A lesson in history
Toolbox
By KRIS MARTIN Correspondent - Published: July 18, 2009
For the past few years I've driven my way up to Lake Willoughby (with less-than-outstanding results), and along Route 2 passed some pieces of water that have intrigued me.
When I got my first boat I made the trek to Molly's Falls Pond, or Marshfield Reservoir, to use the boat launch and get used to backing things up and getting on and off the trailer. It was a good place to get familiar with things. A little further up the road is Joe's Pond. Why I never went there, I'll never know. I've yet to win the "Ice-Out" contest, but only because I've never entered.
Joined by Scott, I decided to make a determined effort to find out more about it and how to fish it effectively. First a little history though (I picked some of this from www.joespond.com so bear with me and my little edits. And no, I'm NOT being lazy, it's just a good story).
The pond is named for a Native American fellow (he used to be Injun' Joe, but I like the politically correct term) named Joe. Native American Joe was born in 1739 in Louisburg, Nova Scotia. His family belonged to the Micmac tribe, a branch of the Algonquins, and he described his father as a "land owner with neat cattle, jacks and horses." (Sounds like an 18th century car dealer…errr, horse dealer.)
He also told white friends of his terrifying experience when Louisburg was taken by the British in 1745.
"Red Coats come. Indians run. Drove Indians off, took all land." (Note: the term "Native American" had not been coined yet in 1745. It's not my fault, I would have copyrighted it).
Joe was left an orphan with a hatred for the British that would last a lifetime (ya think?). He fled with the scattered remnants of his tribe to the Indian (Native American) village of St. Francis.
St. Francis was located at the meeting place of the St. Lawrence and the St. Francis rivers. It was a melting-pot of exiled Native American tribes. (Note: the term "melting pot" was around long before the European immigrants got here, even in 1745. Well, at least most of them.)
Joe's early memories of St. Francis were of pathetic white prisoners from the Connecticut Valley raids, their bodies maimed and starved after the brutal march to St. Francis.
(Sounds like me after a day-hike up Camel's Hump, or after I work up a sweat peeling a banana).
During the French and Native American War, Joe was taken on a raid party to Vermont, somewhere near Newbury. The Native Americans were driven off by the white men, with the exception of Joe, who was left behind badly wounded (and a bit peckish).
He was fortunate enough to be taken care of all winter by the nearest white family (thankfully, not the Osmonds). They became friends, and when he regained his health they invited him to stay. He felt he had to return to his own people, but he promised his new friends that he would warn them of any danger coming from St. Francis.
Joe did come back from time to time to fish and hunt, sometimes trading fish and game for beads and cloth (and Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia), and he passed along word of hostile Indians in ambush. When the famed Rogers Rangers party made its attack on the sleeping village of St. Francis, Joe fled with the other panic-stricken survivors.
Joe had wooed and won a squaw, Molly, (she had a pond too!) away from her brave (husband), and he brought her and her two infant sons, Toomalek and Muxa-Wuxal, by secret Native American trails back to Coos valley. (Note: the term "home-wrecker" was also not coined in 1745, but the feelings associated with it were. My Native American name? Gimme-a-sammich.)
Joe would never return to Canada. Not only had he stolen another brave's squaw, but he had gained a reputation as a traitor from his warnings to the white settlers. His people turned on him, and made many attempts to capture him and Molly and drag them back to Canada. When Canada became British territory, Joe would not consider returning to the land of the Red Coats who had murdered his family.
Over time Joe and Molly lived in Peacham, Ryegate and Newbury and became known to many of the area and received the thanks of General George Washington himself. Not too bad for a wandering Native American.
Joe passed away in 1819 and is buried in Oxbow Cemetary. His monument reads — "Erected in Memory of Old Joe, the Friendly Indian Guide."
I'm sure you'll understand why I felt the need to give all that background info.
We didn't exactly get the opportunity to fish the place very hard. Greeted by sunny skies early on, I managed to pick up a nice pickerel on a green finesse worm with shaky head jig. I had a few small perch pick it up but with the sky darkening Scott and I felt the need to pick up the pace. I switched over to a Suspending Smithwick Rogue to rip over the tops of the weeds we found in about 15-feet of water while Scott kept pace with a spinnerbait and Yozuri Pin Minnow. I picked up a handful of perch before we decided to motor around through the narrows along the eastern end of the pond. Interesting, but as we weren't finding any fish, we decided to head back to our weedline when the skies opened.
I like fishing, but sitting in a bathtub during a summer rain storm has the same appeal to me as eating a raw onion – it's doable, but not very enjoyable (I once lost an onion-eating bet. Cost me a five-dollar bill).
As Scott and I sat in the car during the ensuing five-minute hailstorm, we both agreed that I should head back under better conditions next time. Joe did.
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