by Mitch Lee
It was the last week of August in 1976 and I was not looking forward to trading in my fishing pole for homework. But the first leaves on the largest Maples were already turning, the nights were getting very cool, and the last good swimming days were at hand.
It was certain that all things integral to summer were about to come to an end.
My dog Mutt and I had had many adventures throughout the summer, but neither one of us was quite ready to cast off our swim trunks, hiking boots and day-long snoop hikes.
With just one solid week of summer vacation to go we had to choose each and every adventure carefully.
On one particular morning we decided we would see how many Crayfish we could catch down by the outlet in the Limekiln Lake campground.
I hopped on my bike and speeded uphill and down the campsite road with Mutt in hot pursuit.
When we neared the booth I gave a short wave to the attendant as Mutt yelped a bit trying to catch up.
Circling the many roadways of the campground brought us to the large open leach field, which was absolutely filled with crickets.
I ditched my bike out in the center of the field and Mutt laid down trying to catch her breath.
But as soon as she saw that I was chasing crickets she was up investigating them.
The warmth of the mid-morning sun was drying out the tall grass, and I could hear the trickle of the outlet which was just ten yards off through some thick tag alders.
We made our way down to the creek stepping on some medium-sized round river rocks.
I hopped rocks for a bit till I came to what I thought might be prime ground for catching Crayfish.
Mutt had already found a deep pool and was laying in it trying to cool off.
Among the pebbles and sunken driftwood I found hundreds of maroon, pink and black mini lobster-like Adirondack crayfish.
I plucked out several and put them in front of Mutt’s snout for inspection. She seemed unimpressed with my harvest and much more interested in her long, cool bath.
I began to think what would happen if a cricket and a crayfish were to meet so I went back up into the meadow.
I found a good-sized hopper that tickled my closed fist as I tromped back down into the creek to fish out a crayfish.
When the two met on a large flat river rock neither one moved for a good count of five.
But suddenly the cricket bounded away and almost bounced off the water before it was gone.
I returned the crayfish to the creek and Mutt and I decided to call it a day and head back home.
Tomorrow would be another carefully planned last week of summer adventure.
—
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller,
lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com