Prosek - Joe and me: an education in fishing and friendship

I ts not like I had never done it before. In fact, poaching had almost become an art to me. I prided myself on being discreet and having successfully evaded the law for years. The Easton Reservoir, owned by the Bridgeport Hydraulic Company, is just a short walk from my home, and it was where I spent most afternoons fishing. Along with the Aspetuck and Saugatuck reservoirs, Easton was routinely patrolled by wardens whose job it was to keep anyone who was a threat to water quality off the property. That apparently meant anyone who even went near it.

At fifteen, the thought of getting caught breaking the law was both frightening and exhilarating. I was well aware of the danger of fishing illegally, and although Id never been caught, I had mapped out every possible means of escape. Stone foundations, left from when the water company tore down old houses, would make ideal hiding places. The stone walls that crisscrossed the woods, remnants of farmers attempts to rid the soil of rocks and keep their cows fenced in, would be good for ducking behind at the last minute. Large sycamores and sugar maples with low branches would be ideal for climbing if I felt that the best way to escape was up. I had found or cut trails in every direction, sought out undercut banks where I could crawl if I was trapped against the water, and even entertained the idea of swimming to the other side of the reservoir or to one of the two small islands in the middle if there was no alternative. But the danger of getting caught was only part of the attraction of fishing where I did. More than the thrill, it was the prospect of catching a large trout that kept me going back, and that same prospect led me from the familiar Easton Reservoir to the Aspetuck, where I found myself one afternoon standing on the lip of the dam, next to my friend Stephen, in the pouring rain.

We had run with our equipment through the woods, our ponchos trailing behind us like great green capes in the heavy April rain. Exposed to the road and bordered by a swamp, the dam was undoubtedly the worst possible place a poacher could find himself. I hesitated before moving into the open, crouching against the wind to tie a lure on my line. My hands were shaking, from the cold or nerves or both, but I managed to tie the knot and climbed onto the dam to cast. I whipped the rod in a wide arc, but the line blew back and landed at my feet. I cast again but had no luck. Frustrated with the conditions and feeling exposed, I hid behind a concrete pump house that was perched on the rim of the dam, trying to keep an eye on the road. Stephen persisted in attempting to cast his line into the reservoir.

This is crazy, Stephen! I yelled through the downpour. Were not going to catch anything. Lets wait in the woods till your mom comes back to pick us up.

He couldnt hear me.

My eyes tried to focus on the road, which I could barely make out through the sheets of rain. A blue wash of color appeared, heading our way, and I somehow knew it was a wardens patrol truck. As it approached, I froze behind the pump house, unable to move. Moments later, the blue truck pulled up behind us. Its tires on the gravel were, incredibly, even louder than the rain.

I yelled to Stephen, who had already seen the truck, and we ran down the hill to the edge of the swamp. Stephen jumped in without hesitation and started to cross, his rod in his teeth, the stagnant water up past his hips.

He removed his rod long enough to scream, Come on! but I didnt follow.

I turned around and looked up the hill that we had just come down. Standing at the top was a man in silhouette, briefly illuminated by a faint spark that appeared below the peak of his hunting cap. He had lit a cigarette.

I stood looking at him, the rain running off my poncho, and watched as a plume of smoke disappeared over his shoulder. The odds of my escape seemed slight. If I had been at the edge of a broad expanse of woodland I might have considered running. But I was trapped, the swamp on one side, the warden on the other, and beyond, roads most certainly now being patrolled by backup in search of any young boy carrying a fishing rod.

I put down my head and trudged up the hill, the water sloshing in my shoes, the rain dripping from my hair. I walked right up to him.

I know who you are, James, the man said, squinting his eyes. I was surprised he knew my name and was overcome by the feeling that he had watched me before, that he had saved my capture for this day. Why hadnt I been caught earlier? I had fished the reservoir behind my house every single summer day for years. He must have seen me there. Had he let me poach all these years? Maybe I wasnt as discreet as I had thought.

I knew who he was too, though, and I had watched him on occasion. His name was Joe Haines. I remembered one July day seeing him help bale hay in Farmer Kaecheles field. My father had told me he was a patrolman, and was married to Kaecheles daughter. And now I was standing before him, caught.

Lets get out of the rain, he said. Put your gear in the back of the pickup truck.

You think you could drive me home? I asked abruptly, hoping to solve the problem of what to do with me. The thought had crossed my mind that I could go to jail. There was a silence while I waited for his verdict. Would he fine me? Just scold me? I braced myself. Instead, he just changed the subject.

We need to find your friend before we head back, he said. I put my rod and box of lures in the back of his truck and pulled a green tarpaulin over them, securing the edge with a deer antler that was sitting in the flatbed. Before we stepped in, I noticed Haines eyeing my boots. Though I had been careful over the years not to leave obvious marks of my passing, even an animal moving across the forest floor leaves tracks. I suspected that mine were familiar to Haines, but he was silent. He climbed into the cab and I did the same, slamming the heavy door against the weather.

Whats your friends name? Haines asked.

Stephen and I had always said that we would use aliases if one of us got caught. But I had never anticipated that the patrolman who caught me would already know my name. Lying seemed out of the question. His name is Stephen.

I had hidden from blue patrol trucks just like this one all my life, and I honestly never thought Id be in one. It wasnt too clean inside the cab, but it was warm, and I immediately thought of how cold Stephen must be. On the seat between us was a stack of papers and catalogs full of fishing equipment. The CB radio sputtered, and Haines picked it up.

You there, Csanadi?

Yeah.

He continued talking into the receiver with his thumb firmly pressed on the black button. I knew he was talking with the police because I went to school with Officer Csanadis son. As he spoke, looking out through the windshield into the rain, I watched him. He was an older, white-haired man, obviously weathered from a lifetime of exposure to the elements. His hands were worn. They reminded me of old farmers hands Id seen, soil trapped under the fingernails.

We got one but the other is through the swamp, Haines said. He released his thumb from the button and looked at me. Is that right? he asked. Did Stephen go through the swamp?

Yeah. Stephen doesnt think too much, he just kind of reacts.

Well, you were smart not to run. He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. We might want to get out the fire department to look for the kid. Names Stephen.