Near Belvidere
I promised some Americana and captured just a little of that on camera. Leaving Bedminter in steady rain, stopping at Shannon's Fly Shop in Califon on the way over to State Highway 31 while perusing an issue of The Drake, I came to infer valuable info on how to go about a certain essay. Hope for this sort of thing is more precious in itself than practical, but I never forget appearing in Salmon and Steelhead Journal as a 2016 finalist for the Brookwood Press Writing Award. Yours truly may make it yet, and if not, well, a life well-lived never depends on outside recognition.
Getting to Pohandusing Brook proved more time consuming than I had prepared for. My mapping--I don't use GPS--was frivolous and yet sufficient. I found some access near CR 519, but here the stream seemed too little, so I went through Belvidere and found a promising stretch.
I parked near industrial fencing and a No Trespassing sign, but outside that fence....well. (Actually, nothing forbids anyone.) You don't go to strange new places, emphasis on strange for this snippet of thought, unless you have a little of the explorer in you. The sort of explorer who can deal with strangers, if they decide to confront him. As I got my stuff together--I fully enjoyed tying on leader, tippet, and a little worm imitation--I imagined my brother David doing this (he's bragged about "guiding" me on the Farmington River in CT)--and that was a no brainer. Nothing against him, but he never would get near this place. I had already entertained the company of a State Police officer, having pulled over on a wide shoulder to review my maps. I never saw the flashing lights until he smiled and turned back to his unit. I had simply looked up--my window down in the heat--and in a confidently pleasant and matter-of-fact way, greeted him.
Despite the forecast I noted last night, I had felt rain would be no problem, and it was no problem at all, until the very end of my outing, which I'll soon relate. I ambled through brush and into little Pohandusing Brook, soon dabbling my fly near a little undercut, way too shallow I observed once I got close. The water didn't feel very chilly, my never having put on my chest waders, and I even wondered if it were at or above 68 degrees, the temperature that divides fishing for trout or leaving them be, if you value clean release. The weather was so muggy and warm I took off my rain jacket to leave it behind for the time being, figuring I'd wade and hike upstream with Sadie the Black Labrador for at least half a mile. I never got more than about an eighth of a mile before I saw the stream runs though a backyard, a nice bridge over the water connecting the property.
So much for my dream of getting well and good into a little stream. In the meantime, I had found a nice pool and caught a couple of dace. On closer examination, I found it's about two-and-a-half feet deep, certainly enough water to hold brown trout, especially with the nice undercut into thick tree roots. I saw no browns. And so I was thinking. Surely no one fishes the Pohandusing Brook. But the state has designated it a wild trout steam with reproducing brown trout, and I don't doubt but a tiny bit they're in there. After my blowout at this nice hole I photographed, I was fully bent on looking for more, and who knows, elsewhere in this state I'm surely to do so.
I felt very satisfied. Creeks and I go way, way back. I would enjoy exploring dozens in New Jersey, had I the time. It was time to leave and I had sunk deep enough into experience that it didn't feel ridiculous, and I imagined that after I judged Buckhorn Creek useless, I might have time to try Peapack Brook near home for a few minutes before heavy dusk.
I got to where I had parked my car, and noticed the fence gate was now open, a truck with headlights on facing in my direction, a driver inside. I leisurely packed up, only very slightly nervous and staying that way, refusing to feel awkward. I guess the guy stared with the sort of stony eyes we all know about, that mindless indecision of the captive of our modern demise of ideology, the sort of zombie Dagny in Ayn Rand's novel Atlas Shrugged shot dead, but before I got in view of this situation, I was thinking in a celebratory way about how all of us share this planet, regardless of us parceling it out on mathematical terms that amount to money and private ownership. But more than this. I'm not against private ownership and fancy myself a believer in laizze faire capitalism, but there has to be some way to overcome the mindless (bad!) aspect of greed for benevolence towards one another based on such facts as the air we breathe, water we drink and wade, and soil we stand on.
By everything I deduced, I trespassed against no one today. I drove off having already forgotten the open gate and truck. Best part of the day was fishing the Pohandusing.
I did find Buckhorn and some access, where I quickly judged the creek too little. I hung a right, found some water that looked kind of interesting; no access here. So I found a pullover, looked at my map, but as I drove off, noticed my gas was dangerously low, so I never took the trouble to find the right turn I needed, bent on getting to Philipsburg and eventually Peapack Brook, but when I got to State Highway 57, I turned left, looking at little creeks as I passed by and coming upon a larger bridge, as I hoped to see. This turned out to be the familiar Pohatcong, but I saw--after stopping and getting out to look--only fishless water, me not willing to wade and look with sun very low. I found gas, turned right on Rt. 31 at Washington while listening to the Grateful Dead. I've meant to listen to Bach's Concertos for One and Two Harpsicords (I habitually hear classical), but today I heard Crosby, Stills, and Nash, the Dead, and the Outlaws.
There were moments approaching an experience I well know referred to in "Box of Rain," on the Dead's American Beauty album. I listened to this album alone among Dead tracks today. Any of you over 35 who read this blog might relate to this sort of evaluation of life as something not just airy fairy, but psychologically factual. A dream we dreamed one afternoon long ago.
It's not Deja Vu. Much better than that.
I hung a left and saw stretches of the Musconetcong River--to be stocked tomorrow. I have never before seen these before I got to Changewater. That road took me to Point Mountain, when I knew I had borne northeast, instead of southeast, so it took me longer to get to Peapack. But I had cut new territory. I did get to Peapack Brook before heavy dusk, but the water ran high, off color (visibility about a foot), and full of leaves and twigs. I knew this meant a skunker, but I tried thoroughly the hole where Jorge caught a wild brown on a salmon egg in April. The effort helped bond me with my two-weight fly rod.
Not much of a day in terms of fishing, but there's never a time away that doesn't incentivize me for more to come. I thought I should have waded upstream the Pohatcong while I was there. (All the time and gas it takes to return!) But I wouldn't have had much time. I got to thinking about trying the Peapack again.
Above all, I got away from the grist mill of the almighty buck. That might seem an ironic thing for a believer in laizze faire capitalism to say, and I guess it is ironic, but then again, I think the dollar--ultimately--is the only way it's possible to get away from the grind. Can you imagine any other, besides going vagrant? Anyone who would choose that course of action, anyhow, would find his or herself in quite a grind for sure. If the world is too much with you--as I felt it's too much with me as I parked at home not very long ago--that feeling at least implies the possibility of earning one's way free and clear of a daily drudge. But this eventuality means, of course, it's paid for. I certainly never want to be the sort of guy who expects others to pay my way.
Residential scene near where I fished the Pohandusing
I caught two striped dace at....
Best spot I fished
The residence with bridge over the Pohandusing
Sunlight broke through, touching mountains south and east of Belvidere
South of Belvidere. (Belvidere means "beautiful place," perhaps a sort of vain romanticism you might expect as simplified by limelight, but real beauty does exist hereabouts in both ragged edges and soft-toned mists out and away from hyper-real images designed to titillate, obsess, and empty your wallet.)
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