By Josh Salm/Piscataquis Observer Staff Writer
It was 6:15 a.m. Wednesday morning. The alarm clock rang already once minutes earlier, and was poised to start blaring that obnoxious buzzing yet again in another five minutes. I was in the midst of catching those few minutes of glorious sleep between alarms that my wife has got me hooked to when she shot up out of bed with the sound of disgust and annoyance in her voice.
“The mouse is in our room,” she said.
The signs became evident that we had a new roommate the day before when items like chocolate and graham crackers were nibbled into. My wife swore the other day she saw a small, dark object dart across our kitchen floor.
At that point she was in denial. She didn’t actually see the mouse, so there was no mouse. “Out of sight, out of mind” I guess is the line that comes to mind. I did my best to pick up what food was laying around the house and figured I’d deal with the problem later.
Well “later” came that morning. I laid there in bed, one eye opened and tried to listen for the something that would make me think the pest was in our bedroom. The house seemed to be as silent as that fabled holiday story “The Night Before Christmas” suggests, but there, faintly, you could make out something.
Thin plastic was crinkling in the dark, and nails scratching on a wood floor.
My wife started looking in the heap of clothing and travel bags that littered our floor for movement of some kind. You could hear what sounded like a food wrapper move, a set of feet scamper, and then nothing. Through it all, my wife sat there, not so much fearful, but annoyed.
Unfortunately for her, I had no coffee in my system. So while the beast lurked in the dark corners of my bedroom, I did the only thing I could think of at that time: walk out of the room and go start the coffee pot.
After silence returned to the apartment, I pulled all the clothing out of the room to take to the laundromat since Lord knows what was touched by the varmint. There, under it all, was the bait that lured the mouse into our room: a granola bar.
Thus the hunt began.
It’s been a long time since I’ve hunted mouse, so I turned to my friends through the online resource Facebook to figure out some ways to capture this mouse besides the traditional methods of using a trap or buying a cat (because I can’t stand cats).
The ideas I got were laughable. One told me to call upon the services of the Pied Piper, but to actually pay the guy this time otherwise all the children would be taken. Another suggested harming the little bugger and sending him back to his pals with the message, “Don’t come back.”
The jist of another person’s message told me to jump into a time machine to go back in time and genetically engineer cats to make them smaller to fit into mouse holes. While that sounds like a swell idea, I’m not sure I can find the flux capacitor or the DeLorean to pull this project off.
After doing seven loads of laundry at the local laundromat that night, I did the next best thing: call the landlord and let him deal with the issue. He showed up that night with a set of traps and said to get in touch with him if anything happens.
It was 5:43 Thursday morning. The alarm clock was just about to go off when I heard a noise break through the silence of the house that made me smile as I fell back asleep.
SNAP!
So far, the scoreboard shows Traps 3. Mice 0. I guess there’s no need for the Pied Piper of the DeLorean after all.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Working out again, for the first time
I could feel it with every shovelful of snow I threw Monday morning. My arms ached, my shoulders throbbed and my chest felt like it was going to explode.
I know, I know. The snow we received Sunday was really powdery and not hard to throw. Any other day and I would have busted through the 18 inches that fell at my house in Old Town like it was nothing. The thing is, I’m still recovering from my foolish idea to start working out again.
It all started with that reality check I had with doctors about a month ago. The physician looked at my charts, my age and that annoying heart palpation (a.k.a. flutter) and said, “Your cholesterol is high, but if you take fish oil pills and start exercising you’ll be fine.”
So I did what any responsible person would do: started taking fish oil pills, got a membership to the local gym, or in this case the Piscataquis Region YMCA. I walked in, signed up ... and never went.
It is the thought that counts after all, right?
Somehow I didn’t think that was the case.
After another cholesterol check through work revealed the first test wasn’t complete bunk (like I hoped it was) and showed high cholesterol levels again, I finally decided to utilize my membership at the PRYMCA and go work out for once.
It had been a couple years since I stepped into a weight room prior to last Friday. It dated back to my days at the La Crosse Tribune back in Wisconsin, when I would work nights and have nothing to do during the days besides drink coffee, play video games and watch SportsCenter.
I was never a huge lifter; it was just something for me to do really. The little bit of exercise I got felt good and it was good for me, or so I was told.
Well, at least it felt good at first.
Now I feel awful, and it’s all because I was stubborn enough to push myself too hard in the gym that first time back. The plan was initially to just ease into a comfortable plan that would help me get into shape again and get my heart a workout. Instead, after my first set on the bench press, I realized I lifted a lot more weight when I was back in high school playing for the football team and thought to myself, “I should be able to lift more than this. I know I can lift more than this.”
And that’s what I did. My next exercises all had increased weights on them. It felt good at the time. I could feel that burn people talk about after a hard run or a good workout. It felt really good to feel that again.
But by Sunday night, nearly 48 hours after my first workout in a year and a half, I could barely reach my mouth with my fingers without feeling my arm was going to snap back into a straight position next to my body as if it were spring-loaded. Jackets and sweatshirts were a puzzle for me to put on without every muscle flaring up in pain. Heck, even something as simple as brushing my teeth because a chore because I could barely lift my right arm high enough to reach my mouth.
This doesn’t mean that I’m not going back to the Y in the near future. Rather, it means I just take my time getting back to that level I was once at.
Now, if you excuse, I have to go stretch out my arms so I can lift my cup of coffee to head level again.
I know, I know. The snow we received Sunday was really powdery and not hard to throw. Any other day and I would have busted through the 18 inches that fell at my house in Old Town like it was nothing. The thing is, I’m still recovering from my foolish idea to start working out again.
It all started with that reality check I had with doctors about a month ago. The physician looked at my charts, my age and that annoying heart palpation (a.k.a. flutter) and said, “Your cholesterol is high, but if you take fish oil pills and start exercising you’ll be fine.”
So I did what any responsible person would do: started taking fish oil pills, got a membership to the local gym, or in this case the Piscataquis Region YMCA. I walked in, signed up ... and never went.
It is the thought that counts after all, right?
Somehow I didn’t think that was the case.
After another cholesterol check through work revealed the first test wasn’t complete bunk (like I hoped it was) and showed high cholesterol levels again, I finally decided to utilize my membership at the PRYMCA and go work out for once.
It had been a couple years since I stepped into a weight room prior to last Friday. It dated back to my days at the La Crosse Tribune back in Wisconsin, when I would work nights and have nothing to do during the days besides drink coffee, play video games and watch SportsCenter.
I was never a huge lifter; it was just something for me to do really. The little bit of exercise I got felt good and it was good for me, or so I was told.
Well, at least it felt good at first.
Now I feel awful, and it’s all because I was stubborn enough to push myself too hard in the gym that first time back. The plan was initially to just ease into a comfortable plan that would help me get into shape again and get my heart a workout. Instead, after my first set on the bench press, I realized I lifted a lot more weight when I was back in high school playing for the football team and thought to myself, “I should be able to lift more than this. I know I can lift more than this.”
And that’s what I did. My next exercises all had increased weights on them. It felt good at the time. I could feel that burn people talk about after a hard run or a good workout. It felt really good to feel that again.
But by Sunday night, nearly 48 hours after my first workout in a year and a half, I could barely reach my mouth with my fingers without feeling my arm was going to snap back into a straight position next to my body as if it were spring-loaded. Jackets and sweatshirts were a puzzle for me to put on without every muscle flaring up in pain. Heck, even something as simple as brushing my teeth because a chore because I could barely lift my right arm high enough to reach my mouth.
This doesn’t mean that I’m not going back to the Y in the near future. Rather, it means I just take my time getting back to that level I was once at.
Now, if you excuse, I have to go stretch out my arms so I can lift my cup of coffee to head level again.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
My NFL picks
This weekend's picks for the AFC and NFC conference championship games.
AFC: Pittsburgh 24-Baltimore 13. The Steelers won the first matchup between these two, and I think the Steelers can do it again. They are playing hands down some of the best defensive football any team is playing right now, and the offense is putting up points when they need to. By the way, holding San Diego to ONE offensive play in the third quarter last week was incredible. Baltimore will make it a game early, but Ravens QB Joe Flacco will make a rookie mistake (for the first time this post season. Boy that kid is good.) and Pittsburgh will capitalize.
NFC: Philadelphia 27-Arizona 24 (OT). The Cardinals played tough D last week, but I can't see Donovan McNabb throwing five interceptions. The pass-happy Eagles will move the ball on the Cardinals just well enough to keep the Cardinals at bay, but Arizona will go punch for punch with Philly until the Eagles win the coin flip going into overtime. The Eagles win by a field goal to eek into the Super Bowl.
An all Penn Super Bowl ... I think the state will implode. At least I would get one of my preseason picks into the Super Bowl (the Steelers, that is. Dallas was my pick. Who would have guessed they would have been that awful this season.)
AFC: Pittsburgh 24-Baltimore 13. The Steelers won the first matchup between these two, and I think the Steelers can do it again. They are playing hands down some of the best defensive football any team is playing right now, and the offense is putting up points when they need to. By the way, holding San Diego to ONE offensive play in the third quarter last week was incredible. Baltimore will make it a game early, but Ravens QB Joe Flacco will make a rookie mistake (for the first time this post season. Boy that kid is good.) and Pittsburgh will capitalize.
NFC: Philadelphia 27-Arizona 24 (OT). The Cardinals played tough D last week, but I can't see Donovan McNabb throwing five interceptions. The pass-happy Eagles will move the ball on the Cardinals just well enough to keep the Cardinals at bay, but Arizona will go punch for punch with Philly until the Eagles win the coin flip going into overtime. The Eagles win by a field goal to eek into the Super Bowl.
An all Penn Super Bowl ... I think the state will implode. At least I would get one of my preseason picks into the Super Bowl (the Steelers, that is. Dallas was my pick. Who would have guessed they would have been that awful this season.)
My Tribute
Ed's note: This is the column that will publish in the Wednesday, Jan. 14 edition of the Piscataquis Observer. Since most of you don't read that, here's the free link.
‘You take care now’
By Josh Salm
Staff Writer
CLEVELAND, Wis. — That damn belt. You think John Deere would have created a better pulley system to attach a snow blower to the front of a small lawn tractor than this thing.
It was the Saturday after Christmas. My father and I went up to the Salm Family Christmas an hour early to help my aging, and ailing, grandfather get a new belt put on the lawnmower so he could clean the snow out of his small yard with it.
We were just up days earlier, putting the old, frayed belt back on the machine. It didn’t belong reattached. It was pretty much shredded, but it only had to make it a couple days until the new belt came down with Keith and LuAnn from the Riesterer and Schnell dealer.
We got the belt back on and Grandpa looked at the two of us and said, “Hey, listen, I’ve been having some chest pains lately and I want you two to know that the 60 is all yours.”
The 60. The John Deere 60. The first antique tractor the family got since the farm was shut down. There was something special about that tractor.
The Salm family is one that has a love for John Deere tractors. I think it started with Grandpa. He has a picture of all the old tractors he had on the farm. A 4430, 4440, 4250, 4020 gas that never ran right I don’t think, a 2520 and a 2440 with a loader that was the first tractor I learned to drive. We’re a green family I guess you could say.
That 60 has been my Dad’s pride and joy, because out of the four the family has it was the only one set up to take to the track at tractor pulls. I remember the day a few years back he won with it at the Rustic Iron antique show in Newton, not too far north from the old farm.
That 60 is a sweet little tractor.
….
For the first time in two days, the sanctuary in St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church was silent. The line of people that came to pay their respects had taken their seats – or in the case of some people, stood in the back – and bowed their heads as the robin’s egg blue casket was closed for the final time.
That was the first time I began to tear up a little bit, that moment the casket closed. Even though that casket had stood open for the past two days as the children and grandchildren walked past it during the visitations as they shook hands of the hundreds of people that came to pay their respects, when the top of the casket was brought down it hit me that this was actually going to happen.
The rest of the service was a blur. The father spoke about the loss and of Heaven. Mary Lou gave one heck of a eulogy, speaking about the man that we laid to rest that day. She made us laugh, made us cry and made us all remember the man for who he was.
The part that stuck out the most for me was the moment I would just stare out the window at the John Deere 70 my father and I parked out in front of the church. At times it was hard to make out the tractor through the snow that was falling.
It was strange – it seemed the skies had opened up during the service and mourned his loss too. The skies were been crying hard that day, but the cold January weather turned the teardrops to snowflakes by the time they hit the ground.
….
I knew the moment I saw the missed call on my cell phone something wasn’t right.
It was a call from my father. Most days, that’s a normal thing where the two of us end up talking about anything from the Green Bay Packers to soybean prices to hunting.
But the 6:40 a.m. phone call was not normal, considering it was an hour earlier back in Wisconsin and we didn’t normally talk until the late afternoons or early evenings. Never in the morning, at least not that early.
The missed call was coupled with a voice mail. For the first time in a long time, I dreaded hearing that steely woman’s voice in my voice mail tell me I had one new message. I pressed the small, black number 1 button on my thin, blue LG phone and waited for the sound of my dad’s voice.
He spoke very few words, but the tone of his voice said everything.
“Chief, this is Dad. When you get this message, call me. Talk to you later.”
….
The funeral director stood and called forward the pallbearers. Six grandchildren stood, one from a different son or daughter in the family. I was one of them, making my way through the chairs lined up in the sanctuary and toward the casket, the front of the line on the left side.
“Place your hands on the casket and just guide it along,” the director said.
The casket was cool to the touch. Maybe it had to do with my hands being all clammy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that this was the first time I was coming to terms with what was happening.
….
The phone call I got from my old man on the morning of Tuesday, Jan. 6 was about my grandfather. He had a massive stroke the night before. Doctors said that morning there was a lot pressure built up in his brain and they didn’t think it looked good. The family was all there in Oshkosh in the waiting room, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.
That was the report I got at 7 a.m. as I drove up Route 15 from Bangor to Dover-Foxcroft to attend a meeting of the Piscataquis County Commissioners and get our paper laid out. The rest of the drive from that moment on was a blur.
My phone has sat silent next to me for the rest of the day. I’d hit the volume button on the right side of the phone every 10 minutes or so to make sure no one had called. Nope, the LED screen on the front of the flip phone still showed the time and that unmistakable old-school Milwaukee Brewer Ball and Glove logo.
The hardest part of the next two days was waiting hundreds of miles away for some sort of news out of Oshkosh. I was too afraid to call back on my own. I didn’t want to be calling at a bad time.
….
The cemetery was cold, with a north wind pushing through dropping the temperature down even further. All six pallbearers stood on the opposite side of the casket as the family gathered to lay Francis Raymond Salm to rest. Atop the casket was a boutique of flowers. Fran’s 11 children received a red flower, and the grandchildren a white one.
I took my white flower and held on to it as my cousins, aunts, uncles and grandmother said their last words to Grandpa Fran.
When it came to my turn, I placed my hand on the casket and just wept. It was the first time since Tuesday that I openly cried. I couldn’t help it.
After I said my final prayer for the old man, I placed my white flower in the vault and walked away. The grieving was over. Now came the time for healing.
….
The Salm household is full of old farming photos and John Deere memorabilia. There, on the picture frame where all the old John Deeres were displayed from his farming days, is a row of the four pictures from the Silver Dollar Days parade in Howards Grove last year. The first one is me on the 720, towing Frannie in his 420 on tracks in the trailer behind me. The second photo is my Grandpa driving the 70 with my dad right beside him, while John and his daughter Ally were on the 60.
That was a hot, muggy July morning after a long, festive party the night before. My body told me I didn’t want to be there, but my head told me I had to. It was a chance to drive the tractors again, and to spend some time with Grandpa.
I’m glad I went.
….
As I got set to take off for the night from Salm Christmas, I made the customary rounds of good-byes, hugs and handshakes. Grandma wished me a safe drive home and told me to be good. Grandpa had just a few short words for me, but the tone of the voice said a lot.
“You take care now.”
That’s what he said at the end of that night before we headed out. Those were his last words to me.
….
It was 10:15 p.m. on Wednesday, Jan. 7. My friends pulled me out of the house and took me to the Riverfront Pub a few blocks away to put a beer in my hand and get my mind off my grandfather. At moments it worked.
My cell phone was set on vibrate. It would buzz once when it received text messages, something I received a lot of that night as friends and family gave their condolences. It was that fateful moment, 10:15 p.m., when the cell phone buzzed a second and third time. This was a phone call. I looked at the front screen.
“Incoming call. Dad.”
Grandpa had passed away that night, two days after suffering his stroke. He went peacefully, the way he wanted to go. Grandpa Salm was prepared for this day. He said so time and again. He was ready. The rest of us were not.
….
Following the funeral, the family went to Grandma Salm’s house to divvy up the flowers and food. The minute I walked through the door, I headed straight for the drawer Grandpa kept the playing cards and grabbed a deck, sat down and started shuffling. Grandpa loved to play Sheepshead, and I knew he’s be upset with us if we didn’t get a good game going that day.
We had to do it.
It’s what he would have wanted.
‘You take care now’
By Josh Salm
Staff Writer
CLEVELAND, Wis. — That damn belt. You think John Deere would have created a better pulley system to attach a snow blower to the front of a small lawn tractor than this thing.
It was the Saturday after Christmas. My father and I went up to the Salm Family Christmas an hour early to help my aging, and ailing, grandfather get a new belt put on the lawnmower so he could clean the snow out of his small yard with it.
We were just up days earlier, putting the old, frayed belt back on the machine. It didn’t belong reattached. It was pretty much shredded, but it only had to make it a couple days until the new belt came down with Keith and LuAnn from the Riesterer and Schnell dealer.
We got the belt back on and Grandpa looked at the two of us and said, “Hey, listen, I’ve been having some chest pains lately and I want you two to know that the 60 is all yours.”
The 60. The John Deere 60. The first antique tractor the family got since the farm was shut down. There was something special about that tractor.
The Salm family is one that has a love for John Deere tractors. I think it started with Grandpa. He has a picture of all the old tractors he had on the farm. A 4430, 4440, 4250, 4020 gas that never ran right I don’t think, a 2520 and a 2440 with a loader that was the first tractor I learned to drive. We’re a green family I guess you could say.
That 60 has been my Dad’s pride and joy, because out of the four the family has it was the only one set up to take to the track at tractor pulls. I remember the day a few years back he won with it at the Rustic Iron antique show in Newton, not too far north from the old farm.
That 60 is a sweet little tractor.
….
For the first time in two days, the sanctuary in St. Thomas the Apostle Catholic Church was silent. The line of people that came to pay their respects had taken their seats – or in the case of some people, stood in the back – and bowed their heads as the robin’s egg blue casket was closed for the final time.
That was the first time I began to tear up a little bit, that moment the casket closed. Even though that casket had stood open for the past two days as the children and grandchildren walked past it during the visitations as they shook hands of the hundreds of people that came to pay their respects, when the top of the casket was brought down it hit me that this was actually going to happen.
The rest of the service was a blur. The father spoke about the loss and of Heaven. Mary Lou gave one heck of a eulogy, speaking about the man that we laid to rest that day. She made us laugh, made us cry and made us all remember the man for who he was.
The part that stuck out the most for me was the moment I would just stare out the window at the John Deere 70 my father and I parked out in front of the church. At times it was hard to make out the tractor through the snow that was falling.
It was strange – it seemed the skies had opened up during the service and mourned his loss too. The skies were been crying hard that day, but the cold January weather turned the teardrops to snowflakes by the time they hit the ground.
….
I knew the moment I saw the missed call on my cell phone something wasn’t right.
It was a call from my father. Most days, that’s a normal thing where the two of us end up talking about anything from the Green Bay Packers to soybean prices to hunting.
But the 6:40 a.m. phone call was not normal, considering it was an hour earlier back in Wisconsin and we didn’t normally talk until the late afternoons or early evenings. Never in the morning, at least not that early.
The missed call was coupled with a voice mail. For the first time in a long time, I dreaded hearing that steely woman’s voice in my voice mail tell me I had one new message. I pressed the small, black number 1 button on my thin, blue LG phone and waited for the sound of my dad’s voice.
He spoke very few words, but the tone of his voice said everything.
“Chief, this is Dad. When you get this message, call me. Talk to you later.”
….
The funeral director stood and called forward the pallbearers. Six grandchildren stood, one from a different son or daughter in the family. I was one of them, making my way through the chairs lined up in the sanctuary and toward the casket, the front of the line on the left side.
“Place your hands on the casket and just guide it along,” the director said.
The casket was cool to the touch. Maybe it had to do with my hands being all clammy. Maybe it had to do with the fact that this was the first time I was coming to terms with what was happening.
….
The phone call I got from my old man on the morning of Tuesday, Jan. 6 was about my grandfather. He had a massive stroke the night before. Doctors said that morning there was a lot pressure built up in his brain and they didn’t think it looked good. The family was all there in Oshkosh in the waiting room, waiting to hear what the doctors had to say.
That was the report I got at 7 a.m. as I drove up Route 15 from Bangor to Dover-Foxcroft to attend a meeting of the Piscataquis County Commissioners and get our paper laid out. The rest of the drive from that moment on was a blur.
My phone has sat silent next to me for the rest of the day. I’d hit the volume button on the right side of the phone every 10 minutes or so to make sure no one had called. Nope, the LED screen on the front of the flip phone still showed the time and that unmistakable old-school Milwaukee Brewer Ball and Glove logo.
The hardest part of the next two days was waiting hundreds of miles away for some sort of news out of Oshkosh. I was too afraid to call back on my own. I didn’t want to be calling at a bad time.
….
The cemetery was cold, with a north wind pushing through dropping the temperature down even further. All six pallbearers stood on the opposite side of the casket as the family gathered to lay Francis Raymond Salm to rest. Atop the casket was a boutique of flowers. Fran’s 11 children received a red flower, and the grandchildren a white one.
I took my white flower and held on to it as my cousins, aunts, uncles and grandmother said their last words to Grandpa Fran.
When it came to my turn, I placed my hand on the casket and just wept. It was the first time since Tuesday that I openly cried. I couldn’t help it.
After I said my final prayer for the old man, I placed my white flower in the vault and walked away. The grieving was over. Now came the time for healing.
….
The Salm household is full of old farming photos and John Deere memorabilia. There, on the picture frame where all the old John Deeres were displayed from his farming days, is a row of the four pictures from the Silver Dollar Days parade in Howards Grove last year. The first one is me on the 720, towing Frannie in his 420 on tracks in the trailer behind me. The second photo is my Grandpa driving the 70 with my dad right beside him, while John and his daughter Ally were on the 60.
That was a hot, muggy July morning after a long, festive party the night before. My body told me I didn’t want to be there, but my head told me I had to. It was a chance to drive the tractors again, and to spend some time with Grandpa.
I’m glad I went.
….
As I got set to take off for the night from Salm Christmas, I made the customary rounds of good-byes, hugs and handshakes. Grandma wished me a safe drive home and told me to be good. Grandpa had just a few short words for me, but the tone of the voice said a lot.
“You take care now.”
That’s what he said at the end of that night before we headed out. Those were his last words to me.
….
It was 10:15 p.m. on Wednesday, Jan. 7. My friends pulled me out of the house and took me to the Riverfront Pub a few blocks away to put a beer in my hand and get my mind off my grandfather. At moments it worked.
My cell phone was set on vibrate. It would buzz once when it received text messages, something I received a lot of that night as friends and family gave their condolences. It was that fateful moment, 10:15 p.m., when the cell phone buzzed a second and third time. This was a phone call. I looked at the front screen.
“Incoming call. Dad.”
Grandpa had passed away that night, two days after suffering his stroke. He went peacefully, the way he wanted to go. Grandpa Salm was prepared for this day. He said so time and again. He was ready. The rest of us were not.
….
Following the funeral, the family went to Grandma Salm’s house to divvy up the flowers and food. The minute I walked through the door, I headed straight for the drawer Grandpa kept the playing cards and grabbed a deck, sat down and started shuffling. Grandpa loved to play Sheepshead, and I knew he’s be upset with us if we didn’t get a good game going that day.
We had to do it.
It’s what he would have wanted.
Ice fishing
New Year brings in new experience: ice fishing
By Josh Salm /Staff Writer
Date published: Jan. 7, 2009
Fishing is a sport I picked up just a few years ago, back when I was a sophomore in college at the University of Wisconsin. My roommate Tim was an avid fisherman and was actually the head of the UW Fishing Team at one time, so his love for the sport rubbed off on me a little and I picked it up.
But, oddly enough, it was only open water fishing that I took to. I never went ice fishing, despite the fact Tim stored an ice shanty, auger, tip-ups, various other gear and even a fish tank full of bait in our cramped dorm room.
For some reason, the sport just did not appeal to me back then and to this day I cannot understand why.
When I mentioned my lack of ice fishing to a friend the other day, he looked at me and said, “Isn’t it a law or something in Wisconsin for you to have to ice fish?”
It’s not. I checked, although there are some strange laws on the books in Wisconsin like “Margarine may not be substituted for butter in restaurants unless it is requested by the customer,” according to dumblaws.com. Maybe I’ll have to try that out when I go home next.
Anyway, I finally broke down this past weekend. I went with a handful of friends to a small camp on Sysladobsis Lake just south of Springfield and partook in the Maine tradition of ringing in the New Year ice fishing.
After three straight days of pulling tip-ups, baiting hooks in frigid temperatures and playing “human curl-bocce,” a hybrid between curling and bocce where you aim to get as close to the cooler as possible by using people in chairs as curling stones , I can say this: I’m hooked.
Six other friends and myself spent three days starting on New Year’s Day in a rustic camp on a piece of land that juts out into the lake. We put out 25 traps between the all of us, and in that time we brought home enough white perch, salmon and even this strange looking fish called a cusk to have a small fish fry in the coming weeks.
This wasn’t what some call hard-core ice fishing, with propane heaters, ice shanties and frozen fingers and toes involved. Instead, when the winds got to bitter and cold, we’d all head inside, warm up and watch for those small flags to go shooting skyward. When it was nice outside, we had a blast enjoying a fine Maine winter day.
I’m pretty certain actually that those few days of ice fishing has created a Pavlovan response in me, because I hear the word “flag” now and my ears perk up and I start scanning the horizon for those bright green and orange tip-up flags to signal a fish is on.
The second a flag did pop up, there were four or five of us just bolting out the door to pull that ice out of the water and see what we caught. There were quite a few times I remember skating across the ice in a pair of jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of black slippers, leaving my Carhartts, boots and crampons back in the camp to stay warm. I began to wonder at the end of the weekend if the guy in the ice shanty on the other side of the lake thought we were all a bunch of crazy kids after seeing us run in and out of the camp screaming and hollering all the time.
After talking to Eric, who’s grandfather owns the camp, our weekend of fishing has been better than most over the past 20-some years at the camp — records at the camp prove it. All I know is, for the past 20-some years I’ve been kicking, I can say for certain the opening weekend of ice fishing in Maine was the most fun I had fishing ever.
The only downside to the whole weekend, besides the whole “outhouse in the middle of the winter” part of camp, was that elusive ninja salmon that kept tipping our traps but always managed to never get hooked. I think I may have to convince Eric and the crew to make another trip to camp in the coming weeks with a bunch of smelts and a few traps to catch that fish.
By Josh Salm /Staff Writer
Date published: Jan. 7, 2009
Fishing is a sport I picked up just a few years ago, back when I was a sophomore in college at the University of Wisconsin. My roommate Tim was an avid fisherman and was actually the head of the UW Fishing Team at one time, so his love for the sport rubbed off on me a little and I picked it up.
But, oddly enough, it was only open water fishing that I took to. I never went ice fishing, despite the fact Tim stored an ice shanty, auger, tip-ups, various other gear and even a fish tank full of bait in our cramped dorm room.
For some reason, the sport just did not appeal to me back then and to this day I cannot understand why.
When I mentioned my lack of ice fishing to a friend the other day, he looked at me and said, “Isn’t it a law or something in Wisconsin for you to have to ice fish?”
It’s not. I checked, although there are some strange laws on the books in Wisconsin like “Margarine may not be substituted for butter in restaurants unless it is requested by the customer,” according to dumblaws.com. Maybe I’ll have to try that out when I go home next.
Anyway, I finally broke down this past weekend. I went with a handful of friends to a small camp on Sysladobsis Lake just south of Springfield and partook in the Maine tradition of ringing in the New Year ice fishing.
After three straight days of pulling tip-ups, baiting hooks in frigid temperatures and playing “human curl-bocce,” a hybrid between curling and bocce where you aim to get as close to the cooler as possible by using people in chairs as curling stones , I can say this: I’m hooked.
Six other friends and myself spent three days starting on New Year’s Day in a rustic camp on a piece of land that juts out into the lake. We put out 25 traps between the all of us, and in that time we brought home enough white perch, salmon and even this strange looking fish called a cusk to have a small fish fry in the coming weeks.
This wasn’t what some call hard-core ice fishing, with propane heaters, ice shanties and frozen fingers and toes involved. Instead, when the winds got to bitter and cold, we’d all head inside, warm up and watch for those small flags to go shooting skyward. When it was nice outside, we had a blast enjoying a fine Maine winter day.
I’m pretty certain actually that those few days of ice fishing has created a Pavlovan response in me, because I hear the word “flag” now and my ears perk up and I start scanning the horizon for those bright green and orange tip-up flags to signal a fish is on.
The second a flag did pop up, there were four or five of us just bolting out the door to pull that ice out of the water and see what we caught. There were quite a few times I remember skating across the ice in a pair of jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of black slippers, leaving my Carhartts, boots and crampons back in the camp to stay warm. I began to wonder at the end of the weekend if the guy in the ice shanty on the other side of the lake thought we were all a bunch of crazy kids after seeing us run in and out of the camp screaming and hollering all the time.
After talking to Eric, who’s grandfather owns the camp, our weekend of fishing has been better than most over the past 20-some years at the camp — records at the camp prove it. All I know is, for the past 20-some years I’ve been kicking, I can say for certain the opening weekend of ice fishing in Maine was the most fun I had fishing ever.
The only downside to the whole weekend, besides the whole “outhouse in the middle of the winter” part of camp, was that elusive ninja salmon that kept tipping our traps but always managed to never get hooked. I think I may have to convince Eric and the crew to make another trip to camp in the coming weeks with a bunch of smelts and a few traps to catch that fish.
The moral of the story
The moral of the story
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
Date published: Dec. 24, 2008
Ever hear the story about two men on a porch? The homeowner is sitting on his porch when he hears a warning over the radio of a wicked rainstorm that will likely cause some serious flooding. His buddy goes to him, “Hey, we should get out of here. This sounds bad.” The homeowner says, “Naw, don't worry about it. God will save me.”
When it’s raining, a guy drives by in his truck and yells at the homeowner on his porch, “Listen, hop in and we’ll go to higher ground.” The homeowner politely declines, saying “God will save me.”
Finally, the water’s up to his roofline and still climbing. A boater comes past and hollers at him, “Bud, get in. You won’t make it.” Through the pounding rains and wind, the homeowner yells back, “I'll be fine. God will save me.”
Unfortunately, the homeowner doesn’t survive the storm. He reaches the gates of St. Peter, turns to God and says, “Hey, what happened? You were supposed to save me!” God looks at the homeowner and says, “I sent a radio report, your friend, a passer-by in a truck and a man in a boat to help you. How many more ways do you want me to give you the message to get out?”
I’m not telling anyone start heading for the hills because the Piscataquis is rising. Thankfully it’s finally freezing over actually. Bring on the winter … well, at least the ice so I can get a little ice fishing in.
What I am saying, however, is two events in a 16-hour span last week reminded me of that story. And the Great Message that was sent my way? Slow down.
It started Tuesday night. I could feel in my chest my heart was fluttering about a bit and I know from past experiences that any heart questions are not to be taken lightly. After an EKG test, the doctor tells me, “Let me go talk to a colleague about this. Hold on a second.”
No one wants to hear a line like that from a doctor, unless he somehow came back and declared all medical payments are on the house.
After a 15 minute wait that tested that heart flutter a little more than I would have liked, he came back 15 minutes later to tell me I had an early heart beat.
Well, I did, until that moment when my heart skipped a beat.
It ends up that this is not as serious as it could be. I found out three days later that the hiccup in my heart probably came from a not-so-great mixture of cold medications with a decongestant, coffee and beer.
Anyway, so that was Tuesday night. The next morning, as I traveled to work along Rt. 16 just north of Alton along those rolling S-curves my 1999 Ford Taurus turned into a snow sled. One fishtail, two fishtailes, three fishtailes. I thought I had it saved ... until the back end of my car made a final fourth fishtail. My car slid perpendicular to Rt. 16 with my front windshield facing the woods.
I remember the breakaway tempered glass fly past my face as the car got T-boned by that Maine icon, a pine tree. I don't remember my car pivoting from the tree and sliding slowly downhill a few feet before stopping. It happened so quick. I did that quick check of my surroundings – no pain, no blood, no one else is hurt, no fire – and realized I was alright.
I had to shimmy out my driver’s side window in a classic Dukes of Hazzard move because my door was stuck shut. After a quick 911 phone call, I sat there and waited for the Penobscot County Sheriff and a wrecker to arrive.
It was during that wait where I remembered that story, and remembered that lesson.
I'm 25. I'm at that age where the immorality of our youth hits the brick wall – or in my case, a pine tree – and we are forced to grips with reality. When we’re young, we all believe nothing can stop us. Then, there comes a day when we all realize just how fragile life is, whether it happens in a singular event or over the course of time.
Those 16 hours could have been a lot worse. This “normal” condition could be not so normal, and not so quaint. Instead, with a little exercise, less coffee and time, this should go away.
I also could have gotten in a serious accident and hurt myself, or worse, someone else. Instead, I missed a protruding fiber optics box by 10-feet, hit that tree in a spot where my car took all that impact instead of spinning off into the woods, and I walked away from that crash without a scratch.
I got the hint, oh Big and Almighty Guy in the Sky. Slow down. I'm on it.
Just bring on the cold weather so I can go ice fishing.
From my house to yours, everyone have a safe, warm and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. And remember, slow down and enjoy it. Like the comedian Bill Engvall says, “Here's your sign …”
By Josh Salm/Staff Writer
Date published: Dec. 24, 2008
Ever hear the story about two men on a porch? The homeowner is sitting on his porch when he hears a warning over the radio of a wicked rainstorm that will likely cause some serious flooding. His buddy goes to him, “Hey, we should get out of here. This sounds bad.” The homeowner says, “Naw, don't worry about it. God will save me.”
When it’s raining, a guy drives by in his truck and yells at the homeowner on his porch, “Listen, hop in and we’ll go to higher ground.” The homeowner politely declines, saying “God will save me.”
Finally, the water’s up to his roofline and still climbing. A boater comes past and hollers at him, “Bud, get in. You won’t make it.” Through the pounding rains and wind, the homeowner yells back, “I'll be fine. God will save me.”
Unfortunately, the homeowner doesn’t survive the storm. He reaches the gates of St. Peter, turns to God and says, “Hey, what happened? You were supposed to save me!” God looks at the homeowner and says, “I sent a radio report, your friend, a passer-by in a truck and a man in a boat to help you. How many more ways do you want me to give you the message to get out?”
I’m not telling anyone start heading for the hills because the Piscataquis is rising. Thankfully it’s finally freezing over actually. Bring on the winter … well, at least the ice so I can get a little ice fishing in.
What I am saying, however, is two events in a 16-hour span last week reminded me of that story. And the Great Message that was sent my way? Slow down.
It started Tuesday night. I could feel in my chest my heart was fluttering about a bit and I know from past experiences that any heart questions are not to be taken lightly. After an EKG test, the doctor tells me, “Let me go talk to a colleague about this. Hold on a second.”
No one wants to hear a line like that from a doctor, unless he somehow came back and declared all medical payments are on the house.
After a 15 minute wait that tested that heart flutter a little more than I would have liked, he came back 15 minutes later to tell me I had an early heart beat.
Well, I did, until that moment when my heart skipped a beat.
It ends up that this is not as serious as it could be. I found out three days later that the hiccup in my heart probably came from a not-so-great mixture of cold medications with a decongestant, coffee and beer.
Anyway, so that was Tuesday night. The next morning, as I traveled to work along Rt. 16 just north of Alton along those rolling S-curves my 1999 Ford Taurus turned into a snow sled. One fishtail, two fishtailes, three fishtailes. I thought I had it saved ... until the back end of my car made a final fourth fishtail. My car slid perpendicular to Rt. 16 with my front windshield facing the woods.
I remember the breakaway tempered glass fly past my face as the car got T-boned by that Maine icon, a pine tree. I don't remember my car pivoting from the tree and sliding slowly downhill a few feet before stopping. It happened so quick. I did that quick check of my surroundings – no pain, no blood, no one else is hurt, no fire – and realized I was alright.
I had to shimmy out my driver’s side window in a classic Dukes of Hazzard move because my door was stuck shut. After a quick 911 phone call, I sat there and waited for the Penobscot County Sheriff and a wrecker to arrive.
It was during that wait where I remembered that story, and remembered that lesson.
I'm 25. I'm at that age where the immorality of our youth hits the brick wall – or in my case, a pine tree – and we are forced to grips with reality. When we’re young, we all believe nothing can stop us. Then, there comes a day when we all realize just how fragile life is, whether it happens in a singular event or over the course of time.
Those 16 hours could have been a lot worse. This “normal” condition could be not so normal, and not so quaint. Instead, with a little exercise, less coffee and time, this should go away.
I also could have gotten in a serious accident and hurt myself, or worse, someone else. Instead, I missed a protruding fiber optics box by 10-feet, hit that tree in a spot where my car took all that impact instead of spinning off into the woods, and I walked away from that crash without a scratch.
I got the hint, oh Big and Almighty Guy in the Sky. Slow down. I'm on it.
Just bring on the cold weather so I can go ice fishing.
From my house to yours, everyone have a safe, warm and Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. And remember, slow down and enjoy it. Like the comedian Bill Engvall says, “Here's your sign …”
Road signs of the times
Sign of the times
By Josh Salm /Staff Writer
Date published: Dec. 31, 2008
A 22 hour, 1,400-mile drive from the family farm in eastern Wisconsin to my apartment in Old Town is a true test of wills – and a marriage, for that matter. My wife and I are still speaking to each other, so I passed that test.
As for the test of wills, I kept my sanity by keeping myself preoccupied with Lewis Black and Dane Cook comedy sketches on my iPod, sports radio talk shows and even road signs. There’s signs for everything along the interstate. Gas station next exit. Toll ahead 2.5 miles. Adult stores next exit (By the way, who ever drives down the interstate, sees that sign and goes, “Hey, I wasn’t thinking about that before but now that they have that there, that sounds like a good place to stop.”).
Did you know there’s a Recreational Vehicle and Motor Home Hall of Fame in western Indiana along I-90? For some reason my wife wouldn’t agree with me to stop and check the place out.
Coming in to Maine on the final leg of my journey, I got to thinking about how members of the Piscataquis County Economic Development Council are working to put up signs throughout the county to direct tourists to different landmarks and towns throughout the county. At the PCEDC’s annual meeting a few weeks back, there were discussions about how the Piscataquis Tourism Task Force put up signs for the Gulf Hagas and the Katahdin Iron Works region, as well as historical markers in different towns in southern Piscataquis County.
I had a thought that night during the annual meeting that popped back in my head as I crossed into Maine Monday night. It’s great this tourism task force is putting up signs in Piscataquis County, but where at the signs outside the county getting people up this way?
According to my unofficial count, there are two signs involving Piscataquis County between the state line and Old Town — one for Peaks Kenny State Park somewhere near Augusta, and another saying “Dover-Foxcroft, Moosehead Lake, Moose Mountain” further north.
For the record, there’s one sign for Jackman and Moose River region just before the Dover-Foxcroft sign.
The signage going up now helping tourists in this area find local landmarks is great. Those chickadee signs, the Gulf Hagas directions and the historical markers all add to the experience of visiting Piscataquis County, but what good is that if there is nothing on I-95 telling people about Gulf Hagas, Sebec Lake or even something as simple as the Appalachian Trail.
This state’s economy is built on tourism, and this county is not excluded from that. That’s why Plum Creek wants to build a resort off Moosehead Lake, to capitalize on the tourism aspect. That’s why the tourism task force is putting up signs, to get people to those destinations.
I mean, what good is building something like the Recreational Vehicle and Motor Home Hall of Fame if you don’t tell the tourists driving 70 miles per hour down the interstate about it? Heck, it would have drawn me off the road had my wife’s better judgment not prevailed.
Maybe it’s time we start looking at advertising the county’s places of interest on Maine’s only interstate. In the end, what good is it to have Piscataquis County filled with signs when there isn’t a sign outside the county directing the tourists up here in the first place?
By Josh Salm /Staff Writer
Date published: Dec. 31, 2008
A 22 hour, 1,400-mile drive from the family farm in eastern Wisconsin to my apartment in Old Town is a true test of wills – and a marriage, for that matter. My wife and I are still speaking to each other, so I passed that test.
As for the test of wills, I kept my sanity by keeping myself preoccupied with Lewis Black and Dane Cook comedy sketches on my iPod, sports radio talk shows and even road signs. There’s signs for everything along the interstate. Gas station next exit. Toll ahead 2.5 miles. Adult stores next exit (By the way, who ever drives down the interstate, sees that sign and goes, “Hey, I wasn’t thinking about that before but now that they have that there, that sounds like a good place to stop.”).
Did you know there’s a Recreational Vehicle and Motor Home Hall of Fame in western Indiana along I-90? For some reason my wife wouldn’t agree with me to stop and check the place out.
Coming in to Maine on the final leg of my journey, I got to thinking about how members of the Piscataquis County Economic Development Council are working to put up signs throughout the county to direct tourists to different landmarks and towns throughout the county. At the PCEDC’s annual meeting a few weeks back, there were discussions about how the Piscataquis Tourism Task Force put up signs for the Gulf Hagas and the Katahdin Iron Works region, as well as historical markers in different towns in southern Piscataquis County.
I had a thought that night during the annual meeting that popped back in my head as I crossed into Maine Monday night. It’s great this tourism task force is putting up signs in Piscataquis County, but where at the signs outside the county getting people up this way?
According to my unofficial count, there are two signs involving Piscataquis County between the state line and Old Town — one for Peaks Kenny State Park somewhere near Augusta, and another saying “Dover-Foxcroft, Moosehead Lake, Moose Mountain” further north.
For the record, there’s one sign for Jackman and Moose River region just before the Dover-Foxcroft sign.
The signage going up now helping tourists in this area find local landmarks is great. Those chickadee signs, the Gulf Hagas directions and the historical markers all add to the experience of visiting Piscataquis County, but what good is that if there is nothing on I-95 telling people about Gulf Hagas, Sebec Lake or even something as simple as the Appalachian Trail.
This state’s economy is built on tourism, and this county is not excluded from that. That’s why Plum Creek wants to build a resort off Moosehead Lake, to capitalize on the tourism aspect. That’s why the tourism task force is putting up signs, to get people to those destinations.
I mean, what good is building something like the Recreational Vehicle and Motor Home Hall of Fame if you don’t tell the tourists driving 70 miles per hour down the interstate about it? Heck, it would have drawn me off the road had my wife’s better judgment not prevailed.
Maybe it’s time we start looking at advertising the county’s places of interest on Maine’s only interstate. In the end, what good is it to have Piscataquis County filled with signs when there isn’t a sign outside the county directing the tourists up here in the first place?
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