Since the horrendous October 7 attack on Israel, I have suffered nightmares and had thoughts of myself in the position of those border kibbutzim fending off the Hamas attackers. My emotional reaction is nothing compared to what the families of those lost and taken hostage are experiencing, yet I continue to be haunted by the horror of what happened there. I called many of my friends both Jewish and gentile to talk through my feelings. I read many news analyses and opinion pieces in the New York Times and Wall Street Journal. I visited a nondenominational house of worship. And finally, I made a call to my local rabbi for a lunch date. Yet these attempts to allay my fears were not sufficient to calm the waters. So, I resorted to what I have relied upon over the last 35 years for relaxation and repose: I went fishing. Captain Charlie out of Jupiter Point inlet was available midweek and I booked an early meet at his marina. I looked forward to a morning on the Loxahatchee River in an open boat, the sun rising from the marshland of western central Florida. The wind was from the northwest as we pushed through the Intercoastal to the river. We awaited the bridge rising after a Brightline train crossed, traveling south from Orlando. Our bird companions –osprey and an occasional eagle –trailed us as we sped west; the cloud cover creating shadows along the river route. There was an occasional tarpon rolling close to the mangroves, but they eluded my bait. I was intent on catching snook, who were sunning themselves on the surface of the 78-degree water. The morning was all fishing and no catching. Captain Charlie, intending to soften the blow that I was not connecting with any fish and would likely be going home emptyhanded said, “Fish have heads and tails—nothing in between.” I guess he meant they were brainless. Nevertheless, I was calm and, for a while, the tense thoughts had receded. As we waited at the bridge on our return a train sped by and I sensed I was back to reality. My thoughts turned to planning another break– a trip to Bray’s Island in South Carolina for redfish.
Category: Fishing
Homewater
It was a bit overcast with a threat of rain when late morning Ted, Greg and I pushed off a steep embankment near Bancroft Road in Danforth. My Grand Lake canoe had not been in the water yet this season and I was eager to cast the morning. The wind came from the southwest and with the high water the current took us immediately downstream. I stood up in the bow and unleashed my five-weight, nine-foot rod toward the bank. A yellow popper drifted on the end of my tippet and a small bass took to it. It was a fine start. The river ran softly and the eagle that soared along with us called out its song of happiness. No one was fishing from the bank, nor were there other floats on the water—only us in the quiet of the river. Fishing the morning on a float was reminiscent of trips to Labrador, the Restigouche and the Miramichi, all in Canada. This was my Homewater. I was not a visitor or vacationer. Greg’s hard work in finding a landing and in fact creating one, launching my canoe and directing us to the best pools for fishing made the day perfect. I often say to friends “it is the journey not the destination.” Here it was the destination—a place near my camp where I had peace and quiet. We fished until we came to a bypass of sorts where the river went off and created a 20-foot-wide mini-stream. Pushing through Greg found a spot to hold the canoe steady while I stepped out to fish a pool created by the confluence of another small stream. The overhang from the trees gave me just enough room to backcast without sacrificing a fly. The fish were plentiful. Ted had me using streamers as well as top-of-the-water flies. Wet feet and all I cast away with only one thought in mind: I could come back to my homewater any time –no reservations needed.
Blueberry Fair
During the last week of July, there is an outdoor marketplace in Kennebunk called the Annual Blueberry and Craft Fair. I attended this year for the first time as a “vendor” and spent a sunny Saturday on the tree-shaded lawn of the First Parish Unitarian Universalist Church, the event sponsor. I arrived early to arrange my fold-out card table with an assortment of my watercolor paintings and copies of my new book, Fishing the Morning. I had my kids and Patti with me, and Brooke and Billy helped set up the table display very professionally ala Peter Marino (where Brooke works as an interior decorator). I brought my newspaper and a book in case it was slow, but the crowd grew quickly. I had an ideal location, adjacent to the local library which was holding their annual book fair at the same time. The shoppers coming from the library had to pass me before making their way to the tables and tented booths at the craft fair. There was an interesting assortment of browsers: young, old, retirees, college students, children, visiting family and friends and of course all the regulars who attend year after year. My first buyers were two youngsters who were drawn to the title of my book and immediately charged into questioning me for the best fishing locations in Kennebunk. Well, I had to be on my toes for these kids. They wanted to know the where, the when and the how about fishing the morning in Kennebunk – a place I have never fished. Well I took the boys aside and suggested a couple of places that I had scouted to sketch some of my paintings—an area at the entrance to the Kennebunk River with the tide coming in. I seemed to have satisfied them such that they asked their mom to buy my book. I explained to her that the book was a compilation of columns about a lot of things not only fishing. The boys didn’t care—they were already scanning my fishing paintings and questioning me about each of them as to the type of fish and where I caught them. The boys were sold and their mom had no choice but to buy my book. I threw in a painting of a trout as a bonus. Next were some women visiting from western New York. One picked up my book and saw that I was from Rochester. That was enough for them. A book sale and a Maine painting of Cape Porpoise. The fact that I was both the author and painter required for each sale a personal handwritten note and signature on the item sold. Later, a youngster standing back from the numerous browsers finally asked if I had anything for $5.00. I had been selling everything for $20.00 but said “Of course!” It was the end of the day, and I was ready to fold up my operation. I offered her any painting left. She carefully looked through my entire inventory—I sold more than I ever expected so there was not much left—but she found a touching piece I had painted from the deck of our house in Kennebunk of sailboats swaying in a gentle breeze at high tide. Just as we were closing the deal, her mother and aunt came over to round the youngster up to go home. Hearing about our transaction, the mom bought my book and the aunt a painting. It was a trifecta of sales. I never finished my newspaper and the book I brought never made it out of my tote. We toasted the day by sharing a basket of organic blueberries, purchased from one of the other sellers. Thanks to Tom Veronisi from the church for running a terrific fair.
Father’s Day Menu
After a day of rain, temperature in the 40s, and heavy wind from the northeast, I awoke to calm waters, a bit of sun breaking through the dark clouds and weather in the high 50s. Enough reading by the fire. After lunch, Darci drove my 1950 motorboat up to the dock and off we went, Kara, Peter and I, to explore the shoreline of East Grand Lake. A lot of trouble with maneuvering in and out of gear—there were a few bangs into the rocks. Eventually, I figured out reverse was too difficult, so we paddled off into the open water, then used only forward gear around Greenwood Island, watchful for the large boulders now submerged by the recent rainfall. The afternoon sun created a mirror-like reflection of the island in the water off to the east. The effect was like a magnificent, panoramic painting.
The camps along the shoreline were mostly unoccupied, the occasional American flag whipping in the breeze to indicate someone was home. We passed a motorboat tied to a dock, awaiting the owner for the weekend, and a few chimneys with smoke. It was a quiet lake day. I was in the driver’s seat and the kids sat in the back. The motor made a loud hum, but I could hear the kids’ conversation and it was about me: Why is he so quiet at camp? He is not his usual talkative self? He seems to be in a quiet mood? Yes – I am all those things. Being away from the office, my cell phone, the computer screen, all the everyday noise, allows me the space to be more contemplative.
The next day was Father’s Day. I had planned a day of fishing at Wheaton’s with Andy and the weather forecast was encouraging: a slight chance of rain in the morning and clearing in the afternoon. Up early, before the sun. Eager to be on the water, I hustled the kids into the truck by 8:15 a.m. Andy was already launched. The kids had a new guide – Butch. Andy and I pushed off at Spudnick launch at 9:15 a.m. The water was calm. Andy gave me some rain pants. I am the optimist when it comes to fishing weather – “It will be fine!” All bundled up we sped off to one of Andy’s coves where the bass are drawn to the rocky shallows. Itching to cast, I stood up in the canoe and threw a fly to the hungry fish. I envisioned that they were awaiting my arrival. Right away a fish rose to the bait. By lunchtime I had hooked and set a dozen bass. Andy was relieved–no rain and plenty of catch. I am always amazed at how stressed he becomes if I don’t reel in my fair share before lunch. We landed for a picnic at Birch Trees, a public campsite – a bucket for a toilet makes it a campsite. Lunch was my four-pound salmon which was caught and frozen two weeks ago, grilled chicken and of course, lemon meringue pie. The perfect menu for an ideal Father’s Day.
Fishing Lessons
The weather in Maine was an unseasonable 82 degrees when Patti and I landed
in Bangor. Usually, on the first week up north, I’m greeted by 40-degree
weather, overcast skies, black flies and a broken water heater at camp.
The drive along I-95 was uneventful, with just a quick stop at Governors for
chowder and a piece of unfried fish. One more stop at DQ for a soft ice
cream and we were on our way to Lincoln to go food shopping for the few days we had planned to relax by ourselves, and I could do a little fishing. By the time we arrived at camp, it was nightfall. After a quick toe dip at the end of the dock I headed straight to bed and slept.
Next morning I woke up with the sun at 5:30a.m. and took my coffee to the
dock. The fishermen were all out on the water, trolling for salmon and
lake trout. The warm weather brought out the weekday anglers. I needed to
catch up on a few office matters before Greg, my local fishing guide, and I could take off on another of his expeditions to a “special place” where the trout are “18 inches.” He came by promptly at 1:00 p.m., ready for an afternoon of catching. He was as usual enthusiastic and promising a bit more than he can usually deliver –but it is not his fault, the fishing rods are to blame. “Bring rubber boots,” he said as I was getting into the truck. But I was already prepared with them—a brand new pair I had just purchased from an online outfitter.
Off through Danforth we flew, on the main roads and then the backroads, with
a brief stop at his buddy’s house to hitch up an old rowboat with a 15 hp
motor. Greg and his friend grew up together and both work in the woods,
for the lumber industry. This fellow never married until recently, when
he fell in love with a widow and now, according to Greg, he “never leaves the
house.”
We arrived at a small bridge over the Mattagodus Stream. Anxious to
get a fly in the water, I took a few casts from the shore as Greg maneuvered
the boat down an embankment. With a splash, it was ready to go. We
traveled upstream, winding our way through a 20-foot-wide expanse of water that was the confluence of several smaller streams passing through miles of wetlands on both sides. There were no other fishermen in sight. When we got
to a promising spot, Greg turned off the motor and we both cast–Greg with his
live bait on his spinning rod and I with my flyrod with a dry fly. The
sun beat down on us mercilessly. The wind was minimal and the only relief
was when Greg sped upstream. We reached a bend and Greg promised (again) some action at a nearby beaver dam. He beached the boat and I waded ashore (reason for boots). The ground was marshy with areas of soft mud. I walked further upstream away from Greg to the beaver dam and started casting. With my rod in hand, I carefully moved closer to the water to avoid a back-cast hookup. Suddenly I had a fish take and now had to move away from the water to better maneuver bringing in the fish. But the wetlands were muddier and wetter as I moved back from the stream. Suddenly, with a fish on the line, I felt myself sinking slowly into the mud. Greg was on the other side of the bend in the stream and out of sight. He was too far to hear me if I called out. I gripped the rod as I continued to sink even deeper. The mud was now over my boot top. I had to make a fateful decision – the fish or me! I chose the fish. So as sank, I continued to play the little fishy, drawing him in. There was no sense of panic about getting myself out of this, but it would be messy. I laid down on my stomach, still holding my rod with the fish attached, and slipped out of my boots. I reeled in my catch and walked, barefoot and covered in mud, back to where Greg was fishing contentedly. “What happened to you?” he said, eyeing me from head to toe. “I caught a fish, that’s all!” I answered, holding up my prize.
Was it 18 inches? Not even close. And I lost my new boots for it. Yet I was happy. Actually, it was refreshing to take a mud bath on a day with temps in the 80s. I guess I had been a bit scared there for a minute, but I knew it wasn’t quicksand, just wetlands. And there is always an upside to things. I learned not to back up into wetlands, always carry a whistle, and wear slip-off boots when fishing.
Camp Opening
Mid-May is the customary camp opening target date. The usual tasks include emptying out the storage garage of porch furniture and the assortment of watercrafts: a 1950’s motorboat, a Grand canoe, oars and kayaks. The main cabin needs cleaning from the family of mice who live there rent free over the winter. The kerosene heater needs finetuning. The water pump needs priming. One special job this season was the completion of the bookshelves in my recently constructed office cabin overlooking the lake. Over the winter Greg –my regular handyman and fishing buddy –and his partner Jimmy built wall-to-wall bookshelves out of cedar, filling two full walls, floor to ceiling. I had shipped up around 1,000 books from the Florida and East Hampton houses, and my trusty assistant Ali spent a weekend sorting all the books by author and subject matter. Sometimes I refer to this new space as my studio, where I have my office and my watercolor painting supplies and easel. It will also have a fly-tying nook. Once it is all completed, I will have a perfect, separate, place of privacy—100 feet away from the main cabin—where I can work and play without disturbing anyone, or vice versa. I find it is usually the first place I go to in the morning to check my email and the last at night to steal a few moments with a good book.
I have a list of adventures planned for the summer season. There is a new trail guide that Wheaton’s Trust recently published. I intend to take a few outings with my kids and friends to prove I do not always get lost in the woods. I intend to learn to drive my little 30-horsepower Johnson motorboat on my own. It is like a Corvette when it takes off and planes at a 45-degree angle for a bit. I am building up my confidence to deal with that. I want to explore more off-road trails in my four-wheel drive. Last year I took the Bronco out a few times on the path up to Sucker Lake. More of that looks like fun. Sucker Lake – I really love it for its solitude. I am trying to encourage a family member or two to join me and Greg for a campout there one night but no takers. It is always the bathroom thing.
Being in Maine at my camp is always an exciting time for me. Much of my enthusiasm derives from trips as a youngster to Camp Seneca, a sleepaway camp on Seneca Lake in upstate New York. The outdoors has always attracted me despite the black flies. I suppose that is why I enjoy fishing so much. A bit of wilderness on the water, a good lunch and the peace and quiet way from life’s daily bubble.
Fishing on My Mind
It is nearly the end of April and I am deep into my angler magazines. I’ve also been calling on my fishing friends to find out about their upcoming plans and to reminisce about fishing exploits past. I called my buddy of many years, Dr. Jay, to talk about the early spring trips we took together with a gang of friends, now passed, to Pennsylvania – Big Spring Creek, Allegheny, Susquehanna and Penn’s Creek—for Walleye, Small and Large Mouth Bass, Pike, Muskee, Brown Trout and the occasional Rainbows. I’ve also connected, via zoom, with my friend Paul, in Wales, who has filled me in on the fishing conditions at the River Wye, his local spot. My latest issue of the British magazine, The Field, has the line on fishing throughout the UK, where it started April 1st. The Brits have easy access to waterways throughout the countryside with endless fishing locations both private and public. I truly enjoy the fishing experience in the UK, as much for the catching as for the environment and the company. The outdoor spaces are exhilarating, walking through the ancient woods to a hidden fishing spot–it is as much fun as setting the fly. And of course, the fellowship, not only with my buddies but with the guides, who make all the travel worthwhile. Characters they are, who harken back to another era, as some have been fishing the same waters for fifty years.
I have my own fishing nest in Maine, and the daily reports still show ice in places on the lake. There are no reports on the beaver ponds since their locations are secret, known only to me and Greg. I will have to see if Greg has had a chance to check on them. I am traveling north in a couple of weeks for a hearing and am planning a side trip to Bangor and from there to camp for an overnight on East Grand Lake. Wheaton Lodge just opened and Sandy is encouraging me to come. “The small mouth bass are plentiful,” she tells me. Maybe a salmon on top of the water for my visit? I am hungry for my guide Andy’s grilled lake-side barbeque chicken and cowboy coffee. The Woodie Wheaton Land Trust recently closed on a large tract of land on the East Grand Lake and St.Croix headwaters. I am anxious to see it –and of course to go out on the lake with Andy. I look forward to the early morning sun on my face and the quiet of the grand canoe gliding through the water. The eagles soaring overhead. No other fishermen in sight. Andy knows I like to keep more or less to myself and rest the mouth and mind. He is respectful of my need for the tranquility. It is where I recharge my batteries for summer in the Hamptons and everything to come, and for as long as life has for me.
Fishing the Mitchell River
I fished a bit of the North Carolina-Virginia border last week. The Mitchell River near Dobson, North Carolina, is a short drive from Winston-Salem. A visit to my granddaughter Lilly, who is a freshman in college, provided me cover to take a day off to wet my toes and fingers in a cold, 40-degree trout stream. My trip started with a short plane ride to Charlotte and then a drive to Winston-Salem where I spent an afternoon at Wake Forest with Lilly. Lilly, our first grandchild, is a modern-day woman brimming with confidence and exuberance. Our time together reassured me that my concern for her happiness, which incented me to visit, was misplaced. Lilly has acclimated well to college life and is a mature young adult. I was comfortable taking a day away to fish the morning not so lonely with my guide Dave Bergman, a transplanted New Jerseyan who, like all fishing guides, dreams of having his own fly shop someday. We set out early morning with temps in the 40s. I was geared up with my Icelandic kit – long johns, flannel pants, thick waders and layers of outer wear. I was ready. We fished a 4-weight rod nymphing our way along the riffles. We scouted in vain for Browns and Brook but the Rainbow trout- 9” to 13” were plentiful that morning. The sky was bright. The farmland surrounding the river was cut bare. All the fishing paths to the water were devoid of fellow fishers. The air was clear and smelled of recently plowed-over fields of soy. I could have been in Maine, Pennsylvania or out west. I felt complete. My vocabulary was enriched by some new terms Dave taught me: “chowder” (rough water); “boogie water” (shallow, rocky water moving at a swift pace). There is something unexplainable for me about fishing the mornings. My mind is clear out on the water—a reminder of the times past before cell phones. In fact, there was no cell service where we were. Another reason to go back. My only thoughts are to my back cast—to not entangle my line– and to keep my frozen feet moving. Otherwise, I am happy and secure.
“Billy – yu wanna go fishin’?”
…I texted my grandson. I am always asking him, but never get the response I want. I would like Billy to come down to Florida by himself, for some freshwater fishing on a river I discovered off Jupiter inlet. During the summers, I have coaxed him to fish with me in Maine at our camp, but only if his father or mother were in the canoe with him. I can understand that at age 12 he may be too young to travel by himself from New York to Florida or Maine, but I keep asking and hoping for at least a “maybe.” Instead, I get a definitive “no.” I know Billy enjoys our Maine excursions with Andy our fishing guide. Andy always puts Billy into small mouth bass (that’s fisherman talk) and in fact, Billy boasts to friends and family about how much he catches. Last summer with his mom, he caught more fish than I did. But my dream of having my grandson fish and hike in the woods with me, just the two of us, won’t be a reality until Billy is a little older.
In the past, my girls would not want to go on my fishing trips, whether in the U.S. or abroad. Even the promise of international travel was not enough to tempt them. They were teenagers, more comfortable at home with their mother and their peers, none of whom were of learning how to flyfish. I always imagined that someday I would have a grandson to accompany me, and that’s why I am a little impatient waiting for Billy to grow up enough to wave goodbye to his parents and go along with Grandpa’s plans. I know he will eventually – Billy is a terrific, adventuresome kid. Of late, I suspect there may be another factor making him hesitant about leaving home, even for a short time: his sister is away at her first year of college. Billy may be enjoying all the undivided attention from his mom and dad, and at the same time, may not want them to feel lonely without any of their children around. I am no substitute for his parents, whom he adores.
As a child I had no qualms about taking adventurous trips without my parents. I joined my friends and their parents on trips to the Thousand Islands in the St. Lawrence River and I attended Camp Seneca, which was sleepaway, every summer growing up. I went to basketball games with my Uncle Sam, getting home long after dark, and went on weekend excursions to the farm of one of our neighbors. I was always up for getting out of the house and being somewhat on my own at Billy’s age. When I received an Indian Racer bicycle I was off every day after school, exploring. During the summers I was out on my bike from after breakfast until sundown. Back then, being at home just wasn’t as entertaining as it is for kids these days with television and computers and video chatting with friends. I didn’t even have books at home –I had to go to the library for those and read them there, my bike parked outside. When Billy hits his teen years, I won’t take “no” for an answer. And my wifi is working just fine for video games, computer, all of it–AFTER we get back from a day on the lake.
The State of Lobstering
While staying in Kennebunk, Maine this summer, I spent most mornings at Cape Porpoise, sitting at my favorite bench at the docks, sipping a store-bought paper-cup coffee as I watched the fishermen go about their business. There was one lobsterman in particular that I often saw tending to his small craft, while the majority of his fellow seamen were out since dawn setting or emptying their traps. Eventually I established a friendly rapport with him – his name was Pete. Pete told me a little about his life – 32 years old, married with three boys age between two and 12, and a daughter aged nine. Pete’s wife runs a local children’s day care center. She is the sole proprietor, and her income is important to the family’s financial well-being, which was severely impacted by Covid when the day care was shut down. Their children have been home schooled since quarantine but will return to their public-school classrooms in the fall. Pete has been lobstering since graduating from high school; he received his training as a first mate on a 42-foot Down East-style lobster boat.
His days now start well before his family is awake. Though he only takes the boat out twice a week, the earnings are enough to support his growing family when combined with his wife’s income. But lobster, like other commodities, fluctuates in price. The “dock” prices have dropped dramatically in recent months, with retailers selling the prized crustaceans for a few dollars less. The reduction in price is happening at the same time as an increase in fuel and bait costs, as well as costly conversions intended to protect rare whales. “There is something different about the price drop this time,” Pete said. “This month I saw truckloads of lobster taken to the dump. Folks can’t afford both lobster and gas these days.”
Lobster was once so plentiful earlier Americans used it as fertilizer and prison food. Perhaps it hasn’t reached rock bottom yet. I asked Pete what he would do in that case. He gazed out at the choppy waves before answering. “I really don’t know,” he said, adding, “now I hear the government is going to reduce the number of traps we can set because lobster may declared an endangered species.” Pete seemed saddened by our conversation. He looked around at his mates, who motioned to him to scale the ladder down to his boat aptly– and ideally–named “Rebound.”
Here Back East 