Rick Cronin: You never know what you're going to run into in the woods
I go into the woods fishing and I never know what I'll run into. The trip from Belfast is often two hours plus; is the drive worth it? In the last year I've seen two Canadian lynxes, deer, moose, weasels, beavers, bears, foxes, coyotes, and plenty of rabbits. If there are more rabbits. there are more lynx.
But August came, the water warmed up, and I did some local (Waldo County) bass fishing with Paul. His long-time fishing buddy, our friend Ken, died suddenly at his home on a Thursday night when he'd usually be sitting at my house playing poker. So now there is an empty seat at the poker table and an empty seat in the bass boat. I've been filling the boat seat and we've all been missing Ken at the card table.
Bass fishing, it turns out, has its charms. First there's the pond — so much closer to home and often ringed with docks and summer cottages where, as well as the call of loons, there's the laughter of kids in high summer. There's the solitary swimmer making her evening crossing of the lake and back. There's the August sky with storm clouds reflecting the maple syrup light of the setting sun. It makes you check out the real estate ads.
And then there's the size of the fish. A gauge for a good largemouth is if you can fit your fist in its mouth.
I'm slowly getting a feel for the bass although Paul still catches three to every one of mine. I've learned to rig up a plastic worm Texas weedless style and I've found out that smallmouth will go crazy for the “rubber legs” nymphs that I was first turned onto fishing for rainbows on the Madison. Bass fishing has action like trout fishermen only dream about when the hex hatch is on and brookies are gorging themselves on the Fourth of July.
It was on the most recent Fourth that Ron and I headed for our favorite hex pond. We knew the hatch was on because two days earlier, Ian, who keeps our cars running and shares fishing stories and information with us, had been there and said he'd left us a few fish.
He'd had good fishing, but the big May flies were just coming on when he had to return to work at the garage. (One nice thing about the hex hatch is that you can leave home late for the three-hour drive because the main event doesn't happen until the sun's almost ready to set.) We'd driven up the Interstate full of anticipation. We turned off the Golden Road and headed north at about two in the afternoon. Ron had rebuilt the carburetor on the Johnson, and we had oars, so nothing could really go too badly wrong.
After a three-hour drive you can hardly wait for that first cast, that first fish. But then a few miles from the turn-off to the pond the car exploded. I think Ron chirped just before the moose hit, but I'm not sure. She had charged out of the pucker brush headlong into the driver's side of the car. Driven crazy by the tormenting flies or just in a careless hurry? I'll never know.
The car was full of glass and moose turds and the cow was down and in bad shape about 20 yards behind the boat trailer. First we assured ourselves that neither of us were seriously hurt. An arm full of glass and a shirt soiled by flying moose poop were the extent of my injuries. In the passenger's seat Ron was OK, so he came around to my side and with some well aimed kicks and blows to the bent metal he managed to pry my door open. We were surveying the damage — headlight out, smashed windshield, crumpled fender and door, driver's side window smashed out, and moose hair in every crack — when two pickups drove up and stopped.
The pickups held two families of campers. The teenage daughters were quietly wide eyed with concern for the struggling moose so the mother, after making sure that we were all right, asked if we were going to put the moose out of its misery.
I said that we only had fishing rods and no way to put the moose down, but there was a gate just a few miles up where we could call a warden.
The woman hesitated and then said, “Well I've got my Glock,” which she produced from a purse not much bigger than the weapon. BANG … BANG … BANG … BANG. And the moose's struggles ended. Ron and I and the two husbands dragged the fly- and tick-covered cow to the side the dirt road. After a brief negotiation allowing them the meat, Ron and I drove to the gate, called the warden, and hosed off the moose crap. You never know what your going to run into in the woods.
The car, although bashed up a bit, was running OK. I could see out the windshield if I leaned over toward the passenger's side and we were less than a mile from the pond. So we fished. The fishing was really good. The cop in Millinocket who stopped us because we had a head light out, quickly grasped the situation and sent us on our long ride home without a hassle. You never know what you're going to run into in the woods.
Rick Cronin fishes in Maine and reports on why the big ones got away.
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Cronin's Fish Soup
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