
The catch of the day for the Tangled column of the week.
Patrick L. Sullivan
The catch of the day for the Tangled column of the week.
Fishing trips are rarely straightforward propositions. Over 52 years of flicking the baited hook, I have learned not to make plans with rigid schedules, because something always goes awry.
Last week I traveled deep into the wilds of Greene County, N.Y., for some research and development with my fishing guru Gary.
This meant remembering where his house is.
In that part of the world, there is a Route 23, a Route 23A, and a Route 23C.
I have often wondered why the geniuses that assign numbers to roads couldn’t just call them Route 23, Route 24, and Route 25.
Maybe a sequential clump of numbers is too easily confused. How about Routes 23, 47 and 59?
Luckily Gary’s neighbor has hung a gigantic American flag a couple doors down.
Whoops, there’s the flag, turn around.
R&D project A was a town reservoir. I’m not going to name the town because everything about this adventure was highly irregular.
Acting on intelligence gleaned from unusually reliable sources, we drove past a series of increasingly unpromising signs.
First we were warned to keep out. Then it was no hunting, fishing, trapping or trespassing for any reason. Then the signs returned to the general “keep out” theme.
We finally got to a gate. It was open. There were two men talking about something.
Gary went over to them. He conversed with one. He returned.
“We’re good,” he said. He had been talking to the water supply boss, who said it was fine if we parked outside the gate, out of the way, and walked up.
“It’s only about a quarter mile,” said Gary.
Of course it was mostly uphill, and not a gentle grade, either.
At the midway point, we heard yelping and hollering from the deep woods.
Two men emerged. They did not look outdoorsy. They looked out of shape and frustrated. (I am, after all, a highly trained observer.)
They had lost two chihuahuas. The dogs had been in the woods all night. The plan seemed to be to stumble around the woods in haphazard fashion yelling variations on “Here doggy!”
There didn’t seem to be anything we could do so we soldiered on, eventually reaching a large pond of sorts which was the reservoir that supposedly held big rainbow trout.
We tried, but it was windy and squishy and I was wearing a pair of boat shoes, handy enough in the right context but next to useless here.
I caught two bluegills. Gary caught a shiner.
On the way back the rescue team had located one dog. The other one had gone silent. I suggested opening a can of the ripest dog food available, on the theory the rich scent might overcome the dog’s terror.
The R&D continued at Lake Colgate, which is really more of a pond, created by damming up the East Kill. There is another impoundment about a mile upstream, and in between is a nice-looking bit of stream that should contain brook trout.
There is another impoundment about a mile upstream, and in between is a nice-looking bit of stream that should contain brook trout.
On this day it contained shiners and nothing else.
We tracked it down to where it merges into the lake, and I caught another bluegill which was sitting in about three inches of water making faces at me.
I showed him.
The guru in action in his natural habitat: the slow wait by the watery depths.Patrick L. Sullivan
The good thing about riding around with Gary is his catalog of amusing anecdotes and vivid character sketches. Also cigar smoking is allowed.
This time I learned about Cowboy George. A Brooklynite, George found himself in New Mexico, where he developed a taste for garish, stage cowboy attire.
Upon his return to Brooklyn, he developed the theme, with a twist.
George was also a cross-dresser. And a cocaine dealer, with a sideline in illegal guns.
Gary once asked him why he liked dressing like Dale Evans.
“When that buckskin hits my thighs, the years just melt away,” George replied.
Back in Phoenicia, I convened with my nomadic attorney, Thos., who was ensconced at the Woodland Valley Campground nearby.
I’m not sure how we got on the subject, but he explained his “layered defense” for personal protection that does not involve a firearm. His travels take him all over the place, and carrying a gun just isn’t practical for legal reasons.
The first item is pepper spray.
The second is a gas mask. “One of those World War One things, I want it to be terrifying.”
And the third is a spear.
He explained he had returned a custom made spear to the Japanese maker. It wasn’t pointy enough.
“I’d do more damage hitting someone with the handle.”
Thos. further explained that sometimes he finds himself bivouacking in less than ideal circumstances.
Thos. saw “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” at a tender age, and it left a lasting impression.
One Florida campground reminded him of the film enough that after talking with his new neighbors for five minutes, he got back in the car and left, without unhitching the camper or even stopping at the office to get his 15 bucks back.
Some fishing did get done on this trip.
Woodland Valley Creek is a major Esopus tributary and for 60 years or so, the Woodland Trout Fund (which sports the easily misconstrued acronym WTF), has planted brown and brook trout on Memorial Day weekend with a smaller stocking in July.
There is excellent access to public water downstream, and the WTF has a long-standing arrangement with the homeowners in the valley that trespassing for the purpose of fly-fishing is allowed.
The years have not been kind to the stream. Hurricanes and floods have reconfigured the streambed several times and left exposed clay banks. Forests of knotweed have eliminated cherished pools and runs.
And the new generation of homeowners are not as accommodating as their predecessors.
Nonetheless, it is where I learned to fish, and I always chip in. I try to catch my first Catskill trout of any given year in Woodland, with a bamboo rod and a dry fly.
That didn’t happen this year. I was unfaithful and hit the Beaverkill, Schoharie and a couple of others first.
But I did chuck a Chubby Chernobyl into the pool where my late father caught his last trout, and a feisty brown obliged by smacking it hard.
I used a Phillipson bamboo rod, seven feet for five weight, which my father gave me as a college graduation present.
Other kids got fancy cars, or a seat on the board, or a months-long trip to Europe.
But I’m still using the rod.
So who got the better deal?
Joan Anderson Turnure, 91, died after a long illness on May 3, 2025, at Noble Horizons in Salisbury, CT. She was the loving widow of Michael DeBurbure Turnure.
A memorial service will be held at St. John’s Church in Salisbury on June 1, at 1:00PM, followed by a reception at The White Hart Inn.
To view the whole obituary please visit www.kennyfuneralhomes.com.
The Kenny Funeral Home has care of arrangements.
CANAAN — The Lord welcomed Liz home Sunday, May 4, 2025, after leading a long life of faithful service, to Him and to us. She loved life and people. While living in Dunnellon, Florida for her waning years, she remained attached to her roots in Canaan, Connecticut.
Though small in stature, Liz was big in heart. After a successful long career as a hairdresser, she remained active and involved. A consummate homemaker, baker, cook, reader and world traveler, Liz enjoyed her several Pomeranians, especially Queen Sheba and Sweet Pea, her final pups. Her hobbies included crocheting, gardening, walking and picking flowers for the table. Liz’s service to others included being a Life Lioness, a Daughter of Isabella, a VFW Auxiliary Life Member, a VA Gainesville Hospital Volunteer as well as service ministries of bereavement and bingo at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church.
Her survivors include sisters, Stephanie Togninalli (Louis), and Elsie Zucco (Oliver) and many nieces and nephews, grand, great grand, and great great grand nieces and nephews, and her loving, longtime companion, Walter J. Fleck. In Heaven, Liz will join her beloved husband of over 40 years, Frank J. Zucco, parents, Alice and Dazzi Colli, and sisters Anna Smith, and Mary Tyler.
A 10:30 a.m. Funeral Mass will be held at St. John the Baptist Catholic Church, May 23, 2025. Services will be held and she will be interred with Frank in the St. Joseph’s Catholic Church Cemetery in Canaan, Connecticut at a later date. Elizabeth appreciated the love, prayers, and support she received throughout her life.
SOUTH KENT — Denis Rene LaFontan, 81, a lifelong resident of South Kent, passed away peacefully at home on May 6, 2025, surrounded by family.
Born June 25, 1943, at Sharon Hospital, he was the son of the late Andre, Sr. and Elisabeth (Hosslin) LaFontan. He attended Kent Center School and Housatonic Valley Regional High School.
On Jan. 14, 1966, he married Beverly Card, the love of his life. Denis and Beverly were married for 59 wonderful years and Beverly still resides at home.
Denis worked all over Connecticut as a Heavy Equipment Operator, was one of the operators of LaFontan’s Humus and ended his career as the owner/operator of South Kent Construction, LLC, retiring in 2005.
Denis was an avid woodsman who appreciated and understood Northwestern Connecticut’s forests and wildlife. He was a passionate hunter and fisherman, passing on his love and respect for the outdoors to his children and grandchildren.
Family meant everything to Denis. He loved his home and there was no place he’d rather be. He enjoyed walks on his nearby parents’ property also known as “the mountain.” Much of the wood harvested from the “mountain” was used in the wood stove in his basement that kept his family warm all winter. In his later years, Denis enjoyed good conversation out on his porch-especially about recent animals that he or others had seen, like “Boo” the neighborhood bear that Denis had fondly named after numerous sightings.
Denis is survived by two sons and a daughter; Vincent and his wife Maria of Kent, and Lyle and his wife Elaine of Gaylordsville, and Rebecca and her husband Daniel of South Kent. His grandchildren; Olivia, Abigail, Madison, Morgan, Alexandra and Raphael; and two great-grandchildren; Rowan and Harrison.
The family is planning a private burial. Memorial donations may be made to the First Congregational Church of Kent, 97 North Main St. Kent, CT 06757.
The Kenny Funeral Home has care of arrangements.