The weather in Maine was an unseasonable 82 degrees when Patti and I landed
in Bangor. Usually, on the first week up north, I’m greeted by 40-degree
weather, overcast skies, black flies and a broken water heater at camp.
The drive along I-95 was uneventful, with just a quick stop at Governors for
chowder and a piece of unfried fish. One more stop at DQ for a soft ice
cream and we were on our way to Lincoln to go food shopping for the few days we had planned to relax by ourselves, and I could do a little fishing. By the time we arrived at camp, it was nightfall. After a quick toe dip at the end of the dock I headed straight to bed and slept.
Next morning I woke up with the sun at 5:30a.m. and took my coffee to the
dock. The fishermen were all out on the water, trolling for salmon and
lake trout. The warm weather brought out the weekday anglers. I needed to
catch up on a few office matters before Greg, my local fishing guide, and I could take off on another of his expeditions to a “special place” where the trout are “18 inches.” He came by promptly at 1:00 p.m., ready for an afternoon of catching. He was as usual enthusiastic and promising a bit more than he can usually deliver –but it is not his fault, the fishing rods are to blame. “Bring rubber boots,” he said as I was getting into the truck. But I was already prepared with them—a brand new pair I had just purchased from an online outfitter.
Off through Danforth we flew, on the main roads and then the backroads, with
a brief stop at his buddy’s house to hitch up an old rowboat with a 15 hp
motor. Greg and his friend grew up together and both work in the woods,
for the lumber industry. This fellow never married until recently, when
he fell in love with a widow and now, according to Greg, he “never leaves the
house.”
We arrived at a small bridge over the Mattagodus Stream. Anxious to
get a fly in the water, I took a few casts from the shore as Greg maneuvered
the boat down an embankment. With a splash, it was ready to go. We
traveled upstream, winding our way through a 20-foot-wide expanse of water that was the confluence of several smaller streams passing through miles of wetlands on both sides. There were no other fishermen in sight. When we got
to a promising spot, Greg turned off the motor and we both cast–Greg with his
live bait on his spinning rod and I with my flyrod with a dry fly. The
sun beat down on us mercilessly. The wind was minimal and the only relief
was when Greg sped upstream. We reached a bend and Greg promised (again) some action at a nearby beaver dam. He beached the boat and I waded ashore (reason for boots). The ground was marshy with areas of soft mud. I walked further upstream away from Greg to the beaver dam and started casting. With my rod in hand, I carefully moved closer to the water to avoid a back-cast hookup. Suddenly I had a fish take and now had to move away from the water to better maneuver bringing in the fish. But the wetlands were muddier and wetter as I moved back from the stream. Suddenly, with a fish on the line, I felt myself sinking slowly into the mud. Greg was on the other side of the bend in the stream and out of sight. He was too far to hear me if I called out. I gripped the rod as I continued to sink even deeper. The mud was now over my boot top. I had to make a fateful decision – the fish or me! I chose the fish. So as sank, I continued to play the little fishy, drawing him in. There was no sense of panic about getting myself out of this, but it would be messy. I laid down on my stomach, still holding my rod with the fish attached, and slipped out of my boots. I reeled in my catch and walked, barefoot and covered in mud, back to where Greg was fishing contentedly. “What happened to you?” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. “I caught a fish, that’s all!” I answered, holding up my prize.
Was it 18 inches? Not even close. And I lost my new boots for it. Yet I was happy. Actually, it was refreshing to take a mud bath on a day with temps in the 80s. I guess I had been a bit scared there for a minute, but I knew it wasn’t quicksand, just wetlands. And there is always an upside to things. I learned not to back up into wetlands, always carry a whistle, and wear slip-off boots when fishing.
