Category: Camp KaBrook

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.

February 2022

At the end of my last column, I had just dozed off from exhaustion after a full morning of travel by plane, truck, and snowmobile, en route to my Maine camp. I’d had an early departure from Florida, arriving by nine, then drove the hundred miles or so from the airport, only to find the last mile under
five feet of snow. My plans to go snowshoeing when I got to camp were thwarted for the time being, but when I woke up from my nap, I was rested and ready to go.

I saw the snowshoes propped up against the fireplace screen where Greg had left them, after retrieving them by ladder from their place above the front door. I picked one up and examined it. My friend Lori had purchased the snowshoes for me at a thrift store, to use as decor when I first moved in, and they were clearly from another era. The wood was shellacked, the leather lacings were brittle and I looked skeptically at the bindings. Would they hold up once I was out on the snow? J would soon find out. Greg came up from the dock and showed me how to lace up over my boots. I do not have snow poles so used my fishing sticks in their place.

The trail up to Sucker lake is lined with red plastic tags tied waist high to trees and they were still visible at the entrance to the trail, despite the accumulation of snow over the past several months. As I made my way across the road, I turned and gave Greg the thumbs up. We had arranged for him to pick me up at the trail head at Route 1 after I had circled the lake. The silence in the woods was
deafening. I could hear my breathing as I crunched through the snow. The shoes seemed to be holding up as I slowly and carefully progressed. An occasional small animal ran across my path without even a glance at me, as if I were one of them and not to be feared. The sun, still high in the sky, warmed me as it illuminated my path, the bright light reflecting off the snow and the glistening ice crystals. I reached Sucker Lake in a short 30 minutes. The trail around the lake had been plowed down by the regular use of snowmobilers. The walk was now a bit easier for me on the packed snow. It was much slower than in the summer when the only concern is not to slip on pebbles or fallen tree detritus. I still had to be wary of protruding rocks and those hidden under the snow, which could rip up my bindings. The lake was frozen over. I was tempted to walk out on the ice to the island that Greg has taken me and my friends to many times for picnics. But I had to be cautious. I wasn’t about to take a spill now. I was alone and it seemed no one was around for miles. I erred on the side of caution and stayed on the trail circling the lake. After a while, I stopped for a rest and texted Greg to give him enough time to meet me at the parking lot at the trailhead on the other side of the lake. It was the same trailhead I had taken a few
years earlier and got lost. I didn’t want to relive that adventure. I was proud of myself that I had made it so far without mishap. Let’s keep it that way I kept repeating to myself.

After a while, I peeled off my jacket and tied it around my waist. I had only gone another few paces when out of the woods came a huge buck with a massive rack. He stood not ten feet away from me, his dark fur contrasting sharply against the brilliant white background. His breath steamed from his nose and mouth. His eyes were black and foreboding. We stared at each other, both of us motionless. Not a movement. I was frozen in place. I was certain he was as startled to see me as I was him. So far, the snowshoe walk had been peaceful and uneventful. Now here was a 300 lb. creature that may
perceive me as a threat and charge. I had no idea what to do other than stand still. I recalled reading that if a bear approaches you are to curl up on the ground. Again, I erred on the side of caution. I
untied my jacket and sat down. I tucked my head inside my jacket and wrapped my arms around my body. After counting to 100 I peeked out and saw that the buck was indeed a friendly. He was busy nibbling something from a bush and had lost interest in me. I rose to my feet and proceeded south to where I would meet up with Greg. I now had a good story for him and my friends back home. How many people come face to face with a giant buck on their Sunday stroll-while wearing ancient snowshoes?

February 2022

It was winter break so to speak. Patti thought I was crazy. I was headed to camp from the airport in Bangor and the February sky was bright blue, wisps of clouds here and there the only reminders of the recent snowstorm. Exiting on I 93 I travelled north. The snowbanks along the side of the road grew steeper as I neared Danforth. I was feeling adventurous, and decided that when I got to camp, I would take down the old thrift store snowshoes that have been hanging over the doorway for years as camp decor and give them a go outside for the first time. The trail up to Sucker Lake would be perfect as it was one I had hiked numerous times in the summer. When I arrived at the turn off to Boulder Road, site of my fishing camp, l saw that the snowplows had only cleared the way in to Cowger’s Lake Front Cabins, a good mile down the road from my cabin. The snow looked five feet deep against the trees along the road as far as I could see. My snowshoeing plans were now set back until I could actually get to my camp. I figured walking was impossible. I would need to hitch a ride on a snowmobile and required Greg’s help to do it. It was past noon.

Greg was 45 minutes away at his winter camp in Drew Plantation and when I finally reached him he was ruminating about fixing something or other on one of his rigs. Yes, Jimmy had a snowmobile he said, but we needed to get to River Road to find him since Jimmy’s cell wasn’t working in the cold. waited the hour or so in my car for Greg to arrive and despite the lost time my enthusiasm for a snowshoe hike was still there. Looking around at the winter wonderland was all it took. Greg finally pulled up in his truck and I hopped in. His truck was as cold as Hattie, which for Greg, a Maine native, was like room temperature. Jimmy, Greg’s buddy, was a good source for a snowmobile ride as he collected everyone’s discards in Danforth and was sure to have a powerful enough vehicle to traverse the five-foot snowdrifts. Driving back south now to Jimmy’s took some time as he lived several miles outside of town.

Jimmy came out of his house in a t-shirt like it was August. Mainers sure are different. We loaded the snowmobile onto Greg’s truck and sped back north along Route 1. Not a soul was in sight on the road or off. We made the left on Greenwood Lake Road, onto snow packed down from both snowmobilers and ice fishing traffic. We followed the camp road as far as we could to where the plowing had ended and where my car was parked alongside an embankment of cleared snow. I would have to leave it there for the time being.

We got out and dropped the snowmobile onto the road. I seated myself behind Greg for the trip down to camp, my first ever ride on a snowmobile. I pulled my beanie cap over my ears and was ready to go. Along the way the snow ahead of us was undisturbed except for a few animal tracks- ­heavier ones from deer, but mostly the light footprints of smaller creatures. Behind us, our tracks left no doubt about what created them. The reverberation from the loud engine caused the fir trees to shake their branches at us, dropping large clumps of snow as we passed by, sometimes hitting their intended target. We shook it off. Greg was child-like in his enthusiasm. He grew up snowmobiling in these woods. It was his winter sport. The ride was exhilarating-the rush of cold air against my face as we flew across the bright, white landscape somehow energized me and exhausted me at the same time.

Soon we reached camp. Snow had drifted off the lake against the front cabin door. It had been closed for the winter so we opened the door slowly, expectantly, letting in the first fresh air in months. We decided to make a fire to ward off the cold before preparing for the snowshoe expedition. Greg opened the damper and as to be expected a few mice scampered out I poked around to see if there was anything in the cabinets I might take as provisions on the outing but came up empty handed. Greg had a fire going in no time. The heat from the growing flames combined with the hint of smoke in the air was like a warm embrace. I settled into the deep, down sofa cushions, happy to be at my camp, memories of last season on my mind as I closed my eyes. Greg laddered up to get the snowshoes down for me, but as he likes to tell the story, by the time he got down with them, I was already snoring on the couch.

July 2020

For most businesses in Danforth, Maine, July 4th weekend is the peak of the season. However, this July 4th, not only is the weather gloomy, but the economy is under the weather too, so to speak. Over years past, Mainers have seen the decline of the forestry industry and the lobster franchise, due to trade tariffs and climate warming, and now the tourist bump has been levelled by Covid 19. Earlier today, a mourning dove was cooing, in a minor key it seemed, appropriate to the overcast atmosphere. Soon the wind from the northwest picked up and pushed the lake water over the dock. Heavy droplets of rain pounded out an uneven symphony on the Gruman aluminum canoe. No fishing with Greg today. It is not just the discomfort of being out in the rain, but the bass can be “unfriendly” – maybe they can’t distinguish the bait from the rain on the surface of the water. It is a quiet day, and the pandemic has limited us from inviting company for the weekend. The fire in the hearth has been roaring since early morning, not only for warmth but for comfort.

The Fourth of July will be a day of watercolor painting and reading. I keep a portfolio of cut-out images for inspiration and recently graduated from painting fish and brilliantly colored flies to fishermen in canoes. I just finished reading a book by Carl Marlantes entitled Big River, about the history of the immigration of the Finns to Oregon and the establishment of the lumber industry. I also brought with me to camp a few books about the early settlement in the Sierras and the area around Downieville. Interestingly, my little community in Danforth, Maine, has many similarities. Logging could have been a major industry in the Sierras but for the discovery of gold. Maine had farming and dug potatoes out of the soil instead of gold nuggets. It all came to an end years ago—the logging and the prospecting and Danforth like Downieville has downsized. The last remaining gold nugget in Downieville is the Mountain Messenger. What is left here in Danforth is the camping and fishing tourism. Danforth no longer has a newspaper. The local population here cannot support it. The school has only a handful of students and the gas station survives as part of the local deli and café. This year the tourist traffic is minimal and for most businesses in Danforth, Maine, July 4th weekend is the peak of the season. However, some of it headed north to Canada. Route 1 to Machias is quiet except for the occasional truck carrying logs to the pulp mill. There are fewer RVs camped out at the park across the lake this year, and fewer boats on the water, which means fewer cabins have been rented. Not a lot of out of state plates. The mandatory two-week quarantine was lifted yesterday. Maybe it will be an incentive for people to come visit. I hope so. My friends in Maine are open for business and welcoming to all.

June 2020

Camp doesn’t feel the same this year. The pandemic has spread its wings all the way north to the Canadian border with Maine, and of course beyond. But here in this remote outpost, where the feeling of escape from civilization has always been a welcome relief, the desolation seems especially stark. The RV camp across the lake has no lights at night. There are no boats on the water at daybreak trolling for lake trout. The public ramp at East Grand Lake is empty of boat trailers. Renee’s doesn’t have the early morning crowd for coffee and homemade donuts—just a new hand-written sign in the window saying “open for take-out.” There is no wait at the sole gas station in town, but the small country deli—the only food store within a 40-minute drive- has customers. I stand behind a woman in line to pay and notice her SNAP card. The people here are dependent on the spring and summer fishing crowds, now almost nonexistent. There are no kids playing in the old, lower school ball field. Camping and fishing seem unlikely to spread the virus but people have to travel to get here, whether from Boston, Bangor or like me, from New York.

The rest stops are off limits and closed for the most part. The motels en route are closed. No Hortons or McDonalds, except for drive thru. It is a long trip from the Long Island ferry—some ten hours from Old Saybrook to Danforth. I drive non-stop followed by two weeks of self-isolation in my cabin. The fish and wildlife are blissfully unaware of the raging storm we humans are forced to seek shelter from. The ducks in the cove have returned. The loons coo away night and day. The romance of nature sustains me through the solitude, along with the shelves full of the books I have been working my way through on rainy days. The comfort of a hearth fire puts me to sleep at night. Going out on my ancient Gruman aluminum canoe in the early morning hours transports me literally and figuratively, far away from the waves of a virus. There are no wakes from motorboats. The water is calm, lapping gently at the side of the canoe. I will stay for a while.

June 2020

Last night I decided to sleep in my tent escape—a canvas shelter with room for two situated at the lake’s stony edge. In the past I have used it for company when the indoor beds are all claimed. During the day, I paint there for afternoon light. After self-quarantining for two weeks in the cabin it was inevitable that I would come down with a case of cabin fever, the only antidote for which is the outdoors. So, I skipped my evening Macallan and headed out. The half-moon lit the path through the wood down to the water. When I peeled back the tent door, I was relieved to see there was no evidence of prior guests– the wild, four-legged kind—just a couple of spiders to evict. The tent has a mattress and comforter and after giving them a good shake I fell into bed and the deepest sleep, awaking this morning to the high orange glow of the sun piercing every gap in the tent canvas, and to a sound I hadn’t heard in a while around here: the rumble of trucks. Early morning construction vehicles on the camp road? We are in a different time now. Beethoven couldn’t have composed a more joyful sound in that moment. Danforth was coming back to life.

I put on my fleece slippers and padded back up to the cabin to fire up the old black, crusted kettle, to prepare coffee for the first cup on the dock. I took in the distant sounds of diesel engines mingled with nature’s crazy harmonies. Even the birds’ chirping seemed more adamant and excited with the activity. Next what sounded like a noisy RV passed by, then another truck and another. Yes, they are back. The world is awakening from the pandemic slumber. The RV travelers are either homebound or coming to camp out. If they are inbound, Maine still has a two-week quarantine law in effect for out- of-staters– but there is no enforcement. I know they must be here, but I haven’t seen a police car in years. Campers and RVs coming and going mean summer is not locked out. The loons and mallards will welcome the travelers back and the bass somehow know they must escape into deeper water. The gates will open. The storage barns will empty of the ATVs that ramble the woods. The old canoes will go back in the water. Minor repairs will commence. Chopping wood for the fireplace. I will reassemble the trampoline for my grandkids. Fire up the old barbeque. Now it’s time for that second cup of coffee.

June 2020

“Open For Business” – that’s the call from the fishing outfitter at Wheaton’s Lodge. Patrick has been chomping at the bit to open up and start fishing and frying. The Lodge has lost half their season so far from the pandemic and need the bass fishermen back on the water. Wheaton’s is one of the oldest camps on East Grand Lake. It has been in the same family for years and only recently was taken over by a young, adventurous couple who cater to an avid angling clientele. Fishermen come from both coasts and in between for the small-mouth bass—the best water in the Northeast. The accommodations are modest, uninsulated wood frame cabins with stoves for warmth. The old-fashioned, heavy wool blankets on the beds are like a flashback to childhood. Breakfast in the rustic dining room starts before daybreak and the early risers are treated to heavenly homemade pancakes followed by coffee on the dock, where it tastes best. Wheaton’s was my savior when I first went north in 2017 to open my new camp, after my wife passed away. Patrick and his wife, Sandy, the new proprietors, were welcoming, home-grown people preparing home-grown food for their guests. They soon felt like family. I was alone but never felt that way, meeting interesting fellow fishermen from around the country, one a widower like me, still grieving and seeking solace in nature.

My mind was soon off the sadness and on the water with the Lodge fishing guide, Andy, in his native East Grand canoe. It was the first of many outings with Andy, who has good fishing instincts and extensive knowledge of the local waters. Andy and I fish various lakes in the area, none of which have more than a few boats within earshot. Since the Lodge is only a short boat ride from my camp, I have the best of both worlds. So today I answer Patrick’s call and make my way to Wheaton’s to do some fishing with Andy—the first outing of the season since the shutdown. We quickly fall back into our old routine. Andy pulls the canoe off his trailer, and it drops into the water with a delicate splash. We slide into the make-shift upholstered seats– fashioned from the discards of Andy’s retired ’88 Camry–and push off into the waveless East Grand Lake. A lone eagle circles above and stress evaporates like the morning fog. There is no cell service out on the water, which is somehow more freeing than just turning off the phone. I put away my watch, so other than the sun’s position, I am purposely oblivious to my time on the water. We have the most luck on the Canadian side of the lake and spend most of the day there. Seems the bass prefer the Canadian accent. I stand with my fly rod, looking for large, submerged boulders where the bass congregate. Fishing for bass is for me a lot like trout fishing, stripping the line back and forth until I feel a strong tug. The ensuing tussle with the fish is what it’s all about. Sometimes I use a 3-weight rod to get more play time. The jump out of the water is the next thrill. I release before the fish reaches the net to avoid damaging the fins. Catch and release is my motto. I only bring into the canoe the fish that are wounded from inhaling the fly.

Midday, lunch on shore is bass filets fried in cornmeal over an open fire –my gosh– boiled potatoes, coffee made from lake water with an egg in the kettle to keep the grounds down, and homemade berry pie. A meal fit for a king fisherman. The ride home is anticlimactic. Returning to an empty cabin isn’t too much fun but I always have a book to fall into and my jazz cds. Tomorrow my old pal Greg is taking me to his new secret spot for brook trout. We will drive deep into the wilderness carrying a light canoe to a small pond filled with 16-inch mammoths. I feel fortunate. I am 80-years young, and though it seems the decades have flown, I now measure time by the length of the fish on the end of my line.