A Routine Life

"Get outta my yard!"

We all knew what was going to happen next. Andre started reeling in his line, I grabbed my pole and tackle box, and Marshall grabbed his gear and the bucket of shiners.

We ran as fast as our legs could take us to the back of the yard, where a 6 foot chain link fence was. It was painted black and was hidden from the other side by trees and bushes, except for one spot where we wormed our way through.   

We threw our poles and tackle boxes over the fence. Andre, who was taller than us, was already scaling the fence. I was right behind him.

"What about the shiners? What about the bucket?" Marshall screamed.

"Fuck it! Leave it!" yelled Andre.

There was a sudden loud boom and the leaves above our heads were shredded to pieces. Marshall dropped the bucket, water sloshed up his leg.

Rock salt.

My heart was racing as I scrambled up the fence and threw my legs over the top - the wire mesh dug into groin. Andre was the first to land on the other side, he grabbed as much gear as he could and ran, disappearing through a narrow winding hidden path.  

The ring pond was the story of legend amongst the local kids on West Saddle River Rd, it was rumoured to be stocked with 5lb bass and trout.  It was a large circular pond with an island in the middle of it, situated in a backyard of a large property. The property, located in the affluent town of Saddle River, butted up against a small park in our town Waldwick.

Andre and Marshall were my fishing buddies in the summer of 1986.  We had just finished our freshman year at Waldwick High and made a pact to spend every summer day fishing.  I knew Marshall from elementary school, where we had become friends, and we met Andre while in middle school together.  

Marshall was the instigator and adventurer of our group, he was this short Jewish kid that always had some crazy scheme or idea up his sleeve.  Andre was tall, thin, and French-Canadian descent. He was always up to go fishing as soon as his family chores were done.  I was first generation of German Immigrants and an in between, overly cautious friend, always analyzing the crazy situations Marshall got us into. You can say we were an odd looking modern day three musketeers, wielding fishing poles instead of swords.

The phone rings. It's 8PM on a Thursday. It's hot and humid, the windows are open.

"Hey"

"Are we meeting up at 7-11 tomorrow morning?"

"Yeah, I'll bring some salmon eggs," I say.

"Ok, cool. I'll bring some Rapala's," his voice trails off. We hang up and I go back to watching TV.

The next morning I get up at 6:30AM, a feat that can't be repeated during the school year.  I strap my tackle box to the back of my 10 speed and drape my fishing pole over the handle bars.

"When are you coming home?" My mom asks out the kitchen window.

"Tonight, for dinner." I say as I ride off.

Its a short ride to 7-11 from my house, only two blocks, but it takes Marshall longer.  I ride through the 7-11 parking lot and up the handicap ramp. I set down my kick stand, take out some money I had saved up from my allowance, and buy a buttered bagel and a small coffee.

The 7-11 on my side of town was our meeting point.  It was convenient for Marshall and me, and it had the latest arcade games too. It was a popular place and in the summer women would be wearing short dresses.  All three of us had discovered girls a while back and all had raging hormones.  If we didn't talk about fishing, we were talking about girls or video games.

Holding my bagel in one hand, I put my coffee on top of the garbage receptacle and wait for Marshall.  He rides up 20 minutes later with his fishing pole draped over his handle bars and a plastic bag hanging off his left handle bar.

"Sorry I'm late," he says.  He's always late. I'm always early.  "Let me grab a buttered role and something to drink, then we can go."

"Ok," I mumbled as I stuff the last bit of bagel in my mouth and wash it down with the last dregs of the coffee.

Another 20 minutes rolls by as Marshall swallows the last of his breakfast.

"Let's go!"  He jumps off the curb and rides off into the parking lot recklessly, I follow him down the curb ramp and keep right, we merge onto the sidewalk down Wyckoff Avenue and head into town.

It takes us about 30 minutes to ride across town and make our way down to the Route 17 pedestrian bridge.  Waldwick was essentially split into three pieces by the train tracks in the middle of the town, and then the highway at the far east part of town.   The built a pedestrian bridge to connect the residents together when the six lane highway was built, but hardly anyone used it - everyone drove instead. Getting to this bridge was always gave me mixed feeling, it was great we were almost to Andre's house but aggravating as we had to haul our bikes up and down several flights of stairs - there were no ramps.

A few minutes later we’d carry our bikes down the steps and into a caul de sac. which sat at end of west leg of a four way intersection.  Directly to the east was the top of a very long hill.  

"Last one down is a pussy!" screamed Marshall as he bolted across the intersection and down the hill. I follow right behind him riding my brake all the way down - I was always afraid to take a nasty spill - but Marshall had no fear, he would throw caution to the wind and do all kinds of crazy stunts on his bike.  Often he succeeded, but for the rare occasion when he did crash or fall, he’d picked himself up and wear each bump or cut as a badge of honor.

He finally slows down at the bottom of the hill, turns right, and disappears down West Saddle River Rd. I do the same only seconds later, and just ahead is Andre's white house. I see him in the driveway, with his bike upside down and the garage open.  Andre was the most mechanically inclined of our group and love fixing things.  He was lubricating his chain as Marshall and I rode up.

"Hey Marshall. Hey Tom," he says in a monotone voice.

Both of us are winded.

"Do you have any water?" I ask.

He puts down his wrench and disappears to a back door in the garage.  A few minutes later he emerges holding two glasses of water.  Marshall and I greedily drink the water down.

"Whew, that was good," Marshall says, "are you ready to go Andre?"

"Yeah, but I want to hit Johnson's lake first."

We had nicknames for all our favorite fishing spots.  Along Saddle River was the "hole" and the "hole around the bend."  Then there was "Johnson's lake," "mobster lake," "the farm pond," and the mythical "ring pond," all within in a 1/2 mile radius of each other.  We knew every inch of that river bank, every fishing spot on around those ponds and lakes, and every secret passage to get there. It was a fishing paradise.

Johnson's lake was about 1/2 mile down the road, along Lower Cross Rd.  Saddle River wound its way past this lake but it wasn't connected to it.  The lake was surrounded by houses and it was most likely a private lake. We'd ride our bikes over there and park them on the grass, walking along an imaginary property line that probably wasn't there.  The owner of the house that fronted the lake never bothered us at all, occasionally someone would show up on the backyard, do some work, and disappear again.  We made sure not to leave any garbage or used fishing line on the shore as a courtesy.

The sun was riding high in the summer sky, its yellow orb burning off the morning dew and whipping up the humidity.  It was hot and humid, muggy if you're from New Jersey. We spent just over an hour fishing along Johnson's lake only to catch a few sunfish and bluegills, a disappointing start to the day.  Just a week earlier we all caught different sized bass using Rapala's and spinner baits.

Andre and I keep casting out into the lake, reeling in our spinner baits.  Marshall had gone off into some scrub brush between the lake and the river, he was trying to fish under some trees - a risky proposition.

"How'd you make out with your grades?" He asks me.

"I did ok, a bunch of B's and a few C's."

"I almost failed English and Math this year, squeaked by with a D." Andre stares out over the lake, "My mother was upset, my Dad," his voice trails off, "didn't give a shit." I cast my spinner out again, it hits the water and makes a muted plopping sound. Nothing was biting.

"Yeeeehawwww" screams Marshall from the bush.  In the shade of the trees we see him reeling in a big fish from under.  Whatever it is, its fighting hard and jumping.

"Whaddya catch?" Andre shouts.

"Bass! Looks like a 2 pounder!"

The both of us drop our poles and rush over to Marshall.  

"Hello ladies," a deep voice stops us in our tracks, "catch anything?"

It was Hudak, Andre's neighbor.  His first name was Chris, but everyone called him by his last name.  He was older than us by two years, but that age difference might as well like walking the Grand Canyon, it was a lifetime for us.  He was fun and more worldly then us, but bad reputation. He'd only talk to us when he was bored or wanted to cause trouble.  We, of course, thought he was cool and jumped at the chance to do anything he wanted with him.  We were his groupies, trying to catch a bit of his "senior" cool.

Marshall crashed out to the brush, this thumb jammed into the mouth of a 3 lb bass.

"Eh," says Hudak, "I caught an 8 pounder at the ring pond last week."

"Really?" All three of us say in unison.

"Yeah, I finally snuck over the fence after watching the house for a week," he pauses, "the guy who lives there is on vacation."

Silence.

"Alright you losers, I'm outta here."

Marshall looks at Andre. "We have to go to the ring pond now!" He hisses.

"Yeah", he says, "but let's catch some shiners first."

I don't say anything for the moment, I think about the consequences of sneaking into another man's secluded backyard, who is rumored to shoot rock salt at trespassers.

I finally speak up, "I don't know guys, what if he's back from vacation already? What if Hudak is wrong?"

They both look at me, they're eyes say the same thing. "C'mon Tom, are you kidding?"   For Andre and Marshall, Hudak could do no wrong.  They believed he would never lie or mislead us - a wrong assumption.  I knew he was trouble but I went mostly went along with what the group did. Call it peer pressure or call it a temporary escape from a strict German upbringing. I nod "ok" and we're off to the river gauge station.

The Saddle River gauge station was right next to Johnson's pond, along the river which wound its way past the gauge. There was a small concrete platform to stand on and fish from and we'd go there to catch trout and eels. It was also a great spot to catch shiners and shad, small bait fish we'd use to catch larger fish. If Hudak caught an 8lb bass from the ring pond, we'd need to get bait fish for sure!

We grab the net and bucket as we run past our bikes to the guage station.  The water rushes down from upstream but slows down quickly as it bends around the platform.  We can see that the water is slowly gouging out the bottom of the platform, creating nooks and hiding spots for shinners and eels alike.  We drop the net into the water and slowly move it around.  Andre quickly jerks it out the water and 20 small shiny fish wriggle in the net.  He dumps the unsuspecting fish into the bucket and fishes around for some more.

After a few minutes we had about 50 shinners in our bucket, enough to fish with at the Ring Pond. Andre holds the bucket in one hand and the other on his handle bars, I hold his fish rod and tackle box.  

At the bottom the East Prospect Ave hill is an entrance to a tiny park, I don't remember it ever having an official name, but it had a few picnic tables there and a grassy area to play on.  It was a secluded park, only the locals knew about it, and it had lots of heavy brush and tree growth.  The back of park was fenced off with a 6ft tall chain link fence.  It was painted black and separated the park from the ring pond property. The heavy brush obscured a tiny opening to slip through onto a trail.  The trail wound its way through tickets and thorn bushes to a black chain link fence.  The occasional tussel from a bird or animal was heard, flitting through the heavy brush.

We hide our bicycles in the back right corner of the park and behind some bushes.  Although the park is safe and no one would steal our bikes, it wasn't beyond Hudak to steal our bikes and hide them as a prank.  On one occasion Marshall had to walk home, about 6 miles, before Hudak told him where he hid his bike.

We all look around the park to see if there is anyone around, anyone who could follow us. One by one we slip through the opening in the bushes and make our way down the winding paths - gnats circling our heads.

   "Ok, we're here," says Andre, "what's the game plan?"

   "Someone has to act as lookout, Tom do you want to do that?"

   "Yeah sure, as long as I get to fish too," I say.

   "Ok."

   I climb over first and take the fishing poles and boxes one by one. I stack them neatly to the side. Andre climbs up next and straddles the fence, Marshall lifts up the bucket of shinners to him. He struggles as he lifts them over the fence and down to me - he jumps down quickly.  After Marshall climbs over we take our poles and gear and crouch low, looking for trees and garden shrubs to hide our movements.  The backyard leading up the ring pond is neatly landscaped part grass and part ornamental gardens.  It's an expensive looking property.

   The ring pond sits in the middle of the property with a small humped island in the middle of it. The island is just high enough to conceal us from the house if we keep low and quiet.  A shit eating grin passes across Marshall's face - he turns to us and gives us a thumbs up sign. Andre puts on a red and white bobber on his line, hooks a shiner to the end of his hook, and casts into the pond.  The bobber moves around slowly when suddenly it gets pulled down quickly.  A strike! Andre yanks the line hoping to set the hook but a second later the bobber floats to top of the water - lifeless.

   "Did you see that?" whispers Andre.

   "Holy shit! That's got to have been a big hog!" hisses Marshall.

   I give them a thumbs up, thinking that all this sneaking around might just be worth it after all. We're excited that on this hot sticky July summer day, we’re about to confirm the legend of the mythical Ring Pond once and for all.  I think to myself that today will be a day we'll never forget for the rest of our lives - especially when we score the biggest bass of our lives.  Despite all of our internal jubilation, we never did see the man with binoculars on the deck.