resulted in a hike through tall grass that left paper cuts on our legs. In our haste to leave the grassy overgrowth we soon found ourselves   stuck thigh deep in swampy muck.  

Not long afterward I met Steve’s father and brother, Bill, also a Marine vet. It was only a matter of time before I had the opportunity to hunt with the elder Frieday, a man I had heard Steve speak of a great deal. I remember hunting with Albert on two occasions, and both times I walked on egg shells. 

Albert Frieday while serving in China.

Albert was a stern man, a no-nonsense individual not to be crossed. He grew up in Oakfield and took to the swamps and woods in his early years where he wielded both shotgun and fishing rod, becoming handy with both. In 1926 he entered the Marine Corp and in 1928 took part in the Nicaraguan “Banana Wars” and later manned a machine gun in China. After seven years he left the Corp but was drafted by the Army in ’42 after Pearl Harbor which resulted in another four year hitch.  After the war Albert and his wife Mart Catherine settled down in Batavia.

The rafters of the Frieday garage were stocked with carved duck decoys, mostly wooden but some were fashioned from cork. There were also a number of goose decoys, hip boots, and of course, Albert’s foul weather gear. Inclement weather didn’t deter him one bit, the nastier the better. “The weather didn’t bother Dad at all”, said Bill. “He liked to hunt ducks & geese in foul weather.”  One of Bill’s earliest recollections of going afield with his father was as a 12 year old, helping Albert set decoys in the pre-dawn darkness. “I was too young to hunt, but I remember carrying burlap bags filled with decoys along muddy trails while it was pitch black outside” said Bill, who along with Steve eventually became an avid waterfowler for a number of years. 

Albert was an old-school duck hunter, shown below with his Winchester Model 12.  He would pluck every duck and goose by hand, right down to the last feather. Mary Catherine Frieday would place strips of bacon over the ducks and geese prior to roasting and many a wild duck and goose dinner was enjoyed in the Frieday home. The depression era fresh in his mind, Albert made it clear that no wild game harvested was to be wasted. But there were exceptions to this rule, much to Albert's chagrin.

The Friedays had a pair of Irish Setters, Freedom and Goldie, who were mainly used for hunting upland game, but Albert would often take one of the dogs along when he hunted ducks and geese in corn lots and winter wheat fields. Prior to one such hunt, having loaded our gear into the back of Albert’s station wagon, I hopped into the back seat alongside Freedom. In the pocket of my field jacket was a pack of Twinkies and a bag of M&M’s. I tore open the Twinkie’s first and with my right hand stuffed one in my mouth. With my left hand I extended the remaining Twinkie toward Freedom who was eagerly waiting with his maw wide open, his huge tongue at the ready. The cream-filled cake was inches from his mouth when Steve and Albert boomed in unison, “DON’T GIVE HIM ANY.” At the time I didn’t realize they were thinking of the dog’s dental hygiene – I just thought they were being mean. It was late afternoon when the first flock of geese came in. They passed by at close range and Albert dropped a double. Freedom promptly ran to the fallen birds, picked one up and – headed in the opposite direction. He eventually returned but without the goose, which we never did locate. For years I figured the dog was being vindictive, as a payback for the reneged Twinkie. Only recently did Bill Frieday tell me Freedom had a habit of running off with downed waterfowl.     

I was fortunate to have known Albert Frieday, if only for a short time. He was not only an old- school outdoorsman, he was a husband, father, Marine and Army combat veteran and a great American.

Had lunch at the Log Cabin at Indian Falls.

Huge fish fry...way too much, had to bring half home.

Mirror image on Oak Orchard Creek

More photos after the jump:

Purple Loosestrife

Musk Mallow

Chickory

Woodland Sunflower

Timothy & Oxeye Daisies

Where Needled Giants Nod

Fur bearer's wake in a swampy backwater

On the way home - the calm before the storm

Because wetlands are an important part of the environment, the Canadian-based Marsh Monitoring Program has been studying the effects of outside disturbances on the swamps, marshes, mini-wetlands and adjoining woodlands throughout the entire Great Lakes Basin.

 In their quest to determine the health of these wetlands as well as surrounding woodlands - the MMP enlists the help of volunteers who take a census of the amphibian and feathered inhabitants at selected locales.  A number of these volunteers work at collecting data for both birds and amphibians, others concentrate on birds alone while others focus on the frog population.

 Batavian Bill Moon is a local MMP volunteer who focuses on the amphibian population.  Waiting for a minimum air temperature of 60 degrees, he will select an evening during the months of April, May and June to visit nearby wetlands as dusk approaches. He waits for night to fall, then for a given time period, listens for spring peepers, green frogs and bull frogs, carefully charting the results. The nocturnal chorus, or lack thereof, speaks volumes for the Marsh Monitoring Program.

Due to the work of the program volunteers throughout the Great Lakes Basin, the MMP has established a ranking system, or report card so to speak, to evaluate the state of various wetlands stretching from Wisconsin to the St. Lawrence River. These wetlands range in size from vast swamps and cattail marshes to microcosmic wetland tracts.

Being among nature’s delicate species, the songbirds and amphibians serve as natural barometers, providing insight as to the health of the outdoors environment. As good indicators of air and water quality and other earth resources, such species are the first to be affected by various disturbances on the landscape such as Great Lakes water levels, housing or developmental sprawl, etc.   

The youngster in the above photo certainly seems to be enjoying himself. His cavorting may be the result of the adventurous week he put in – or it could be he’s merely thankful to be on shore. His name is Regan Miller, twelve years old when the photo was taken. Along with baby brother Ethan, mom Heather and Grammy, Cindy Stevens, Regan joined Claudia and I on a trip to Lubber’s Quarters, a small island in the Sea of Abaco.  Our stay would last a week and for Regan, the adventure turned into an eye-opening experience not long after he first entered the water.

Our rental home overlooked a protected cove. To the north and south were points of land where the cove meets the open water in the Sea of Abaco. Overlooking the south point was another home, with a large pier extending into the water a good ways.  Like all structure, piers attract fish and this one was no exception. Beneath the pier was a variety of fish, including a school of mangrove snappers. 

Swimming below the pier, I kept one eye on the snappers and the other on Regan.  Having passed through the pier, I noticed the visibility was suddenly reduced – no doubt caused by the constant wave action against the shore.  That’s when I saw a light colored flash streak through the water.  Though the water was slightly murky I was sure I hadn’t imagined the elongated, silvery flash. What I was unsure of was, had it rushed us, actually swimming in our direction with the speed for which the species is noted when ambushing prey? Were we being sized up? Or was the mad dash merely for identification purposes. 

That lightning quick flash was all I saw, yet it was all I needed to realize a barracuda had already staked out this area as its own. The water here was shallow enough to stand, and with my right arm I swept Regan behind my back, an action which signaled to the 12 year old something was up.  

Deciding the coast was clear, we backed off, swimming backward slowly, beneath the pier and toward the cove. We had emerged on the opposite side of the pier when the toothsome barracuda came into view, slowly, barely sweeping its caudal fin, its menacing teeth evident.  In the clearness of the undisturbed water we could see it was all of five feet long.  And he was persistent, following us, refusing to leave. About this time I turned to look at Regan. His eyes were big as saucers – and who could blame him.  Unlike big sharks, barracuda are not capable of biting off human arms or legs – but their razor sharp teeth can sever arteries in a heartbeat. And I was responsible for the 12 year old alongside me.

After a few minutes the barracuda came close – too close. I literally tapped the barracuda on it’s snout with the barbed end of my Hawaiian sling, hoping he would get the hint.  It did not, but rather turned slightly, staying close. Unwilling to yield its hunting ground, the menacing-looking fish wasn’t backing down. “Don’t shoot him” said Regan. The youngster was obviously reading my mind. “If I shoot this thing is it going to swim off or turn on me - or us?”  I wondered. With Regan beside me it was a gamble I would not take. 

Swimming backward all the while to keep an eye on the feisty fish, we were finally in knee-deep water. I signaled to Regan to head for shore. I don’t remember whether or not he took off his fins, but he made a B-line for the beach, the ‘cuda in hot pursuit. The toothy fish could have easily overtaken Regan, but it didn’t. Had it merely been curious? Or had it sensed the erratic heart beat of a frightened 12 year-old?  Perhaps it had been attracted by the flash of the stainless steel shaft of my Hawaiian sling?   Numerous documented reports of barracuda attacks show many of the victims had been wearing shiny jewelry. 

Two days later, we were swimming not too far from shore off a small point on the opposite side of the bay, and by this time, Regan had a negative outlook on barracuda in general.  It goes without saying there would be more barracuda. Though they were smaller in size, it didn’t matter to Regan. The teeth protruding from their mouth and menacing appearance were enough to make my young dive partner leery.  It was while looking to the limit of our visibility, expecting larger specimens to show up, we saw a pair of brown objects lying on the sandy bottom directly below us in less than six feet of water.  They were nurse sharks, so close we could see their gill slits opening and closing. 

The week wasn’t without its sublime moments. We were snorkeling off Sandy Cay, part of the Pelican Cays Underwater Marine Park when five spotted eagle rays swam past. They were some 12 – 15 feet beneath the surface, swimming in single file, the movement of their wings slow and deliberate, yet graceful. I dove to get pictures, frantically snapping and rewinding the underwater disposable. Its times like this I long for a Nikonos with a strobe flash.  On the way home we anchored the boat to dive for sand dollars when a pair of bottlenose dolphins swam past. 

One afternoon Regan and I were walking the north shore of the island at low tide. Walking carefully along an outcropping of dead coral, we saw a variety of smaller marine life in tidal pools. Then Regan, never ceasing to amaze me, asked, “Isn’t that an octopus?”  Sure enough, at the bottom of one of the tidal pools was a small, cave-like opening in the coral formation. And just inside that opening one could see a small octopus with its tentacles withdrawn. Directly in front of its lair were three conch shells. The shells were empty, their interior pink-orange. They had no doubt been the octopus’ dinner.  That same day it was time to depart and Regan had a seat next to the pilot. As we circled the island, I saw him gazing out the window at the turquoise blue water, no doubt thinking about the big barracuda.

This autumn Regan will be a sophomore at Batavia High where he plays football and basketball for the Blue Devils. Since our Abaco adventure he has grown at least a foot and filled out considerably. Not so surprisingly Regan says he’d like to return to the island, adding that next time he’d like to try his hand at actually hunting with a Hawaiian sling.  My question to Regan is this: armed with a sling, are you willing to swim back to the barracuda’s lair beneath the pier?    

Not too many years ago, on a sunny Father’s Day, I stowed an ultra-light fishing rod and my hip boots inside the hatch of the family vehicle.  I put two small spinners in a plastic container and headed for a stretch of the Little Tonawanda not far from our home. It was a low-key plan, intended to pass the time wading the Little T, and perhaps entice the bait fish population.

The action began right away, as strikes came one after another, with creek chubs and horned dace  wasting no time inhaling the tiny Rooster Tail as soon as I began a retrieve. Though the fish were small, the surroundings and the solitude were enjoyable.  The sole competition came in the form of a kingfisher and a slow moving snapping turtle, the latter easy to spot in the shallow water.

I came across a shaded area where a tree provided a respite from the mid-day sun. Here a few rusted strands of barbed wire spanned the narrow stream, remnants of yesteryear, lending more authenticity to the rural setting. Being careful not to puncture my hip boots on the barbs, I ducked between strands and continued on.  A short distance downstream was a riffle which emptied into a small pocket of quiet water.  

I cast the Rooster Tail directly into the riffle, allowing the current to take it into the small pool. I hadn’t turned the reel handle two or three times when something belted the tiny spinner. Whatever it was, it certainly hit much harder than the baitfish I had been catching.  The fish was on for a moment before the line went slack. I assumed it was a smallmouth, and made repeated casts with no results.  

I left the little pool, wading a few yards downstream when I felt another hard strike.  The fish provided a good tussle, and moments later I was pleasantly surprised when I beached a brown trout. The fish was vivid in color - dark brown along the back, a smattering of black spots across a golden brown flank. The fish was no doubt a holdover from the previous year’s stocking far upstream in Linden.  After inspecting and releasing the fish I began working my way back upstream, stopping at the little pool with the riffle. There I was rewarded with another brown, identical to the first and maybe the same fish I had hooked earlier.  It too was released. 

Before working my way upstream toward the car, I couldn’t help but savor the moment. Even the aroma from a nearby pasture added to the enjoyment of a Father’s Day in rural America.