Skinny 2-year olds

The damage done by this summer's drought is frightening in its implications for wild trout fishing in NJ.  I fear it will take at least 2 or 3 years to recover, and that's if we're lucky.

I hit T-Creek, my second favorite NJ wild trout stream yesterday for the first time since the spring.  T Creek generally holds a good population of wild brookies.

At first I was encouraged.  Water levels seemed normalish... possibly a little low for this time of year, but not bad.  I also picked up a couple of small fish on the first couple of structures.  It wasn't until I caught a few more that I realized:

• The fish were much smaller on average than normal.  These seemed to be 2-year olds (4-5 inches), whereas the typical fish you catch is normally 3-4 years old (7-10 inches).
• The fish were so skinny!!  I've never seen them like that.

The auto focus on may camera didn't cooperate, but the following picture will give you some idea.

Smaller fish are more resistant to heat stress, so I believe many of the larger fish are now dead.  I caught only two larger fish, and these were 7" 3 year olds, also skinny.

I don't see how many of these fish will survive the winter, given how stressed they are now.

If we have a mild winter and a decent summer next year, the fishery might recover in two or three years.  But that's asking for a lot.

For now, I'm giving up fishing the small streams.  These fish have had enough stress in their lives without me adding to it.

I'm in mourning.  The idea of fishing for stockers in the Gorge, or some such place, is just appalling.

The Season of My Discontent

In the mid seventies, in NYC, there was a cult whose members used to wear little campaign-style buttons that said, "Victim of the Press."  This season, I feel like I should wear a button "Victim of Global Warming."

It's been a discomfiting summer and fall.  A bummer.

I stopped trout fishing in NJ back in June... it was just too hot and dry, and I didn't want to stress the local fish.  For a few weeks warm water species filled the gap, but by early July even the bass and carp streams were too low and warm.

No problem, I could alway look forward to my big August fishing trip... this year, for the first time, an 8 day wilderness rafting trip in western Alaska.   It took more than 30 consecutive days of rain to blow out one of the most pristine watersheds in the world, but we arrived by pontoon plane on about the 32nd day of rain (a record), and blown out it was.

A two day trip to Cape Cod last week resulted in no fish (One "old timer", uncomfortably close to my own age, but who claimed to fish on the Cape "every day" since the mid-70s, said the beach fishing this fall was the worst he can ever remember).  As the guy at the fly shop explained it, the bait fish that hang out over the summer in the inlets and estuaries where you normally catch stripers and blues were killed by the high temps this summer.  So there's no reason for predator fish to come-in this fall.

Back in NJ, streams have been perilously, hideously low.  All through late August and September, we had sunny day after sunny day.  Finally, last week we got some solid precipitation.  A deluge, and then several more days of substantial rain fall.  Enough to make me want to check things out.

So today I headed up to my favorite NJ wild trout stream.  It's one I've fished perhaps 100 times.  I know it intimately... there isn't a spot on 2 miles of stream frontage that I haven't fished, and every run, pocket, and pool that holds fish I know and remember.  I always catch fish there, and in recent years, I usually catch a bunch.

But I was worried.

As soon as I arrived, I made a bee-line for one of my favorite structures.  It's a small junction pool where a creek joins the "main" channel of this river.  Keep in mind this is all pretty small.  The creek is probably about 8 feet wide, and the main channel is, at most, about 20 feet.  Average depth is only a few inches, even in "high" water, though some structures can hold as much as 4 or 5 feet of water.  Though not today.

This junction pool happens to be at the far downstream end of the public access, and I think of it as the most reliable pool on the stream.  On a good day, I've caught as many as a dozen fish here.  4-6 fish is more typical.  I can't ever remember catching fewer than 2 or 3.

Until today.

Despite the last few weeks of rain, the water was low, as low as I can ever remember.  Normally, the turbulence from the junction pool makes it impossible to see bottom here.  But the low flows limited turbulence, and the deeper slots, normally knee depth, were only calf deep.   Except in a very few places, you could see the bottom clearly.

I started with a hopper pattern and covered the entire pool carefully.  Because of the low water, I stayed back in the tail and made long casts to the head of the pool.  No matter.  Nothing rose.

Normally these fish aren't particularly fussy. I switched to a parachute adams, which normally works just fine, unless the fish are really keyed into something else.  Not today.  On my first or second cast, there was a half-hearted take at the head of the pool by what appeared to be a reasonably-sized fish.  I didn't hook him, though: the long cast, a little slack, and some brush overhanging the bank delayed my hook-set.  Despite more than a dozen more casts, that was the only rise.

I didn't want to give up.  So I switched flies again, this time to a #18 flash back pheasant tail nymph.  Normally a deadly fly on this stream.  Another dozen casts.  A nearly imperceptible hesitation of my indicator led me to lift my rod tip.  I could see a 3 or 4 inch fish wriggling on the end of my line, then wriggling off.

That was it.  Two weak strikes.  No fish.  On the best run in the entire stream.  Oh dear.

I kept the nymph on for the next half hour or so, fishing several more usually reliable structures.  Nothing.

I then approached a wonderful, deep structure.  This is the place where on April 19, 2009, during the early stonefly hatch, I caught 6 fish in a row all 12" or bigger, in about 6 casts.  Today, after a dozen casts or so, I teased another weak take on the nymph by a 5 or 6" fish, which wriggled off like its predecessor.  A few casts later and the nymph snagged on some roots.  So I switched back to another dry fly, this time a #16, tan, goddard caddis.  A 7" rainbow slammed the first drift.  A survivor!

But that one fish was it.

3 or 4 more structures were blank.  Then another deeper structure, and another 7" rainbow hit my drift.

Then another blank half hour.  Then a 4" rainbow.

After losing my 3rd fly in about 6 casts, trying to stay low and long by the tail of another clear pool, I decided to call it a day.

3 fish in about 3.5 hours of concentrated fishing.  Very sad.

Ponds

It's a funny time.  Weather is cooling down nicely, with gorgeous days with highs in the mid 70s and low 80s.  Normally, great temps for trout fishing.  But there's been no rain, and I'm afraid to visit my favorite trout streams which are no doubt suffering greatly.

So what do you do?  Well, I'm headed up to Cape Cod next week for a bit of Bluefish and Striper action, but closer to home, I've been hitting my favorite ponds.

Truth be told, I love fishing the ponds.  At its best, it's a blast.  Casting to individual fish, seeing the take.  It's about as much fun as anything.  Sure, most of the time the fish are pretty small.  But even small bass are feisty and jump better than a rainbow of the same size.  And every once in a while you can catch a 2-3 pound fish, which is nothing to sneeze at.  Or even a 20 lb. carp, though most of my success with that species has taken place in the spring.

There are two ponds I fish the most.  One is the Institute pond.  It's a well known spot, so I don't mind mentioning it by name.  I hit it twice this week, though I really didn't catch much.  Yeah, a few blue gills.  But most of the time I was making nice casts to put flies over bass that were happy to ignore my offerings.  The other day about the fourth fly I tried was a damsel fly dry.  At least the bass would stop and look at it, but none offered a take until one bass got competitive with a pod of bluegills that hit and missed.  The bass showed the bluegills how to do it, thankfully.  So I wasn't completely skunked in the bass department, but pretty darn close.

Today I walked up to my other favorite local pond.  This one isn't well known.

It's about a mile walk from the road, so it rarely gets fished.  It's also on a local hiking route, so I walk by it a lot more than I fish it.  It's maybe half an acre.  Even smaller now because the water is so low (the grassy verge you see below is normally under water).  As you can see, there's no one here, and that's normal.

Today I was determined to both get in a walk and do some fishing, so I took the long route to the pond. Walking through some fields I first noticed an enormous number of dragonflies.  I do have a dragonfly dry in my box, but these insects were huge, much bigger than my fly.  And then I noticed a large number of grasshoppers, medium sized, about a #8, and decided to start with a hopper instead.

The first bass I ever caught was on a hopper.  I hadn't been fishing very long, and June and I we were staying in a B&B with a little bass pond.  For some reason I only had a little 3 weight rod - quite possibly I hadn't planned on fishing at all, and it's what I had in the trunk.  And trout flies.  So as I contemplated the pond, I tried to think through from first principles what flies might work.  A little pond, surrounded by a field.  Grasshopper?  Why not?  In the event, the first bass I cast to smashed the fly.  I landed him.  He was actually a pretty nice little bass, maybe a pound.

So today, as I walked through the field kicking up a little storm of live hoppers, I determined to tie one on as soon as I got to the pond, around 5:30.

Unfortunately, the sun was a little low which made it tough to see the fish.  I was reduced to casting at nervous water, and likely structures.  Nevertheless, on the second or third cast there was a pleasingly large splash, and a strong throb of a decent bass on the line.  For a moment.  Until the line went slack.  Oh, yeah, I forgot.  Largemouth have strong jaws.  So strong that they keep you from setting the hook.  You think you've got him, but the bass is just holding your fly in his mouth.  After a few seconds he realizes your fly isn't food, and spits it out.  With bass you kind of have to keep setting the hook, repeatedly, for several seconds, so that you set the hook when he tries to spit.

I never saw that fish, though I'm reasonably sure it would have been the largest of the day.  But other fish, both bluegills and bass, were happy to hit the fly.  Even casting blind I caught two small bass and a number of bluegills in about 40 minutes.  Great fun.

How High Was It?

Some of my friends asked, how high really was the Kisaralik?  What does it mean to get "blown out".  These photos show it pretty dramatically.

The first shows the lower falls as we experienced it.  Note the point of the rock marked with an arrow, and the water level of the lower pool.

Now check out a photo I found on the web of the same spot, nearly the same camera angle, taken on a normal summer day.  The water is a good 2.5-3' lower.  Note also, how clear it is compared to the muddy gunk we got.

This is what it means to be "blown out".  Fish flee for cover so as not to be swept away by the flood.  And they stop feeding, in part because trout are visual feeders and can't really see their food.

Michael

Kisaralik River (Part 1 of 2) August 16-19, 2010

Five days into this trip. We've flown into one of the most beautiful fishing rivers in Alaska. Normally it's crystal clear, and delivers dozens of rainbows and salmon daily to even modestly accomplished anglers. Not this year. This year it's chocolate brown. It's raining, and I'm sitting in the raft shivering despite my GoreTex shell and about 5 additional layers of clothing. In 5 full days I've caught perhaps as many fish...

Near our first camp site on the Kisaralik.  Normally this area in the foreground is dry.

We'd picked the Kisaralik because of its reputation that it never blows out, but it's been Alaska's wettest summer in history. After more than 30 consecutive days with rain (a record), it blew out right about when we arrived.  But I'm getting ahead of myself...  Let's start from the beginning.

Monday, August 16

We fly into Kisaralik Lake in single engine pontoon planes (Beavers). It's really windy, causing the pilots to consider aborting the flight. Instead, they landed in a slightly sheltered cove about a quarter mile from the mouth. White caps on the lake. 

We get some partial shelter in old hunting shack that has no windows and a holed roof, while guides assemble the rafts. We're all really cold. The wind is truly bitter.

We will learn to wear more layers but right now, standing on the muddy shore, we've added as many layers as we have to hand (other layers are packed away). We huddle behind a wall of the shack to cut the wind. I have on: short sleeve undershirt, long sleeve undershirt, long johns, fleece vest, heavy fleece jacket, waders, and goretex shell with hood. It's still not enough.

David and me freezing next to the "shack". Todd photo.

Rain lets up some as we pile into rafts but wind abates only somewhat. We're all really cold as we sit around doing not much while our guides, Zach and Larry, row.

Windy for the next 3 hours, at least 10 mph with higher gusts throughout. We're shivering as we make first camp. Food is good. Tents warm. We're all tense about weather and high water. No one is feeling warm enough to pull out a rod and attempt fishing.

Tuesday, August 17

Still windy with intermittent rain. I add heavy pants under waders and over long johns. Legs are finally warm! I catch a nice Dolly Varden ("Dolly"), a close relative of the Brook Trout, "trolling" off the drifting boat, but it's pretty much just dumb luck. I take little pleasure in the catch: it's one fish after several hours of keeping my fly in the water.

4 hr float to the "falls" - which are two drops about 100 yards apart. We have to get off the boats and scramble below the falls while the guides figure out how to get the rafts and our gear down. Normal portage path is under water, so we have unpleasant scramble through thigh-deep water clinging to willows and alder overhanging the bank. Guides skillfully shoot rafts through upper falls and rope boats over lower falls. We make camp at base of second falls. 

Our guides, Zach (left) and Larry check out the lower falls.  They decided not to run it here, and instead rope the boats through the gentler flow in front of them.  Normally the water here is crystal clear.

Camp site is sheltered (finally no wind!). There's a steady stream of fish to the base of the falls. We all catch a few, including Mathias, who is fishing for the first time this trip. Todd hooks up with a nice salmon (plus a bunch of other fish), and David with a nice Char, which is also a sea run fish. I catch a couple of big Dollies. Food good, tents warm. Spirits are up somewhat, though we're all really worried.

Empty rafts at base of second falls, where we camp for the night.

Todd with a salmon on the line, caught just below the lower falls.  This was the first reliable fishing we had in two days, and really the only place we all caught fish until Friday.

Wednesday, August 18

More rain. Water is starting to look muddy. Long drift. No fish. We realize river is blowing out. We're not as cold as we were, but I find myself clenching teeth a lot and trying to feel stoic. Food good, tents warm but we're bummed. 

Our guide, Larry rowing on Wednesday.  Note the river has taken on a decidedly brown cast.

Thursday, August 19

Overcast but no rain. David catches 3 fish, including a nice rainbow, by tossing flies to the bank as we drift by. Trick is to get fly to land within inches of the bank. I catch none, and lose a dozen flies in the process. Even David feels it's too much work for the return. Imagine how I feel.

Zach holding the nicest of David's rainbows caught during the drift downstream.

I nearly lose my 7 wt rod and reel during the drift. My fly sticks to the bottom and I try to free it, rather than break it off right away. With 13-15 lbs. tippet it's actually hard to break stuff off, you need to lower your rod tip, hold the line, and pull hard. By the time I give up trying to free the line, I'm into backing, and don't realize that when I trap the backing it's going to cut into my finger. I drop the rod in pain! I figure it's gone, but luckily the cork grip keeps the whole rod floating, and the current is strong enough to keep the line unwinding off the reel. Generally, these rafts are too heavy to make much progress agains the current, but the rod remains tantalizingly close. Larry rows like a madman. First attempt at recovery, and the raft goes over the rod. Second shot, and it's out of my reach by about 6". Third shot, and Mathias manages to grab it! There's only about 20 feet of backing remaining (out of perhaps 150 yards). There wouldn't have been a 4th shot as once the line had run out, it would have been gone forever. Whew! Todd and David had no idea what was happening, could only see us acting like crazy people.

We camp after long drift at site where we're supposed to stay for 2 nights.

Me, checking out one of the braids on the Kisaralik, near our camp on August 19.

Kisaralik River (Part 2 of 2) August 19-23, 2010

Thursday, August 19 (evening)

Is the water a little lower?  Is it a little clearer?  I hope so, but perhaps it's just wishful thinking.  For an hour, we fish the runs near camp with no joy.

Larry suggests rigging up a bead, The bead imitates a salmon egg and is fished like a nymph.

The bead rig.  The fish suck in the bead, and end up getting hooked on the lip.

Privately, I think it's a complete waste of time.  The flies we've been fishing aren't exactly invisible.  But when you're in the wilderness on a fishing trip, and you're not catching fish, there's not much else to do but try something else.  And humor your guide.  So I rig the bead and cast it into some likely looking riffles: slow current and close to the bank.  Exactly the place I'd be holding if I were a fish in a blown out river.

I then catch a nice Rainbow after a couple of casts. He's a fat 17" or 18" fish who pulls into the current, and makes me work to bring him in, nearly breaking off on some sweepers. For the first time in this entire trip, I feel like we've got a workable formula for catching fish.  Everyone else is skunked, though I was the only person fishing beads.

Todd, David, and I talk that night about abandoning the trip. They're pessimistic. I'm feeling optimistic because of my bead experience. We agree to wait and see.

Friday, August 20

Water's definitely a little lower and a little clearer.  Right before breakfast I get up and hook 3 fish on beads: a 14" 'bow, a dolly, and a grayling. After breakfast, we all go out and everyone tries beads, and everyone hooks into a few fish, including Mathias.

Mathias and Larry with a rainbow he caught on a bead.  You can see it as a red spot, hanging a couple of inches below the fish's mouth.  Note the water isn't completely muddy: you can see rocks in the shallow riffle behind them.

We then wade down a quarter mile or so to a salmon hole and get shots at Silvers, which are big (10 to 15 lbs), hard-fighting fish. I'm lucky enough to hook and land one using a pink, crystal streamer. Zach (head guide) catches a perfect "chrome" Silver, which he kills for a dinner appetizer.

Working our way down to the first silver hole.  Larry and Zach rowed us across the braid, which was too deep to wade across, which is why I'm getting out of the raft.

After lunch, David and I wade up a back-braid with Zach and Larry. Water is shallow enough and clear enough that we can see the bottom. We cast over spawning chinook salmon to catch the rainbows feeding on drifting eggs behind the salmon. We both get into some nice fish. I catch a 20'" rainbow, which turns out to be the largest trout I'll catch. My favorite time in the whole trip.

Zach holding the rainbow I caught casting above spawning salmon in the back braid... my favorite moment of the entire trip.

Sun comes out. It feels WARM! We can wash.

 Zack fillets the salmon he killed, and cooks it perfectly, blackened with cajun seasoning. David pronounces it, "The best fish I've ever had". I'm not expert (as you know I'm normally averse to eating fish) but even I'm enjoying it. We agree not to bail.

L to R: David, Todd, and Mathias in the dinner tent.  Scraps of the blackened silver (coho) salmon are on the plate in the foreground.

Saturday, August 21

We return to Silver hole on way to next camp site. David and Todd both land 2 each. I spend most of the time fussing with the line and backing on my 7 wt reel which had gotten messed up the previous day, and don't catch anything. We drift for 3 hours It starts to rain again. Nothing's working again.

Big 'bows are supposed to be holding against the bank opposite our campground. We all try for about 20 minutes and pick up nothing. We challenge Zack to try to find the trout. Zack is happy casting these enormous flies with three BB shots on the end which are fiendishly unpleasant to cast. They work better than the stuff we like to throw, but IMO it turns a normally pleasant act (casting) into an act of torture. Zack works really hard for an hour and reports back: 2 fish. No one is motivated to go back out.

Fishing the riffles near our campsite on August 21.  We're all skunked (again).

We talk about abandoning but now the logic shifts... why not stick out one last day? We decide to shift camp instead of staying put, to a new campsite on another Silver hole.

Sunday, August 22

We arrive midday at silver hole. Tension in the air... will there be fish? YES! Todd spots the large reddish shapes moving underwater, just under the surface. Big pod in quiet little back eddy, 30 feet across and perhaps 75 foot wide, and only about 3' deep.

The silver hole.  The "quiet little back eddy" is in the foreground here.

Zach recommends Polliwogs, a floating pink fly. It's essentially a Salmon version of a popper, which you strip erratically and noisily on the surface. The Salmon don't eat on their freshwater run, but they are still territorial predators, and they attack this cheeky trespasser in their midst. Fish, up to 20 lbs each, sometimes several, chase fly, open mouth, miss, miss, miss, miss. The tension builds. Cast again, right into a group of 5 or 6 fish. Chase, miss, then the fourth or fifth salmon, not even chasing, decides to slash across, on top of the chasers, to swallow the fly and gets hooked . Great fun.

David and I each catch one each. Silvers are quite strong and love to jump and twirl. But we have 15 lbs tippet, so generally, once hooked, we land. The noise of the fights spooks the other fish out of the back eddy.

Me with a nice silver (coho) salmon, caught on a streamer later in the day on the main hole.

Now focus shifts to long pool. This is perhaps 100 feet across, and 500 feet wide. We are fishing streamers. Everyone hooks one or more salmon. Most get several.

David with one of the many coho salmon he caught on Sunday.

Sun comes out. Clouds go away. It becomes a glorious day, almost hot. Everyone fishes contentedly for much of the day. David and Mathias go out in the afternoon, after a late lunch, while the rest of us watch from camp. Mathias is double-hauling, casting over 50 feet! His father feels proud of him.

We wash again. Great steak dinner, cooked on a campfire made from driftwood. Glorious day.

Our last camp.  You can see Mathias washing in the background and our clothing laid over the tents to dry in the sun.  It was an absolutely glorious day, and a little bit of a hint about what these fishing trips are normally like (Todd photo).

Monday, August 23

Last day. Up before dawn to make sure we get onto the river early enough be on time for the powerboat that will be picking us up at the end of the drift..

Mathias and I sneak over to the back-braid while the guides are packing the rafts, hoping we can "wog". The silvers are back and attack the polliwog! Not quite as much fun as yesterday, as a) I can't see them in the early light, just their wakes, and b) they don't miss this morning. Still, it's a lot of fun. I hook one fish, who spits the hook quickly, and then land a second.

Once on the rafts, it's cold, overcast, but dry. After last few days of warmth, I'm not wearing enough layers. I'm cold again.

L to R: Mathias, Larry, David, Todd at the take out spot.

We get to takeout early. Guides break down rafts but are now done. We're standing around muddy gravel bar, bored, trying not to get hypothermic. Guides have never fished here... just gotten picked up.

I look downstream 100 yards and see wakes in a quiet pool. Has to be Silvers! Zach, senior guide, and I slosh over to check it out. Nice pod. We throw out polliwogs and Zach gets one to take quickly. My first two casts get chased but no takes. Zach release his first fish. Then I get a fish to take, and Zach gets his second while I'm trying to land my first, a DOUBLE! Great, unexpected fun. Boat arrives around 2 and it's. Back to Bethel.

Zach and I both with silvers on.

Zach landing one of his silvers.

It's finally over.  We get picked up.  90 minutes later we're in Bethel (civilization, sort of).

Epilogue

It's been two weeks since we returned.  In retrospect, we managed to pick the worst week in 100 years, and still we had a pretty good time.  Perhaps we're just nuts.

It's Nearly August, I'll Take what I can Get!

Friday, Todd and I hit Valley Creek.  This is a lovely limestone stream which runs through Valley Forge National Park.  I used to fish it semi-regularly when I worked in Philly.  Now I tend to travel north, and haven't fished it in 4 or 5 years.  But since Todd and I both have PA licenses, and Todd lacks a NJ one, it seemed like a good idea to travel SW.  It's only about 45 minutes from Trenton, which actually makes it closer than just about any wild trout stream in NJ.  And since it's pretty much a limestone, it stays cooler than most of the freestone NJ streams, and is more or less fishable, even now.

Of course, Todd likes to cast only to rising fish, so rather than fish the pocket water (which is what I've always done), we headed for the flatter, quieter downstream runs and pools which dominate the stream as it approaches the Skuylkill River, looking for risers.

We arrived about 8.  For the first 45 minutes or so, we didn't see any fish.  Then, mysteriously, we started to see moving shapes in the nearly crystal clear water.  One or two at first, then a few more.  A few minutes later, miraculously, a rise here and there.  But no apparent hatch.

I tied on an ant pattern, and then a inchworm, and covered a few such risers fish with no joy.  Todd wandered off and did his thing.  We regrouped an hour or so later, and neither of us had experienced any success.

It was by now well after 10, and it seemed like that this would be the last structure we'd fish.  We approached a riffle which emptied into a multi-tongued pocket at the head of a nice, long, deep run, with a moderate current and a distinct foam line.  Perfect for nymphing, and turbulent enough to perhaps mask my presence.  (A big issue in fishing Valley Creek is that the fish are at times insanely spooky).  I tied on a tiny bead-head copper john, and a thing-a-ma-bobber strike indicator, which looks like a small, orange bubble.

On my first cast into the head of the run, a trout exploded out of the pocket and struck my indicator.  Oh, my!  I was expecting Ph.D. fish, and here we have an aggressive fish that is simply looking for something big and bright on the surface!  So I pulled in my line, cut off the tiny nymph, and replaced it with a nice, big #10 Dave's Hopper, with a yellow belly, and a hot red tail.

I then proceeded to cast into the pocket, on a short line, holding the rod tip high to get a nice dead drift through the different tongues of current and back eddies.  4 or 5 casts into it, I was pretty sure I'd covered the spot where the fish had risen, and was starting to doubt whether this would work, when I noticed a slight brown underwater shadow shift in parallel with the hopper's drift.  Just for a moment or two.  The fish had moved slightly, and was now holding about 2 feet further out, in the next tongue of the current.

I cast just into he next seam, kept a nice, sweet drift on the fly as it swept around a boulder and downstream.  As it drifted over where I'd just seen the fish, it was rewarded with a solid strike by a chunky brown trout!

I confess the fish was on only briefly, a dozen seconds or so, then somehow spit the fly and got away.  So I don't know how big he actually was, though I'd guess a fat 11 or 12".  Were I on my own, and if I didn't have an appointment back in Trenton, I might then have gone for a search for similar pockets, tossing the hopper.  But it was late, and time to go.

Still, it's nearly August, and I'll take what I can get.  Actually it seemed pretty good.