MOHAWK - Discovering the Valley of the Crystals Copyright 2002
Chapter 12 - Tributaries
Ninemile Part 4- Stittville to Holland Patent
Discovery: Land of the Leaning Tree.
May 29, 2003, 60 degrees, Cloudy
The big maple seemed to defy gravity.
There is no better time of year to explore a small
stream. Every day new flowers and blossoms burst forth, adding color to
the landscape and spreading fragrance in the wind. This is also the time
that wildlife is most active, especially nesting birds. Robins and red-winged
blackbirds defend their nesting territory with bluster and banter. Mallards,
mergansers, wood ducks and Canada geese join the fray. And, depending on
water conditions, it can also be an excellent time to catch fish.
The 1.2-mile section of the Ninemile between
Stittville and the Miller Road Bridge just outside of Holland Patent was
of special interest. About halfway up the creek is a railroad crossing
that's been in use since the 1850s.
When we parked the Jeep at the Fishermen's Parking
area in Stittville at 9:30 a.m. everything was green and grey. Green trees
under grey skies, reflecting in grey water. Not the best day to explore
or fish. No matter, we had rain jackets and hip boots, and were sick of
being cooped up by incessant rain.
While putting on hip boots, I realized I forgot to put my wallet in a plastic
bag. This precaution has prevented water damage to identification papers
and licenses on more than one occasion, so I zipped the wallet into the
watertight pouch and pushed it to the bottom of my daypack.
Denny headed for the pools and runs near the bridge
where we had caught trout the previous week. I walked upstream along a
trail that ran through a streamside stand of new-growth willow and poplar.
The trail led to a rock and gravel bar where I discovered just-made deer
tracks. I expected to see a whitetail around the next bend, but the breeze
on the back of my neck nixed that possibility.
Despite grey skies wildflowers were abundant and beautiful.
A
pool at the bend looked especially inviting, but I had to cross the creek
to fish it. Partway across, cold water poured into my left boot. My first
thought was a failed patch, but when I saw the top of my boot in the water,
I realized what had happened. While "ziplocking" my wallet, I had forgotten
to hook the bootstrap to my belt. As I walked along the trail it slid down
my leg. As I sat on a cobble bar emptying boot and ringing socks, red-winged
blackbirds kicked up a ruckus. I know they were guarding nests but it sounded
like laughter.
With bootstraps secure, I waded into the creek and
cast spoons and spinners to the edge of a cobble and gravel-bottomed pool.
A swallow swooping low over the water barely missed a gold spoon, and a
7-inch smallmouth took a spinner.
This stretch of the Ninemile runs through rich farmland
that is mostly abandoned. Cut banks, as high as 15 feet, reveal thick layers
of dark soil atop gravel and cobble. Two hundred years ago these fields
were planted to wheat, but when wheat production declined in the mid 1800s,
dairy farms filled the void. In recent years all but a handful of these
creekside farms have ceased operation.
There was very little refuse in the creek. I did discover a post with a
fancy mailbox attached. The whitetail scene painted on the box didn't look
right under water, so I wedged it upright in a bush.
Every discovery trip offers surprises. This one
defied gravity. I saw it at 10:30: a big maple leaning at a 45-degree angle
from the top of a cut bank, across from what appeared to be the mouth of
a good size tributary. Closer examination revealed this outlet was a branch
of the Ninemile that ran around a couple of wooded islands. During
highwater periods this outflow smashes into the opposite bank, eroding
the soil at the base of the tree.
Canada geese guarding their young. They never raised their heads.
This was no small tree: two feet at the butt with
a magnificent crown of healthy branches and developing leaves. This was
apparently a favorite landmark hereabouts because there was a cobblestone
fireplace nearby. And, you could say, it was also an official landmark,
considering the tattered Public Fishing Sign tacked to the trunk.. While
I photographed the tree and some nearby wildflowers, Denny waded into view.
I could see the amazed look on his face when he saw the leaning tree.
Denny hadn't even seen a fish. Hard to believe considering
all the good looking pools and runs he fished. Of course, we reasoned,
shiny lures don't attract fish on a cloudy day in dirty water. It would
be a different story if we were fishing bait.
Despite the cloud cover, the wildflowers were beautiful.
In addition to white and lavender honeysuckle, there were ragged robin,
forget-me-nots, buttercups, another yellow-blossomed plant I couldn't identify,
and the just-starting-to-blossom thornapple (hawthorn). Most of these flowers
had bloomed so recently there was almost no fragrance in the air, even
from the usually sweet-smelling honeysuckle. My olfactories were working
because I smelled wild mint long before I saw it.
The railroad crossing was a portal to history. Just
downstream from the old iron bridge was a midstream boulder of glacial
origin. Behind the bridge was a high-tension power line. The boulder was
deposited here 10,000 years ago. The Black River and Utica Railroad came
through here in the 1850s. The power line, a more contemporary creation.
Today the Adirondack Scenic Railroad crosses here. 
The water below the bridge was deep and littered
with rocks. We fished it hard with spoons, spinners and plugs but didn't
raise a fish. While I was fishing under the bridge I saw the unmistakable
head and neck of a Canada goose moving through the weeds. I told Denny
I suspected a pair of geese with goslings were just ahead. And indeed they
were. A big Canada tried to lead Denny away from goslings hidden in the
brush.
Upstream from the bridge on the right side of the
creek was a mowed trail leading to a farm with blue barns. I continued
along the creek, crossing a huge cobble bar with sand at the lower end.
Deer tracks perforated the sand.
We couldn't even catch fish at "Thunder Bridge."
It started to sprinkle at 11:45 and at noon we could
hear the rumble of traffic going over the wooden-floored Miller Road Bridge.
Downstream from the bridge on a small island I discovered a pair of Canada
geese with three goslings. Denny was fishing the big pool near the bridge,
so I sat on the bank and watched the geese. They crossed the creek in a
straight line---big goose, little geese, big goose ---and parked tight
to shoreline grass, barely visible to the naked eye. I didn't move. After
several minutes they eased into the current and drifted downstream.
During all of this time, the big geese never raised their telltale heads.
As they drifted out of sight their beaks were right on the water. Amazing!