Lenny Ackerman

Beaver Pond

August 2020

Greg picked us up early in his “woods” Ford 150. Ted jumped in the back seat, the one usually occupied by Mali, Greg’s 13-year-old lab mix, who was home resting after an exhausting trip the day before. (I call her my rent-a-dog since she loves to sleep in front of my fireplace at camp.) Greg is a local friend and master of all trades, and Ted is my next-door neighbor and buddy from home, who first introduced me to Maine and life on the lake. Today was Wilderness Day as we’ve come to call it—our annual excursion deep in the woods, in search of the holy grail of Northern Maine fishing: native brook trout. It is one of those look-forward-to trips that kept me going during the pandemic quarantine. The habitat of the native trout are the marvelous “artificial” ponds created by dams along the stream, the handiwork of beavers–those clever, woodland architects whose purpose in building them is of course the very same as our own goal that day: a good catch. Their hard work corralled the trout into the ponds, it was finding the ponds that was the hard part for us.

We headed toward the woods on River Road, which curves west around the Baskehegan River through Danforth. At Bancroft, Greg made a short stop, backed up and turned right onto an old logging road. It didn’t look familiar but one logging trail off the highway looks a lot like the next one. The dirt road got narrower and rockier as we went along. Greg said to keep an eye out for some plastic ribbons that he had tied onto to branches along the route last year. No such luck. May as well have left a trail of crumbs. Moose had eaten their way back and forth on the trail all year and the ribbons were garnish. We continued bumping along. We were not lost but could have spent a lot of time searching for nothing. No one was saying anything when Greg suddenly stopped and put the car in park. “We’re here,” he said, matter-of-factly. We got out and looked around at the thick walls of pines. There was no path or obvious opening into the dense woods. Ted and I shook our heads. He was reluctant to question Greg, his friend of 50 years and who is the most native of us all. But Greg has led us to these ponds before and he seemed confident as he quickly doused himself in bug spray. I kept quiet and followed suit, putting extra spray on my bandanna and lucky straw fishing hat. I pulled up my Neoprenes and bent down stiffly to tie up my fishing boots, remembering every bump from the ride in. I broke down my three-weight rod and was finally ready to go.

Greg proceeded into the brambles, following his own inner compass that instead of pointing north points to fish. He has a kind of dead reckoning that naval navigators would envy. We went in after him. Weighed down by my waders through the thick brush I struggled to keep up. I put on my reading glasses as a barrier to the blinding leaves and twigs in my path and was constantly mindful of maintaining my balance. I had spent the winter exercising with an emphasis on balance. Today was surely the test. Downed logs and snow-felled branches littered the landscape. The earth became muckier as we traveled in deeper. “Look,” Greg said, pointing out some active bubbling in the mud. An underground spring. We were getting close. The springs fed the ponds we were looking for and served as trail markers on our course. A good sign but we still had a way to go. My boots were caked with mud and getting heavier by the minute. The sun was blanketed by the tree canopy overhead. I mostly looked down so as not to not trip on anything. I was the last of us three and noticed I was falling behind. Ted was able to keep up with Greg. What if I lost sight of them? I didn’t exactly blend into the environment—I would easily stand out if they had to come look for me. But what a way to pass the time until sunrise. Not so fast! A trickling steam unfolded like magic before me. The two ahead of me had already stopped and I caught up with them. Greg pulled out a beer from his pack, popped it open and took a sip. He was as relieved as we were to have avoided the humiliation of camping in the woods overnight because we were lost. His friends in Danforth would have lived off the joke for years.

The small, black stream led to the first beaver pond, and it was teeming with trout. There was plenty of room to back cast and I safely secured my position in the middle of the pond. The water was chest high, my waders tugged up to my shoulders. I could see the rugged structure left by the beavers clearly through the low-hanging branches and leaves. What a marvel of nature to see how the beaver constructs from branches and downed logs a dam some ten feet in height. I felt a little like an explorer stumbling upon ancient, crumbling ruins in the middle of a jungle. In that moment, the humble wooden dam was just as breathtaking. I hoped to catch a glimpse of one of these intrepid builders. Maybe next year.

A Perfect Day

August 2020

The threat of a tropical storm was all over the internet. Everyone at Wheatons was talking about it and whether it would migrate north. We were in the projected path, but today, in our little corner of the world, the sun was shining brightly and not even a wisp of gray cloud would darken the day. Andy, my friend and local fishing guide, was rested from working only a few days during the past few weeks due to the pandemic trashing the tourist business at Wheatons. At dinner last night there were only three tables with diners, all spaciously separated. Patrick greeted us with his usual cheeriness. His wife, Sandy, was a bit more serious than usual but met me and Patti with a smile and warm welcome. I missed the hugs but not this year. So this morning Andy was ready for us having put the Old Grand canoe in the water earlier at Spednick. He knows I cannot get to Wheatons before 9:00am. He said he had saved the best fishing for us and he wasn’t exaggerating. The group of pods was not far from our landing. It was almost like the bass were waiting for our return. One of my first casts brought to the surface a 3 1⁄2 lb. beauty who ran me down to the backing like a large trout. This was a first for me. It was a glorious day. Lovely Patti beside me, a blue sky and Andy at the bow. And the fish were taking with an intensity I have never experienced before. Tomorrow is a trip into the wilderness with Ted, my next-door neighbor and friend who introduced me life on the lake in Danforth, Maine. We are going back woods off the grid to fish for native brook trout. Another splendid day in the offing. Good folks and sheltered water. The storm will have to wait.

Island in the Lake

August 2020

The day was overcast but still warm for September. I was in shorts and a well-worn wool plaid shirt–one of my standbys from fishing trips past. Andy, my friend and local guide, was waiting anxiously beside his trailer when I pulled up. “Forecast is calling for a bit of rain,” he said. We looked skyward, concluding the threat was low and we would go ahead. I proceeded to pack my fishing bag and rod in the canoe. We were off in minutes, over the dirt trail out of Wheaton’s and onto the main road, headed to Spednic Lake for a day of bass fishing. Our talk in the truck was on the three W’s: work and women– his and mine–and the weather. A few raindrops on the windshield were not going to stop us. On arrival, the routine was the same: backing the trailer down to the water and then dropping the canoe in with a small splash. Comfortable as always in the re-fashioned car seats, we took off for our favorite fall fishing spot. An osprey passed overhead, circling high. This graceful hawk can occasionally be heard making a sharp cry when it flies close to the water; I have spotted its nesting platform when exploring further east, on the Canadian side of the lake.

Andy has a 15-horsepower motor on his canoe, so the ride was the usual languid pace. I dropped my hand in the water to feel the gentle rush through my fingers as we cruised along. Despite the overcast skies and some heavy-looking clouds on the horizon, the sun was steadily breaking through. Any lingering concerns about the weather were displaced by the anticipation for a great fishing day and the overwhelming beauty of the wilderness we were passing through. Andy knows the lake well and could navigate it with his eyes closed. We arrived at our destination, and it was time to fish. My rod was ready, my trusty streamer tied. I start casting and BANG got a hit. We did our customary, congratulatory high fives and for the next couple of hours caught and released the equivalent of a small school of bass. It was about that time Andy mentioned the weather was turning. I hadn’t looked up from the water for the last couple of hours. I removed my fishing glasses and sat down to observe the sky. It was cloudy and getting dark. Andy was looking serious and not fishy-happy. “What’s happening?” I asked. He told me to stay seated and hold on. Well that little outboard motor had some push to it. We took off with the bow of the canoe tilting upward, moving full throttle through the water. The cold rain came down suddenly and in sheets, hitting me in the face like sleet. Andy was saying something but between the roar of the motor and the pounding rain I couldn’t make it out. We were soaked in a matter of seconds. My legs were quaking from the cold as I tried to shield my face in my bandanna.

After a few minutes that felt like an eternity, we were close to shore. Not the shore we set out from, however. What now I thought? Andy hopped out into the shallows to pull the canoe–with me in it–to land. We were on an island. A remote, deeply forested and apparently uninhabited island. I got out and headed for the shelter of the trees at the edge of the shore. Andy pulled up the canoe and started unloading the lunch gear: fire starter, wood, food, utensils. He threw a rolled-up canvas toward me. “Put this on,” he said. I opened it and realized it was an old fisherman’s jumpsuit. Judging from the smell of it, it was still wet when it was rolled up and stored in Andy’s cellar. There was at least a decade’s worth of mildew on it and I couldn’t have been happier to put it on. It was an effective shield against the relentless rain. Andy’s guide skills shine in these situations. He knew exactly where we were and ordered me to follow him. We gathered up the lunch gear and headed deeper into the woods. I trusted Andy but not my own eyes when I saw what was before me in the middle of a clearing: an old, small, abandoned cabin.

The cabin was built on large log posts and the entire exterior was covered in pine from the island. Incredibly, it seemed some recent carpentry work had been done to shore up the foundation. Andy headed over and waved me to the porch. The screenless screen door led to an interior carpeted with moss. It had clearly not been occupied for years–there were no furnishings or even a kitchen, just a great room lined with empty shelves and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace—though there was evidence of some recent four-legged visitors. There was one bedroom. Andy ran back to secure his canoe and left me alone with instructions to start a fire in the stone hearth. There were some piles of sawdust and leftover kindling. Andy was able to coax a few small flames which began to flicker and build, creating some warmth and light in the dank room. I shed my smelly jumpsuit, sneezed about a dozen times from the mildew, and then sat down cross-legged on the mossy floor in front of the fire to warm up. Andy got back from tying up the canoe and brought the coffee pot back with lake water. “We may be here overnight, “he said. My first concern was that we didn’t have provisions for dinner or sleeping bags. We could survive until the next day without food, I was much less enthusiastic spending the night on the cold, wet floor. I questioned whether we should ration our limited food supply. Andy shrugged. He is a man of few words. He doesn’t predict or assume. When the fish don’t take, he says, enigmatically, “It must be something.” The heavy rain continued. We were both hungry. So we threw caution to the wind and enjoyed our full, “stream-side” lunch prepared by the kitchen staff at Wheatons: grilled chicken, boiled potatoes and onions, blueberry pie and fresh coffee made with lake water. Afterward, we rested in quiet contemplation against a crusted, splintered wall of the cabin, as the rain beat steadily down on the tin roof. I prodded Andy to tell me what he knew about the history of the cabin. The man of few words opened up.

Back in the day it was the vacation home of a former professor from the University of Maine. He had grown up in and around Forest City, left to go to college, and fell in love with a fellow student who became his wife. He went on to become a professor at the University and lived the academic life — teaching during the school year and summering at the cabin on the island. Upon retirement, he and his wife spent more time at the cabin and extended their stay from first ice melt to first snowstorm. There was no electricity or running water, no bathroom–just an outhouse which had deteriorated and fallen over. The overgrown gardens reflected a past happier time. The professor lost his wife to cancer after 65 years and he retired permanently to the cabin. The empty shelves in the great room were once filled with his books. The professor, as he was known to the locals, became more reclusive as the years went on. By the time he was in his 80s he seldom traveled to shore for supplies. He survived due to the good will of a young man he met by chance at the local General Store on shore on Route 1 near Forrest City. The young fellow was a local and a student at the University Maine. He worked as a fishing guide at Wheatons Lodge and knew of the professor who had achieved something of a semi-legendary status among the locals. They struck up a friendship. Thereafter, every summer when the young man returned home, he would visit the professor on the island with provisions. Eventually the professor stopped coming over to the mainland and his only source of supplies was this young man, who made arrangements for regular deliveries during the fall and winter months. The professor lived into his 90’s alone but for the memories of his beloved wife, his books and the friendship of this young man, who went on to become a professor himself at the University of Maine in large part owing to the influence of his elderly friend. When the professor died, about three years ago, he left his island and his books to the young man, who has slowly been restoring the cabin as a vacation place of his own. I gazed at the empty shelves and imagined them teeming with books, a blazing fire in the hearth, a fur rug and some well-worn overstuffed furniture. It would have been a real sanctuary, as it was for us that day.

Epilogue: the rain finally stopped, and we made it back to the mainland before dark.

Lost

July 2020

“Sign In and Out” it said on the small, weather-beaten placard at the edge of the woods. Just below was a clipboard inside a makeshift wooden box, to protect it from the elements, along with a pencil nub on the end of a string. Below that were some brochures. I poked through and found a wet map purporting to be Trail C. I figured to be standing at the trail head. My houseguests –some old high school buddies –had just left my camp in Danforth for a ten-hour drive back to their homes in upstate New York. They were retired and could now check a fishing trip in northern Maine off their bucket lists. It had been an action-packed weekend, with trout fishing in waders and bass fishing by canoe, as well as campfires and barbeques. I needed a solo walk in the woods to unwind. “Trail C” would be a new hike for me, one to add to the many off Route 1 that I have taken over the last few years. The sun was high in the sky and I estimated enough light left in the day for a five-mile outing. I was in old jeans and a tee shirt. I carried my cell phone, though I knew service in the woods would be spotty if there was any at all. I had a single bottle of water and nothing else –no food or matches, no flashlight, no sweater or rain jacket. This would be a few hours on a well-marked trail on a mild and sunny day. What could go wrong?

I put the soggy map back in the holder and set off, following the yellow plastic ribbons tied to tree trunks and boughs that marked out the trail. Soon I was pleasantly deep in thought, replaying moments from the weekend, thinking about the days ahead and an upcoming trip. I kept work thoughts at bay. I noticed the light shift and recede as the tree canopy thickened. The wood darkened further as the heavily filtered sun was obscured by a cloud and the second growth pines, birch and spruce grew more dense. I was about two miles in when I ran out of ribbons. I looked around and peered back through the woods. The friendly yellow plastic markers had vanished. I started to perspire a bit, both from the uphill slope of the trail and from my anxious, racing thoughts. Did I miss a turn? Probably. Did I even sign in at the trail head? No. Does anyone know where I am? No. I had to calm down. I took out my cell phone and as expected there was no service. The navigation app showed Route 1 on the map, with a straight orange line above solid forest leading to it. Helpful for a crow, I thought. Zooming in didn’t reveal the terrestrial route. I could backtrack but which way? My mind elsewhere, I hadn’t honed in on where I was walking for at least the last 30 minutes. Anxiety morphed into anger –at myself for this foolish maneuver. Even if someone were to check the trail heads looking for me, I had neglected to sign in. I was getting hungry and the mosquitoes were making a meal of me. My water was long gone. There wasn’t even a deer path in sight. I sat down on a half-corroded log and did what anyone else hopelessly lost in the woods would do: I cried.

After a few minutes of feeling sorry for myself, my mood stabilized. I blew my nose on my t shirt and sat quietly for a while, growing drowsier by the minute. The stillness was broken by a faint, muffled swishing sound. I strained to identify it but it was quickly gone. It didn’t seem animal or human-like. I decided to lay on the ground. Maybe my heart would stop pounding out of my chest. I took some deep breaths and closed my eyes. I would relax and try to think my way through this predicament. I resisted sleep though all I wanted was to wake up and find this was just a bad dream. Again, I heard the muffled, motor-like swishing sound. It faded quickly, followed by the same sound, this time just a little louder before quickly fading away. It was infrequent but occurred every 15 minutes or so. I looked up through the treetops to the sliver of blue sky. Could a plane be circling overhead searching for me? I haven’t been gone that long – no one even knows I am lost. The swishing sound was back again. My heart leapt with a sudden realization: engines on Route 1. I barely breathed, trying to discern the direction of the noise. I trampled through the woods toward it, pausing for moments on end, waiting for the next life- saving sound. Eventually, the rumble of passing trucks was unmistakable. I was scratched, bitten and covered in dirt from head to toe when, nearly an hour later, I made my way out of the woods onto the highway. I flagged down a truck and the kindly driver took me to my car, which was only a half mile down the road ahead. Before going home, I signed in and out on the clipboard at Trail C.

Napping

July 2020

I was back home in East Hampton for work when my granddaughter, Lilly, asked about my next trip to camp in Maine. I told her I was driving there – 10 hours – the following week. She wanted to know if I had any special plans. I was all ready to talk about my fishing schedule, and how I would meet up with Andy, the guide from Wheaton’s Lodge, when she said, “don’t you spend a lot of your time at camp napping?” I laughed and thought for a moment about her remark. The truth is, she was correct. I do spend a regular portion of each day at camp, well, dozing. There is something about the wilderness, the lake water lapping at the dock, the air crisp with the scent of pine, the hearty outdoor lunches, that all combine to make me inclined, usually around 4pm, to close my eyes and drift off. Back in the working world I don’t have time for that indulgence. When I am up north, it is an essential part of the routine. I nap outdoors on warmer days and on colder ones go inside to the overstuffed couch in the cabin, next to a blazing fire in the hearth, a heavy wool blanket weighing me down into a deep, hour- long slumber. I dream vividly, often idealized versions of my waking mornings: sitting in Andy’s East Grand canoe on the water with the sun on my face, surrounded by a seamless horizon of lake and sky, a hawk overhead and the sound of the motor muffled by the wind.
Colors are varied, bright and alive. These lucid, daytime dreams seem to distill all that is peaceful and restorative about living closely with nature. No cell, no watch, no wi-fi. It is said that older folks take to napping because they are tired of being awake. I do it because it is an irresistible pull at that certain time of day and afterward I am energized. But for the darkness I could go for a run in the woods–I save that bit of excitement for the mornings. I am ready for the last chapter of the day: dinner and then reading until midnight. I can pick up a 600-page book and remember where I left off–a product of my napping. Of late I am reading Matterhorn, a novel by Karl Marlantes. I recommend it–as well as good nap, before or after.

The Last Ice Cover

April 2022

I awoke at daybreak, the crisp air in the cabin still bearing the pine smell of the last burn off in the great room stone fireplace. I had slept under the heavy quilt Patti ordered for just this type of cold spring weather. A wool beanie kept my bald head from freezing during the night. The morning sun reflected off the ice covered lake through the cotton curtains that have been hanging in the bedroom window since my first visit to Camp Kabrook, before it even had a name. Back then they were old and in disrepair, but Katie revitalized them-washing, sewing and ironing them back to life, those old fashioned curtains from another era that reminded me of my late mother–she would have done the same with them as she never let anything go to waste. I arose slowly and felt the cold shock of the wood floor on my feet. I hurriedly slipped on my fleece lined moccasins and donned one of my old flannel shirts for a walk down to the dock. I decided to make a pot of fisherman’s coffee with lake water and eggshells-the eggshells an old camping trick to keep the grounds down.

I had arrived late the night before, my stay at camp only a stopover en route to the Restigouche River in Canada for salmon fishing. I expected the ice to have melted off by the time of this planned visit. Greg had given me a heads-up but on arriving so late on a moonless night I could not make out the
white sheet of ice crystal across East Grand Lake. The grassy lawn from the house down to the dock was a spring green, in contrast to the wintry lake scene. The fire pit was stacked high with newly cut limbs – Greg’s handiwork. He had also moved the picnic table off the dock, up near the enclosed porch for
storm protection. I crouched down at the edge of the dock, and with coffee pot in hand, tapped the ice, searching for an opening into the fresh lake water, but the ice was tight against the edge of the dock. I walked over to the wooded area where my nap tent is fitted during the season. There were small, deep pools adjacent to the large rocks that were not completely frozen over. I dipped the coffee pot into one of them and filled the pot to the brim. Back at the house I turned on the stove and ground the coffee beans, spooning them into the coffee pot. Next, the crushed shell from a fresh egg went in on top of the grounds. I filled the pot with the steaming hot water and hoping for the best, I waited. After a few minutes, I poured a bit of this black substance into one of my metal coffee cups and sipped the best and strongest and ground-less coffee ever. Whoa I did it. Now that I was fully caffeinated, I put on my hiking boots to go explore the last ice cover of the season. The ice on East Grand Lake is not like the glass-like surface of the ice rink in Central Park. It is like course and heavy sandpaper. The wind from the northeast creates curls and dips in the ice. Tracks from vehicles and other devices criss-cross. Further out there are occasional drilled holes for ice fishing. I only venture as far as the entrance to my cove. l am unsure of myself and aware of the risks of walking too far out. I am alone, but calm. The wind whispers a song of happiness. I am in the place where I fine solace. The air is pure. The little forest animals scurry looking for food and find the ice a major highway from point A to point B. I walk across the ice cove to my neighbors, Ted and Lori’s camp. No one is home. They are on long Island. I walk around their main cabin. A small watercraft is covered with canvas. The wood pile is still damp from melting snow. I envision Ted’s dad who lived at this camp for many years after his retirement from Grumman on Long Island, waking up every winter morning to enjoy and breathe in the landscape. The war in Ukraine is far away and out of mind. The rate of inflation, the Dow, and interest rates are some 80 miles away in Bangor where The NY Times is sold. I am at peace.

Camp Beginnings

April 2022

It is early April and in my small corner of the world, my friends and family all know I have only one thing on my mind: fishing camp. Darcy, the daughter of my camp neighbor-carpenter-fishing guide buddy Greg, sent me a photo of her latest ice fishing catch on East Grand Lake. She said the ice is at its thickest, some four feet, and the fishing end of March has been the best all winter. Darcy would know. She, Greg and Katie have been ice fishing at camp for 35 years, at least since Darcy was born down the road in Danforth. Greg and his partner Jimmie are putting the finishing touches on a new home office studio-fly-tying-library cabin. It is our joint design to keep me out of Patti’s way in the main house and a place where the sounds of the computer and printer are not bothersome at all hours. I also selfishly wanted a place to have a fly-tying setup as well as my painting easel available at my whim. I also plan to ship north many of the books I have accumulated in my East Hampton library since the early 1970s. I figure when the time comes, and it will, my kids can have a great evening bonfire in the open pit and get rid of Dad’s damn books which he would never part with all these years.

My first planned trip north this year is scheduled for mid-May. I spend a few days traveling through Bangor to the Restigouche Lodge in Canada to fish for salmon. I am staying at camp on the trip up and on the return. Seems the distance from Bangor to the salmon lodge is some six hours driving. It is also an excuse to get on the dock for a morning of fishing with a fresh brew in my hand. Nothing beats that.

Over the next month, Greg and Katie will be texting about the mice in the fireplace. I know my little four-legged friends must complain when Katie comes through with her vacuum cleaner, clearing them out of the fireplace and the sofa cushions where they have been comfortably embedded all winter.

As the snow continues to melt the lawn miraculously comes to life. Greg hauls in topsoil to fill in the ridges created by the early spring mud on the lake side. Katie will go to her plant shop for flower bed annuals in an array of colors. They will brighten up the little gardens now buried under rocks and snow. The bird feeders will be replenished for the arrival of the feathered friends whose sweet song announces the arrival of spring in northern Maine. We also have a family of ducks who find their way to our cove year after year, always turning up for camp opening. They are the welcome home committee. Katie keeps a bag of bread bits and ends for them.

By far the best early morning time, aside from feeding the ducks and casting a fly rod that first morning, is sitting on the edge of the dock with my feet dangling in the water, eyes closed, taking in spring: the scent of just-bloomed flowers, the sounds of birds and small animals scurrying over the rocks near shore, the trees swaying gently in the wind from the northeast, the occasional fishing boat trolling in the distance, the water lapping on the edge of the dock. The water quiet.

Fishing the Broad River off Parris Island

March 2022

Up before dawn dressed in clothes I wore the night before, I was ready to go when my nephew Richie showed up at my door for the ride to meet Tuck, our fishing guide. Richie brought me black coffee to light up my brain despite the dark. Moments later we were off, on the hour’s long drive from his home on Bray’s Island in Sheldon, South Carolina, to the Broad River in Beaufort. Fishing in the dark was new to me. As Richie described it, the routine was to get onto the river as the tide comes in and chase the fish to shore as they follow the bait. I was game to try something new, but this was to be an unusual fishing trip in more ways than one.

Driving in the dark through the small towns out of Bray’s was eerie. The roadside trailers that lined the two-lane highways had large spotlights I assume to ward off trespassers in this very rural part of South Carolina. The scenery felt strangely foreign, as if I were dreaming it, half-awake in the dark without a clue to the where and the when. The road traffic was mostly massive tractor trailers delivering to large chain and big box stores throughout the South. We finally arrived at our destination and it was still dark. We met Tuck at the concrete pad where he had moored his Maverick flat fishing boat. He and Rich had a typical fishermen exchange. Rich: “Hey, man. Where you been fishing?” Tuck: “It’s been great. Just returned from Cuba and we hit a grand slam. Tarpin, Bonefish and Permit..” Rich was drooling for an adventure like that, being the outdoorsman he is. Rich builds senior homes for a living, and golfs and shoots for recreation. But he is a fisherman first–he has those Ackerman genes.

Once Tuck had readied the boat the sun was just beginning to brighten the eastern sky. There wasn’t a single other flat boat around as we flew across the water. The air was cool and invigorating. Tuck and Rich sat together behind the console chatting away about fishing trips past and planned. I turned my Tulane Law School cap backwards and let the wind brush my unshaven face. We were running from the dark as it got brighter. Soon we slowed to approach shore where the water depth was waist high. Tuck lifted himself up to the poling platform at the stern so he could spot the fish. The sun was now rising. I had never fished for Redfish or even seen one. As I was watching Tuck watch the water, suddenly things took a very strange turn. I started to hear in the distance what sounded like gunfire. As I focused on the pounding sounds I realized that in fact it was gun fire. Hunters? But they sounded like automatic weapons. Then, without warning, a military gunboat came out of nowhere with sirens blasting and someone over a speaker system telling us to leave the area. We had stumbled, or flat-boated ourselves into the middle of a full-blown military maneuver, organized by the U.S. Marines. Seems our pre-dawn hunt for Redfish was right off of the Marine base at Parris Island in Beaufort. Tuck jumped down from the tower and over to the boat controls to motor us off. As the boat turned around, a fighter plane came out of the sky with a screeching sound unlike anything from a commercial aircraft. It swooped over our heads as if to strafe the beach. We had not yet even brought out our fishing rods. It was now 7:30am and the Marines were on the assault. We were in the range of gunfire. It was surreal.

Tuck had miscalculated. His special fishing spot was under attack. We kept cool heads as we moved away from the action. Eventually we found another spot close to shore to fish successfully. Rich showed me my first Redfish. I soon set the hook on one but lost it when I pulled it up out of the water. then hooked one by accident with my fly in the water before I even cast. A lucky set but I brought it to the boat and the guys, smiling, took my picture.

Fishing for Redfish on the tide is a short duration trip. By sunup the tide was in and the fish had a II they could eat. Rich smoked his first cigar of the morning and had a full day of work, golf and shooting ahead of him. I caught my first Redfish, albeit by chance. It was a very lucky day indeed.

Fishing Paradise Valley with Kara

March 2022

As anyone reading my columns know, I have long had a special fascination with the state of Montana–its history, its landscape and its unparalleled fly.fishing opportunities. Last night I watched the final episode of the Paramount television series, 1883, which follows a frontier family on their long journey to Montana. To my surprise, Paradise Valley was their last stop– the final resting place for Ilse, the main character. I know Paradise River Valley well from several visits over the years, including a fishing trip with my eldest daughter, Kara, in 1992. Kara had avoided the trip her sister Brooke and I took to the Bob Marsha It Wilderness Area in Montana a few years earlier. Our enthusiastic reports afterward of our many adventures may have swayed her, as had the photos from another trip with my nephew to the chalk streams in Yellowstone. This time, when I had the itch to go back to the Valley, Kara was all in. She wanted to experience it for herself-to see “Big Sky Country” and to learn flyfishing.

I was delighted with her change of heart and vowed our time together on this trip would be special. We left New York and landed in Bozeman, Montana, rented a car at the airport and drove west on Highway 90–a long stretch of road running east-west–turning off at Route 89 into Livingston. The town of Livingston is at the northern entrance to the Valley and at the time, some 30 years ago, it was nothing more than an old run-down movie theater, a vintage hotel, a grocery– and one of the best flyfishing outfitters in the west. We stopped in town to stock up on groceries and fishing supplies and then headed to our home base. I had secured a comfortable, furnished cabin to rent near the trailhead to the mountains. Our view from the cabin picture windows was the magnificent Gallatin Range –the western flank of Paradise Valley, which is the natural gateway to into Yellowstone Park.

Kara, surprisingly, made dinner that first night – I think her mom gave her some cooking lessons before we left. Afterward, we stepped out onto the deck to observe the evening sky. Millions upon millions of stars formed an elaborate tapestry of bright, twinkling lights. With no noise pollution, the distant howls in the mountains drifted across the Valley toward us, as if the coyotes were close enough to be in our backyard. Maybe some of them were.

Fishing was to start the following day with a float trip down the Yellowstone River, so we went to bed early for a fast start the next morning. I slept like a baby and awoke to a glorious, cloudless dawn. We met up with our guide, a young, long-haired fellow who was pleased to teach Kara, a city girl, how to cast. Kara had deliberately smudged up her brand-new wading pants so she would not look like a complete novice. She needn’t have worried because she took quite easily to casting in the first lessons at the bow of the drift boat. She had soon mastered those 11 to 2 swings essential in tossing a fly. Right off the bat she hooked a cutthroat trout on the bank. Excited as all hell, she kept crying out “Dad look at me!” The thrill of that first fishing experience has lasted nearly 30 years. Only yesterday we talked about our upcoming summer trip to camp in Maine. She and I and her husband, Peter, will fish for bass on East Grand Lake and take a float trip down the Baskehegan River.

These days, Yellowstone Park draws bigger crowds, and the town of Livingston has grown to accommodate them. Montana in 1992 was like a walk through the old west. Dinner on our last night was at a saloon, with cowboys in jeans and dirty boots and large hats that stayed on indoors. The next day, we stopped for lunch in Bozeman, where we would catch a connecting flight. Before going to the airport, we had a little time to stroll the wide main street, passing horses tied up outside where parking spots might normally be. We saw girls in denim with big hair and big belt buckles that represented star rodeo riders. Overhead the blue went on forever. Montana’s moniker “Big Sky Country” was apt.

Conversation with a Son of Ukraine

March 2022

One of my paralegals, Simon, hails from Ukraine. He and his wife Viktoriya, also Ukrainian, have lived in the U.S. for 15 years, and during that time have traveled back and forth to visit their family members in Ukraine, many of whom have also visited here. ! spoke with Simon yesterday about the terrible events unfolding in his home country. He shared with me some of what he has learned from his family who are Jiving through it and how he, and the focal Ukrainian-American community here, are responding to the crisis.

When the war started in Ukraine, all the national television networks agreed to combine their efforts and limit broadcasting to one station at a time. Should one be attacked, it would fall to the next station to continue broadcasting throughout the country. So those with power and a television can still receive independent news and miraculously, the internet is still available, allowing Simon to communicate daily with his parents, who describe the harrowing changes to their formerly peaceful city.

Simon’s parents, residents of Kherson, the capital of the Kherson region in the south, are an elderly couple who have been for the most part trapped in their home, fearful of venturing out due to the presence of the volatile Russian soldiers who roam the streets, apparently under no command. They have neighbors and friends who for now manage to bring them food and other essentials. In Kherson, as in other areas of the country, many of the local residents regularly take to the streets, protesting the occupation despite the constant threat of assault and, when the tension heightens, being shot in cold blood by the occupiers. There is also the ever-present risk of shelling. His parents report that humanitarian aid, both for those remaining and those seeking to escape, has been hampered by the Russians with roadblocks and attacks on people in vehicles. Food and medical deliveries have been delayed or destroyed. Farm equipment has been sabotaged, preventing the village farmers from preparing for spring planting. The mayor of Kherson is still in charge of government affairs, though the occupiers are trying to take over administrative power, including recent attempts to organize a so-called “referendum” to declare the Kherson region an independent republic (much like what happened eight years ago with Donetsk and Lugansk, the two eastern-most regions in Crimea). At the street level, local Ukrainian vigilante groups have formed to deal with many of the occupying Russian soldiers, mostly young men, who have taken to getting drunk and aggressive, harassing and attacking local residents.

Simon and I spoke by zoom, he from our office conference room, I from my home office in Florida. I could see he looked tired, eyes darkened by lack of sleep. Wearing a green, military-style tshirt, Simon resembled President Zelensky. He spoke seriously and his attitude was quietly steadfast as he described what his family are enduring. Simon has two little girls who he hasn’t seen much of lately, since he has been spending weeknights and weekends shopping for and packing up shelf-stable foods and emergency supplies. He delivers the items to his church where he works with his fellow parishioners packing up and organizing the donations for shipment via air transport from Newark Airport to Poland. His hope is that some of it will reach his family.

A few of Simon’s relatives were able to flee, traveling by bus and train to Slovakia where Simon’s brother, a doctor, is providing housing and support for family members as well as refugees.

At the end of our conversation, Simon and I agreed that it may just be a matter of time before the Russian people see through all the lies and propaganda. Once they realize their government’s grievous actions against their neighbors to the west, they will rise up. The day of reckoning must come.