Reflections from my trail - Musky heritage

By Charlie Pottenger

The object of these articles has been to reflect on memories which might interest readers; however, I’ve found that the tales relight dreams associated with memories and sometimes even spur actions. This is one of those.

Some time ago I wrote about Musky fishing with my dad back in the sixties. That story caused me to go through heaps of accumulated stuff and find the old Musky tackle Dad and I used for hundreds of hours casting lakes in Wisconsin and Pennsylvania for one of the greatest game fish in America. I spent hundreds of hours together with a great dad, doing what he loved and I came to love, too.

Dad would often encourage me by saying that the Musky is the fish of 10,000 casts, inferring that one must make at least that many casts to catch one. After writing a short story of one of our escapades I realized I hadn’t ever offered my sons an opportunity to experience the joys of Musky fishing—hours of boredom punctuated by a moment of adrenalin pumping savagery when the great fish strikes.

This year, I challenged my sons to pick a date and we would meet at Pineview Reservoir in northwestern Utah to seek a mighty Musky. The youngest, Andy, couldn’t consider the trip as he has just launched a new business, and he and his wife are expecting their first child in August. My other son, Matt, lives in Utah and agreed to meet me there on June 18.

We had sought an opportunity to rent a fishing boat there, but none were available and the rentable boats, ski-type, cost $180 per day. Resourceful Matt found a 1950’s vintage steel boat, motor, and trailer for sale for $350. He bought it and overhauled the carburetor, and we were set for four days of adventure. (Matt and Charlie Pottenger - holding Jerry the dachshund - before they set out to Musky fish.)

Matt and I decided to christen the new boat “Andy,” so that we could always say that on our first Musky fishing experience Matt, Charlie, Jerry (the dachshund) and “Andy” all participated!

The first afternoon we cast huge lures for about four hours, saw no fish action, sweltered in 95 degree heat, and learned that Jerry just loved barking at and chasing those hooky lures. Taking Jerry anywhere is always an adventure in and of itself.

The next morning we went earlier and arrived at the lake about 8 a.m. As we launched “Andy,” we met a young fisherwoman holding a boat while her partner went for their truck. I asked if they had been fishing and if they had any luck. She said they had caught two Muskies!

Knowing how hard it is to bag a Musky, I boldly asked if they had taken pictures, as Musky fishing in Utah is catch and release only. She said she had caught a 41 incher and he had gotten a little 34 incher, of which she had a picture. The bigger fish had been hooked badly and they had trouble unhooking it.

I saw the “little ones” picture and asked if they could point us to some “hot spots.” They pointed us to both locations where they had caught their fish and were really helpful in getting to know where these giants hang out in Pineview.

That day we had about 10 muskies follow the lures like torpedoes in the crystal clear water all the way to the boat, but got no actual strikes. Musky anglers consider a follow a major event, and a strike is spectacular and a catch is Heaven!

We caught none, mostly because first you have to have a strike. However we discovered Jerry would commit suicide in his desire to grab one of the lures. He would launch himself out into the lake trying to grab a hook, and his lemon-colored life vest with a handle proved valuable over and over! (Jerry is pictured, left, ready to jump!)

The last day we continued to pound the water and I actually had two good strikes but was unable to hook the cooperating Muskies. I began to tire, as I am no longer a kid and my hand was sore after four days of endless casting.

Matt, however, wasn’t ready to quit because, I’d had strikes, while he had not. So he told me it was about time I learned to cast left-handed, which I tried. After about another agonizing hour, Matt made a long cast right up near the shore and reeled in about a foot of line, starting his underwater lure spinning.

I thought someone had dropped a refrigerator near his lure as a giant Musky snatched the lure and nearly tore the rod from his hands. The fish rushed right, stripping off 15 or 20 yards, and then the line went slack. Matt said something like, “Shucks, Dad, he got away!” I told him to reel fast, and sure enough the mighty fish was rushing the boat.

As the line tightened, the fish again wheeled away and stripped line again, ending in a mighty leap about four feet above the water, and splashed back, starting another powerful run. Then the line went permanently slack and his trophy was gone!

We had lived my dream even though Matt hadn’t caught he huge Musky. Matt had tightened his drag during the fight and the 30 pound test line snapped.

The epilogue is that earlier that last day we had fished where the couple said they had caught the 41 inch Musky, and found one freshly deceased on a beach. We looked it over and took pictures. It might have been their fish, as it measured 41 inches! (Matt Pottenger is pictured with the deceased Musky.)

A Christmas story from yesteryear

By Charlie Pottenger

Recently I was invited to Dining on the Edge for a Christmas luncheon celebration with the Clearwater Tribune staff. While enjoying the festive, happy mood I realized that the beautifully decorated Christmas tree with its fantastic red beaded garlands reminded me of days long ago and my mom.

Back in the 1940’s, Christmas was, as it is now, a very special season when we rejoiced in the truth of the Savior and celebrated as a family. In our family there were four kids, a devoted mom, a hard working dad, and not too much money. We were just like everyone else I knew, and although each family had different traditions, all celebrated and shared their love with each other and all that they contacted.

At our house Mom ran the show. Beginning about now, say a week before Christmas, she would organize her little tribe of “elves” into squads working under close supervision. She had us mix ingredients to make fantastic gingerbread cookies. The dough was then refrigerated (or if it was cold, set outside on the open porch to stiffen before rolling).

Then, each of us in turn were allowed to roll out huge dough sheets, and then we all gathered around with cookie cutters to punch out gingerbread men, stars, Christmas trees, bells, circles and half-moons. The circles and half moons were cut using a drinking glass. We also made shaped sugar cookies. Naturally she insisted that we make four batches of each type.

Of course we had to add colored sugar sprinkles to some and place dried currants on the gingerbread men to represent buttons. When each kid’s dough was processed into cookies and the leftover dough had been consumed by some of the sneaky elves, that batch was baked to perfection. We were each allowed to sample one warm cookie. Then we were put to work with needles and red thread to attach little loops to each cookie so it could later be used for tree decorations. Then she carefully packed the finished edible-decorations in wrapped containers for later use.

The next job was to follow the same procedures to work as a team to produce delicious cookies called thumbprints. Each cookie was topped with a bunch of chocolate chips set into a thumb made depression and topped with a half of an almond. When cooked the melted chocolate surrounded the nut. She had a hard time hiding these well enough to have them still around by Christmas.

She also made a delicious, round, powdered sugar, rum-soaked cookie. We were able to shake the hot cookies in the powdered sugar to create the finished look. Like the thumbprints, these were hard to resist.

As we moved closer to Christmas day, she would “force us” into the duty of popping huge bowls of super-big fluffy corn kernels. When each of us had a bowl of popcorn, which we made ourselves, she would place a bowl of fresh cranberries, our bowl of popcorn, and a big, empty bowl on the table in front of each kid.

We were provided with a needle and ten feet of red thread, which we used to make popcorn-cranberry garlands. The process was simple. You doubled the thread, tied a knot, and then started alternating cranberries and popcorn kernels until you had your own five foot garland carefully placed in the empty bowl. When done she had 20 feet of edible garland ready for the tree.

In addition, it seemed that each kid had decorations made at school. Some were paper art works, some were colored construction paper chains, and some were plaster shapes similar to the cookie cutter shapes, but bearing dates and love messages, mostly directed to Mom and Dad. Some of the plaster decorations had actual black and white photos of the maker for long term memory.

When all was done Mom would get Dad to put the tree up on the night before Christmas, actually on the morning of Dec. 24. After she had put on our two strings of the big, hot lights of the time (the little lights we now have weren’t yet invented), she would add the garlands of cranberries and popcorn, plus any paper garlands that showed up from school art.

The few beautiful glass ornaments she had were then placed high on the tree, and finally we were turned loose to hang up gingerbread decorations to finish it off on the lower branches. When done we felt, each year, that we had the greatest tree ever!

On Christmas Eve we would all gather around the tree with its gleaming lights and sing carols until Dad decided it was time. Then he would get us all together on the couch—Mom, Dad, and the four of us—and he would read us the Christmas story from the Bible. We would recite the Lord’s Prayer, followed by him reading us The Night Before Christmas!

After the tree was decorated we could pick the cookies from the tree and she would replace them until the stock was depleted.

We followed this routine for years, until life’s callings began to take aging kids to new places like college, careers, and marriages.

After Christmas Mom would leave the garlands of cranberries and popcorn on the tree and place it in the yard for the birds and squirrels.

I know that those memories were largely practiced as I raised my family; however, I failed to pass on the carefully thought out program my mom used to slowly approach the Christmas celebration with the cooking traditions and the garland crafts.

I think back now and wish I’d had the discipline to engulf my kids into the old tradition, which really enhanced the family togetherness, which I still crave.

We did continue the celebration with the Bible reading, carols, and The Night Before Christmas. Also at our house we always made the kids wait until Christmas morning to open presents. Boy did they have trouble getting to sleep and did I have trouble staying awake long enough to make it really believable!

I love Christmas and wish anyone that has read this far the merriest Christmas ever!

Reflections from My Trail - The End of an Argument (A Fishing Tale)

By Charlie Pottenger

Wisconsin about 1968, Dad and I were up and on the lake before dawn and were witnessing another of God’s miracle mornings. Mist was rising from the warm water on a dewy July morning and we were casting huge lures over submerged weedy reefs in search of giant muskies.

These savage, pike-like fish are extremely hard to catch, but the explosiveness of their strike and the strength of their desire to escape make them one of the great American game fish, similar to the heavy fighting steelhead and salmon of the Clearwater.

As dawn progressed and changed the eerie silence of the calm predawn to the splash of light on the water, we cast into the rising sun and my Dad’s surface lure whirred and gurgled in the invisible glare. Nearing the boat with about three feet of line left there was an explosion in the water and Dad’s hands were stripped of his expensive rod and casting reel.

He looked dumbfounded at his empty hands and said, “Sh**ty! Sh**ty!” At the other end of the boat I shouted, “I told you so!”

Thus an ongoing argument between us was resolved. Over hundreds of happy vacation hours spent in the boat seeking these huge fighting fish we had noticed a major difference in the way we held our rods when retrieving the lures in hopes of one of those explosive strikes. The difference provided something to banter about during hour after hour of boring, non-productive sessions of fishing.

I maintained that the correct hold was to grab the rod with the left hand ahead of the reel and anticipate the strike so that the fish’s pull would only sink the rod deeper into the palm. Dad, on the other hand, maintained the rod was designed with a pistol grip so the left hand could comfortably hold it with the fingers only to resist the pull of the fish.

Day after day we rehashed the pros and cons of the proper grip and I always scoffed that someday a fish would steal his rod and prove my righteous position!

That wonderful morning I was finally justified and if Dad were still alive he would tell you that I made him remember that morning almost every time we were together thereafter.

To complete my story, I began gloating immediately! Dad was really sad to have lost his expensive rod, reel and lure plus a really nice musky. I joyfully ordered him to man the oars and get ready. “Get ready for what?” he exclaimed, trying to reestablish his fatherly authority.

Since I had a sinking lure I told him that the fancy star-drag reel he was using would catch in the weeds as the giant fish tried to rid itself of the pesky lure and sooner or later the fish would jump or surface, whereupon he should row like crazy so I could cast behind the fish, snag the line and ultimately catch the brute and reclaim the rod. He said, “Bullsh*t, son!”

Well, the fish surfaced, he rowed, I snagged the line and was able to pull the rod in. The fish was still on, Dad became overjoyed. He said, “Give me my rod!” I said, “Your rod? I just salvaged this rod and this now is my fish!”

I landed the fish, sold the rod back to my Dad for a dollar and had proof that his way of holding the rod was wrong!

This is my favorite fish story and I think of it often. I highly recommend all anglers with casting rods seeking heavy fish heed this advice. I must report that Dad never changed and caught many more muskies with his poor technique, but he never was allowed to forget.

My recommended grip while retrieving a casting reel in search of heavy fish. 

 

My Dad’s recommended grip while retrieving a casting reel in search of heavy fish, which doesn’t always work.

Reflections from My Trail

By Charlie Pottenger

A Good Man From Weippe Helped Charlie!

Sometimes my reflections don’t stretch back too far. This one happened on Aug. 22, 2014.

Last year in July I lost my longtime canine companion, a Dachshund named Beau, when I failed to restrain him as he opened the truck window and slipped into Heaven. To this day I can’t stop counting the number of trips I made past the spot where I lost Beau. Yesterday marked trip number 307!

I had mourned the loss for a few months when my Son and Daughter-in Law presented me with a nine month old Dachshund puppy, Jerry, last November. To even imply that Jerry has taken Beau’s place would be a Presidential quality lie, but Jerry has opened a whole new chapter of an on-going canine love story.

Jerry was basically a “diamond in the rough” with no trained skills and a heart winning way of taking a piece of my soul even when he has committed grievous and unpardonable sins. After ten months in my care it is safe to say that if he arrived as a dog with obedience problems and tons of charm, he remains as he arrived. Safe to say, that I am failing as a trainer, in all categories, with Jerry.

One of his greatest failings, or perhaps my greatest failing, is that Jerry is faster than a bolt of lightning and can bolt through the smallest door crack when the objective was to keep him in or out. This includes problems when I enter or exit the car.

Last Friday, Aug. 22, I stopped for fuel at the Nez Perce Express. I now travel mostly in an older Subaru with a gas door lock. I carefully caught Jerry, held him until I was out, then went to the pump, ran my credit card and then discovered I hadn’t pulled the fuel door unlock lever. I, wallet in hand, opened the door and pulled the lever and the chocolate brown blur that was Jerry streaked out the door!

I put my wallet on the roof and proceeded to catch Jerry before he was run over by cars and trucks as they moved about the busy place. With Jerry safely back in the car, I finished fueling and drove off to Orofino.

About thirty minutes after arriving in Orofino I received a call from the Clearwater Tribune office advising that a man from Weippe, who hadn’t left his name, had dropped off my wallet because it had my Clearwater Tribune Reporter/Photographer business card. He had found it on Highway 12 and it still contained all of my important cards except one. My insurance cards, Drivers license, Pilots License, Costco Card and Hunting/Fishing licenses were all there. The missing card was my credit card which I rapidly cancelled.

In spite of my Jerry, I will get a new credit card and I will always remember a man from Pierce that took the time to help me after I had made a mistake. I would like to meet him anytime and thank him personally and would recommend his friendship to all who are lucky enough to be close to him. Thank you!

Reflections From My Trail

By Charlie Pottenger

 

One of the trap-line tales

Youth is a personal thing, but many young boys might share some things in common. At an early age, shortly after I learned to read, I was fascinated with critters. It didn’t matter much whether the critter was a rabbit, mink, squirrel, muskrat or even larger like deer, elk and moose.

I dreamed of catching or hunting all kinds of critters. I would read everything about trapping, hunting and fishing and pester elders to tell tales of their critter encounters.

I discovered that the A. H. Harding Company, Publisher of Fur Fish and Game Magazine, also printed and sold a series of little books on trapping which gave detailed “How To” directions on the fine art of catching all kinds of critters from mice to bears.

I believe they are still available and I highly recommend them to people, especially youngsters, wanting to learn about traps and trapping.

One of my favorites was titled “Trails to Successful Trapping” and another was “Deadfalls and Snares.”

Armed with the information gleaned from these books I first began trapping muskrats, mink and rabbits at about age seven. A pastime I enjoyed well into manhood, assuming that I have actually achieved that lofty status somewhere along the way.

At the time I was attending college, I spent Christmas break at home and joined with a friend, Paul, to enjoy nighttime pleasures at the local hotspots as well as run a small muskrat trap-line.

At ages 18 to 21 we had actually improved our trapping skills to the point we regularly caught muskrats which we processed each day and eventually sold the furs for about $5 apiece, big money for us then.

We had about two dozen traps and were working a small creek in snowy winter weather. Our trap-line creek flowed parallel to a road so we would drive down and walk the line removing our catch and resetting the traps about 8 p.m. and then again about 1 or 2 a.m. after we had had our fun for the day.

Often we would catch two rats in a good set on the same night. All was going well and our tracks in the often replenished snow were a sure sign that we were working a trap-line.

One night, at the early morning check of our traps, we discovered that five or six of the traps had been found and stolen by someone else! It still makes me angry to think that people steal stuff, but stealing our traps was unforgivable.

We discussed our dilemma and immediately agreed to meet at the creek in mid-morning to seek a method of revenge. Remembering the lessons and techniques learned from all of the great “How to Trap” literature, we had decided to try to catch a thief! We brought a length of braided picture wire, a hatchet, knife and lots of enthusiasm.

Our plan was to build a great snare in hopes of catching our trap thief. We selected a sturdy aspen sapling growing near one of the sets that had been stolen and with our weight determined that it could be bent enough to provide about four feet of hefty lift. Using a finger latch trigger attached to the wire and staked to an embedded fixed-finger we created a flat loop snare in the path which would be tripped by anyone walking the trap-line who didn’t know its location.

With the snare set and our traps replaced we returned to our routine. Everything seemed as it had been before the thefts. We caught muskrats, we had fun and we avoided our snare.

A couple nights later when we made our early rounds we approached the snare location and heard cussing voices of several men. It was clear that they weren’t having fun! Paul and I listened and finally were able to determine that although the great snare had done its job, the multiple thieves had managed to free their hapless mate and were heading toward town. So we hightailed up a ridge and ran, far ahead of them and hid behind a huge tree alongside the road.

When the three crooks were abreast of us, Paul and I jumped out screaming like banshees, waving my hatchet and a big stick. At the sight of us, the three thieves probably wet their pants and they ran like the wind after dropping their flashlights and some of our traps on the road.

Actually, Paul and I remember that night as a highlight of our trapping experiences.