By
Art “Dakota” Elmendorf
As a young boy growing up in a family of sportsmen I can remember anytime my Dad and Uncle Bob got together with their friends the conversation always came around to Archer’s Fly. They would tell tales of the huge whitetail bucks found there. I would sit quietly and listen to every word, not wanting to miss a single thing. They sure loved that spot, and I was forever begging to go along. I was told the time would come when I was old enough. The time finally came the summer of my 13th birthday.
My Dad was planning a week-long trip into the Fly to scout for big bucks, and do a little Trout fishing. Uncle Bob, Old Trapper, And Big Mike were going along. This was my chance to finally see Archer’s Fly. The night before we were to leave they got together and laid out everything on the garage floor. At the time I could not imagine what we needed all that stuff for. Everyone had his own pack and the canoe was loaded as well. My Dad had placed a set of wheels under the canoe that I thought were neat. They even had two boxes of canned goods to bring in and bury for the upcoming deer season. Everything was accounted for and we were ready. With all the excitement I don’t think I got much sleep that night.
The next morning the guys arrived at 6AM, loaded the pickups, and we were off.
About two hours of bumpy roads later we pulled off into a parking area used by log trucks. There was a lot of laughing and joking and all were happy. My Dad helped place the pack on my back and asked if it felt ok. I was quick to answer yes, but remember it was heavy. As we headed off into the woods I realized there was no marked trail. Dad explained that going in without a trail was called bushwhacking. He said that Trapper had discovered this spot some years earlier while setting out his trap line. He and Old Trapper were best of friends. They shared a passion for the big woods that even I could understand. The woods were thick and dark, and the bugs were a pain. We hiked for what seemed like hours, stopping now and then so Dad could check his map and compass and take a drink. I had never seen anything like this. Some of the Pine trees were so large that three of us hooked together couldn’t get our arms around them.
Dad would often ask if I was ok. He told me I could put my pack in the canoe, but I said no way. I remembered Mom telling him the night before not to forget I was only 13 years old.
We had pushed and pulled the canoe uphill for what seemed like forever when I could see sunshine coming thru the trees ahead. We came out on an open ridge top looking down at what surely must be Archers Fly. I remember Trapper taking off his cap to wipe his brow and say God bless us all. It was a sight I’ll never forget. A beautiful lake dotted with several islands, surrounded with yellow grass and shrub pines. There was a large swamp on one end. The Loons called out to us as we headed down to set up camp. We made camp on the eastside, as it would get the most sun.
I was surprised how quickly we set up camp. Big Mike was making sandwiches and talking about doing some scouting, looking for old rub-lines. Dad must have known I was tired and asked if I wanted to do some fishing with him. We set up our spinning rods with Lake Clear Wobblers and worms. I don’t think the canoe was 50 yards from the shoreline when I caught the first Brooke Trout. It was just about non-stop action from then on. We kept enough for dinner and released the rest. I thought this had to be the best day of my life. After dinner we were sitting around the fire and Dad told me how proud of me he was, and in front of everyone. I was just beaming. No one had trouble sleeping that night. We all had a laugh on Uncle Bob as he was snoring before the lantern was turned out.
Uncle Bob had the coffee on and breakfast cooking when I crawled out of my bag. We were having breakfast when Dad asked me if I wanted to see his tree stand. We hiked thru the tall yellow grass around the swampy end of the lake. There were game trails and beds all over in the yellow grass. We both whistled a tune to let the bears know we were coming thru. The stand was placed on a high spot in a small group of pines. I was quick to climb up and sit down. Wow, I could see the entire swamp. Back then Dad couldn’t possibly have known the spark he had ignited in me. He couldn’t have known that I would come to cherish this spot as much as he, or of the countless hours I would spend there. He couldn’t have known I would become good at a sport we both loved so much. Thanks Dad, for everything.
Art (Dakota) Elmendorf
Mayfield, New York 12117
Hunt1@capital.net
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