OriskanyCreek11

    Cold and foggy morning. No need to start early, so we waited until 10:45 to wade into the creek from the Fishermen’s Parking at Farmers Mills. As is usually the case near bridges, there were some good pools in this area. The first was just above the bridge on the left side. A rope with a ring attached dangled from a big willow.
    The other, an even bigger pool, was around the next bend near a pile of gravel and some stone riprap. Good places to fish a month or so after the stream is stocked, but not this late in the year. At least that's a good excuse for not catching anything from either pool.
    Lots of color. Sumac and maples, red. Wood vine, burgundy. Poplar, sycamore and basswood, yellow. A big grey squirrel with a nut in its mouth ran along the bank. Road noise disappeared, replaced by the rush of water and wind gusting through the trees.
    Perfect morning? Not quite. Spinning reel created loops and snarls. After several attempts to rectify the situation the hard way---picking and pulling loops after each cast---I decided to change the line. Coincidentally, an upright chunk of stump was sitting in the middle of the creek: a perfect place to sit down, change line . . . and eat lunch.
    Denny continued to fish, moving upstream around a heavily riprapped bend. Another swing rope hung over a deep pool. Above this bend the stream bottom changed: mostly cobble and gravel bottom with cobble and gravel bars on the inside of meanders.
    Further upstream the creek flowed shallow under willows on both sides. Behind the willows on the left were meadows and farm roads. Took note of farm roads for the walk back to the car.
    My wounded belly hurt some, so I lay down on a grassy bank, watching vapor trails in the sky and listening to crow chatter. Amazing birds. When I finally got off my duff and continued upstream, passing a grey and tan, clay-bottomed pool, and an upturned beech tree lying partially in the creek, I saw Denny connected to a good fish. A trout living among the beech roots globbed onto Denny’s lure and treated him to the first and only fish of the day, a 14-inch brown.
    Always good to end on a high note, so with the overturned beech logged as our end-of-trip landmark, we crossed the creek and followed farm roads to within a half mile of the bridge before returning to the creek and wading back to the bridge. We wrapped up this discovery trip at exactly 2:15.

I had explored Oriskany Creek from its mouth to within a mile and a half of Deansboro; a total distance of some 15 miles. It looked like that mile and a half would have to wait until next year. But, when Mother Nature cranked the temperature up to the 60's this past Thursday, I couldn't resist another discovery trip on this major tributary of the Mohawk River.
Except for the lower five miles that I canoed alone, Denny Gillen has joined me on every discovery trip on the Oriskany thus far. Denny's primary interest in these outings is catching trout, and we have caught some dandies along the way, so I was fairly certain he would join me on this late season adventure despite the fact it was the peak of the whitetail rut. When I called him the night before, he hesitated, considering his chances of taking a deer from his stand on Tug Hill. He agreed to join me on Oriskany Creek . . . if he could hunt from his stand a couple hours in the morning.

Prior to the rut, whitetail bucks create "rubs" like this on saplings to clean the velvet off their antlers. During the rut, they rub saplings to mark territory and to "get in shape" for challenges from other bucks.

The section of the creek from Deansboro to Farmer's Mills is about three miles long, too long for a half-day outing, so we divided it into two trips. On October 9th we had fished upstream from Farmer's Mills for about a mile and half, and then walked back. This time we would hike downstream to the halfway point and fish back. Trout fishing is permitted from the bridge at Deansboro to the Mohawk River for the entire year. (October 16 to March 31 - no kill, lures only)

It was 11 a.m. when I parked the Jeep near the bridge just outside of Deansboro. (No, Denny did not get his deer) After a quick look at the creek, we headed downstream by crossing a cutover cornfield. Denny noted the number of deer tracks in the field and the trails leading into streamside brush and trees. When fields turned to heavy brush, we crossed the creek and walked through an orchard where apples covered the ground and deer sign seemed to be everywhere. We found scrapes by the dozens where amorous whitetail bucks pawed the ground clean of leaves and left their scent in the fresh earth and overhead branches for in-season does to find.

During the rut a, whitetail buck scrapes leaves from a patch of ground under an overhanging branch, and then spreads the scent from glands on his eyes on the overhanging branch, and urinates on the patch of earth. Does and bucks "get together" at these scrapes during the mating season.

    In addition to deer sign---we were making too much noise to actually see a deer---we saw a red-tailed hawk, squirrels, crows and chickadees.
    About a mile into our walk we came to a marsh. It was here that our paths parted. Denny followed a heavily-packed deer trail through the woods near the creek. I took the high ground, following an old road and crossing a cornfield before cutting back to the creek. While waiting for Denny to catch up, I made a couple of casts into a logbank run and immediately hooked and lost a good fish. Another cast produced a trout that jumped once and was off. Wow! Was this going to be a good day or what?
    I yelled Denny's name. No reply. All I could hear was the rush of the stream and the sounds of birds. I repeated my yell-and-listen routine on and off for about 15 minutes, wishing I had brought along my hand-held communicators. I waited another 10 minutes and continued downstream, planning to wait at the upturned tree we had determined was the turnaround point. If he didn't show up in 15 minutes, I'd head back upstream to see if he was in trouble.
    Denny's yelp stopped me short. Another yelp indicated he was behind me and moving fast. I yelped back. We repeated yelping back and forth until he located my position. Denny had thought I might be in trouble when I didn't catch up to him, so he went back to the marsh to pick up my trail. Failing to do that, he headed back downstream. After sighs of relief and a long discussion on who got ahead of who, we continued downstream, again noting a number of scrapes and rubs along the way.
    We found the upturned tree at 12:30. It didn't look quite the same as it did the month before, so while Denny started fishing upstream, I hiked further downstream, confirmed we were at the right place and headed back.
    When I finally located Denny, I was dragging butt, so I parked it on a log and watched Denny cast a gold Phoebe into a long run. He didn't catch a single fish. And that's pretty much the way it went all the way to the bridge. Although there were dozens of beautiful pools and runs, many created by logjams, stream-improvement logbanks and a couple of tributaries, we only saw one fish. That fish followed my lure from a pool along a section of stream that runs tight to a horse and sheep pasture. Turns out it was the same stretch of water I had hooked trout earlier in the day.
    While we criss-crossed the creek, seeking the best approach to trout water, we flushed a couple of wood ducks and crossed more deer trails. Just below the bridge, I was greeted by domestic ducks and chickens that resided with a small herd of goats in several small shelters and pens on the right side of the creek. As we exchanged glances, I saw dimples on the surface of pool below the bridge.
    A small gold spinner produced a small brown trout. Ten more casts produced ten more trout. Denny joined in on the fun, but his spoon wasn't as popular as my small spinner. A fellow walking across the bridge told us DEC had put the trout in the creek a couple of weeks earlier. Heh, stockies were better than nothing.
    We finished up at 2:30. Certainly not our best outing of the year, but all things considered a very lucky day. After all, it's not often you can fish in comfort in the middle of November in this country, see so much deer sign, get separated, link up again . . . and be greeted by goats and "goblins.

Cold morning. Loaded up with Sausage Gravy and Biscuits at Joan’s Country Café in Deansboro. Left Denny’s car near the Burnham Road Bridge and drove back to Deansboro. Waded into the creek at 9:45.
    Except for budding willows and maples, and blossoming myrtle, most streamside vegetation near the bridge was still asleep. Streamside horses were awake, however, and gave us the “evil eye” as we moved through their backyard.
    Passed a trib at 10:10. Approached a beautiful chunk-limestone pool ten minutes later: cottonwoods one side, small trib opposite. Despite great looking water---decorated with Fishing Rights signs---the trout ignored gold lures swimming through their lairs.
    Even a classic willow-across-the-creek-at-a-sharp-bend pool didn't give up a fish
When the fish don't bite, I look around. Stream bottom mostly cobble. Streamside vegetation featured some big cedars. Impressive. A patch of hardwoods revealed trilliums and fiddlehead ferns. Beautiful. Brown house on the right side of the creek. Nice place.
    Sat on a plank bridge at 10:45. It spanned the creek and was wide enough for big stuff, but partially barricaded at both ends, leaving enough space for snowmobiles and ATV’s to pass. The creek was shallow and rocky in this area, so I followed an ATV trail for a while. Easy walking.

Upstream, on each side of the lower end of an island, were two low waterfalls, facing each other at 90 degrees. They churned up foam and created some pools and runs, but didn't give up a fish.
Green was the color in this area. Deep green hemlock and cedar. Bright green skunk cabbage, new grass and tree buds. Deer trails crisscrossed the area, and people trails ran along the creek bank---between Fishing Rights signs. Lots of boot prints on gravel bars.
Stopped to rest at the edge of a big stand of hemlocks and waited for Denny to catch up. When I stood up 10 minutes later, Denny was sitting on a log 50 yards behind me. Great minds? Sixty-five year old bodies?

We discovered these---90 degrees to each other---waterfalls at the lower end of an island.

     At 11:30 we discovered an old railroad bed high on the right. It ran tight to the creek for about a thousand feet. Just upstream next to an uprooted tree, Denny caught a 9-inch trout. A half-hour later we passed a gas line, followed by stretch of new riprap and a small waterfalls.
    Around noon, snowflakes filled the air. Not enough to cover the ground, but enough to make us realize the temperature was going down instead of up. Good thing we loaded up on sausage gravy and biscuits.
    At 12:30 we discovered a huge logjam in the creek. Just upstream was a beaver dam that flooded the valley, so we climbed the bank on our left and walked through the woods to Burnham Rd.
    When we arrived at the car at 1:10 p.m. we discovered a note on the windshield.
It read, “ This is not public fishing water. You are trespassing.”

Oriskany Creek Part 11 - Burnham Road to Van Hyning Road.

Ask and You Shall Receive

It was too cold to fish early, so Denny and I met at the diner in Deansboro where we ate breakfast and waited for the sun to yank the temperature out of the 30s and burn the fog from the valley.

Denny caught a trout right were Dave Faulkner said it would be.

We planned to continue our upstream trek on Oriskany Creek by exploring the mile run between Burnham Road and Van Hyning Road. We were reluctant to return to Burnham Road because when we finished up there on a previous discovery trip, someone had put a note on our vehicle chastising us for fishing in that area. But a mission is a mission, so at 10:30 a.m. we parked at a pull-off on the east side of the bridge. While we were slipping on waders, a man came out of a barn on the other side of the bridge and crossed over to us.

"On both sides of the creek?" I asked. Denny added, "I thought all this was public fishing water."

    "Nope. A quarter-mile upstream and a quarter mile down from the bridge is all private. The State wanted to buy the fishing rights to this section, but we wouldn't sell." "But," he said with a grin, "you look like a couple of nice fellows so I'll let you fish here if you park your car in front of my barn. I like to keep track of who's up there."
    It was an offer we couldn't refuse . . . and how we met Dave Faulkner. Dave has lived on this creek-side farm for many years. Although it was originally a dairy farm, he and his family kept horses. "All but one has passed on, but we've got a granddaughter who's talking horses, so we may get back into it."
    Dave explained that he doesn't mind giving permission to fish near his home, but he hates it when someone tells him he can't stop people from fishing the creek. "If they ask, I usually say yes, and tell them where to catch fish. A few minutes later, within sight of the bridge and barn, Denny caught a foot-long brown trout right where Dave said it would be.
    Except for algae on the rock and cobble bottom, wading the first quarter-mile along the edge of a meadow and between stately cedars was relatively easy. Beyond that, piles of logs and branches in and beside the creek made it rough going.

As most stream fishermen know, piles of logs often create pools that hold fish. When Denny climbed atop one of the log piles to fish an especially good looking pool, I stopped to capture the scene on film. Seconds after I put the camera back in my pack, Denny fell through the logs, up to his armpits. He wasn't injured and scrambled out of there before I could retrieve the camera. Would have been a great photo.
At exactly 11:25 the air reverberated with a loud boom. Denny thought it was a jet plane hitting the sound barrier, but we were only a couple miles from the stone quarry in Oriskany Falls. Could have been from there.

After I took this photo, Denny fell through the log pile up to his armpits.

     Right after the boom, Denny hooked a big trout from another log pool, but lost it on the surface. It was the last fish we saw that morning. Surprising considering how many deep pools and runs we discovered along this stretch. Of course the sun was high and some of those log pools were impossible to fish with lures. Fishing with bait or flies, early and late in the day would be far more effective.
    Near the end of our jaunt, I sat on a log, enjoying the heat of the sun and the blue sky laced with hair-like clouds. Here and there yellow and red leaves proclaimed the Fall season was upon us. When Denny sat down beside me he said, "It's so beautiful, I could take a nap."
    Denny had to get home early, so we plodded on to the Van Hyning Road Bridge, arriving at 12:45. When we drove back to Burnham Road to get my vehicle, Dave Faulkner was painting porch steps. We thanked him again for letting us access the creek from his property.

Follow the path of this discovery trip by clicking on Mohawk Valley Maps: by Maptech.
Type Deansboro , select New York, press GO!