eat your fish

Easter week, I had the chance to spend six days and nights upstate New Jersey, enjoying (occasional) quite time, daily freshwater fishing, and at least three nice meals of fresh-caught lake fish.

I took John McPhee's advice from the New Yorker a few months back, and tried pickerel for the first time. I know that March is their spawning time, so threw back at least one that seemed to have a lump (eggs?), and, taking the advice written, stuck to only smaller fish, which supposedely.... well, something to do with the bones.

Fileting the first one or two (probably kept about five the whole trip, including one perch, which wasn't worth it), I saw what he meant. Within each filet are tiny, hair-sized white bones that no matter how much you try, you can't really remove. I did this: kept the fish whole, didn't even scale them, took the knife in from the tail forward, working as close to the spine as possible. Sometimes I picked up an amount of bone along the way. No worries, just cut if off later on. One you have the two filets cut off, put them skin-side down, see what your sharp, flexible knife can really do, and remove the skin in (hopefully) one piece. Afterward, go to the bones. The best way is to find the ridge of bones, slice in a V-shape and remove them. For pickerel, there will always be some of the smaller bones left. I removed as many as possible, and got to the point where I went from whole, untouched fish, to boneless, skinless filets in just a few minutes, maybe three.

As a bonus and from prior experiences where the fileting didn't quite go so smoothly, I usually do my filet work outside, with a bowl or pot full of ice to put the filets in, keeping everything icy fresh. Also, a cold beer chillin' right there will do the trick.

In the end, did an egg wash, dipped into salted cornmeal, fried in cannola oil until brown. Salt and pepper on right after frying, and that's it. As for the small bones - they cook away; you'll forget they were ever there.

Another night, I made a bouillabaisse from an Emeril Louisianna cookbook that I received recently as a gift. I heard all this talk, bouillabaisse is hard to make, all those ingredients. I think the Times had something on it. But what I liked about the recipe was that it was simple and called for any kind of freshwater fish - 2 1/2 pounds of it. I threw in one or two measily pickerel filets we caught earlier that day, and also a package of Mahi Mahi I'd had frozen for who knows how long, and got that puppy going. Absolutely. Delicious.

My brother hooked two significant pickerel, I hooked one myself but between us and another lake friend, we probably brought about 15 fish into the boat, despite wind that at times was absurd. Night fishing wasn't there yet, and I'm convinced that will remain classic summer rowboat action. Even in the fall, it's never paid off for me.

Finally, when the wind did die down, I took the new fly pole I picked up and managed to rig, and practiced casting on the open water. Went very well, happy to say. I had picked up all the gear (with the exception of the pole and reel itself) from the local Wal-Mart and in the lake bait shop, got my first taste for some of the wonderful, not cheaply priced, fun stuff you can really go nuts if you delve into this sport entirely. Which I might just have to do.

fishing the cycle

Last week, to mark the Memorial Day weekend, I spent four nights up at the lake with friends, which was a rare treat thanks to the holiday weekend and two additonal vacation days that were tacked onto the beginning.

The goal was clear: starting Thursday and continuing through at least Sunday, catch the complete lake cycle - one of each type of fish that swims the waters of Kittatinny. That's right, your old friends. Sunny, pickerel, catfish (either kind), perch, small mouth bass, large mouth bass, crappie. And let's not forget the American eel.

Over the course of four days, seven out of the eight were captured and released. The American eel, ironically enough, was the only one of the eight to elude. Last year, eel were so common it was a sure-fire bet.

Photos and video to come, but highlights included a large pickerel caught on boat, several beautiful perch landed, a catty found live on a hook left out in the water after a late night, and a large mouth hooked in the shade about five feet off water's edge.

Fellow angler (and college roommate) Adam traveled up from his new home in Baltimore, Maryland, but thought ahead - that lake pro...- and purchased a 2-day permit to fly fish Big Flat Brook, just ten minutes down the road.

All seven of us took a Saturday field trip to Flat Brook, the scene of many a childhood summer afternoon for me - quiet days of yonder where we'd ride bikes down the dirt road and get to the big pool to hop into the frigid water from the massive rocks, trout darting through the brown water below.

The cars lumbered down the hole-filled dirt road to park near the pool, where we found three other anglers casting in silence on the other side of the stream. It looked like a perfect day, and the stream had been stocked just two days before.

We stood watching while A.Z. got geared up, and had the chance to see at least one angler reel in a fish. In the water, literally dozens of trout were visible from our rock perch, including rainbows, gorgeous browns and others. They congregated in groups in the deeper parts of the water. The browns shot around near the surface, within a foot or two of the edge, and further down lighter looking rainbows held their ground. In the same area, one or two absolute monsters lurked - trout that had to be 20+ inches almost sitting perfectly still in the water. If this sounds good, don't be naive. Get the fishing permit because game wardens and forest rangers are guaranteed to visit throughout the day.

We spent a good half-hour watching the scene and when we left to take a walk, with the exception of Hemingway back there on the stream, who was now one in seven anglers fishing corners of the same large pool, we all experienced the same thing. Extreme interest in fly fishing. New-found appreciation for the sport...the nuances of the sport...the technique...the gear...the variables. Just from sitting there and quietly watching what was going on (no one wanted to speak at all for fear of disturbing everyone), it was clear that there was quite a scene going down. Quiet sportsmanship rules practiced but unspoken between fishermen.

Did you know that rainbow trout do not thrive in many areas because they need very cold waters? Brown trout, in turn, aren't even native to this country. Yet they do very well and outnumber the rainbows - at least they did on BFB. Some fishermen took great care to de-hook their trout without the fish so much as breaking the surface of the water - they methodically brought the fish in then carefully brought it by their side and removed the hook. Some flies sink, others float. Some lines are held up by aerial floats, so as to make the fly appear more natural. Many flies get caught in trees, some are so tiny that the hooks are hardly bigger than a grain of rice.

My favorite interaction among the fishermen down at the pool (there were many funny interactions) was when this one guy in full gear sort of upstream finished fishing for the day. I hadn't seen him catch a thing while I was down there. At one point earlier on, I had quietly commented how Adam was lucky because all of the other fishermen hadn't even noticed the giant brown and good-size rainbow he had been casting toward downstream. Well, when the guy finished, he said a few words to the other anglers, stepped back and from the ground picked up a gill-line with about four good size trout that had been tied up live near the bank. Then, practicing good etiquette, he walked about 20 feet further downstream before crossing, so as not to disturb anyone. When he walked back upstream past us, he had the fish dangling and flippin on the line in his hand. A fashion show.

"Going after those big ones, eh?" he said. He'd known it was there the whole time, but hadn't even sent over a single cast.

I guess you can't pull the wool on a pro.

We left A.Z. at the stream and went back to the house. When he returned hours later, he came back without a fish, but told us the story of the rest of his day. He ended up hooking a monster brown trout, which several other fishermen helped him land using their nets. It flipped clear out of the water a few times measured 22-inches and weighed 4 pounds. It was his personal lifetime best. He also hooked a great rainbow, but it was foul-hooked, i.e. hooked in the side or the gill rather than the mouth. In fly fishing land, that's bogus and not grounds for an officially counted catch. He had the rainbow on a makeshift gill-line, but the knot came undone at the last minute, during transport.

Even still, A.Z. was satisfied with the day, and he was amazed at the size of the trout he landed and the fight.

Killing Time

We used to fish constantly at the lake, and we used to also constantly watch my grandpa fishing, too.

He’d stand beside the dock, casting in a spot under a tree where the rest of us wouldn’t bother. We’d lost so many hooks and bobbers up in that tree, but he’d stand out there in a dirty shirt with his spinner reel and throw the line out at all hours of the day, and when there was a bite, he’d yank the rod with a quick flick of his arm that said that the fish didn’t mean anything to him. They were rarely anything other than small sunnies that we caught off the back, and I don’t have any memory of him catching anything large back there, but grandpa still quietly fished off to his side, while the other kids and I fished the dock or the other small stretch of water to its left, but never too close to the other trees.

One summer grandpa unveiled a fishing cage he’d constructed himself. No one saw where it had come from, and no one could imagine when he’d spent the time to make it, but the cage was meant to keep fish alive in the water in captivity until it was time. It was made of several pieces of light-weight metal grating, and, tied with a string to the side of the dock, it splashed down into the water and remained there until someone opened the lid to throw another unlucky, small sunny in. The funny thing is that, under all normal circumstances, we’d always throw the sunnies back, no matter how big they were. But, when the cage was in the water, they came out on our hooks and were captured forever; we kept them no matter how small they were.

You could never really see clearly whether there were fish in the cage, or how big the captured fish were. Their dark skin blended in perfectly with the murky rocks on the lake’s bottom, and through the green-brown water, most of the time the fish just looked like moving brown objects below. But when it was killing time, grandpa would lift the cage, the water would drain into the lake and all over the lawn, and the eyes of every kid in the yard were peeled. Fish would flip and flap in the empty cage, and grandpa would throw the latch, releasing them all out onto the lawn.

He’d take a few fish at a time in his hands, never seeming to care about the spines or fins at all, and walk over to the firewood pile, beside the shed, where he’d already set up a worn plank atop the wood bundles. The other sunnies near the cage would bounce all over the grass, and if one or two somehow bounced its way back into the lake, it didn’t matter much. By the shed, one fish would go on the floor, still flipping, while the other was laid on its side on the plank. The setup was simple, and so were the tools: a pair of red-handled shears and a small, serrated kitchen knife, the exact same kind we ate with each evening, but from his shed drawer instead of inside.

My brother and I had seen this spectacle many times before. Grandpa would frequently take fish back to the Chinese living on his block his store was on, in Little Italy. But, our friends at the lake never got tired of watching. And, I admit, I never got tired of watching either.

We would end up being all boys up there in the backyard at killing time, and grandpa was merciless. First, he’d take the shears and snip the fins, spines and tail off, leaving the fish useless. Sometimes it would squirm and flip in his hands, slipping off the board and onto the sticks below, but it didn’t matter much. Then, he’d take the knife and scrape the scales off of both sides of the fish. Usually, at this point, it would be bleeding from somewhere, bright red blood onto grandpa’s hands, the knife, the plank. Then, he’d take the knife and saw into the fishes underside, from its breast to the tail. He’d put the knife down and reach into the cavity with his bare hands and rip out the guts with his fingers. There’d always be a few strings of something or other that wouldn’t come out easily, and he’d pinch it between his finger and snap it out.

Our friends would stare at grandpa with strained jaws, occasionally getting in the way. The best part, however, occurred only on occasion. The cleaned, gutted fish would be piled on one side of the board, and once in a while one would still flip on the board, devoid of any fins and insides, otherwise completely dead. That was the best part, and it always elicited our shouts and laughs.

When killing time was over, grandpa would throw all the cleaned fish into a pale of lake water, and they’d float there on their sides, fish no more. His hands would be covered in now-dark, dried fish blood and scales, and he’d fake smearing it on one of us on his walk inside. The fish would be wrapped in butcher paper and put in the back of the freezer, and that was all we ever saw of them.

The 2008 Fishing Wrap-up

durian disaster.