The Smelts Are In

by LESLIE P. THOMPSON

MAKE no mistake, smelt fishing is not a frivolous pastime. You should see Art and Gus pull up in their truck near the mouth of the Ipswich River—they have driven some sixty-odd miles over the road — unload the dory, launch her, throw out the killicks, bow and stern, that she may ride at the right angle and in the right place in the current, unlimber the gear — everything is in perfect order—and set to work. We on the float watch them fill a butter firkin and never get a bite!

On a zero evening you should watch the hardy old-timer pull his skiff through the floating ice-cakes of the Neponset, light his lantern in the snug cockpit—snug, but almighty cold—and at dawn bring ashore forty pounds of “jumbos” which he sells for sixty cents a pound in the local market. Not a bad night’s work.

To realize the punishment the human body is capable of withstanding, one should spend a day in January on a tidal river in the State of Maine. The fisherman’s left leg, next to a crack in the door of the flimsy shanty, is frozen stiff as a poker; his right leg, next to the red-hot stove, is burned to a crisp. And of the seven lines hanging from a crossbar under the eaves, never a one moves. He should have been there last Friday when, through the same slot in the ice, a hundred pounds of smelts were hauled from the icy water.

On the Medomak below Waldoboro, Maine, I counted seventy shanties on the ice; and on icebound rivers and bays all along our coast are little villages where the market fisherman tends his lines, usually to good effect. Once in midwinter I remember visiting a large colony spread over a shallow bay a few miles north of Bath —a backwater, I believe, of either the Kennebec or the Androscoggin. The tide was dead low and there was no activity in the little houses, many of which were grounded on the flats. Some were occupied, however, and I listened to stories of famous catches of smelt made when conditions were favorable. Here were rigs similar to those used on the Medomak — six or eight lines hanging from a crossbar. Several were ingeniously contrived with coiled springs attached which gave a certain flexibility— saving thereby, I imagine, many a fish which might have escaped with a dead pull on the line. I was impressed with the tiny bits of bait used—mostly clam worms less than a half inch in length; quite different from the long wiggling animals used in warm weather in Massachusetts waters.

From the Parker River near Newburyport I have seen fishermen coming ashore half frozen, for their only protection from the icy blast had been a windbreak of canvas stretched between two sticks thrust in the ice. Here I am told the rig is different again: a short stick with hook and line attached is held in the hand. The tide runs strong and a very heavy sinker is necessary to hold the bait at the proper depth. To hook smelts under these conditions requires long practice and uncommon skill. A woebegone individual living near by told me that he had fished for years and never caught a single one Nevertheless, big catches are made here at times, and in the Salem market Barker River smelts are famous for size and flavor.

Winter fishing for smelts has a fascination all its own, and I regret that I have had neither the courage nor opportunity to indulge in the sport oftener. During the warmer months, however, I have pursued the smelt from July through November in many pleasant places over a long period of years. As a boy I took them from the Railroad Bridge over the Mystic River — three or four miles on foot was easily accomplished in those days. Since then, bicycles and automobiles have carried me further afield, and many rivers, inlets, and bays from Plymouth, Massachusetts, to Rockland, Maine, have been fished, and until fairly recent years, usually with success. Wherever we went — naturally we fished likely places — we were pretty sure of bringing home enough for supper, and if there were a few left over, a half dozen smelts freshly cooked for breakfast were always a fine start for the day.

Scituate Harbor and a salt creek near by were always good for a fair basket. Hingham Harbor at Crow Point before the eelgrass disappeared in 1931 was a famous place. Row to the edge of the grass, throw over the anchors, and a catch of two or three dozen was the rule. At the head of the harbor we fished from a granite pier, and at night in late November it was very cold granite. Lanterns were hung over the edge of the wall, and careful watch was kept lest the incoming tide douse the glim.

Many places in Boston Harbor were good grounds — Nantasket, Hull, and Pemberton. Even at L Street Bridge, hardly a stone’s throw from the heart of the city, would be found a large congregation, a jolly, motley crew — barbers and bootleggers, bank clerks and crooks, plumbers and policemen, sitting together, elbow to elbow, enjoying the September sunshine.

But the best place of all, for me, in the vicinity of Boston was, and still is, Charlie’s Float at Winthrop. The map shows the town situated on a peninsula five miles across the harbor northeast of Boston. The eastern shore borders Massachusetts Bay and breakers pound on the beach — no place for the smelt fisherman with rod and line. The west shore is well protected from heavy winds off the ocean, and its irregular coastline forms many a snug cove, ideal for fishing from wharf and boat. In one of these little harbors lies Charlie’s Float.

The old smelt-fisher living in the city speeds through the Sumner Tunnel, and before twenty minutes have passed he is unloading the gear from his car. In the dusk he picks his way through the boat yard and there before him, forty yards from the shore, is the float with motionless figures seated outside the shanty in the center. His heart thrills as a gleam of silver shows in the lantern light when a fish is lifted from the water. The sun has set, but in the western sky above the horizon a band of dusky rose lingers, against which, in pale contrast, twinkling lights appear along the distant shore. A considerable fleet of small craft is at anchor, which promises good sport. The fish are in! How rapidly the news travels! Were there no smelts about, the congregation would be a small one.

The old-timer balances carefully as he treads the narrow gangplank between shore and float; compliments arc exchanged with old friends as he places his chair— reserved for him especially — in a space large enough to handle two rods. Charlie brings out the bait and he sets to work.

The smelts are in and no mistake, and fish after fish is dropped through the hole in the basket lid. And good fish they are — some will go four to the pound! Exciting but exacting work is the catching of smelts well on the feed, and occasionally the fisherman must find respite from watching his lines with the fierce concentration of a terrier at a rathole; he must stretch his legs. Peering into the shanty, he finds the custodians of bait engaged in a spirited game of cribbage. Against the walls are smelt poles ready rigged with lines, spreaders, and hooks — a cheerier picture could not be imagined. He warms his hands at the little iron stove before returning to his station, for the sun has long since ceased to provide comfort.

Coming from the warm, smoke-laden interior he sniffs the outside air and detects a faint perfume. Above the rich odor of lobster bait and clam flats is a rare upper stratum which hints of violets and fresh-cut cucumbers —’tis the fragrance of the smelt!

The next evening from his kitchen comes an equally delightful odor. It comes from the same source but the surrounding conditions have changed. The smelts are in the frying pan, and good company has been invited to the feast.

I have eaten and enjoyed smelts cooked in various ways. Rolled in cracker crumbs and fried in deep fat they are good; jumbos split and broiled by a first-class chef commanding a charcoal fire are excellent. But smelts cooked by an artist who knows the secrets of an iron skillet reach a height shared by no other fish in the world.

There is another place I know, far from the smoke of cities, which combines the charm of natural surroundings and the comfort of good companions — Maplejuice Cove on the coast of Maine. Maplejuice — that pretty name brings pleasant memories.

As the tide steals over the flats, I follow my old friend down through the alders, where the narrow cove is hidden but not far from the road. Coming into the open we find Frank Duchette seated on his iron pail. His rather formal polite greeting, inherited from his French ancestors, strikes a note foreign to the surroundings, but his welcome is none the less hearty — he is glad to see us. Little Frank lives near by, and bamboo pole in hand he is as much part of the landscape as the trout brook tumbling in at the head of the tide where winter yellowlegs are chasing minnows.

Lovely! The sun is warm, a gentle breeze is blowing up the cove, there is a good head of water coming down the brook, a little “mummy" leaves the water—he is being chased by a smelt. Good! They’re in! We settle on our campstools and assemble the gear. One rod is usually enough, for we are constantly casting out into the tide. A fairly long rod can be used to advantage because we are seated on rocks a foot or two sometimes more —above the water. I have a nine-foot eight-inch rather stiff greenheart fly rod which suits the purpose admirably. A float is slid on the line at a depth to suit the tide of the moment. A round cork an inch through, vermilion above and white below, pierced by a six-inch porcupine quill, is a pretty thing to watch and it handles easily. Enough lead to cock the float, a No. 4 or 5 snelled hook of fine wire, needle sharp, and the tackle is complete. Complete for me at least, for I like to fish a single hook. Some fishermen prefer two hooks placed tandemwise on a leader; others, two hooks on a spreader. A favorite local rig is a stout pole, a cork “dobber” the size of a lemon, and a “fourway” spreader. Rigs with one, two, or four hooks all take fish when smelts are about and biting.

The bait favored perhaps above all others at Maplejuice is the common salt-water minnow — the mummychog, the chub, the chunky minnow. Call him what you will, select one not much over an inch long and you have a good bait, a bait well worth careful nursing that it may be kept alive.

Thus provided with perfect bait, we cast out into the tide. A touch, a tremble, and then the float walks away. It’s time to tighten, and up comes a beauty. Loud cheers from the assembled multitude — a multitude of four, for the village doctor has joined us on the rocks and his cheery face beams as he lifts another fish from the slowmoving current.

We fish the tide through and it’s time to go home. Not a record catch, but we’ve had a glorious day and there are enough fish in our baskets to fill two good frying pans. Supper over and the dishes washed, the neighbors come in. The Spanish guitar is taken from the wall; old songs are sung, old stories told; friendly faces show in the firelight. Has life anything better to offer!