Smelt Run
by John L. Peyton

Every spring when the Lake Superior ice breaks up, the little smelt fish come out of the depths to spawn in the creeks and shallows.  The people come to meet them, from near and very far, with nets, waders, hip-boots, and with barrels bound to their cars.

They drag their seines and dip their nets all day, but the smelt only come in after dark.  At sunset a few early fish are being caught.  The night comes down cold, with masses of ice still standing up here and there along the shoreline.  Big fires are built.  Before midnight the nets are heavy with struggling silver masses.  One haul will fill a bushel basket.

At the deep end of the seine you lean against the pull of the fish, the icy water lapping at the tops of your chest-high waders.  The fires look very far away.  You are in the hands of your partner at the shore end.  If he ever let go you’d be over your head in the blackness, another lost smelter.

But when you come ashore, a free and easy feeling is in the night air, a traditional American disregard of law.  These are just folks, not elite and ethical sportsmen.  When the driftwood runs out they tear down fences, sheds, and “keep out” signs to fuel their fires.  Now private property becomes public.  A load of cans, food, surplus smelt, excrement, paper, and broken bottles sweeps majestically over lawns, driveways, and patios.  Toward morning the smelters sleep, in tents, trailers or automobiles. 

This performance may be repeated every night for a week or more.  Then, as mysteriously as they came, the smelt return to the depths.  The wading and dipping continue optimistically for several days.  Finally the crowd departs and the locals begin the cleanup cursing patiently.

Go to "Lester River Smelt Run" Painting now...

Smelt Run
by John L. Peyton

Every spring when the Lake Superior ice breaks up, the little smelt fish come out of the depths to spawn in the creeks and shallows.  The people come to meet them, from near and very far, with nets, waders, hip-boots, and with barrels bound to their cars.

They drag their seines and dip their nets all day, but the smelt only come in after dark.  At sunset a few early fish are being caught.  The night comes down cold, with masses of ice still standing up here and there along the shoreline.  Big fires are built.  Before midnight the nets are heavy with struggling silver masses.  One haul will fill a bushel basket.

At the deep end of the seine you lean against the pull of the fish, the icy water lapping at the tops of your chest-high waders.  The fires look very far away.  You are in the hands of your partner at the shore end.  If he ever let go you’d be over your head in the blackness, another lost smelter.

But when you come ashore, a free and easy feeling is in the night air, a traditional American disregard of law.  These are just folks, not elite and ethical sportsmen.  When the driftwood runs out they tear down fences, sheds, and “keep out” signs to fuel their fires.  Now private property becomes public.  A load of cans, food, surplus smelt, excrement, paper, and broken bottles sweeps majestically over lawns, driveways, and patios.  Toward morning the smelters sleep, in tents, trailers or automobiles. 

This performance may be repeated every night for a week or more.  Then, as mysteriously as they came, the smelt return to the depths.  The wading and dipping continue optimistically for several days.  Finally the crowd departs and the locals begin the cleanup cursing patiently.

Go to "Lester River Smelt Run" Painting now...