Monday, August 31, 2015

Fishing Stories


Fishing Stories
by
Thomas McNulty

I had just glided into a green cove bordered by tall pine when I saw the silver flash of gills five feet below the surface on my right. I angled into the shade of the trees and began preparing my line. That I wasn’t prepared is still a bone of contention with me. A short time earlier my line had snagged on an underwater branch and I lost my lure. I hastily re-strung a floating shiner hoping to catch a largemouth bass.
I had fished this cove before without success. It’s a beautiful spot in water that varies between a foot deep to seven feet before dropping deeper. I see fish here all the time. Over this years I have come to think of this spot as being part of a travel line from the north end of the lake to the south. Fish move through here but seldom linger. I linger here more often than any fish. When the sun is high and the water is calm I can float here surrounded by the forest reflecting in the water like an impressionist painting. For company I have the two loons that dodge and dart nearby on their own fishing expeditions, and the occasional eagle that passes overhead.
I prefer to hunt for largemouth bass. I am not a highly skilled fisherman. I fish for a number of reasons, not the least of which being to relax. I love the outdoors, and I am partial to this place immortalized in the Hamm’s beer advertisements as “The Land of Sky Blue Water.” So it is. Our northwoods cabin hideaway rests on the shore of Lake Wawatasi, which was a lumber camp a hundred years ago. A section of my property intersects the Indian Reservation. Fishing, camping, boating and snowmobiling are the primary tourist attractions. I’m fortunate to be fifteen miles west of any major town.

Largemouth bass favor the shallows; less than twenty feet of water with plenty of weeds and lily pads for cover. These are food-rich zones where the bass feed on smaller fish. The pan fisherman will find ample supply of small carp and sunfish that can be cut into silver-dollar sized morsels for the frying pan. Memories of better times frying panfish with scrambled eggs to wash down with hot black coffee at Camp McNulty occupy my thoughts as I plunge into the shady shallows near shore.
 
My line is ignored so I experiment with lures. I try a variety of colorful plastic jigs about two inches long to no avail. Once I used a yellow twintail grub successfully, but only once. I’m convinced bass hate yellow. I try weed jigs and sinker rigs. My son-in-law tells me the best bass lure is a rubber purple worm. Sometimes I use a bobber and sometimes I don’t. I get to the point where it doesn’t matter, and I enjoy being removed from the ceaseless chatter of a culture focused on promoting discontentment via the Internet. I don’t even have a cell phone on me, and I stopped wearing watches twenty years ago.

Fishing in the morning is much different than in the late afternoon when the sky pulls ruby wisps and lavender swaths across the horizon. In the afternoon the frogs along the shore begin their belching chorus and the dragonflies attack the mosquitoes in a silent aerial war that is alleviated only by a welcome breeze. Ice fishing is another matter. One of my uncles told a great story about chainsawing a hole in the ice but it was too small to pull in the musky he claimed he caught. He came stomping red-faced into the cabin and finished cooking us a delicious venison stew and gulping down beer because he didn’t think anyone believed him about the large musky. Hell, we believed him. Up here in the northwoods there is a popular saying: “I don’t exaggerate, I just remember big.”
Being literary minded, I often throw out such morsels as: “Moby Dick escaped my hook today.” Or “Remember that big white shark in Jaws? Well the northern I lost this morning was that big!” Just this summer a fellow fisherman said to me: “I lost the biggest bass I’ve seen an hour ago! He flipped right off the hook!” The act of fishing is equally important as catching a fish. A solid boat, a good reel, enough hooks and lures and fair weather is all a fisherman needs to have a great day. Anything else, like catching a fish, is icing on the cake. Who among us cannot recall the afternoon when you suddenly catch a glimpse of “the big one” gliding past your boat, a leviathan’s silhouette ignoring your hook’s jiggle with a haughty arrogance.
The call of the faraway lands is always present in my soul. I cannot tramp the concrete jungle of Chicagoland without keeping an image of some sky-blue lake twinkling like an oasis in the back of my mind. The lure of the northwoods is an enticement that I happily embrace. Even being stuck in a damp cabin on a rainy day is a pleasure, because here in the far country the benefits of feeling alive manifest themselves in every shade the sky chooses. The whispering pines and eagle’s silhouette are all I need as a bromide against the intrusion of an increasingly idiotic society.
So it is that every spring I prepare the first of several trips to Camp McNulty. I pack up my guns, fishing gear, extra clothing and a good hat or two before making the trek north. And, folks, I know that you won’t believe me, but I swear it’s true, the fish I catch are going to be epic!
This is a gag photo so don't get your pantyhose in a knot

Text and photos copyright ©2015 by Thomas McNulty

Sunday, August 30, 2015

The Four Horsemen by Grantland Rice



It’s Football season again…
The great sportswriter Grantland Rice (1880-1954) was once America’s pre-eminent journalist. His imagistic prose and acute observations added flair and a near mythic quality to his writing. Today, it is the rare journalism instructor or newspaper editor who would condone a piece of writing such as Rice’s “The Four Horseman” about the Notre Dame Football team. The current trend in journalism belongs to snarky comments and hurtful criticism being passed off as “writing.” Clocking in at 2,091 words, Rice also does something here that is nearly unheard of today, he practices the lost art of “good sportsmanship” in his remarks about the Army’s losing effort. “The Four Horseman” remains my favorite piece of sportswriting, reprinted here in its entirety.

"The Four Horsemen" by Grantland Rice
New York Herald Tribune, 18 October 1924

POLO GROUNDS, N.Y., Oct. 18, 1924. - Outlined against a blue-gray October sky, the Four Horsemen rode again. In dramatic lore they are known as Famine, Pestilence, Destruction and Death. These are only aliases. Their real names are Stuhldreher, Miller, Crowley and Layden. They formed the crest of the South Bend cyclone before which another fighting Army football team was swept over the precipice at the Polo Grounds yesterday afternoon as 55,000 spectators peered down on the bewildering panorama spread on the green plain below.

A cyclone can't be snared. It may be surrounded, but somewhere it breaks through to keep on going. When the cyclone starts from South Bend, where the candle lights still gleam through the Indiana sycamores, those in the way must take to storm cellars at top speed. Yesterday the cyclone struck again as Notre Dame beat the Army, 13 to 7, with a set of backfield stars that ripped and crashed through a strong Army defense with more speed and power than the warring cadets could meet. Notre Dame won its ninth game in twelve Army starts through the driving power of one of the greatest backfields that ever churned up the turf of any gridiron in any football age. Brilliant backfields may come and go, but in Stuhldreher, Miller, Crowley and Layden, covered by a fast and charging line, Notre Dame can take its place in front of the field.

Coach McEwan sent one of his finest teams into action, an aggressive organization that fought to the last play around the first rim of darkness, but when Rockne rushed his Four Horsemen to the track they rode down everything in sight. It was in vain that 1,400 gray-clad cadets pleaded for the Army line to hold. The Army line was giving all it had, but when a tank tears in with the speed of a motorcycle, what chance had flesh and blood to hold? The Army had its share of stars as Garbisch, Farwick, Wilson, Wood, Ellinger, and many others, but they were up against four whirlwind backs who picked up at top speed from the first step as they swept through scant openings to slip on by the secondary defense. The Army had great backs in Wilson and Wood, but the Army had no such quartet, who seemed to carry the mixed blood of the tiger and the antelope.

Rockne's light and tottering line was just about as tottering as the Rock of Gibraltar. It was something more than a match for the Army's great set of forwards, who had earned their fame before. Yet it was not until the second period that the first big thrill of the afternoon set the great crowd into a cheering whirl and brought about the wild flutter of flags that are thrown to the wind in exciting moments. At the game's start Rockne sent in almost entirely a second-string cast. The Army got the jump and began to play most of the football. It was the Army attack that made three first downs before Notre Dame had caught its stride. The South Bend cyclone opened like a zephyr.

And then, in the wake of a sudden cheer, our rushed Stuhldreher, Miller, Crowley and Layden, the four star backs who helped to beat Army a year ago. Things were to be a trifle different now. After a short opening flurry in the second period, Wood, of the Army, kicked out of bounds on Notre Dame's 20 yard line. There was no sign of a tornado starting. But it happened to be at just this spot that Stuhldreher decided to put on his attack and began the long and dusty hike.

On the first play the fleet Crowley peeled off fifteen yards and the cloud from the west was now beginning to show signs of lightning and thunder. The fleet, powerful Layden got six yards more and then Don Miller added ten. A forward pass from Stuhldreher to Crowley added twelve yards, and a moment later Don Miller ran twenty yards around Army's right wing. He was on his way to glory when Wilson, hurtling across the right of way, nailed him on the 10 yard line and threw him out of bounds. Crowley, Miller and Layden -- Miller, Layden and Crowley -- one or another, ripping and crashing through, as the Army defense threw everything it had in the way to stop this wild charge that had now come seventy yards. Crowley and Layden added five yards more and then, on a split play, Layden when ten yards across the line as if he had just been fired from the black mouth of a howitzer.

In that second period Notre Dame made eight first downs to the Army's none, which shows the unwavering power of the Western attack that hammered relentlessly and remorselessly without easing up for a second's breath. The Western line was going its full share, led by the crippled Walsh with a broken hand. But there always was Miller or Crowley or Layden, directed through the right spot by the cool and crafty judgment of Stuhldreher, who picked his plays with the finest possible generalship. The South Bend cyclone had now roared eighty-five yards to a touchdown through one of the strongest defensive teams in the game. The cyclone had struck with too much speed and power to be stopped. It was the preponderance of Western speed that swept the Army back. The next period was much like the second. The trouble began when the alert Layden intercepted an Army pass on the 48 yard line. Stuhldreher was ready for another march.

Once again the cheering cadets began to call for a rallying stand. They are never overwhelmed by any shadow of defeat as long as there is a minute of fighting left. But silence fell over the cadet sector for just a second as Crowley ran around the Army's right wing for 15 yards, where Wilson hauled him down on the 33 yard line. Walsh, the Western captain, was hurt in the play but soon resumed. Miller got 7 and Layden got 8 and then, with the ball on the Army's 20 yard line, the cadet defense rallied and threw Miller in his tracks. But the halt was only for the moment. On the next play Crowley swung out and around the Army's left wing, cut in and then crashed over the line for Notre Dame's second touchdown. On two other occasions the Notre Dame attack almost scored. Yeomans saved one touchdown by intercepting a pass on his 5 yard line as he ran back 35 yards before he was nailed by two tacklers. It was a great play in the nick of time. On the next drive Miller and Layden in two hurricane dashes took the ball 42 yards to the Army's 14 yard line, where the still game Army defense stopped four plunges on the 9 yard line and took the ball.

Up to this point the Army had been outplayed by a crushing margin. Notre Dame had put underway four long marches and two of these had yielded touchdowns. Even the stout and experienced Army line was meeting more than it could hold. Notre Dame's brilliant backs had been provided with the finest possible interference, usually led by Stuhldreher, who cut down tackler after tackler by diving at some rival's flying knees. Against this, each Army attack had been smothered almost before it got underway. Even the great Wilson, the star from Penn State, one of the great backfield runners of his day and time, rarely had a chance to make any headway through a massed wall of tacklers who were blocking every open route.

The sudden change came late in the third quarter, when Wilson, raging like a wild man, suddenly shot through a tackle opening to run 34 yards before he was finally collared and thrown with a jolt. A few minutes later Wood, one of the best of all punters, kicked out of bounds on Notre Dame's 5 yard line. Here was the chance. Layden was forced to kick from behind his own goal. The punt soared up the field as Yeomans called for a free catch on the 35 yard line. As he caught the ball he was nailed and spilled by a Western tackler, and the penalty gave the Army 15 yards, with the ball on Notre Dame's 20-yard line. At this point Harding was rushed to quarter in place of Yeomans, who had been one of the leading Army stars. On the first three plays the Army reached the 12 yard line, but it was now fourth down, with two yards to go. Harding's next play was the feature of the game.

As the ball was passed, he faked a play to Wood, diving through the line, held the oval for just a half breath, then, tucking the same under his arm, swung out around Notre Dame's right end. The brilliant fake worked to perfection. The entire Notre Dame defense had charged forward in a surging mass to check the line attack and Harding, with open territory, sailed on for a touchdown. He traveled those last 12 yards after the manner of food shot from guns. He was over the line before the Westerners knew what had taken place. It was a fine bit of strategy, brilliantly carried over by every member of the cast.
The cadet sector had a chance to rip open the chilly atmosphere at last, and most of the 55,000 present joined in the tribute to football art. But that was Army's last chance to score. From that point on, it was seesaw, up and down, back and forth, with the rivals fighting bitterly for every inch of ground. It was harder now to make a foot than it had been to make ten yards. Even the all-star South Bend cast could no longer continue to romp for any set distances, as Army tacklers, inspired by the touchdown, charged harder and faster than they had charged before.

The Army brought a fine football team into action, but it was beaten by a faster and smoother team. Rockne's supposedly light, green line was about as heavy as Army's, and every whit as aggressive. What is even more important, it was faster on its feet, faster in getting around.  It was Western speed and perfect interference that once more brought the Army doom. The Army line couldn't get through fast enough to break up the attacking plays; and once started, the bewildering speed and power of the Western backs slashed along for 8, 10, and 15 yards on play after play. And always in front of these offensive drivers could be found the whirling form of Stuhldreher, taking the first man out of the play as cleanly as though he had used a hand grenade at close range. This Notre Dame interference was a marvelous thing to look upon.
 
It formed quickly and came along in unbroken order, always at terrific speed, carried by backs who were as hard to drag down as African buffaloes. On receiving the kick-off, Notre Dame's interference formed something after the manner of the ancient flying wedge, and they drove back up the field with the runner covered from 25 and 30 yards at almost every chance. And when a back such as Harry Wilson finds few chances to get started, you can figure upon the defensive strength that is barricading the road. Wilson is one of the hardest backs in the game to suppress, but he found few chances yesterday to show his broken-field ability. You can't run through a broken field unless you get there.

One strong feature of the Army play was its headlong battle against heavy odds. Even when Notre Dame had scored two touchdowns and was well on its way to a third, the Army fought on with fine spirit until the touchdown chance came at last. And when the chance came, Coach McEwan had the play ready for the final march across the line. The Army has a better team than it had last year. So has Notre Dame. We doubt that any team in the country could have beaten Rockne's array yesterday afternoon, East or West. It was a great football team brilliantly directed, a team of speed, power and team play. The Army has no cause to gloom over its showing. It played first-class football against more speed than it could match.

Those who have tackled a cyclone can understand.

Friday, August 28, 2015

A Song to Die For by Mike Blakely


I picked this one up in Book World, a great family owned bookstore chain. I had previously read Blakely’s Westerns – Comanche Dawn and Dead Reckoning – and I enjoyed them. Somewhere along the way I read a few others. Mike Blakely might not be as well known as some Western writers but he’s every bit as good. A Song to Die For is a modern thriller and I couldn’t put it down. I read the first 143 pages one afternoon, and finished the book the next day. It was raining hard, and I was hunkered down in my cabin waiting for the sun. I really dug into this book. Blakely tells two stories; the first about the musical comeback of Creed Mason who teams up with country music legend Luster Burnett; and the second story is about a killer out to cleanse any witnesses to one of his recent hits. How these two stories become entwined is fascinating. Blakely creates some wonderful characters, and the primary characterizations of Creed Mason and Luster Burnett and their efforts to stage a musical comeback for them both makes for some riveting reading. Kudos to Mike Blakely for his skillful plotting. Being a respected musician as well as a writer, Blakely demonstrates an acute knowledge of the music business and his insight lends an aura of authenticity to the proceedings. I hope this book becomes a hit. It’s what they call a “sleeper” because Forge released it without any noticeable publicity, and Book World is the only place I’ve seen a copy. Honestly folks, track this one down, or order it on-line. A Song to Die For is a refreshing page-turner with plenty of suspense and deftly handled plot twists.