For many years I have fished with considerable success from the bow of a 1982 Springbok 16’ equipped with a 35 Mercury two cycle outboard and a 30 lb. thrust MotorGuide trolling motor.

Built by Alcan in the early eighties as a response to the boom in fiberglass bass boats, this hull is still in perfect condition, though I had to rebuild the decks when I bought it twelve years ago. The carpet had rotted the originals, and the second deck wasn’t well done. I spent evenings over a winter building new fir plywood panels, rounding the edges, then glassing each piece to the standard I applied to the same job years earlier on my antique cabin cruiser. This was a surprisingly expensive and time-consuming job – especially eliminating the voids in the plywood around the hatch openings — but it provided a weatherproof deck for a boat which would spend half of the year tied to a dock and exposed to sun and weather.

Time took a toll on a series of swivel seats, but they were easily replaced through trips to Walmart or Princess Auto for new ones. The front live well holds only ten gallons, but it has kept many, many bass in good health, and because it is mounted to the port side I used it to trim the hull when I was in the boat alone. The rear live well is huge, but because it is located at the aft starboard corner of the vessel, it isn’t usable because it ruins the boat’s weight distribution. I stored life jackets in it.

At 60” at the widest point, the Springbok was too narrow for me at this time of life. While the boat was remarkably efficient on fuel, and even though it routinely outran the other boats in the fleet, the Springbok demanded of its operator and passengers the balance and co-ordination of a canoeist.

So my friends and family put increasing pressure on me to upgrade. Apparently the sight of a heavy, arthritic geezer perched on that narrow bow platform disturbed the serenity of others, (especially when this boat beat all comers in last year’s bass tournament).

A month of obsessive Internet searches and wild-goose chases occurred in pursuit of a wider boat. Every potential candidate I viewed was in much worse condition than the Springbok. Any idea how ratty that old blue carpet looks after twenty or thirty years, and how those rotten floorboards smell?

My search for a restorable hulk took me to Dave Brown’s establishment in Chaffey’s Locks, where I found no promising wreck, but spotted a bright red Princecraft, still without a motor, on his lot. Tentatively I asked Dave for a price. He vanished upstairs and returned in a few minutes with a printed page containing a graphic of the boat and a price not much greater than what I had been thinking of paying for a used glass centre-console on Kijiji.

“How much is the motor?”

“The 40 hp Mercury 4 stroke with EFI and tilt is included in the package.”

I don’t recall saying anything at that point. Numbers were racing around in my head, but I spent a good deal of time looking over the hull.

The thing that grabbed my attention first was the floorboards. Covered with a textured vinyl, they fasten down with exposed, stainless steel screws. The biggest problem I had with the Springbok’s glass deck was my unsuccessful attempt to build a coping which would join the deck to the aluminum sides. The walnut moulding on which I lavished hours wouldn’t stay on when the hull flexed in a chop. That loose coping remained my biggest disappointment with the rebuild of the boat.

Princecraft designers solved the same problem by creating a bead of the vinyl flooring material and sliding it between the floorboards and the hull sides, a simple and elegant solution which had eluded me over many hours of trying. (After a look at the new boat I thought I could fix the trim on the old one, and I did. I hope the new owner enjoys the old girl as much as I did.)

The new hatches are aluminum, also covered with vinyl. The latches look primitive, but seem to work well, won’t break from a misstep, and won’t trip anyone.

The swivel seats are comfortable and quite elegant in comparison to the Spartan ones which tormented my back for the last couple of years in the Springbok until I replaced them a month ago. On a first look the large seats seem to be placed too close together. The port seat looks as though it should be set to the left about three inches to balance the boat. Turns out that’s an illusion. As I discovered on the shakedown runs, the seats make optimal use of the hull’s width just the way they are.

There’s not much storage space in the new boat. Gas tank, battery box and pumps are exposed. The stern side bulkheads enclose foam only. The 7’ rod locker is just about it, if like me you plan to use the live well for fish and the forward locker for a battery. But I soon discovered that the side console (under the steering wheel) is much deeper than on the old one (I had to crawl in there after my wallet) and it’s the logical repository for a stack of life jackets.

The transom’s 71” wide and 20” high, so the light boat can take a 40 hp motor. With a butt that wide it will need it, too.

I asked Dave to order a matching “bicycle seat” to mount on a tall post at the bow. This should provide a more comfortable fishing position because I can either perch on it or use it as a brace while standing.

In an earlier post I recounted my attempt to find black crappies in shallow water in the early season and how I managed to catch only a few by casting around stumps in shallow bays. Turns out I should have left those males alone: they were guarding egg masses until the fry hatched.

Last evening on Newboro Lake I faced the ongoing problem that post-spawning schools are hard to find because they are very small and dense. There can be a couple of dozen fish or as many as a hundred in each, but it covers a very small portion of the surface of the lake, and crappies generally only strike at baits above their noses. This makes black crappies hard to find.

After a couple of unsuccessful trips I picked a cool, very quiet evening after two days of rain. The lake was like glass where I popped the trolling motor into the water. A school of minnows in the middle made quite a fuss on the surface, attracting not only my attention, but also that of a pair of loons who swam over in a leisurely manner.

I chased the school with the trolling motor, casting around it without success. Giving up, I moved closer to shore, looking for a drop-off near a weed bed.

At length I felt an indeterminate pressure on my line and it went sideways. That’s about as dramatic as a crappie strike gets: I had my first fish. The excitement of crappie fishing lies in locating them, and then keeping the paper-mouthed treasures on the line long enough to get them into the live well.

To cover a lot of water I had been using ¼ ounce jig heads with 3” vibrotails on 6 lb. monofilament on my lightest bait casting rig. Still not sure where the school lay (some estimate that casts must be within a 3’ radius to be effective against a crappie school), I stuck with the heavier jig. I also didn’t want to risk the bite turning off while I fought with my tackle box. The heavy jig may have limited my success, but over a half hour I managed to pull about a dozen large but skinny crappie out of the school. Only one was a male. The females had a few eggs in them, most likely next year’s embryos, but none had any food in their digestive tracts.

They started to strike as the school of minnows approached my weed bed. I think they must hear the confusion on the surface and emerge from hiding in the weeds to feed. Action was brisk as long as the minnows were in evidence. It shut off as soon as the bait had moved about a hundred yards away from my shoal.

So the problems in locating crappies are not only the small size of the schools, but also their tendency to lie in the weeds, unresponsive to lures, in anticipation of a school of minnows.

The crappies ranged from hand size to 11 ½”. Bet washed up fillets from eleven keepers. Not a bad evening’s work.

It was a fine spring day and the boat was still attached to the tow vehicle, so I started it and drove to Opinicon Lake for a bit of crappie fishing.

I couldn’t find the fish in their usual haunts. Flowing water and schools of minnows weren’t attracting them today. I picked my way around Deadlock Bay, unwilling to give up. Eventually I found a few scattered fish around submerged stumps. Usually once you have found the first fish, the next dozen come quite easily. I have caught as many as 76 under a single stump. But not today. Two strikes on each stump, and that was it.

Eventually fatigue and a threatening storm drove me off the lake, but not before I spotted a group of people on the dock at the Queen’s Biology Station, so I swung by to say hello. These three were from Carleton University and didn’t know anybody I knew. I mentioned my few crappies. The alpha-male student told me that there are lots of crappies around. They’ve been netting them. Perhaps they’re not biting today.

That’s when it got interesting. I told him that I could only find them on stumps. He said that’s because they spawn on stumps, sticking the egg masses to the top of a horizontal root. Then the male guards the egg mass, though he takes off when the eggs hatch, rather than guarding the fry the way bass do.

It immediately became apparent to me that I had sinned, taking spawning fish off their nests. Oops. Sorry, fish. I didn’t know. He also said that, “They’ll be all fryed out in another week. Then they’ll school up and start feeding.”

So I left the QUBS dock a wiser man. I’d better stay away from the stumps for a week or so, but then I should be able to find some crappies in their usual haunts.

(When I cleaned up the fish they were all males, and none had anything in his stomach. Seems the guy knew his stuff.)

Local foods VS Costco

March 7, 2010

The problem with the whole local foods movement is that when it comes right down to it, consumers are slaves to their training:  they resolutely search out the lowest possible price, and the kind of food everyone admits is good for you costs 30 to 40% more, so most people talk one way and then load up their carts at Costco with factory-grown chicken, pork, and imported fruits and vegetables.

This kills the market for local food.  Of course it’s hard to feel enthusiastic about a cartload of Costco.

Then there’s the look on the faces of visitors to the sugar shack when they get their first taste of Canada tea, made with boiling sap and a tea bag.  First it’s amazement at a new taste they haven’t encountered before.  Then they look a bit bewildered:  “Why am I so surprised by a new taste?  Why does everything in my life taste the same?  And this came from a tree?”  Off they go to the woods to gather more sap.

Then there’s Christopher and his discovery of black walnuts.  This pint-sized hockey player found that if he put his back into it, he could make the walnut press generate the 700 lb. of force it takes to crack the shells and give him access to delicious meats inside.  He cracked a lot of nuts once he got the hang of it.

Roz and her friends have often told me that Kingston has a great deal to offer to those who live there, but the one big gap is the lack of a great, wooded park in which to wander.  Christopher’s mom came back from gathering sap and enthused:  “This is way better than walking around the trails in the Cataraqui Conservation Authority.”

It seems people think differently about prices when they are engaged in acts of tourism.  Perhaps it’s because the thought process is longer with a vacation:  tourists aspire and dream;  they travel;  they drink in the experience;  they remember it and use it to shape their other experiences and world view.  That’s much different from the immediate choice to buy pork chops or the frozen lamb at Costco.

The challenge for local food producers is to take their customers clean away from the cutthroat thought patterns of the supermarket shopper.  They need make their products part of an enjoyable and memorable vacation experience to which their customers will want to return, with the price of the food a minor factor.

If individuals become tourists to explore and search for sensations lost through the commodification of modern life, why shouldn’t they find a fresh reality in the countryside?  Why shouldn’t they discover the joy of fresh-picked corn, or spend a lazy afternoon under a mulberry tree, eating their fill of the strange, refreshing fruit?

How about a day picking grapes or planting trees, if extreme vacations are your thing?

My son tells me that there are no distances in air travel.  The only directions are up, down, and hot.

Tourism involves a journey, but if there are no longer real distances, why can’t the journey be twenty or forty minutes to a vacation destination, instead of across the continent?  Why couldn’t a garden plot provide a perfectly valid “other place” to which one’s soul can yearn to escape?  Families travel to give their kids experience and understanding of their world, yet how many suburban children have ever milked a cow, planted potatoes, picked raspberries or gathered eggs?  No parents would want to deny these experiences to their kids if the facilities were within easy reach.

How many of you remember biting into a fresh carrot which exploded its sweetness on the tongue?  I tried a store-bought carrot a week ago and almost cried from disappointment.  It was orange.  That’s the best thing I can say for it.

40% more for the real thing?  Sounds like a bargain — if I have stood in the garden from which it came.

Note:  I haved moved this file from this “post” to a “page” on my blog where it is easier to update.  Just go to https://rodcroskery.wordpress.com and look in the right margin for the up-to-date version.  Rod

January 20, 2010: After a promising start to the winter, the ice has received a major setback with a couple of weeks of mild weather.  Yesterday Otter Lake was open in the middle.  This morning I noticed that it had frozen over.  Woe betide the snowmobiler who tries to cross that thin skiver of ice!  Chances are it will open up again the next mild day.  Yesterday was mild and overcast, so I looked around for a potential ice fishing site.  Portland showed deep ruts in the slush from an ATV grinding out to a fishing shack.  Opinicon Lake at Chaffey’s Locks has a lot of open water, as it usually does, though with little current.  The big surprise was the pair of trumpeter swans which buzzed the cedars at the end of the point.  Man, are those birds big!  I counted seven of them in all on the ice at Chaffey’s.

Without a week of very cold weather the ice will remain no good.

January 5, 2010: There’s ten inches of ice in the bay at Portland, but the middle of the Big Rideau is still open.  Ominously, the opening in the middle of Otter Lake seems to be growing larger as snow accumulates on the ice.  To judge by the lack of tracks, people are staying off the ice so far.

December 20, 2009:  A couple of test holes on Newboro Lake a hundred feet out from the village shore show five inches of ice.  While helping my friend adjust his bubbler so as to allow the northern boat launch ramp to freeze properly, I noticed that there’s a decent gravel bottom along shore once a bit of the sediment is washed away.

December 18, 2009: The Big Rideau at Portland and Otter Lake seen from Hwy 15 both showed full ice cover as far as I could see this afternoon.

December 16, 2009: The run of cold weather is firming things up.  Apart from the spots of open water caused by bubblers under docks, the Newboro end of the lake seemed to have formed a nice sheet with a little snow on it.

December 12, 2009: The ice is back, folks.  I noticed that Morton Creek was mostly frozen when we drove by on Hwy 15 yesterday.  Ice formed overnight in the bays and the village end of Newboro Lake.  Indian Lake wasn’t frozen over when I looked earlier today, but we broke a half-inch or so of ice to make way for a bubbler on a dock on the Newboro waterfront.

The end of June

All my life the end of June has been the time to say goodbye, take a rest, and start on a new project.  I suppose it’s fitting, then, that today I moved the tools out of the stone house we’ve  been renovating since my retirement in the fall of 2004.  My shop, refuge, and storehouse for the last thirty-five years has now officially become a dwelling.  One floor still needs some sanding and the whole thing needs varnish, but the days of muddy boot tracks to the bathroom have now come to an end.

I’ll miss the time I could put visitors at ease by chiming the house rule as they came in through the door:  “No boots in the shower,  but they’re optional in bed.”

Bet’s done her best to remain tolerant of my mess for the last few months, but I tend to believe actions more than words, and the two hours of frantic vacuuming upon each arrival at the farm for a weekend sent a clear message:  it was time to get on with it.

She even helped me move the tenon cutter out of the living room.  It’s a heavy relic from a pre-war factory, and the only way to move it without destroying the floor turned out to be by winching it up to one of the timbers I had installed as a room divider.  Once I set it on a heavy plywood dolly with a chain hoist,  it was pretty easy to move around.  We managed to wiggle it out through the front doors (weeks of work on those doors) and into the bucket of the waiting loader.

Today two saws, a jointer, and my prized Poitras shaper made the trip to the barn.  This made me sad.  It was like leaving the comfort and security of my childhood home.  Funny, the beds, the food, two computers and a television are still there, but it’s the shaper I miss.  And I haven’t even had the thing for that long, only about three years.  But it’s had a hand in everything good or interesting I have done in this renovation:  the flooring, the cabinets, those muntined glass doors Bet insisted upon, the passage and entrance doors, the windows, the baseboards, the stairs, the crown moulding over the doors and windows, even the ceiling and window paneling – it all came off that shaper.

So now I face the grueling task of cleanup.  The floor is littered with scraps of walnut from the stair-railing project and a lot of pine shavings from the final door casing in the bathroom which went on this morning.

Oh well, once that’s done I get to drive my floor sander around for a day or two.  The old Clark drum sander is far from my favourite tool, but it’s heavy, loud and powerful, so it should stave off nostalgia for a little while until the varnished-floors regime becomes oppressive and I lay out the foundations for a new shop.

For other articles in this series check:
https://rodcroskery.wordpress.com/category/renovating-a-stone-house/