American Adventure (4)- Charleston

Tomorrow morning, after church, I leave Charleston and South Carolina to travel into North Carolina, following two delightful days in Charleston. My hosts for this leg of the journey were Mount Pleasant Presbyterian Church, which has grown from a Sunday attendance of about 350 to its current congregation of 900 per Sunday, spread across 4 services. The church building, like the town, has a quaint, white clapperboard look, and was a Confederate hospital during the Civil War.

 

I was met by my contact in Charleston, Carmen Goetschius, who, along with her husband, Clarke  is a part of the clergy team at the church. Clarke is a keen outdoorsman and angler, and has succeeded in converting his wife into a fisherperson, and who took me on a tour of the town.The streets are idyllic, white houses with porches that look as if they've come straight from a movie set, and in a town very proud of its history, lots of explanatory signposts, including this one which I rather liked:

 

 

I was shown the spot where the first shot in the Civil War was fired, and ended the evening at the home of Shirley, a church member who was hosting me for my stay in Charleston. She had only days earlier returned from a trip to China with her 17 year old grandson, and she, Carmen and I enjoyed a lively discussion, mostly about theology, but with a bit of politics and social history thrown in for good measure. Both Carmen and Shirley were enthusiastic, informed and energetic conversationalists and, despite my "long journey fatigue" my brain was doing overtime as we discussed and debated.

 

 

This morning, before my fishing trip, I met with a number of people involved in the church's various outdoor ministries. These included outreach work with a school for children with behavioural problems and a men's Hiking Group that runs camp-out hiking trips for men from the congregation. The enthusiasm for the hiking/backpacking group was obvious as they spoke of its purpose and strategy and shared stories of how it had impacted them in their Christian lives. A recurring theme was the way that being together as a bunch of men, outside of normal church life and in a different setting encouraged an authenticity in their relationships and level of spiritual engagement, summed up by this quote from a paper I was given detailing the "what" and "why" of the group: "Since MPPC's first trail hike in May 2012 our participants have been blessed- their faith in Christ as Lord and Saviour has been strengthened and strong bonds have been built with their brothers in Christ", which is pretty much what Patrick from "Ironman Outdoors" had said to me in Columbia.

 

Charleston- a lovely town, and some great people, but now to pack for tomorrow's four hour journey to Asheville.

American Adventure (3) "Fishin' on the dock of the bay"

Charleston has been a blast. I'll write up my whole Charleston experience in my next post, the people I've met, the meeting with the church's Outdoor Ministry committee, and throw in a few pictures of the town, which is one of the quaintest and most aesthetically attractive places I've ever visited, but for now here's the big headline: I've been fishing, and I've caught fish. In fact, here is the first American fish I've ever caught. Not the prettiest of fish, but a game fighter which took line from the clutch, and at one point had the line wrapped around one of the posts of the dock, fraying the line to alarming proportions.

My guide for the day was Susan Dalton, a member of Mount Pleasant Presbyterian Church and fanatical South Carolinan sea angler. In fact she's such a fanatical angler that she and her sister (her whole family fishes) run a business called "Angling Women" which teaches kids (of both genders) to fish, provides aquatic education, women's fishing programs, fishing birthday parties and some corporate events, and is sponsored by tackle giants Pflueger and Berkley.

The original plan had been to fish from a kayak in the creek, but a number of "technical" problems prevented this, so plan B was to fish from the dock at the bottom of another church member's house. Mud minnows were used as livebait, initially presented under a float, before I switched over to a leger rig. The sea was unusually rough (by South Carolina standards), and fishing from the floating dock meant a slightly bumpy ride, and the occasional soaking, and made bite detection harder than normal. I missed my first bite, which resulted in me retrieving just the head of the bait, the rest having been ripped off by whatever predator had taken a fancy to it. My first fish, when it arrived, was the Skate shown in the top picture, which was released after capture.

Susan's parents, along with the houseowner, Dal and his wife, joined us on the dock, and the afternoon's fishing was concluded by me catching this flounder, a highly prized fish locally. Said flounder wasn't released, and a splendid day became even better when Booker, Susan's dad, filleted and cooked the fish, which went from sea to plate in about an hour, and was- predictably- delicious.

Here's hoping my luck holds out for my next American fishing trip.

Lunchtime in Columbia

Nothing prepares you for the heat of America's South. As you climb out of the car it doesn't just hit you, it full on mugs you- a heat that's dry in the air but makes your clothes and hands permanently clammy.

 

Breakfast at the hotel was a disappointment- an "eat all you can" buffet- I took the injunction literally, and ate all there was, which wasn't much- I had both the danish pastries, and that was that. Semi-breakfasted, I pointed "The Bugle" in the direction of Columbia, South Carolina, and set off on the Interstate.

 

Halfway to Columbia I was hungry- I'd been awake for about 18 hours yesterday, and only eaten a tin-foil wrapped aeroplane meal, and so I pulled into a roadside Waffle House for a proper American breakfast with egg, toast and hash browns, which, along with unlimited coffee refills, cost less than $6. The waitress, a matronly lady of African American origin purred around me enjoying my English accent, not knowing that I was equally enjoying hers. I don't know if it's the heat that leads to the languid, slow, drawn out drawl, but a vowel seems to last a day, a word a week, and a sentance a month. It's a lovely patois that suits the people, all of whom want to say "hi" or "good day" as you walk down the street.

 

Jimmy John's Sandwich Bar ("a tradition since 1983")  in Columbia's downtown, was where I met Patrick Tyndall from Ironman Outdoors.

 

 

A word on the name: "Ironman Outdoors" sounds like it could be a bunch of body builders who meet al fresco, but it's drawn from the metaphor of "iron sharpening iron." Patrick was tremendous company, insisted on paying for lunch, and spending time with him was a pleasure. From its humble beginnings as an offshoot of the adult Sunday School he teaches at his church, Ironman Outdoors now runs about 40 retreats a year for men, mostly with a hunting or fishing theme. Retreats typically have a mixture of Christians and those from the fringe of church activity, and along with the hunting or fishing are a series of discussion groups, usually beginning with subjects of general interest: "How to be a good dad/husband etc" (the answer to this, and every other question, of course, being an answer that involves Jesus), before culminating in some form of Gospel appeal. Patrick has a number of e-mails of thanks from grateful wives who've contacted him to say that their husbands came back better than they went, which sounds like a pretty ringing endorsement. The organisation has a central steering team of 7, an e-mail newsletter membership of two and a half thousand and a team of pro-staffers. Patrick's positivism, sound good sense, passion for the gospel and the growth of the ministry he oversees (in his spare time- he's got a "day job", too!) were a real encouragement with some good tips for me, and a few others, to chew over in the Autumn as we look to launch our UK based fishing ministry........... and he gave me a neat "Ironman Outdoors"baseball cap too, which will get its first outing tomorrow when I go fishing for the first time in Charlston, South Carolina.
 Nice one Patrick, thanks
 

American Adventure (1): "Planes, trains and automobiles...."

It's 5:17am  in Georgia, 10:17am in the UK and my body is tired but confused. I wish I still posessed the teenager's ability to sleep for hours anytime, any place, anywhere but it's just one of many things that the passage of time robs from you, so I'm sat in my motel room writing my first update.

Yesterday was about the unglamorous side of travel.: more aimless waiting around than in "session" carp fishing, with 9 and a half hours spent on planes, 6 hours in airport lounges and 2 and a half hours driving, not to mention a couple of unexpected trips on a "train", more of which in a minute.

The first surprise was the plane. I'd expected something a bit more substantial than a Boeing 757 for a transatlantic flight (I've been on bigger planes on short hops to Spain or France!), but I figured that they "know what they're doing" and the fuel tank really would be big enough for the journey, and settled into a long, but comfortable flight.

After a perfect landing and three hours of people watching at New York I got onto a small jet (basically a sardine tin with wings) for a rather "bumpy" internal flight of a couple of hours, which touched down in Atlanta at around 5 o'clock. However, it was to take another hour to get out of the Airport! Atlanta Airport is about the scale of a medium sized English village, and after a walk of about a mile I had to get on a train just to get to the baggage reclaim, then onto another train to get to the hire car centre.

 

The hire car is a delight- not the rather boring Citreon Aveo I was expecting, but a VW Bug for no extra dosh. It's a bit of a "hairdresser's car", but not as girly as the modern Beetle's with  their ridiculous plant pot on the dashboard, looks fun and is fun to drive. I've christened her (not literally) "The Bugle", and I think we're going to get along great. I made a couple of wrong turns just outside the airport, but pretty soon the car, the Sat Nav and I agreed to "work together" and I enjoyed a pleasant drive ( car temperature reading 90 degrees) with the air con on listening to Country and Western (it felt "right") and then a couple of Christian channels. I had a bit of a "discussion" with the motel manager, who tried to charge me again for a room I'd already paid for on the internet (I won), which was surprising especially as it's a motel owned by "The Man" and not a "Mom n' Pop" owned motel, but it's a comfortable enough room to not be able to sleep in!

 

 Today, I'm off to South Carolina, first to Columbia ( only 147 miles- which by this journey's standards is like popping to the shops in the UK!) to meet an outdoor's ministry guy called Patrick, then on to Charleston where I'll be staying with a family, having a couple of meetings and going fishing. I'll see y'all later!

Undergunned on the "wrong" lake

Ok, I lied. I didn't mean to, but when a couple of weeks ago I posted that I'd fished for the final time before my trip to America I hadn't forseen that the possibility would open up for one last opportunistic trip. This morning, accompanied by Louie, the lad from church who I'd taken fishing for the first time ever three weeks ago (see "Doing it for charid-ee"), and who subsequently blew a whole ton of pocket money setting himself up with fishing tackle, I arrived at the Estate Lake only to be greeted (for the second time this year) by locked gates. After a few minutes waiting around we decided to "cut our losses", as we only had four hours in which to fish, and head for a "commercial" fishery a few miles up the road. The only problem was that we'd severely pared down what tackle we'd brought with us, I'd left my rod holdall at home, and all we had were two poles and light elastics on a water full of decent carp- baitwise, we had a pint and a half of maggots between us, and so we were less than ideally prepared for the water we ended up on.

 We found a nice sheltered corner of the lake, with the sun on the water and some nice cover provided by a couple of overhanging trees and flicked out a couple of light pole rigs with size 18 hooks baited with double maggot.

 

Bites followed immediately, with hordes of tiny perch attacking the bait as soon as it hit the water.

 

 

 

The bites came and went with bursts of activity followed by periods when the swim went quiet, and the ubiquitous perch were augnmented by the occasional better rudd. By the end of the session we'd caught around 40 fish between us, but all of a smaller stamp than we would have anticipated had the Estate lake opened its doors for us to target its crucians. The occasional carp crashed or rolled, but of the half a dozen carp anglers on the lake we only saw one land a fish. If we'd had the fortune to hook one the outcome would have been uncertain on the light tackle we were utilising. If we'd known we'd end up here rather than the Estate Lake we'd have come armed with carp rods, baitrunners, method feeders and PVA bags - maybe next time.

 

The rain that had threatened all morning mercifully held off, and we were treated to several visits from the lake owner's chickens, who have the run of the place, and devour angler's bait with carefree abandon. I've only fished this lake a couple of times previously, but it's environs are pleasant, and the carp potential for future trips is enticing. In all, a pleasant, though unspectacular way to sign off from English angling before tangling with (hopefully bigger) specimens in the USA...... five days and I'll be in Georgia, six days and Ill be fishing in South Carolina....... watch this space!

 

 

The new pond

I've been aware for a while now, of a small pond just a quarter of an hour's drive from my home. Small is very much the operative word, with the pond probably being around half an acre, Available on a day ticket basis, it's barely fished probably because, despite its diminutive size, it has a reputation for being hard; "they don't give themselves up, there" was the consensus of the few anglers I've spoken to who've fished it.

The lake is stocked with carp (not biggies, but mid to high singles with the occasional double) who haven't grown to obese proportions by munching obscene quantities of boilies, backed up with tench, roach, perch and, unusually, chub.

The rules mitigate against carp angling in its modern incarnation (hooks larger than a 12, bite alarms and lines in excess of 5 lb breaking strain are all banned), leaving a tiny, intimate little pond fished by a select band of pleasure anglers who enjoy a challenge and don't mind being made fools of by the ultra- wary inhabitants of a glorified garden pond.

There's a narrow arm of the pond, probably only 4m wide, which stretches like a finger, reed fringed and with overhanging trees that fairly screams "fish", and the lake appears to be between 3 and 6 feet deep, fairly weeded and with a silty bottom.

I can't wait to give it a try on my return from America, as the puzzle of solving its riddles will prove a pleasing antidote to the fact that I've, by and large, got the measure of the Estate lake and its crucians. My mind is already weighing up options- method feeder, pole or waggler? Which swims to fish? Maggots, pellets, sweetcorn, meat, mini-boilies?

Questions, questions, and the mental rumination that's part of the fun and anticipation of a campaign on a new lake.

 

 

Signing off without style

Fishing has a habit of reminding you that when you think you've cracked it .... you haven't. Following the success of my guiding/coaching session (see previous post), and with only two full days elapsed since then, I was- if not complacent- certainly confident as I returned to the Estate Lake for a short, early evening session with my son. We tackled up in decent swims, and were soon joined by Roger, a friend from church, and his two boys aged 9 and 12. Roger elected not to fish himself, but rather to act as chief untangler, loose-feeder and helper to his sons. With the four of us strung out along the same bank on a glorious summer's evening the scene looked set for a "bagging session" on what is usually a remarkably compliant lake. The target, as ever, were the lake's handsome, deep bodied crucians. But, unusually, the crucians decided not to co-operate and the lake decided to have one of its rare moody days.

 

My son and one of Roger's boys elected to pole-fish, while Roger's other son and I set up on running line and waggler. My decision to opt for waggler over the pole was for no better reason than I fancied a change, as I usually go with a pole fishing approach at the Estate Lake, but thought it would be fun to reacquaint myself with my favourite float rod which rarely gets an outing these days.

 

 

 

The lake was at its lovliest, the weather balmy, the boys excitable and expectant, the occasional carp cruised languidly just below the surface, loose feed was trickled in, but the anticipated fish frenzy never materialised. Only one crucian of about half a pound was landed all evening, my first fish of the session, and although we all caught an assortment of roach, rudd and perch none of us had many fish (I caught nine, two of the boys caught seven, the other banked two) and, inexplicably, we all struggled. Bites were sporadic, and changing depth, shotting pattern, amount of feed going in all failed to effect any change on the fish's response. Not the "sign-off" from English angling I'd hoped for, but a massive relief that the lake had been at its beneavolent best a couple of days earlier on my "guiding" session. A timely reminder that fishing, fish and lakes have the capacity to be capricious and to leave even seasoned anglers tearing out whatever remaining hair they have!

However, despite the disappointment in terms of fish caught, the evening had its compensations, and the lack of fish was more than made up for by the  pleasantness of the surroundings and the heron who was visiting the pond, my first sighting of one at the Estate Lake.

 

 

 

 

 My rods, poles, holdalls and seatbox are now packed away in the "rod room", as it's only three weeks till I depart for my American adventure, and packing and planning will be consuming all non-work time over the coming days. Let's hope I have better luck in the States - the next time I wield a rod it'll be from a kayak in South Carolina ........ bring it on!