Index
Northwestern Wilderness Of Maine
Personal Essays
Fly Fishing
My eyes opened to greet the early morning rays of light breaking into my log cabin bedroom windows. I could hear something on the roof, red squirrels (Tamiasciurus hudsonicus) chasing each other back and forth on the sun-warmed shingles.
Today was Saturday, the first day of the spring we have time to go fly fishing. The aroma of fresh ground coffee, drifting in from the kitchen, lifted me from my bed. The crackling pops of sizzling bacon, my father was frying in his favorite black cast iron pan, was as clear to my ears as the army bugler's early morning reveille.
I hurried, pulling on my blue jeans and denim shirt. The air still had a chill. I reached for a pair of woolen socks. Squirrels were still playing their morning game up on the roof, as I laced up my boots.
The mouth watering aroma of a log cabin breakfast was always special on the first day of fly fishing. While I washed and dried the dishes, my father packed a deliciously enticing lunch, large enough to survive a couple of days in the wilderness.
We packed the fishing gear, maps, paddles, canoe seats, an anchor and rope, carefully placing our deliciously enticing lunch. Lifting the canoe up to the roof racks on the jeep was easy. After securing the canoe to the jeep with strong nylon rope, I checked the supply of bug dope. One of the major secrets of enjoying the Maine woods, is having the correct bug dope.
We headed south, over the mountains, on route 201. The transmission of my fathers old army jeep sounded as loud as a P-47 Thunderbolt and was probably built the same year with P-47 spare parts. The air was clear on the mountain tops. You could see Mt. Katahdin 100 miles to the east. Although I enjoyed the panoramic view from these mountains, my thoughts were concentrated on brook trout (Salvelinus fontinalis).
The highway leveled off at the foot of the mountains, we were at a higher elevation than Jackman. We drove along Parlin Pond. The water reflected the clear blue sky. The slowing of the jeep transmission signaled we would be turning off the highway, heading west.
The twisting dirt road looked as though it had a nice even surface. Mud puddles, filled with water from a light rain the night before, reflected the narrow sky above the dense forest. My father and I were startled, as the right front wheel of the jeep dropped several feet below the surface into a pothole filled with soft mud. My father shifted into 4-wheel drive and the transmission ploughed through deep muddy bottom potholes for several miles. We climbed to higher ground where the dirt road was constructed on ledge.
We stopped by a babbling brook and pulled buckets out of the jeep. Splashing water on the wheels, we removed the heavy mud before it dried in the wheel wells. Canadian jays (Perisoreus canadensis) landed in the branches above us, watching the show.
The melting snow, earlier in the spring, washed out many of the bridges along the way. Some bridges had the surface torn off, leaving only the two parallel beams crossing the stream. I stood on the far side of the road and guided my father across the beams. The beams were only inches wider than the jeep tires. The next bridge was flooded. The swift water was even with the floor of the jeep. I told my father the heavy deliciously enticing lunch he made was heavy enough to hold us to the stream bed. We would have to replace its weight with brook trout on the return trip.
Twenty miles from the highway, my father pulled the jeep off the side of the road. We carried the canoe a half miles down a narrow trail to the Iron Pond. The water was like a mirror. The air was still. The woods were completely quiet.
We hurried back to the jeep to get the fishing gear, paddles, canoe seats, the anchor and rope. Canadian jays landed in the branches above us. I promised to come back a second trip to fetch our deliciously enticing lunch. The Canadian jays stayed in the branches to guard our lunch, until I came back for it.
We loaded the canoe, placed bottles of root beer into the water of a nearby stream near the trail. I climbed into the bow of the canoe and my father climbed into the stern and shoved off with his right leg as he pulled it into the canoe. The canoe sliced the mirror surface of the water without a sound. I grabbed a paddle and we both paddled toward the far side of Iron Pond.
Large drifts of snow, still sheltered from the warmth of spring, on the north end of Iron Pond, were the few signs left of the long cold winter. A beaver swam over to see what we were doing, then slapped its large tail on the water and disappeared under the surface
As we neared a dense growth of cattails, a mother loon ran out across the surface of the water, flapping her wings, scolding us. Hundreds of pitcher plants grew along the shore, filled with black flies. I reached for the bug dope, just incase.
The water was crystal clear. I could see several brook trout. I could see the peak of tumble-down mountain above the trees west of me. Close to shore, the black flies began to swarm. I handed my father the bottle of bug dope.
We pulled the canoe up onto the bank of a small stream and walked along its bank to a large growth of fiddleheads. My father told me an old French guide told him where to find this place, before he retired and move back to Quebec.
A fiddlehead is the coiled young frond of any of various ferns, some of which are considered a delicacy when cooked. To many local residents of the northwestern wilderness of Maine, a growth of Maine fiddleheads is as valuable as a gold mine and twice as valuable as a pot of lobsters from the downeast shore.
My father and I harvested several bags of fiddleheads. We paddled back to the trail, and I took them to the jeep and packed them in an ice chest. I noticed the Canadian jays were gone.
I ran to the stream and gathered the cold bottles of root beer, and my father lifted our deliciously enticing lunch from the canoe. We found large boulders along the stream to sit on, as we ate our wonderful lunch. The Canadian jays sat in the low branches nearby.
My father opened the fishing gear. He pulled out his fishing vest and a felt hat. The hat band was made of fleece and contained hundreds of dry and wet flies. His vest had several pockets filled with little cases of dry and wet flies. He has tied artificial flies for over twenty five years and has more secret fly pattern than LL Bean could ever imagined.
We hiked upstream and then up the side of a small mountain. The view of Iron Pond was beautiful. We spent several hours looking around in the woods, enjoying the day.
Fly fishing! The secret of fly fishing for brook trout in the northwestern wilderness of Maine is to be patient. You can fly fish all day. Catch as many brook trout as the law allows.
The alternative would be to enjoy the water, canoeing, a secret fiddlehead growth, a wonderful lunch, a mountaintop view, and an afternoon filled discovering nature. All the time you are waiting until the sun drops to a magical elevation in the sky before climbing into the stern and shoving off with your right leg as you pull it into the canoe slicing the mirror surface of the water without a sound.
Just imagine, you've wasted several hours of the afternoon instead of fly fishing. The magical time is now. You launch the canoe, and prepare your fly rods. Looking around you will see the surface of the water come alive with action. What's happening? You can't believe your eyes? You take a closer look. The sky is filled with flies, the water surface is covered with flies flopping around. You look again. Brook trout of all sizes are flying out of the water. There are so many rings of waves on the water, you become confused, wondering where to cast a fly.
Cast a fly into the water! It doesn't matter where! You will catch a brook trout on every cast.
Stand up! Yes, you can stand in a canoe, as long as you keep your knees bent a little to hold your balance and keep the canoe from rocking. It will only take you a few minutes and you will have total balance control.
You have never experienced so much fun in a few moments of fly fishing in your life! Who would believe you? That is what is so special with learning the secret of fly fishing for brook trout in the northwestern wilderness of Maine. No one believes you.
Didn't I tell you? We are the only ones fishing on Iron Pond. There must be thousands of brook trout jumping out of the water. See! Nobody believes you.
The trip home.
I'll make this short. Crossing the bridges on the way back wasn't easy. The magic time at Iron Pond stops at sundown. Traveling home over the twisting dirt road, filled with deep mud filled potholes is dangerous enough. Add the damaged or flooded bridges and you must used extreme caution traveling.
Notice we drank root beer chilled in a mountain steam. The northwestern wilderness of Maine is not a place to mix drinking and driving.
To add one more reason for extreme caution on the backwoods roads, would be the wildlife. Many animals come out of the dense forest to the twisting dirt roads to get away from the flies and mosquitoes. On the trip back from Iron Pond, we saw 38 white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus), 4 moose (Alces alces), and over 100 snow-shoe rabbits (Lepus americanus). Several of the deer jumped over the hood of the jeep. The snow-shoe rabbits practically go crazy when they see the lights of the jeep, hopping everywhere. Many jumped into the path of the jeep before we could stop, and died. Luckily the moose didn't jump.
I would tell you more, but I must sleep. Tomorrow, I'm going fly fishing.
Fiddleheads? Never heard of them!