Maine Outdoor Journal

I got to camp on the Friday of Columbus Day weekend, which honors the Great Navigator who bumped into Cuba and thought he had landed in Japan. I thought that going fishing would be as good a way as any to salute Columbus, who never actually set foot in what is now the United States, because in fishing we often don’t get what we came for.

Conditions were perfect. The pool was low and bony, giving fish fewer good lies. The sky was “lowery,” as the Old Man’s pal Keene used to growl, a solid overcast that often spells good fishing. And the chill autumn air was calm; not a breath of wind rippled the lakes above and below the dam. When I launched the battered old tin boat I spotted master fly tyer Doug Mawhinney perched on a rock near the tail of the pool, making perfect casts as usual. Actually I first spotted his black dog Chester sitting on a rock nearby, which was how I knew that the large package of waders, vest and cold-weather clothing was Doug, who never fishes without Chester. I rowed over and asked how the fishing was, which was a mistake, because I received a loud broadside about how poorly he was doing. Getting skunked is one thing for me, but it’s another for an angler with Doug’s record of success. I moved off and anchored at the head of the tail, so to speak, where begins the slick run before the riffles and whitewater of the pool’s outfall.

In past years the Bro and I have had good Fall success fishing tiny emergers and midge patterns, so I tied on a #18 olive loop-wing emerger and let it drift and swing, twitching it now and again as it hung in the current. A hit! And a miss. The tiny hooks sometimes fail to gain a solid purchase; I wrote about this frustration last year. After pricking a few fish without a hook-up I finally netted a salmon, not a big one, and then another, before darkness drove me off the pool and to the warmth of camp, where I had fortunately fired the woodstove before heading to the pool. I was encouraged that there seemed to be a good number of fish in the pool and that I was using the right flies. Tomorrow would be great, I thought.

Tomorrow was, in fact, not great. At around seven in the morning a breeze came up, the harbinger of a front that would push the clouds out with great gusts of cold northwest wind that wreaked havoc with casting, blew the boat around, and numbed fingertips into clumsy tools which made changing flies a challenge. And the clouds didn’t want to leave without spite, unleashing occasional bursts of icy rain before departing. It was one of those Fall days that can’t decide if it’s mid-September or mid-November. When the sun came out it warmed the bones and thawed the fingers, but while the clouds ruled it felt like it might snow.

The afternoon was better. I landed and released two very respectable salmon, both legal, and considered my day made. Which was good, because as it turned out they were my last fish of the season. Sunday morning was sunny but cold and the wind continued to howl, starching the flag in front of Charlie’s house. The pool was ringed with a large contingent of October anglers, but only occasionally did someone catch a fish, and I was not among the someones. The morning wore on, and the tasks of closing the camp loomed, and finally I set a limit. I would make ten more casts, and that would be that. I would stick with the fly that had been most productive for me in the pool, one of Doug’s creations, the one he had taught me to tie the previous evening after supper at camp. One – cast, drift, hang, slow retrieve. Two – cast, fast retrieve. Three – cast, drift, swing, moderate retrieve. Finally, the tenth cast, and not a fish cared. I retrieved the line, snipped off the fly, spooled the remaining line onto the reel, and the fishing season was over. I hauled out the boat, rested it bottom-up on shore, and walked back to camp and drained the pipes, packed up all remaining food and drink, shut off the propane, pulled the curtains, locked the door and drove off.

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I love reading the hand-lettered, creatively spelled and punctuated roadside signs offering firewood, farm produce and other enticements. I have long admired the sign at Smedberg’s Oxford farmstand advertising “Lobesters.” Another sign, also on Route 26, offered “corns and cuke.” Earlier in the season I saw “Strawberry’s and blueberrie’s” for sale. My favorite, though, was the sign on Route 17 that advertised decorative sheaves of “Corn Storks.”

If you say it like a Mainer it comes out right.