The canoe trip - Randy Williams

      I was told that, in the late summer, the bass in some lakes will migrate up feeder rivers to cooler water. There is a cool water creek feeding into the Clintonville Pond (Pigeon River Pond) and I decided to try and catch some of these bass. One hot day in August I put on a pair of pants and a t-shirt, gathered my fishing pole, a canoe paddle, a seat cushion, and my sturdy 16 foot canoe. That should be enough for a one man fishing float trip down this small river. I left a car at the dam in Clintonville and had my father in law drop me and my canoe off at the rivers edge a few miles upstream. As a boy scout I was taught to be prepared. I was not however, prepared for what followed. A few annoying flies greeted me as I dragged the canoe into the cool water, but the anticipation of those bass was still in the forefront of my mind. The original plan was to peacefully drift downstream and fish for the plethora of bass that surely awaited every cast. As I entered the shaded realm of the river, horse flies began to swarm me. They were relentless. Every bit of exposed skin was under constant attack. Each bite mark became an extremely painful welt that lasted for at least an hour. With my father in law now long gone I was left alone to fend off the tormenting flies. All my attention became directed to one task; fend off the flies. I would try in vain to paddle quickly and give the flies a moving target. I could not afford even a moment to reach down for my fishing pole as the flies seemed to multiply with every stroke of the paddle. It got to the point of desperation when I couldn’t swat or paddle near fast enough. I was facing a traditional conflict of man versus nature, and I was literally up a creek. I finally couldn’t take it anymore and jumped into the river. (On a side note; in hot weather I have seen deer inexplicably run out of the woods jumping and kicking. Now I think I understand why they do that). The cool water only temporally relieved the sting of the flies and when I would lift my head above water to breathe it only took seconds for the flies to bite into any exposed skin. Primal survival instinct then kicked in. I went to the edge of the river and scooped out the gooiest, slimyest, stickiest mud I could dig up and slabbed it everywhere on myself. Face, arms neck, any place those devils could get. It wasn’t pretty but that really didn’t matter because self preservation trumps my good looks. This plan worked as long as I moved very slowly to keep the precious mud cover intact. Here was the predicament; if I left a bit of skin uncovered, a fly would tear into me, I would swat him, mud would fall off, exposing more skin and thus more bites. Soon I would have to jump back in the river and start again with a more thorough application of mud. I learned quickly how to be very gentle with a canoe paddle because any sudden movements would shake off mud and start the entire process again. This whole situation was aggravated by the fact that this tiny river must not have been floated for years. Every few yards a brush pile or entire tree would have to be maneuvered through or portaged around. Here is a good trick. Try to pull a canoe through thick branches and at the same time balance mud on your face.

      After a couple hours of this trip “another fine mess I got myself into” I finally reached the open lake and horse fly repelling sunshine. The pain in my first few bites was beginning to subside and in another hour or so the pain from hundreds of other bites would hopefully be gone. At the lake there were people boating and fishing as though nothing had happened. I got some strange looks but it must have been because I was fishless. And I am not myself when I go fishing and I’m fishless.