A day at the mouth: Old Saybrook
Posted by karlmeyer on 13 May 2010 at 06:25 am | Tagged as: American shad, Connecticut River
A day at the mouth: Old Saybrook © 2010 by Karl Meyer
May 3, 2010.
Waking up to rain on a Monday morning at the Liberty Inn on Springbrook Road in Old Saybrook can be a comforting feeling. It comes not so much from seeing the mist rise from trucks passing on I-95, not 100 yards away. It simply delivers the message you get to relax in a bed for a bit, and stay for a full day along the Sound and the tidelands. So, you tell the front desk you’re in for more, make the three cup hotel-coffeemaker coffee, and have leftover pizza for breakfast.
The rains nominally clear this section of coast around 1 pm, at least according to the radar. Unloading the tent, pad, and sleeping bag from my bike, I ride off in a rain slicker, toting two mostly-empty panniers along. First stop is North Cove, fairly close to town. To get there it’s back up Rt. 1, and over the concrete Amtrak/Conrail bridge.
It’s still a bit damp and misty, but there are hints of sun–muggy for early May. This is an old town dump, now turned into an overlook park, with a side path leading a ways out to the marsh and cove. It’s a good two miles to the opposite shore. Walking along a little grass spit its obvious the tide is just past high. A muskrat trails in and out of the marsh grasses, seemingly not too intimidated by my presence. Neither are the salt marsh mosquitoes—happy to have an early visitor.
After the rain it is fairly quiet here. I hear song sparrows calling, and a red-bellied woodpecker up on the lookout above. But shorebirds from where I am are silent. I head back along the muddy sure, and then up on the rise to the overlook. Here, a pair of osprey make tight circles, giving their hollow calls. There are several platforms out in the cove along the water and placed among the marsh grasses. One is occupied.
I read a bit of the interpretive signage and see that there are two uncommon salt marsh sparrows here, plus three species of rail: king, clapper, and Virginia. Rails are never easy to see, and this is not the hour to be easily picking up bird song. I take them at their word—this was, after all, Roger Tory Peterson country. I bid the mosquitoes, and the yellow warbler, and the Carolina wren farewell, and head back toward town.
I’ve grabbed a little historic walking tour brochure, and thus note the old buildings and colonial sites as I ride along. I’m hungry, and there’s a restaurant called One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest that may not be too far out on Rt. 1, South, but I can’t be sure. I’m not really up for a trafficky-ride along a damp shoulder. There are still a few showers in the area.
When I’ve gone a ways, I note that I’m still a couple of thousand street numbers from reaching the address of Cuckoo’s Nest. I decide I’m not up for the traffic. But, I’m right near Atlantic Seafood, which is advertising Connecticut River shad and roe. I stop, on the outside chance they actually have some cooked. Of course they don’t, but the woman mentions two places that serve it. I thank her, but already know they are both high-end places—not the right fit for this road biker.
As I’m standing outside asking myself if it’s going to rain some more, and what I want to do about food and more exploring, I hear a sharp pop—like someone has thrown a firecracker. I look for the culprit, but there is none. I look again. I look at my bike. In particular, I look at my front tire. It is flat. What days are these—what gods?? How does a tire spontaneously combust? Still, I do comfort myself that it didn’t happen in the middle of nowhere, though I kind of am in the middle of nowhere—3 – 4 miles from my motel.
But, across the way—voila, is a bike shop. Now, surely I can fix a tire. And, I have a spare tube and tire irons in my panniers. But I’ve showered this morning. Plus, I’m wearing my cleanest dirty shirt and it’s muggy and might rain some more. By decree, I’m letting myself let them fix this flat. And they do. The tire had a big cut. It was just itching to bust. I guess I was lucky to witness the event, rather than wonder what had happened. New tire, new tube, and $25 bucks later I’m on my way. Nice folks.
I stop for a bottle of Berkshire Ale to bring back to my little room and the ballgame at the Liberty Inn and then head back over the railroad bridge on Rt. 1. Waiting for the walk light at the busy crossing I see a sign in front of Pat’s Kountry Kitchen: we have shad and roe. This really must be a sign(of course it literally is a sign!) They are also advertising half-price cocktails for early birds, and its just 4:45, I’m the early bird. I ask if a beer can be a cocktail, and that seals the deal. Shad is ordered, though I can’t bring myself—philosophically, to order the roe. Not with a struggling species. I dive into a good salad.
When my shad comes, I’m surprised it’s delivered by the cook—this is a pretty big place, though there are only a few of us blue hairs on the premises at the moment. He tells me to enjoy. I’ve left the beer untouched so that I could sample the shad—my first ever, with a clear palate. And it is good. Alosa sapidissima—Latin, for most-delicious herring. I’m impressed. Just a little seasoning, and its delightful. I savor it; take a picture even.
When I’ve paid the young, slightly-stiff waiter, I notice the chef at a nearby table, talking to old acquaintances. He’s obviously part of this family operation, somewhere in his late 40’s and just a regular guy, with his chef’s shirt a drooping a bit hangdog in the heat. I motion politely to see if I can get a word. When he comes I introduce myself, compliment his shad and ask where they get it. From across the river in Old Lyme, he says.
His name is Dave–very likeable, ready to talk. I tell him what I’m doing and tells me what he knows about people going out to net shad commercially here. “Hey,” he says, “go talk to Ted at Ted’s Bait and Tackle. Right down Rt. 1 in your direction. They go out. He’ll tell you about it.” I thank him again and head on my way. I’m a bit pooped, and the late still has a showery feel to the sky.
When I get back to my room I turn on the weather. It looks like whatever showers are around have already cleared Old Saybrook. I get back on my bike and head toward the mouth of the Connecticut River—the actual place where the Sound and this ribbon of water merge: Ferry Point. That’s where Ted is.
It’s a bit tricky, but I find Ted’s tucked up beneath that classic rail trestle that’s the last thing you see before Long Island Sound when you cross the 1 – 95 bridge here. That’s where Ted’s is, the sign reads, “Hunting and fishing licenses.” There’s a house, and a separate bait and tackle shop that’s as big as a house, one floor, all brown. As I approach a young woman on the house steps brings a very interested and large German shepherd inside before it finds me too enticing. I thank her.
Inside the shop a woman is buying night crawlers, she has two kids in tow. I figure she’s either the mom, or their aunt. She’s obviously excited to be taking them fishing. I’m the only other visitor at 6:30 pm. Ted’s is a full service place, bait, rods, lures, boots—all standard fare, not the glossy magazine type of outfitter. Live bait, frozen bait, fish– there’s a good bit of all things serviceable here. It’s a general store for fishing.
I introduce myself and ask the burly, late-20’s guy if he’s Ted—thinking he’s likely not. “I’m one of the Teds,” he says. Telling him I’m interested in the shad netting operation he tells me that his father has gone out for 50 years, “Not because it makes a lot of money—there’s little money in it. But, partly it’s the tradition.” They won’t be going out tonight, but likely tomorrow night, he says, “You want to come along—we’ve taken you guys out with us before?” Alas, I tell him, I’ll be back on my bike tomorrow.
“We go out two hours after mean low-tide. Tonight, that would be about 11.” Then he add that there are still 5 – 6 people that gill-net shad here and across in Old Lyme, plus one up by Haddam. I thank him, ask for a card, and say I may be calling his father. The young woman holds the German shepherd as I’m getting on my bicycle. She’s now talking to a couple of guys on motorcycles who are lounging about. “Just give me a head start,” I say.
I stop at the town landing and fishing pier beneath the I – 95 bridge. There are two guys fishing. One is likely my age, sipping on a quart of Bud, though I definitely have more teeth. The other is young, in his early 20’s. They are not fishing together, just fishing amicably. That may be the core of what fishing is about. The older guy doesn’t know much about shad; has never tasted one. “They’re a weird fish,” he says. He doesn’t catch them. These are salt water guys. The young guy says he has had a few bites this evening, pulled in one perch a while back, “The stripers were hitting pretty good right here last week.” I thank them, we trade a few more observations, and am on my way.
There’s one more little salt wetland I want to see, Otter Cove, a bit upstream on the river. I pass a marina with scores of fat pleasure boats wrapped in thousand of yards of plastic. I reach Otter Cove itself through a neighborhood that all but says “we’re money people,” some homes with actual gated drives. But a lovely bit of low sunlight slips beneath the clouds when I do reach the small cove. It illuminates that far shore, bathing it in warm gold. I snap a picture. The next time I move there is a slap in the slowly receding tide beneath the little bridge. Thick and ropey, I again guess that it’s an eel, darting for the reeds.
The sun is about to set. I turn my bike back toward Rt. 1 and I – 95, and the surprising, relative quiet of my room for the last night at the mouth of the river.
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