A Fishing Trip

When the boys of today go fishing, they take their automobile to some fishing pier, board a motorboat and in less than an hour are at the fishing grounds.

It was quite different when grand-dad was young.  There was a fishing trip that I have never forgotten, that was long before automobiles and motorboats were thought of.

A group of young fellows from Egg Harbor and nearby, asked me to join them on a fishing party.  Among them were Fred Flagel, John Dotts, William Ficken, Fred Ficken, Carl Hennis, William Sauer, Al Woerner, Ed Knorr and oh, yes, our chef and comedian Fred Boling, the old timer and others.

It was on a Saturday evening, John rigged seats on his father's wood-wagon, hooked up the old gray mare, and we started off on a two-hour trip to the river.

Mosquitoes were plentiful, but with most of the boys smoking, we managed to beat them off.  At the Lower Bank bridge, Captain Adams was waiting for us with his sailing boat, to which we transferred our belongings, - fishing tackle, bait, lunch and a life preserver.  It was a wooden one bound with iron hoops and stamped, Christian Atz, Cedar Water Brewery.  I don't think it would have held up our bodies, but it did keep up our spirits -- for awhile at least.

At the bridge we had to wait for the tide to change, there being no breeze, the sails could not be used.  It was after midnight when we pushed off, with the change of tide.  A light breeze stirred up and we got to the head of the bay before daylight.

There we lay at anchor.  Captain Adams knew what time to go out, and just where the fish were biting.  The mosquitoes were biting all the time, they were getting so thick on the boat that even the smoke would not drive them away.

Several of us decided to take the rowboat, go ashore where there were several haystacks.  We covered our faces and hands with hay.  The mosquitoes soon discovered that our trousers were worn thin on the seat, so we hadn't outwitted them after all.  Then all was up.  By this time it was day-break so we made for the boat and headed for the open bay.

Someone tapped the keg, and we all got out our lunch boxes, and really had a good time.  Our chef got everything ready to fry the fish we expected to catch, including lard, flour, salt, pepper, and the frying pan; perked up the old sooty oil stove, and all was set.

The captain cast anchor and out went the lines.  However, this spot proved fruitless.  We moved on to another spot, and then another.  I guess we stopped at a dozen places.  Finally the skipper decided that the fish were not biting that day and turned his ship homeward.

Only caught one little fish, Al Woerner was the hero.  Someone suggested that it should be thrown back into the water, but Al said it would make a good meal for his cat, so he put it into his empty lunch box.

The wind was against us, so was the tide.  Slowly skipper tacked up the river, until we reached Blood Point.  Here the wandering Mullica River makes a horseshoe bend, and a ditch had been dug across the isthmus to shorten the route for small craft.  The captain suggested that we tow the boat through this ditch to save time.

We, some of us, got out on one side and the rest on the other side.  A tow rope was thrown to us, and we got the experience of a canal boat mule's life.  The sun was good and hot, and the greenheads came to greet us in swarms.  When we reached the river again, we were tired out, hungry, and thirsty, with nothing to eat or drink aboard.

Ahead of us appeared the arches of Iron Bridge, as the New York Road bridge was called at that time.  Here the bridge tender had a supply of soft drinks, and there was a pump with cool fresh water, - at least that was what we expected.

The skipper had to wait here for the tide to change since there was not enough breeze to move us through the draw.  We all rushed out onto the bridge to the tender shack and the pump, but to our dismay the pump was broken -- no water!  The bridge tender had a few bottles of soft drinks left, which we eagerly grabbed.  Alas! but these were as warm as the summer sun, and just about as good an emetic as the brackish water we had been drinking.  We all piled on deck and proceeded to feed the fish.  That was a real touch of sea sickness.

With the change of tide, a light breeze sprang up and we drifted slowly up the river and reached Lower Bank shortly after midnight.  We had hoped to get some refreshments and eats here, but at this time of night stores were closed, so we had to be content with a drink of cool water.

The horse was hitched to the wagon and we drove wearily back to Egg Harbor.  If the mosquitoes had not been so bad, we would have fallen asleep.  Smokes were all used up; no one felt like playing a harmonica, or Jews harp, whistling, or singing.  We were a sorry looking lot.  Good that it was night and no one could see us.

We were almost afraid to enter our homes for fear of a severe calling down, but this at least we were spared.  Everyone was overjoyed to see us back, safe and sound.  The thought that something terrible must have happened to us, kept them sitting up and waiting for our return.  It was now nearly daybreak.

Summing up our experience, - two nights without sleep and a day of hardship and disappointments.  I felt sorry for most of the boys who had to go to work that weary Monday morning, murmuring, - never again.

As for myself, I dropped on a lounge, and went to sleep, forgetting all about the cornfield that needed cultivating.  Needless to say, I was through with going on any fishing party for a long time to come.

 
Memories of George Henry Liepe         Liepe Family History