Around The Island

In the dead center of the southern Erie County glacial pothole called Lake LeBoeuf just a half mile from my boyhood home, there is an island of sorts. It's sparse crown of willows and dying snags are often inundated to ankle level by the freshets from LeBoeuf's three strong inlets, and dry ground is a sparse commodity there in any season. Still, we called it "the island".

Off the edges of the island were the places that held the fish.. A major sand bar extended off the island's west side, and it hosted a weed bed rich in minnows and other aquatic life. From the southern most point of the island, a single finger of a weed line extended out to touch and intertwine with a like protrusion extending from the lake’s southwest shore line. The dense weeds drew the minnows which drew the panfish which drew the bass and muskies. The chain of life.

It was here, in these places around the island, that we most often saw him. He was a fixture on the little lake. Well past retirement age, a solitary figure in a weathered cap and light windbreaker. Two rods extended from the rear of the boat, taut strands of monofilament line running from the rod tips to the water’s surface and the outboard coughed the staccato rhythm of trolling speed. Round and round the weed beds and the island he would go; winding through the channels of open water, searching for big fish.

Every once in a while, he would pause in his travels and stop and talk for a moment. We would show him the good stringer of crappies the morning had brought, and he would smile and nod. But the crappies weren't his thing. When asked how he was doing, as often as not he would shrug and say that he had "something" on at first light this morning. It had seized his Creek Chub lure or oversized Rapala, been there for a second, and then was gone. Big fish. Likely a muskie. That was what brought him out on the lake every day just as the new light was beginning to touch the water, and what made him troll the endless loops around the island and along the adjoining shoreline.


More often than not though, he would just wave as he passed. A single hand flashing in greeting while the other grasped the handle of the outboard to steer the boat along the weed line. And then he would be gone.

His name was Fred Koehler and we thought of him as the wisest of the wise in the ways of Lake LeBoeuf. He had retired, and moved from Pittsburgh up to our home town of Waterford to be with the lake always. We venerated him, and always watched for him when we were anchored off the island filling the bucket with crappies. We wanted to know what he knew. Because we knew he knew it all.

One bright Saturday morning in June, Fred paused from his trolling to talk for a moment. I was maybe twelve or thirteen years old at the time. With the brashness of youth, I spoke right up and asked him about the best way to catch the walleyes that lived in the little lake. He smiled and explained a technique involving a big bobber with a five or six inch chub hooked lightly through the lips suspended below. He told us where to fish it. Just off the island on the south side along the edge of the weeds. He told us this was where the walleyes were early in the morning, but not to be surprised if we came up with a big bass or even a muskie in the bargain. They were there at that time too. We nodded and thanked him. He moved on.

I spent most of the next week peddling papers, chasing lawn mowers and yanking weeds out of the garden, all the while thinking about big bobbers, first light and the weed bed.

Saturday morning finally arrived, and while there was a growing glow around the tree tops to the east, it was still dark when we approached the weed bed. The chubs had been collected the evening before. I clipped the big bobber to the line just about at the depth that Fred had suggested. Then I reached into the bucket and grabbed one of the wriggling chubs and baited up. In the half-light, I cast the whole thing as close to the edge of the weeds as I could, just as Fred had said to do. My Dad and brother followed suit. The daylight grew stronger. The morning mist rode low on the water. We sat back and waited.

I had the only take of the morning. The bobber jiggled, and then darted to and fro frantically. Then it began to move, cutting an inexorable "V" across the flat surface of the lake. "Let him run with it, then set the hook", my Dad said. I did the best I could. I was only twelve, after all.

Just as I thought I was going to pop from anticipation, my Dad said: "Hit him". I hauled back on the rod with both hands and dug my feet into the bottom of the boat. The rod arced, and the line began to melt from my reel. The bobber disappeared. We couldn't see it, but we could see the mighty wake it was leaving as it was towed towards the weeds by whatever was on the other end.

In a few seconds, it was over. The line went limp, and the bobber popped through the surface and just sat there. Gone... We spent the rest of the morning filling the bucket with crappies.

Later, we saw Fred. But he didn't stop. Just a wave and the passing rumble of the motor. I wish he would have hauled up and talked just for a moment. I would have liked to have had the chance to thank him for the advice and tell him that crappies were OK, but that I was after big fish now. Just like him.

(This essay originally appeared in modified form in Pennsylvania Angler And Boater Magazine)