The Explanation of the Lengthy Absence and the Return of a Man Called Horse

 
   Despite being gone for two-and-a-half years, I did go fishing in 2014 and 2015. Unfortunately, I didn't blog about my exploits. It's not that I gave up blogging, but that I just never got around to it, being preoccupied with too many personal and professional issues. I did keep detailed notes of each trip in my cell phone, which I eventually hoped to use to reconstruct my fishing experiences of 2014 and 2015 for my three loyal readers.

   Unfortunately, my cell phone burned out last month. I lost everything on it, including my fishing notes, contacts, downloaded articles I use for research, and six months of progress on Simpsons Tapped Out.

   However, I still have time-stamped photos of each fishing trip on my digital camera, and I will update this blog (which turns 10 next month) accordingly.

The Unexpected Resurrection of a Man Called Horse

   After over two years of silence, I have finally returned.

   Like Tommy John, Tony Conigliario, Tom Filer, Rick Burleson, Dennis Leonard, Charlie Lea, Joba Chamberlain, and Chien-Ming Wang, I face the challenge of getting back into the game after a substantial amount of time on the shelf. To shake off the rust, I started simple. I went fishing one week ago, Wednesday, April 10. Ironically, it was the same place where I last fished: Hudson Park in New Rochelle.

   I bought one dozen bloodworms and two fresh bunker. By the early afternoon, I had two lines in the water. The conditions were less than optimal. There was a breeze, and the sun was out. However, the tide was high. Looking across to Five Islands Park, I notice the metal, floating dock where I fished a number of times was gone. Apparently, Hurricane Sandy took it away.

   I hoped to begin my comeback by catching something for the first time since 2010. Unfortunately, I struck out. I didn't have a single bite in the two hours I spent there. There were several people fishing in the area, and I didn't see anyone catch anything.

   Nevertheless, it was great to be back.

   

Missing, Presumed Dead

Have you seen me lately?

The Unexpected Early Return of a Man Called Horse

I have returned.

Yes, it's no doubt much earlier than the three of you and myself expected.

I went fishing on Friday, February 18. It seemed like a perfect day to go fishing. The forecast called for warm temperatures, in the mid-60s or so. An online solunar table I consulted reported that a full moon would be out on February, with the moon underfoot for a two-hour period starting at 12:28 PM. If you recall, many fishermen rely on solunar tables on when to fish. Apparently, the fishing is best when there is a full moon overhead or underfoot. During these times, fish go on a feeding frenzy.

Along with the weather and the phase of the moon, high tide in New Rochelle was around 11 AM. The day seemed to be too perfect to let pass me by. I even planned ahead.

The day before, I called Jack's Bait and Tackle, and they were out of both bloodworms and fresh bunker. I then checked with City Island Bait and Tackle. They had bloodworms and frozen bunker. I took a drive on City Island and bought my bait in advance. I stored it in a basement refrigerator. The bunker would be thawed out the next day. I made a checklist of stuff I should take. I don't I believe I ever tried fishing in mid-February.

I decided to pick Hudson Park in New Rochelle. I didn't want to go too far or walk a distance from my car, especially when I just wanted to shake off the rust from the winter and last season's disappointments. Despite the warmer than usual weather, there was still some snow on the ground. In Hudson Park, there was a gigantic mountain of shoveled snow in the parking lot. Since late December, the New York City has gotten clobbered with a number of heavy snowstorms and blizzards. (Thank God I was smart enough to buy a snowblower several years ago to spare my joints and high blood pressure.)

I got there around 11:30 or so. On this day, I brought a couple of slices of bread (the kind you slip into a toaster) to try as bait. I read that many fish will go for the bread especially when they're hungry.

Before noon, I had three lines in the water, one with bloodworms, one with a piece of thawed-out bunker, and one with a bread pellet I made.

Unfortunately, I didn't catch anything. In fact, I didn't have one single bite. There were other fisherman who came and went, and they didn't seem to have any luck either. So it's not just me.

I passed the time catching up with my reading of articles I ripped out of the Wall Street Journal. I listened to my iPod touch. I smoked a Butera Capo Grande cigar.

The bread bait didn't work as well. It just crumbled when it hit the water. I realize I should let it dry hours in advance so it won't fall apart. I threw the remaining bread in the garbage, which then attracted several Omen-like black crows.

By 3 PM, the tide was going down. The wind picked up considerably. The full moon's underfoot phase had passed. So I packed up and went home.

Maybe it was too early for this area despite the favorable conditions. Maybe I should have tried another part of the park or even somewhere else. Who knows?

If the weather is relatively warm in March, I will fish.

The 2011 season has begun.

Exit of a Man Called Horse

Things didn't really work out this season. I'm sorry I disappointed the three of you who make up my loyal fanbase.

If all goes well, I hope to finally do some exploring over the winter.

So, Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas, and we'll meet again in the Spring of 2011.

Return of a Man Called Horse

I have returned. My fishing blog now begins its fifth year. I know I got started a little late this year.

I cleaned and respooled my three fishing poles. To shake off the winter rust, I took a quick fishing trip on Sunday afternoon. I was determined to avoid either Riverdale or New Rochelle for my first fishing trip on the season. I will certainly return to both places and perhaps even this week, but I feel I became too dependent on them last year.

I decided to try Mamaroneck Harbor (specifically Harbor Island Park) for the first time in many years. I remember catching a nice stripper (maybe 15 inches) here back in November 1996. I left my car on the street. I fished directly behind the Mamaroneck Volunteer Firemen's Memorial (probably not its exact name).

I got there before noon. There were a few clouds in the sky. There was a little wind, but not much. The water was shallow, and the tide was coming in.

I just used two poles, and used bloodworms for bait. I didn't intend to stay long. When I got there, I realized I picked a poor spot to fish.

One time, I thought I had a bite. I reeled it in, but it was nothing. I changed the bait a few times, but I didn't have any luck. I gave up around 2 PM. I wouldn't call it a wasted experience since I was determined to get started for the season.

If I want to avoid complacency, I know I have to explore more areas, not only in Westchester, but elsewhere.

And Now, An Ending....

It's not quite cold yet. But the time has come for me to put away my fishing gear for the winter.

I spent my October and early November focused on the Yankees. I went to five postseason games, and they won all five. I was there when they clinched the pennant, and I was there when they won the World Series.

I certainly got off to a good start this fishing season, catching two big stripers in April. Then illness and circumstance derailed my season in June. I never had luck after that either in New Rochelle or Riverdale (my safe spot). The trout remain elusive as well.

So I'll see you in late March.

Return of a Man Called Horse

I have returned.

Although it's still technically winter, it was warmer than normal today. So I decided to go fishing. I went to Jack's and stocked up on supplies. I was told they won't have any fresh bunker for at least two weeks. They were also sold out of blood worms. I bought a dozen sandworms and a dozen nightcrawlers.

I went up to Five Islands Park in New Rochelle. The clouds were out. There was no wind. It was pleasantly cool. The water was still. The tide was coming in. If you may recall, I live for fishing conditions such as these.

Once again, however, I struck out.

In fact, I didn't have a single bite. I had three lines in the water. I did my usual tricks. I reeled in the lines to draw attention to the bait. I recast the lines. I also changed the bait several times. But nothing.

I passed the time listening to my iPod and pacing back and forth on the dock like an expectant father. When fishing across the water in Hudson Park, I've caught a number of fish out of these same waters. So why do the fish seem to avoid the waters near Five Islands Park? I plan on consulting with the owner of Hudson Park Bait and Tackle for guidance.

Another idea is to fish elsewhere. As I've written before, I tend to get too complacent at times and keep trying the same areas over and over again rather than exploring new waters.

Around 3 PM, I gave up. I dumped the worms in the water and packed up.

Still, it was worth shaking off the winter rust.

Sleep

"I shall return."--General Douglas MacArthur (March 11, 1942)


It's that time of year. With winter fast approaching, it's too cold to fish, and local bait stores won't be carrying any fresh bunker or bloodworms until the spring. It's time for me to give up fishing and head into hibernation.

I'm glad I was able to salvage a little something from my annus horribilis and catch a few fish.

I am grateful for my religious faith. Among many things, it gives me hope: the belief (perhaps an assurance) in the possibility that no matter how bad things get or how bleak they appear to be, they can get better, obviously with prayer and effort, sooner or later. (Notice I didn't write will. I consider myself a realist and believe very strongly in Original Sin.) Indeed, hope is one of the things that has kept me going for the last several decades and keeps me going.

Anyway, Merry Christmas and see you next spring.

Me and My Shadow Fishing on a Friday Afternoon

And the Worms Ate Into His Brain

The jury brought in a guilty verdict
And the judge he sentenced me to death
Midnight in a prison storeroom
With leather straps across my chest
Sheriff, when the man pulls that switch, sir
And snaps my poor head back
You make sure my pretty baby is sittin' right there on my lap

They declared me unfit to live
Said into that great void my soul'd be hurled
They wanted to know why I did what I did
Well, sir, I guess there's just a meanness in this world
--Bruce Springsteen, "Nebraska"

It's official. I've hit rock bottom.

My gradual, downward spiral began about 12 months ago: 1) My girlfriend dumps me via email; 2) My health takes a nosedive; and 3) My writing career goes on life support. Last week, I lost my day job. (For months, I often listened to Bruce Springsteen's "Nebraska" on my iPod during my morning commute, a reflection of the nihilistic despair I've been feeling.)

Last Wednesday, the management (which didn't give me a real chance to heal) just took me out back like an old mule and put a slug in the back of my head. I would have preferred to go out like this:



I plan on spending the time off healing my broken-down body, getting some real rest, going to a few Yankee games, doing some writing, and catching a few fish.

Return (Once Again) of a Man Called Horse

I have returned.

I renewed my fishing license last Saturday. I hope to start fishing this weekend. I was actually ready to do some fishing last Sunday, but it was too cold.

In case you're wondering, I'm doing a little better, but I still have a way to go before I pronounce myself physically, mentally, and emotionally healthy. (I have no doubt that some fishing and catching a few fish will help with the healing process.) Anyway, thank you for your prayers.

In the off-season, I did a little exploring. I discovered Huguenot Lake in New Rochelle. I also learned of a spot in Riverdale (in the western Bronx), the Riverdale Riverfront Promenade & Fishing Access Site, where you can fish the Hudson River.

I hope to have a good season.

Return of a Man Called Horse

I had hoped to start fishing again in late March. Although it's almost May, I still haven't been to the water.

Unfortunately, the weather hasn't been cooperating. I took vacation last week, and we got clobbered with a Nor'easter and some colder-than-usual weather.

I've also been a little tired and distracted by work and personal issues.

I hope my mood and fortunes improve by this weekend.

A Beginning

This post inaugurates my new (and very first blog), Behold a Pale Horse. It will discuss my various fishing trips and other fishing-related matters that may come to mind.

So who am I? I prefer to keep my exact identity private for now. But subsequent posts will obviously leave clues to my real identity.

I can reveal that I live in the Bronx, New York. By day, I work as an editor for a publishing company in downtown Manhattan and freelance writer.

Why did I decide to name my fishing blog, Behold a Pale Horse? Obviously, I've always been fascinated by the Bible passage from 6 Revelations, 7-8: "When he opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature say, 'Come!' And I saw, and, behold, a pale horse, and its rider's name was Death, and Hades followed him." (This version of the passage is from the Revised Standard Edition of the Holy Bible, Catholic Edition, which is published by Ignatius Press.)

I also look forward to seeing the great Fred Zinnemann film, Behold a Pale Horse (1964), with Gregory Peck, Anthony Quinn, and Omar Sharif. (Fred Zinnemann has always been one of my favorite directors of all time.)

Finally, my last name means "horses" in a foreign language. (That should narrow it down.) I occasionally tend to look pale and tired.

Since childhood, I have always loved fishing. But I rarely had the chance to fish when I was younger. My dad doesn't fish, so he could never teach me. I went a few times. In 1980 or 1981, the father of my two oldest friends, who are twins, took us fishing on a party boat chartered by the Father's Club of our grammar school. It was a cold, cloudy day. I had to get up around 5 AM or so. I remember catching a crab or two. One of my friends got lucky, and he caught a flounder.
During the summer, our family would visit Alpicella, a tiny mountain village in northern Italy about 120 miles from Genoa, where my parents grew up. My older cousin, Franco Mazza, who is a cop now in Piacenza, took me fishing in the local streams and brooks that were allegedly populated with trout. I don't remember catching anything. While in Italy, my parents occasionally took me to this lake that was overstocked with trout. This place let you rent a bamboo pole with a metal hook and a wad of dough for bait. I remember catching a lot of fish. But it was made deliberately easy.

The years went by without me fishing. I never lost interest in it. I just didn't have the opportunity or the time.

When I attended Fordham University in the Bronx, I became friends with Joseph Pedulla, a doctoral student in the English department and an adjunct professor. (I double majored in political science and history.) Joe and I shared similar interests and views. Joe, who is 10 years older than me, is an avid outdoorsman and a master fisherman. In 1992, he took me up to one of his spots, a decaying dock off the Hudson River in Dobbs Ferry, New York. (The above image is of your correspondent in his usual spot in Dobbs Ferry a couple of weeks ago.) I didn't even own a fishing pole. "It's okay," he reassured me over the phone. "We have lots of stuff." He taught me the basics. I remember my first effort fishing in years was a disaster. I kept getting my line caught, and I lost a lot of Joe's hooks, sinkers, swivels, etc.

Joe and I would go up there occasionally, once or twice a year. (He was often a difficult person to get in touch with.) My fishing skills improved a little. (Ironically, the last time I saw and spoke to Joe was up there at the dock in Dobbs Ferry nine years ago. Joe got married, moved away, and had three kids. Joe sure has come a long way. When I first met him, his chief ambition was to appear on that Fox TV dating show, Studs.)

After Fordham, I pursued a Master's Degree in politics at the Catholic University of America (CUA), in Washington, D.C. Allow me to add some context to that time. I left a part-time job that I had for six years and that soured on me in the end. After a two-year period of quiet desperation and being in love with Kelly, a classmate at Fordham and a co-worker at the aforementioned job, from a distance, I finally revealed my feelings for her. Kelly, who considered me a good friend, was stunned. She certainly didn't feel the same way about me as I felt about her, and she wasn't pleased with the news. I kept trying to win her over with flowers and love letters, but it didn't work. I guess I alienated her more and more with each action. (Okay, stop laughing. You were young once too.) After a decent semester at CUA (Spring 1995, I had started mid-year in January), I struggled in the fall. I was in danger of doing so poorly that I could have gotten expelled. But with a lot of prayer and two merciful professors, I caught a few breaks and survived. In the following spring, I finished my coursework in triumph. I did very well in all of my courses and impressed my professors with my work. (I should add that I was always a mediocre student who just did well enough to advance.)

These changes and powerful experiences convinced me that it was time for me to start living. I finally decided to make time for fishing. I consulted with Joe Pedulla. "You want to fish with a pole that's taller than yourself," he said. (I'm 6'2.) So I went to a local Sports Authority and bought some fishing gear. My first pole was a black Shakespeare Ugly Stik. I also got a Shimano spinning reel. In fact, I still use the same pole I first bought 10 years later. I should point out that the advice Joe gave was for the type of fishing he usually does, in a big river with strong current. As for bait, he has a preference for nightcrawlers and bloodworms.

One day in Georgetown, I discovered the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal, which follows the Potomac River all the way up to West Virgina, about 185 miles. On perhaps another day, I followed the path. After walking for an hour or two, I discovered Fletcher's Boathouse, which is in a park area. At Fletcher's, you can rent a rowboat or a kayak and buy a fishing license, bait and tackle as well as soda, bottled water, and some snacks. (You can also get there by driving.)

I finished my coursework in mid-April 1996. I had until the end of May before my apartment lease expired in Silver Spring, Maryland. So I went fishing at Fletcher's.

I fished from shore. I clumsily attached the sinker and hook to my line. I often caught perch. (The Potomac is filled with them.) My technique improved. Joe told me about fish finders, which let you attach a sinker while keeping the line free. (If a line feels too heavy, the fish won't usually bite it.) He also introduced me to snap swivels, which are a convenient way to attach snelled hooks to a line.

I looked forward to nailing my first big one, but all I got were perch. (Once I caught a small sunfish.) Still, I always had fun when I went fishing. It always relaxed me. Every time I go, I always have the hope that I may catch something really big.

I moved back to the Bronx at the end of May. I was still unemployed. I had to study for and then pass the comprehensive exam (or "comps") before I would get my M.A. and officially graduate. I was scheduled to take it in the fall.

I had been on the run for several years straight. My two previous summers were occupied with work and school-related duties. (In 1994, I took several summer courses at Fordham in order to fatten my GPA before applying to graduate school. In 1995, I had an internship in London at the House of Commons as part of my grad program.) In 1996, after what I've been through, I felt like I needed a long rest for the summer. So I fished.

I discovered the Kensico Reservoir in Westchester County. It's stocked with all sorts of trout and bass. Unfortunately, I had little success with trout fishing. Once I caught a 14-inch rainbow trout using the method Joe taught me. I brought it home for dad. He cooked and ate it. Talking to other fishermen and the owner of the unfortunately now-closed Kensico Sportsman, a bait and tackle shop in Thornwood, New York, I learned how to fish for trout. For bait, you use sawbellies or minnows rather than nightcrawlers and bloodworms. Lures such as Krocodiles are useful. Although I adapted, I never did well with trout. (But still I try.)

Since 1996, I fished in a number of places. I've been to the Potomac River, Hudson River, the Kensico Reservoir, Mamaroneck Harbor in Westchester, Lake Mahopac in Putnam County, the Esopus Creek in Ulster County, and a few other places. I have yet to fish the waters surrounding nearby City Island, a beautiful carbon copy of a New England fishing town that is part of the Bronx. I'm often too cautious, preferring to stay with a specific spot such as the dock in Dobbs Ferry where I've enjoyed my best success as a fisherman.

For the record, the biggest fish I ever caught was a 22-inch striped bass out of the Hudson River in Dobbs Ferry in April 2004. In the summer of 1996, I did catch something big up at Kensico but it wasn't a fish. I'm reeling it in. It's not behaving like a fish or some garbage you accidentally hooked. When it got close to shore, I pulled back on the line. This enormous head popped out of the water. I caught a snapping turtle. It was the size of a manhole cover. (I swear that I remember that it had sharp teeth, but modern turtles don't have them.) It was quite agitated. I refused to go near it. Fortunately, it trashed back and forth in the water and got itself loose.

The most fish I ever caught in a day was around 30-35 on at least two occasions on the Potomac. I caught mostly perch though.

The worst day I fishing I ever had was in Kensico in August 1996. I was wearing my sneakers instead of my work boots. I slipped on a wet rock, and I broke my right ankle. Luckily, this DEP boat was in the area, and I hailed them down. They called for help. Since I'm 6'2 and weighed at least 230 or so, it took about 6-8 people to haul me out of there on a stretcher. I was taken to a local hospital for treatment. I couldn't fish (or even walk) for six weeks.

One of my most amusing fishing experiences took place at Fletcher's Boathouse in October 1996. (By that time, I had recovered.) I went back down to CUA to take my comps and stayed for a few days. The night before the exam, I was watching Game 4 of the World Series between the Yankees and Braves in my hotel room in Silver Spring. That was the game when the Yankees overcame a 6-0 deficit. Jim Leyritz tied it with a three-run homerun. I was ecstatic. The Yankees tied the Series in extra innings by winning 8-6. They were the underdogs. Obviously, I didn't get much studying done. So I ended up failing the exam. (I got the results in December.) The next day, Andy Pettitte, who got clobbered in Game 1, pitched masterfully. Paul O'Neill made a great catch in the bottom of the ninth as the Yankees won 1-0. I had watched the game in the Third Edition, a popular bar in Georgetown. The day after that, I took a drive to Fletcher's Boathouse. I was wearing my Yankee cap. As I approached the boathouse carrying my gear, the gentleman behind the counter looked me and exclaimed, "Hey, you look just like the guy who won the game last night!" I was flattered that he thought I looked like Andy Pettitte. (How I hope the Yankees get him back next season when his contract with the Astros expires.) At the time, I was clean shaven. Today, with the beard, I could probably pass for the great cowboy and Academy Award-winning actor Ben Johnson, a true gentleman who made many great films. I fished from shore. I didn't catch anything. I don't even think I had a single bite, but I still enjoyed myself. (And, yes, when I returned home to the Bronx, I eagerly watched Jimmy Key, who lost Game 2, win Game 6 for the Yankees, giving them their first World Series in 18 years. A time to celebrate.)

The most personally rewarding fishing experience I had was at Fletcher's in April 1997. At CUA, they give graduate students only two chances to pass the comps. If you fail it the second time, you're screwed and leave without getting an M.A. This time, I destroyed the exam and passed it. After a long struggle, I got my M.A. I skipped the graduation ceremony, and I got the degree in the mail. But I still went down there to celebrate and attend the end-of-year party at the Department of Politics at CUA. I also went to Fletcher's. This time, I rented a boat and went out on the river far from shore. There was a slight rain. I caught about seven fish, six perch and one really big catfish. At the time, the catfish was the biggest thing I ever caught. I had struggled and suffered through graduate school and succeeded against all odds. Believe it or not, at the time, getting my M.A. and finally finishing school after 20 years were the most important things in my life. I was in such a great mood that day. My whole life was ahead of me.

I should add that 99 percent of the fish I catch I throw back. Since I now own a digital camera, I might not even keep something big I may catch in order to show it off to family and friends. I'll post images of what I catch and where I fish frequently.

My aim is simple and no doubt common to most fishermen: catch as many fish as possible and catch something really, really big.

Although I have been fishing for 10 years, I certainly have a lot more to learn and lot more places to explore. This blog will record these efforts.