MARBLEHEAD, Ohio – Where else can you see a performance by the eagles, lead a stock car race, and catch a dozen bass before breakfast? That three-part question has two answers.
The stock car race is the State Route 13 North morning madness from New Lexington to I-70. Much to the chagrin of drivers from second place to last behind my bass boat pulling Tundra, I held onto first place until the straightaway just south of the intersection that leads to Sheridan High School.
As drivers passed me like a checkered flag was at stake, I wondered if they were cursing me for doing 55 or because I was going fishing. As I continued on Route 13 North, everyone else was making a left turn onto the “I am on the way to work” 70 westbound ramp.
One answer covers the remaining questions, and that’s Lake Erie. The eagles were not the Eagles, but three majestic birds that put on an aerial show above East Harbor that lacked only background music.
I had left for Lake Erie before sunrise that Monday morning with an ideal weather forecast for Port Clinton. Three consecutive days of sunny, dry conditions with light winds made for a perfect camping recipe at East Harbor State Park.
Retirement has afforded me the luxury of the spur of the moment fishing trip. While I do make reservations to secure a place to eat, sleep, and fish, every now and then, the urge to go solo sometimes sweeps over me like a wet mop on a tile floor.
Campsites at East Harbor must be reserved these days. Apparently COVID-19 brought about this policy. Before the pandemic, campsites could be secured by merely showing up and asking for one. My Golden Buckeye Card produced a discount that made the cost for two nights only $33. When Mike Baughman and I stayed at the Peninsula Inn earlier this summer, one night cost $140. While I didn’t major in trigonometry, I did master subtraction at an early age.
I had a game plan for my first solo trip of the year. Catching a largemouth bass in East Harbor before heading to Kelleys Island in search of smallmouth bass was the plan for Monday morning. I landed a two-pound bass that was hiding under an East Harbor boat dock and then headed for Kelleys.
To reach my desired location was a four mile run. A five-mile-an-hour west wind had only the slightest chop on the water, so it was an easy ride to the island. That’s all it was. An hour of trying to find the smallmouth bass proved fishless so I headed for the underwater rockpiles near the Marblehead Lighthouse.
The distinct tap on my first cast with a football jig had me setting the hook confident that I had found bass central. It was a big fish, but not the species I sought. The lowly but hard-pulling sheepshead (freshwater drum) dominated the action but I did mange to catch enough bass to salvage the morning.
For the rest of the trip, the breakwalls protecting East and West Harbors proved to be the ticket. A Ned rig with a finesse TRD worm in a color called Drew’s craw had my spinning rod bent most of the time. Bob Davis had recommended that color to me. I don’t know who this Drew is, but I like his color.
But fishing is only half the story at East Harbor’s campground. Most campers there stay in rolling houses called RVs. Staying in my tent surrounded by aluminum skyscrapers on wheels is the definition of modest accommodations, but that’s okay.
The RVers may be the friendliest people in the world at their happiest. They are enjoying the great outdoors with more luxury items than movie stars in Beverly Hills. Despite having every modern appliance on earth, these folks all follow the law of the jungle where fire is a means of survival. Every RV camper worth his trailer hitch has a campfire going at all times.
Forget blaming the Canadians for the smoke that was formerly their forests. My money for the cause of our air quality alerts is on the log burners at East Harbor. One positive outcome from the campground smokescreen was the only skeeter around my tent was a boat.
After two beautiful days with bass biting like they were being paid union wages to do so, the weatherman reneged on the forecast that had been promised.
“Hope you caught ‘em cause rain’s movin’ in,” came the greeting from my next door neighbor. He was the official camp host for section B where my tent was nailed to spot #83. When I asked him about the actual forecast, his reply sealed my mesh-roofed tent’s fate.
“Seventy percent chance of storms around midnight, high winds, possible hail, and more storms around sunup. Good luck in that tent!” I’ve never seen anyone so happy to share bad news.
I had just awakened from an afternoon snooze despite some maniac cutting grass at 50 miles per hour when the campground host gave me the weather report. I checked my NOAA radio for the exact forecast, and it was indeed going to be a stormy night along the La ke Erie shoreline. I knew exactly what had to be done.
I made the drive to the East Harbor ramp in record time without hitting a bicycling fellow Golden Buckeye card holder or the docile wildlife always ready for a photo op. With limited time to fish, I headed for the breakwall at West Harbor where my luck had been best.
It was if the bass were rushing to dinner before they had to swim home in the rain. Very few anglers were on the water that evening and I had that Dwight Yoakum “thousand miles from nowhere” vibe working as I unhooked fish after fish.
The rain came as I completed breaking camp, but my t-shirt was just damp enough to have a cooling effect without really being that wet. The time on my dashboard read 9:39. The GPS predicted my ETA to be 1:32 a.m. State Route 13 South that night was all mine.
My headlights were knifing through the night like they were making a two lane tunnel to Perry County. The radio and grape 5-Hour energy installments had my eyes pried open when Dwight Yoakum stopped for a brief visit.
“I’m a thousand miles from nowhere, and there’s no place I wanna be,” and that’s exactly how I felt. In reality, I was 15 miles from Mansfield and headed straight home.
If a weather forecast for Port Clinton calls for sunny skies and light winds for two consecutive days, with apologies to Mr. Yoakum, you know where I wanna be.