reportedly yielding a billion herring a 

 season by 1880. Fisheries and wildlife 

 officials determined in the 1960s and 

 70s that in good years, more than a 

 million herring were taken by recrea- 

 tional fishermen using dip nets. 



As recently as the 1950s, Perry - 

 Wynns Fishery Company in Colerain — 

 once considered the largest freshwater 

 herring processing plant in the 

 world — saw seasons with as much as 

 a million pounds of fish per day pro- 

 cessed there. 



"Every bit of that was right out of 



this river,' ' said co-owner Lee Wynns, 

 whose herring processing now is closer 

 to 25,000 pounds per day and is not 

 heavily dependent on local catch. 



The herring themselves, as well as 

 the demand and labor force, continue 

 to decrease in numbers. 



Changing eating habits, accom- 

 panied by a changing 

 economy, have lessened the role of 

 herring in today's society of conve- 

 nience, the old-timers say. 



"Anybody 50 years old and down 

 ain't going to eat too many herring," 



In the early years of this 

 century, herring nets were 

 hauled in by boats with 

 steam engines. 



says Nixon. "Everybody now has got 

 too much money to eat herring." 



Still, during spring, the driveway 

 down the hill to the Cypress Grill and 

 nearby River's Edge in Jamesville is 

 lined daily with cars as visitors crowd 

 inside for the crisp-fried herring and a 

 taste of nostalgia. 



Outside along the nverbanks there's 

 a hint of sadness in the faces of some 

 of the fishermen and onlookers over 

 the fish's decline. But from his grocery 

 in town, Blount— who has a small 

 supply of corned herring for sale up 

 front — just accepts it. 



"The Lord knows what we need," 

 he says, ' 'and when we needed her- 

 ring they were here.' ' 1: 



Hard times for herring fishermen 



B Y 



R 



EDGERTON 



Guy Cox sits on the hard clay 

 bank of the Roanoke, munch- 

 ing on a river herring fried so brown 

 you can't tell where the fry ends and 

 the meat begins. 



"May as well sit here and eat 'em, I 

 sure can't catch any," says Cox, the 

 23-year-old son and grandson of 

 fishermen-farmers. 



The familiar white rubber boots of 

 the river fisherman are pulled midway 

 his calfs. His jeans are muddy and his 



face carries the pink trademark of 

 windburn. 



The coffee-with-cream colored river 

 is cold and swift. It runs high and 

 heavy with silt. 



Cox has been on the water since 

 early morning, doing everything the 

 way his daddy taught him years ago. 



Plow your boat upriver about 500 

 feet. Coax your gill net to flow evenly 

 out the front of your wide-bodied john 

 boat. Allow it to drift as you float 



about a quarter of a mile downriver. 

 Then swing your boat back around to 

 the southside of the churning river 

 and pull the net in, sliding the herring 

 into the boat as you pull. 



But this morning the fishing has not 

 been what it once was, when he and 

 his daddy happily lugged in as many 

 fish as the small boat would hold. 



"I didn't catch nothing worth talking 

 about today," says Cox, an industrial 

 electrician who fishes commercially 



