Maine Outdoor Journal

Our pal Chippo died this morning.

He died at home, which is a blessing in itself. I don’t know the circumstances, but my hope is that he knew death was imminent and prepared himself by drinking an icy vodka martini and smoking a fine cigar.

Chippo was Fred Gorgone, the Durham Ranger, conquerer of Mount Katahdin (numerous times), legendary gourmand, master chef, expert flyfisherman, Master of the Thursday Night Revels at the Great Lost Bear. Chippo’s motto was, Livin’ Large, and large he lived until the mystery of cancer and its attendant evils took him. Diagnosed with stage 3 leukemia at the age of 58, he suffered through the crushing hammer blows of chemo and radiation, endured a bone marrow transplant, lost much of his Falstaffian girth and glow, and yet carried on, and on, until finally Death had its way with him.

In prosaic “real life,” a place where Chippo seldom and only grudgingly dwelt, he was a claims adjuster for an insurance company. Yet he always drove – way above the speed limit – a large hunk of Detroit iron that was perennially uninspected and unregistered, and probably uninsured. We always thought he would die in a wreck.

In his office behind the Maine Mall, Chippo’s feet would be on the starting blocks at 4:59 p.m. At 5:00:00 he was off to the nearby Sebago pub or, on Thursdays, the Bear. He would invariably be the first of our crowd to arrive, and he would stake out a table for us, defending it against poachers until we – Henry, Henry’s young daughter Meredith, Sam, Eddie, my brother Peter ("The Squire"), Johnny C., Anne and Steve, me, and whoever else might join us – arrived; sometimes his great love, Karen, would join us and roll her eyes at her friend's pronouncements. By the time I arrived Chippo would be on his second or third martini, and in great need of someone to talk to. Lord, how Chippo loved to talk! He would launch into a narrative that sometimes made a sliver of sense but more often was a bewildering labyrinth, a maze of words, an astonishing monologue that seemed to have neither beginning nor end. Listening to Chippo was like being on an acid trip. The tale would be animated by Chippo’s flamboyant gestures, courtesy of his Italian heritage. He only paused to occasionally retire to fresh air with Henry for the enjoyment of a large cigar.

I came late to Chippo’s magic circle, after moving back to Maine in 2001. But I soon became part of the group, embraced by Chippo partly because I would bring him Cuban cigars purchased on my frequent foreign travels.

At least once during the summer, Chippo would organize a Baxter State Park expedition. Now, to travel anywhere with Chippo was to Live Large, and Baxter (“Forever Wild”) was no exception. Chippo would arrive with a portable kitchen that would have been the envy of Emeril and would take the efforts of several of us to carry from Chippo’s spacious trunk to the Daicey Pond cabin he has booked for the occasion. From this assemblage of propane stoves, work tables, gas grills, and wood fires smoke would rise, and steaks, chops, sausages, lobsters (Yes! Lobsters, in Baxter State Park!) would emerge, steaming and smoking, dished onto plates and shoveled into hungry mouths. As if that were insufficient, Chippo would make pancakes and sausage and bacon and coffee for breakfast, and pack sandwiches for us to take to whatever remote ponds we planned to visit that day.

Chippo’s friend Eddie was a Colby alumnus, so in the autumn we were all required to attend the Colby-Bowdoin football game, whether at Waterville or Brunswick. Chippo would cook for days in preparation – chili, pea soup – and on game day set up his kitchen and serve all comers with hot dogs, sausages, deep-fried turkeys, hams, Bloody Marys. The last time he did this was last fall, at Colby, and he looked like hell – wasted and weak, but determined to serve his pals. He had to take breaks to gather his strength.

Chippo called me a week or so ago to say he was doing better. He had been hospitalized for several weeks, but now his “numbers” – who knew what they meant? – were better and he was on the mend. Then this afternoon his old college roommate Sam called to say, “Sad news. Chippo passed away this morning.”

Sad is not the word for it. Chippo, we love you.