Tributaries

**Select underlined items. The rest are coming attractions**
West Branch	Lansing Kill	Oriskany Creek	Nine Mile Creek
Sauquoit Creek	Reall Creek	Starch Factory Creek	Moyer Creek
Steele Creek	Fulmer Creek	West Canada Creek	Nowadaga Creek
East Canada Creek 6/15/02	Crum Creek	Ostquago Creek	Otstungo Creek
Canajoharie Creek	Cayadutta Creek	Schoharie Creek	Chuctanunda Creek

Oriskany Creek begins its descent near Prospect Hill in Madison County and flows 31 miles north, mostly through Oneida County, to the Mohawk River. Along the way it passes through the villages and hamlets of Solsville, Oriskany Falls, Deansboro, Farmers Mills, Clinton, Kirkland, Clarks Mills, Walesville, Colemans Mills and Oriskany.

There was an Oneida Indian village near the mouth of the creek before the Revolutionary War. The name of the creek came from that village which was called Oriska. Curious, considering there is no "r" in the Oneida language.
Almost every village on the creek today developed around water-powered mills when this region was settled after the war. Remnants of these mills can be found up and down the creek and its tributaries.
Today Oriskany Creek is one of the finest brown trout streams in upstate New York. Like so many other local anglers, I've waded and fished the creek many times over the years, but I had never canoed it or knew anyone who had. Fact is most of the creek is not canoeable any time of year, but I reasoned, the lower five miles could be canoe-fished during high water periods. The opportunity to prove my theory came on June 13, 2000.

After I parked the Jeep at the mouth of the creek, Gary Eychner drove me up to Walesville where I had hidden Willow (my 10-foot solo canoe) in the weeds near the bridge. It was cloudy, 60 degrees, rain predicted later that morning. I was waterproof head to toe --- rain hat, jacket, pants and hip boots.

A Lost Pond Canoe, which I call "Willow" because
it looks like a willow leaf floating on the water, was
ideal for exploring the lower reaches of Oriskany Creek.

    While I was getting gear and canoe ready to launch, Gary cast a gold spoon into a pool just downstream from the bridge and caught 14-inch brown that jumped clear out of the water. We took photos of each other with the fish. (Heh, I could have caught it.) It was 9 a.m. when Gary left for work and I pushed off to an adventure on Oriskany Creek.
    Below the bridge, the canoe passed swiftly between small trees and shrub-lined streambanks, away from civilization and on to a stretch of water dominated by huge willows, maples and sycamores. Road noise faded into the rush and babble of water and the chirping of birds. Except for the winding path of gray sky overhead and an occasional patch of blue phlox and yellow flag, green dominated the scenery.
    At the mouth of Dean's Creek, I poked the canoe into the tributary and drifted back to fish the pool below the merging waters. Great looking pool but nothing liked my lure.
    A half-hour after launch, I passed under a cable that carried a small cart across the stream. Just downstream power lines crossed overhead. The valley opened up in this area and I was greeted by the departure and/or complaints of mallards, great blue heron, red wing blackbirds, crows and swallows.
    Most of the stream to this point was fast-moving water, so the little canoe moved swiftly by small pools and runs that I would have fished if wading. At the end of a short rapids, the canoe caught the point of an eddy and swung around in a pool. A cast across the upper end of the pool produced an 11-inch brown trout.
    As I approached the Thruway bridge (1.4 miles), it was evident it was being repaired or replaced. Giant cranes towered over the creek on the left side and there was other heavy equipment nearby. My first concern was something hard falling on my head. And me without a hard hat. That concern was whisked away as I got closer to the bridge and past the point of no return . . . and saw two girders spanning the creek just a few feet off the water. They were apparently used to move equipment from one side to the other, but with the canoe moving so fast I didn't have time to dwell on their purpose. I scrunched down in the canoe and slipped under the girders --- headroom to spare --- and passed under the bridge without incident ... and without anyone even noticing me.
    Before I could recover from the thoughts of what might have happened, I was under the closed bridge at Colemans Mills. I had originally planned to launch here, but like the land near most closed bridges it was heavily posted by adjacent landowners.
    In moments I left the hamlet behind and returned to the wild. Wind gusts disturbed a small stand of cedars on the right side of the creek, reminding me of the coming rain. Further down- stream, the silver strands of high voltage transmission lines crossed the creek. It was 10 a.m.
   Upstream from the Judd Road Bridge, a great blue heron was standing in the water, intent on procuring breakfast. It didn't move until I was right next to it; the closest I've ever approached a heron. Below the bridge, a small, beautifully colored, brown trout took my lure. I returned the fish to the water; a better fate than a heron's breakfast.
    The stretch of creek below the bridge was quite clean and wild, with just a couple of homes visible through the trees. I stopped to stretch and take pictures near a grassy island. Two mallards jumped from the water in protest and flew downstream.
    Back in the canoe, I passed through a long rapids. On the right was a sand-over-silt slip bank. Downstream, stone riprap announced that Valley Road Bridge was just around the bend. The hole under the bridge was deep and dark, an ideal place to swim a crayfish plug. A 13-inch brown ate the plug.
    After the fish swam back to the hole under the bridge, I continued downstream to a short but scary rapids; high banks on the right, grass and willows on the left. In the middle of a narrow chute, Willow bounced off rocks, shaking from side to side. Tough little canoe.
    Below the rapids, where the creek ran straight, was a fascinating sight. Hundreds of birds, were feeding on insects coming off the water. Birds criss-crossed the valley from water level to a hundred feet up. I recognized swallows and waxwings, but there were others enjoying the feast. A pair of startled mallards broke the spell.
    I saw the dead tree lying lengthwise and partially submerged on the right side of the stream at the lower end of a run of fast water. My plan, as always, was to avoid contact, so I paddled the canoe to the left side of the creek. The creek had other plans. A cross-current pulled Willow across the stream toward the tree. I worked the paddle to no avail. The canoe hit the tree, bounced back into the current and hit the tree again before reaching quiet water unscathed. Willow had saved my buns again. I love that canoe.
    A long stretch of stillwater predicted the Oriskany Dam was just ahead. It was built to feed a canal that supplied water for mills in the village. Well above the dam, I beached the canoe on the right side of the creek (opposite the road) and dragged it through the woods and grass to the bottom of the dam. I made a few casts, took some photos and returned to the water. It was 11:15 and just starting to rain.
    Downstream from the dam, two fishermen waded the creek. One, stringer of trout in tow, walked up the bank when he saw me, but didn't answer my greeting. The other fisherman was standing in the stream drifting bait through a long pool. He had the most incredulous look on his face, and asked, "Where'd you come from?!"
    I told him I had floated down from Walesville. Apparently still amazed, he asked, "But how'd you get over the falls?"
    When I explained that I had walked around the dam, he shook his head and went on fishing.
    It was 11:30 and pouring when I passed under the Utica Street Bridge in the village of Oriskany (4.3 miles). Just downstream I could see the partially demolished Route 69 bridge and was surprised to see the construction crew working in the pouring rain. They were too busy to see me. Most of the activity was on the left side of the bridge, so I slipped under the partially demolished right side, again wishing for a hard hat.
    It took only a few minutes to float to the last bridge on the creek. This ancient railroad crossing provided cover from the rain, so I stayed under it for about 10 minutes before continuing. Between the railroad bridge and the mouth of the creek, I played tag with a great blue heron, watched a mallard and her ducklings, appreciated the beauty and abundance of wild flowers and marveled at how deep and rich the soil is in Mohawk River floodplain.
    Near the mouth of the creek (5.3 miles) I beached the canoe and carried it up the crumbling bank. It was 12:15 and still pouring. Rain gear had kept me dry until I loaded and lashed the canoe to the Jeep. The cuffs of my shirt were soaking wet when I drove to the Oriskany Diner for some hot coffee and soup.
    In just over three hours I had floated more than five miles; seen wildlife, wild flowers and wild places; caught a few nice fish, and had some close calls. If that's not an adventure, what is?

Writing about this discovery trip inspired me to return to Oriskany Creek on October 26. I waded another stretch of the creek --- which is open for no-kill trout fishing until March 31 --- and enjoyed the best stream trout fishing of my life. The brown trout on the left is 18 inches, on the right 17 inches.

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.
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 (not reported yet). 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.
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.

During the rut a, whitetail buck scrapes the 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 unrinates on the patch of earth. Does and bucks "get together" at these scrapes during the mating season.

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.

    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" at the end of the tra

Follow the path of this discovery trip by clicking on Mohawk Valley Maps: by Maptech.
Type Deansboro, select New York, press GO! Use margin arrows to follow Oriskany Creek

My introduction to the Cayadutta was a passage in a book on the Mohawk Valley noting that George Chapin discovered the site of an ancient Indian village while hiking up the creek in 1892.
Subsequent research indicated the village was occupied by Mohawk Indians some 500 years ago, and that over the years archaeologists and historians had visited it many times.

Historian, Jane Dieffenbacher and her husband, George had visited the site 20 years ago and guided Gert and I for a brief visit through muck and mosquitoes on a rainy day this past July. The extent of our visit was to approach the site from the high ground and look down into Cayadutta Valley. As we were leaving the area, a logger told us he had uncovered some pottery shards and pieces of flint and placed them on a log slab. We were welcome to take a few samples if we came back.

I wanted to "discover" the site and this tributary of the Mohawk the way George Chapin did in 1892, so I returned on August 14, 2000 with longtime friend Ron Kolodziej. I asked Ron to join me because he lives in the general area, is a student of Indian artifacts and writes an outdoor column for the Amsterdam Recorder.

    Ron told me that for as long as he could remember, Cayadutta Creek was called "Old Stinky" because of the outflow of tanneries at Johnstown. Although a sewage treatment plant for Johnstown and Gloversville had been constructed a number of years ago, Ron hadn't heard of anyone taking fish from the stream, so he decided to discover the creek with a camera. Like always, I brought along my ultralight spinning rod and a few lures.
     After Ron parked his Explorer near an upstream bridge we returned downstream to begin the two-mile hike up the creek. When we exited my Jeep near the Sammonsville Bridge, a basset hound and golden retriever came out to greet us. It was 9:15 a.m., sunny and 70 degrees. I waded up the creek between willows and box elders. Ron took the "high road" on the left..
     The creek bed in this area was mostly chips of shale. I worked the shallow runs and pools with a gold Phoebe with no results. A hen mallard jumped off the water, quacked a chorus of objections to my presence and flew upstream, dodging overhanging willows. A great blue heron pumped its huge wings skyward and disappeared over tree tops.
     As I approached a section of shale outcrops, a mallard pretended injury, quacking and beating water with its wings. When I came closer it took off, perhaps protecting a late brood hiding in the weeds.
     The streamside vegetation of goldenrod, Joe Pye weed and "bamboo" weed was so high and so thick it was almost impossible to walk through. Except in areas where the water was too deep to wade in hip boots, I stayed in the creek. I was beginning to wonder if I'd be able to locate Ron in all this cover.
     It was 9:30 when I passed under some huge willows and spooked a great blue heron that left with a squawk. A clump of tiger lilies grew next to a big cotton wood with a huge fungus at the bottom. A kingfisher scolded as it flew from a perch in some streamside sumac. Sand collected at a wide bend in the creek and purple loosestrife competed with other streamside vegetation.
     At 10:15 I saw Ron walking along a forested bank of birch and hemlock. He had crossed the creek We talked for a moment and decided to meet at the Indian village site at the top of the ridge.
     This site, like others of the period, was located on high ground at a sharp double bend, or open loop, overlooking the creek. At each end of the loop was a gully. Nature had created a peninsula of land jutting out into the valley. The ancient village was located on this very defensible position; three sides on high ground. The open end of the peninsula which led to village farmfields, was protected by a log barricade or palisade. Of course that was hundreds of years ago.
     I continued upstream, through a stretch of boulders, passing between wild apples and willows. Although the creek was quite shallow, it was well shaded, so I had cast into practically every pool and run without so much as a hit, so it was a big deal when I discovered a deep pool and my lure stopped in mid-retrieve. I set the hook, felt weight for a few seconds and retrieved the lure. A fish? Maybe.
     Near a large island, a stream entered the creek from a gully. According to my topo map, this gully led to the village site. Perhaps this was the path that George Chapin had taken when he made his discovery in the 1890s. It took about 10 minutes to climb up the steep and slippery shale streambed. Relatively easy when no one was throwing rocks, spears or shooting arrows.
     I found Ron looking for mussel shells on the forest floor where a log skidder had churned up the soil. Ron noted that an abundance of mussel shells usually indicated an Indian village. We found several shells and also located the loggers "stash" which consisted of small pieces of pottery, worked flint and more shells. We took a couple of each.
     Nearby was a large boulder with a bowl-like depression on top. Someone had suggested to the logger that this boulder was used by Indians for grinding corn. Place corn in bowl and mash with a stone pestle. Perhaps. The rock bowl seemed too rough to have had much use, but a lot can happen in 500 years.
     After photographing the artifacts, we explored the site for about 20 minutes, trying to imagine what it was like when several hundred people lived here in the middle of a vast wilderness.
     It was 11 a.m. when we followed a logging road down to the creek, noting the profusion of yellow touch-me-nots growing on the cleared hillside.
     Ron decided to follow me up the creek while I fished ahead. We passed under some big cottonwoods and drooping willows, startled two great blue herons and discovered outcrops of shale. I had previously told Ron that what surprised me most about these discovery trips was the surprises. At 12:20 we found our first surprise of the day, a series of waterfalls.
    While Ron photographed the first falls, I cast a gold Phoebe into the plunge pool beneath.In quick succession I caught and released a 13-inch and a 12-inch brook trout. Brook trout in Old Stinky! Surprise.

The next falls was the highest, perhaps 10 feet. I waded to the opposite side of the creek to cast into the plunge pool and caught an 11-inch brookie. There were mill dams on just about every stream in the Mohawk Valley at one time, and they were usually located at the highest falls. Cayadutta Creek was no exception.
We found the remains of at least two mill sites at this waterfalls. One was made of flat stone, no mortar, indicating late 1700s to early 1800s. The other was brick and mortar; late 1800s to early 1900s construction.
This was definitely an area frequented by the Indians who lived in that ancient village. It was the furthest up feeding or spawning fish could get on the Cayadutta. This wilderness stream was also the source of another major source of food --- freshwater mussels.

    The creek bottom above the falls was like a slate road, and it led to a small waterfalls with a deep plunge pool where a trout as long as my forearm followed the Phoebe into shallow water and hit it but didn't hook up. I couldn't tell if it was a brookie or a brown.
     After exploring the falls and mill sites and taking photos of the brookies before I released them, Ron opted to climb the ridge and follow it to the bridge. I continued wading up the creek.
     I made a couple of casts below a wooden log dam without results and then climbed through the brush on the right side of the dam. Just upstream, where the creek ran tight to a shale "wall", creating a long pool, a small brown trout took my lure.
     I tried to walk around another deep pool, but the streamside vegetation was so thick I decided the better path was atop a huge log that paralleled the stream. At the upper end of that log was a root mass I couldn't get around. Reverse direction. Partway back, I sat on the log, legs hanging a foot above water. When I dropped off the log, I discovered the stream bottom was hard, water up to my knees. No surprises here.
     Halfway across, the water was over my knees and running fast. The stream bottom was slick. Slate slick. I started sliding, slowly at first, picking up speed as I got closer to the pool. Although not overly concerned with getting hurt, I expected to get very wet. I started laughing at my predicament; skiing down Cayadutta Creek, fishing rod in hand, pack on my back. Several feet before reaching the pool, I discovered a large boulder just under the water. I latched onto it with hand and foot. Lucky!
     It was 1:40 when I came to the sewage treatment plant outflow. The water was too deep to wade, so I climbed over the staircase-like overflow chute and continued upstream towards the bridgewhere Ron's car was parked.
     I was thinking: What a great day! Saw wildlife, wildflowers and waterfalls, visited an archaeological site, caught some nice fish and discovered a beautiful region of the Mohawk Valley. And only a few hundred yards to go before I could rest, relax and remove the hip boots. Just before passing under the treatment plant footbridge, I fell flat on my face in midstream. I staggered to my feet, bifocals gone, hip boots filled with water. Being so close to the car, I continued upstream for another 50 yards and fell again.
     At 2:15, I climbed the streambank next to the bridge. Ron wasn't there. I emptied the hip boots, wrung out socks and shirts and hung them on tree branches. Everything was wet except for the back of my shirt collar and the day pack.
     While waiting for Ron, I lay back and enjoyed a snack from my pack. Drivers-by waved, some smiled. A half-hour later I was still waiting for Ron. Traveling the high ground, he should have been ahead of me. I had decided to flag down a motorist to get a ride back to my car before contacting local officials to mount a search. When I walked to the road, I saw two men standing near the entrance to the Sewage Treatment Plant. One of them was Ron.
     He had tried to climb up the ridge, but after several encounters with jungle-like vegetation that he had to crawl through or "throw" himself on, he returned to the creek. When he came to the treatment plant he stopped to chat with workers.
     On the way back to the Jeep we discussed our adventure, and agreed it was something special . . . and full of surprises.
     I asked Ron if we came back if he'd bring a fishing rod. He replied, "The next time I'm bringing a machete."

Cayadutta Creek --- 200 Years of Pollution
Cayadutta Creek begins as a trickle in the hills some three miles north of Gloversville. It flows southward for more than 17 miles to the Mohawk River/Erie Canal, passing through the communities of Gloversville, Johnstown, Sammonsville, Berryville and Fonda.
     For more than 200 years it was one of the most polluted streams in the Mohawk Valley. In addition to the raw sewage of communities along the creek, tanneries at Gloversville and Johnstown dumped tons of chemicals, hair and other waste into the creek
     The first significant effort to clean up the creek was in 1903 when farmer, Sampson Sammons sued the village of Gloversville claiming that "Sewer filth, accumulating on a river bank, constitutes trespass."
     Although there were other sources of pollution, including "the city of Johnstown, along with several tanneries", the court ruled: "that city's sewage disposal practices amounted to a continuing trespass that substantially injured Mr. Sammons' property rights. It issued an injunction, to take effect after one year, prohibiting Gloversville from fouling Mr. Sammons' premises by discharging its sewage into the creek."
     For almost 70 years the only sewage treatment on the creek was the plant at Gloversville.It wasn't until 1972 that the cities of Gloversville and Johnstown completed the construction of a new sewage treatment plant. Although this was a major improvement, area residents still noted the gray color and the "stink" of the Cayadutta.
     In 1986 and again in 1991 the treatment facilities were upgraded to meet more rigid standards. Today the Gloversville-Johnstown Joint Wastewater Treatment Facility is "designed to treat up to 13.8 mgd (million gallons per day) of domestic sanitary sewage from the cities of Gloversville and Johnstown as well as industrial wastewater from leather tanning and finishing, glue manufacturing, textile and other major industries. Peak treatment capacity is 30 mgd."
     In 1996 the Cayadutta from its mouth to Johnstown was reclassified from "D" to "C". Trout water.

Schoharie Valley
I'm no stranger to Schoharie Valley. I have visited there many times, and expect to spend considerable time exploring the valley and researching its fascinating history. But for now, I offer a discovery trip first published in Canoe-Fishing New York Rivers and Streams.

Discovery: Schoharie Creek - Something New At Every Bend
I've never canoe-fished a stream that I knew so little about. The only information I had about upper Schoharie Creek was that it could be canoed between Middleburgh and Schoharie and that it was smallmouth bass water. When Mark Eychner and I launched the canoe below Middleburgh on the first Sunday in October, we had no idea how many surprises were waiting for us.
    After parking the takeout vehicle near the Bridge Street bridge just off Route 30 in the village of Schoharie, we drove to Middleburgh, turned right on Route 145, crossed the river and drove downstream about a half mile to a dirt road that offers access to the water. It was 50 degrees, windy, but sunny, not a hint of rain. We had found a place to put in and a place to take out about seven miles apart. So far so good.
    When we pushed out into the current three sandpipers flying upstream in close formation seemed intent on strafing the canoe, but veered at the last moment. First time I ever started a canoe trip with a flyover. Around the first bend a great blue heron, that was to become our constant companion, stood proudly in shallow water, lifting off only when we were close enough to see his eyeballs. Just downstream from the heron were a dozen domestic geese sitting on a small island. They honked when we went by but didn't budge. Mergansers left the water soon after we passed the geese and flew downriver.
    It looked great for smallmouths; long riffles leading to pools and runs, mostly over a rock and gravel streambed. In many areas the fast water was so low we had to walk the canoe through, so it seemed that the smallmouths would concentrate in the runs and pools. Everything looked right, but we couldn't get a single fish to bite. After more than three hours we were convinced the bass had moved to deeper downstream water, so we decided to paddle through, casting only to the best looking spots.
    With "great blue" leading the way, we covered water, looking for a very deep pool or run near a rock ledge. I had caught fish in similar water in other streams. We found several outcrops but none with water more than a couple feet deep.
    Most of the stream bank was lined with willows, soft maple, basswood and cottonwood, a few sycamore and some trees I had never seen before. I first noticed this strange tree by the fruit floating in the river. When I found a concentration of these green apple-like balls near a large tree, I gave it the once over. My tree identification book indicates they are Osage-orange or "hedge apple" trees that originated in the southwestern United States and were widely planted and became naturalized in the East.
    In some areas cornfields grew just inside the tree line. From time to time we could hear gunshots as bird hunters worked these fields. Beaver had also taken advantage of the corn, dragging stalks to the river over well-worn slides. The "larder" next to a large beaver house was almost entirely cornstalks. Not far from the beaver house was another surprise.
    Schoharie Creek is no small stream. It's bigger water than most rivers in the state. Fact is until around 1800 it was called the Schoharie River. In any case it's not the kind of water where you'd expect to see a beaver dam. Yet, there it was, two-feet high and a good 50-feet long. First time I'd seen so many cornstalks in a beaver dam.
    Just below the beaver dam were the remains of an old earthen dam that had been made by dumping rocks and gravel between pilings. Next to this manmade pile of rocks was a deep hole. Not quite what we were looking for, but we worked it with spinners and plugs. Not even a snag.
    Mark caught a fallfish on a Rapala from a long run that should have held a couple of bass. As we drifted out of this run into shallow water and had to walk, Mark scooped up a crayfish and dropped it in a puddle of water in the canoe.
    We were hungry and tired when we finally came to a long deep pool next to a rock outcrop where the water was at least five feet deep, the deepest water we had seen since the beginning of our trip. Hunger outweighed my eagerness to fish, so I opened the cooler and spread sandwiches and drink on a large flat rock. Mark rigged up the crayfish and tossed it into the hole, propping the rod in the canoe. Before he got two bites out of his sandwich, the rod took a tumble and Mark ran back to the canoe. No fish on. Another try produced a few nibbles, but no fish. A rock ledge finally snagged the bait.
     After lunch, I tied on a chartreuse plastic jig and cast it to the middle of the river. A fish took it on the first hop off the bottom. It was a 9-inch perch. Two casts later a bigger fish ate the jig. It was an 18-inch walleye.
    Faster than a speeding bullet Mark had a chartreuse plastic jig on his rod and was casting into the pool about 50-feet upstream. His first fish was a 13-inch smallmouth. There really were smallies in the Schoharie. His second fish was a big fallfish.
    After a half-hour of no fish and losing jigs to the underwater rock ledge, we decided to move on. On his way back to the canoe Mark made a couple casts. As he worked the jig from midstream to the edge of the ledge, a fish took it and held on. Mark's rod tip bent to the river. The following conversation ensued.

MARK: "It's a walleye. The biggest walleye I've ever caught in ... my ... life!"

    That walleye was 24 inches long and weighed 4 1\2 pounds. Suddenly a good canoe-fishing trip became a great canoe-fishing trip. I took a dozen pictures of Mark's fish before we returned to the canoe.
    We had been on the river for about 4 1\2 hours and didn't know how far it was to the takeout. We paddled hard, reaching the Bridge at Schoharie in less than an hour. After fishing the deep water near the bridge for a few minutes, we hauled the canoe and gear up the steep trail to Mark's car.
    In this case knowing almost nothing about the river was a boon. We found something new at every bend, met friendly "wildlife", saw a tree I had never seen before, crossed a beaver dam where there shouldn't be one, and caught a big walleye in a river noted for smallmouth bass. Never did find those bass. Maybe next time.