My 11-year-old son has adopted an annoying new habit. Whenever my wife or I begin to explain something to him, he interrupts with, "I know, I KNOW! I'm not stupid!" Somewhere along the line, he has become an expert on just about everything, and has no patience for explanations from his mom and me.

Two days ago, he and I were watching Animal Planet and I decided to try an experiment. While watching a show on simian family characteristics I casually remarked: "You know, this reminds me of Ernst Haeckel's theory that ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny. You see, Haeckel believed...."

"I know Dad, I know," screeched my omniscient fifth-grader. "Geez, I'm not stupid."

Meanwhile, his grandmother sat there with an irritatingly smug expression.

"Well," she said, making no attempt to conceal her obvious glee. "The apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, has it?"

Regrettably, I was forced to admit that my son bore a remarkable resemblance to a youthful me. Like most people, I learned a great many lessons from personal experience, and, like most people, I ignored many of these lessons the first time around due to immaturity, pigheadedness, or simply because I was too dim to recognize that I was being taught. As I sat there with my son glowering balefully at the TV and his grandmother happily humming as she returned to her knitting, I recalled a time when my own arrogance and conceit brought about one of the most embarrassing episodes of my life.

It was the summer of 1976. That June I had graduated from college with a bachelor's degree in education. I had a wonderful summer job, working as a counselor at Camp Bishopswood on Lake Megundicook in Hope. It was late July and I had just received an offer to teach language arts at Mattanawcook Junior High School in Lincoln. I was thrilled at the prospect of beginning my teaching career in the fall.

Around the middle of August, I packed my garment bag with a half dozen leisure suits, several paisley dress shirts (complete with French collars that would lift a full grown man several inches off the ground if the tailwind was right), stuck a pick into my recently permed and tightly curled hair, climbed into my brand new, Toyota Corolla, jammed a Bachman Turner Overdrive tape into the 8-track and headed north to Lincoln.

I arrived brimming with self-confidence, secure in the knowledge that I had all the answers. Doubtless these northern Maine country folk would embrace me, and all I had to offer. I was young, I was sure of myself, I was enthusiastic; in short, I was an obnoxious, overbearing know-it-all who immediately alienated virtually everyone I came in contact with. I never asked for help or advice, secure in my conceit that I was perfectly equipped to handle any situation. I was completely blind to the disapproving looks, headshakes and sighs of resignation from my more experienced colleagues.

Well, I got my comeuppance that spring at the hands of a veteran science teacher who will be referred to here as Walt.

I have heard it said of northern Maine that there are really only two seasons: Eleven months of winter and one month of bad snowmobiling. This is not entirely true. While spring is brief, there are a few special days right after ice out and right before the black fly population reaches fatal proportions, that are soft, warm and redolent with a fragrance of lilacs that even manages to beat back the paper mill regurgitations, if only for a few hours a day. This was one of those days.

I was sitting in the faculty room with seven or eight colleagues. Some were eating lunch while correcting papers, some reading a newspaper or magazine, a couple just waiting patiently for retirement, when Walt said to no one in particular: "The weather's supposed to be nice this weekend. Think Iʼll head out on the Penobscot and do a little fiddle heading."

Now I grew up in Cape Elizabeth. I attended Cape schools through the eighth grade and then went to Cheverus High School. I was a Southern Maine preppie with no experience in the world of camping, fishing or hunting. I was not familiar with this verb "fiddle heading."

Always eager for knowledge I asked, "Whatʼs fiddle heading?"

"Itʼs what you do when you go after fiddleheads," he replied.

"OK, What are fiddleheads?"

And without any discernible hesitation, he looked me square in the eye and said, "Fish."

Well that made sense. Going out on the Penobscot River to catch fiddleheads. It made all the sense in the world.

"Wanna come?" he continued. "If youʼre not doing anything on Saturday why donʼt you come with me. Weʼll catch us a mess of ʻem and have a feed."

I quickly explained that I had no previous experience with freshwater fishing and consequently, had no equipment.

"Oh that doesnʼt matter," he smiled. "You can pick up what you need downtown. Wonʼt cost much."

"All right" I said. "Is there a particular type of rod I need?"

"Oh no, no, no. You canʼt catch fiddleheads with a rod. Not allowed. Weʼll use fiddlehead traps."

"Traps? Really!"

"Yup. They come numbered. Odd numbers are for the smaller fiddleheads in the shallows. Even numbers for the big lunkers down deep."

"I see," I said, starting to warm to the idea. "What kind of fiddleheads are we going after?"

"Well, there's no sense wasting time on the little ones, unless you need some bait. Weʼll be chasing down the lunkers."

"Sounds good," I agreed. "Speaking of bait, what will we be using? Worms?"

He shook his head, "Oh my no, we canʼt use worms or any other live bait."

"Lures then. What types should I buy?"

"Nope, canʼt use lures either. Or flies."

"Well then, what do we use to lure the, uh, lunkers, into the traps?"

"Ham"

"Ham?"

"Yup. Virginia baked is best though Iʼve had some luck with Danish."

"We bait the traps with ham?"

"Well, thatʼs the trick you see," he explained patiently. "You buy it about a quarter of an inch think. Lay it down flat, take your fillet knife and cut out two-inch long, minnow- shaped pieces. We'll use fishing line to hang each piece from the top of our traps. The traps are sort of box-shaped, wire affairs. The fiddleheads swim in after the ham minnows, but they can't swim back out.”

I was completely enthralled by this extraordinary fishing technique, and so my mind didnʼt register the assorted suspicious coughs, sneezes and snorts emanating from behind my colleagues' hands, magazines and newspapers.

Walt continued.

"Now what you want to do is head down to that sporting goods store on Main Street right after school. Tell them you want five fiddlehead traps, even numbers, 2 through 10. Oh, and you should get your ham today too and cut out your minnows tonight. Put them in the freezer. Frozen ham works best. It thaws out in the water and looks like the minnows are just waking up from their nap. Drives the fiddleheads crazy."

"Minnows take naps?" I was beginning to realize that there was a world of fascinating knowledge of which I had been completely ignorant.

Just then the bell rang. Assuring Walt that I would be fully equipped to snare the wily fiddlehead on Saturday, I left and headed back to my classroom, only dimly noting the raucous laughter behind the closed teacher's room door.

After school I stopped at the local IGA and purchased a pound of Virginia baked ham, sliced a quarter of an inch thick. Then I stopped in at the local sporting goods store. This was a northern Maine sporting goods store. No basketballs or baseball gloves. This was a store for hunters and fishermen. Rods, reels, rifles, shotguns, handguns, ammunition and lures and flies of every make and description filled the small store along with the heady aroma of pipe and cigar smoke.

Two elderly gentlemen were playing a game of checkers beneath the shadow of a huge stuffed black bear. Soaring majestically above the bearʼs head was a stuffed owl, apparently ready to drop and snag the stuffed squirrel attached to a plastic tree limb. Deer and moose heads too numerous to count were mounted on every available inch of wall space. My testosterone level rose 40 percent the moment I stepped through the door.

I browsed for a few moments wondering to myself if the two men playing checkers might not be stuffed, as well. Neither had moved since I walked in. Finally, I approached a friendly looking man whom I assumed to be the owner.

"Excuse me."
Iʼd like some fiddlehead traps please," I said trying to sound like I made this sort of purchase regularly. Suddenly the checker players were moving.

"Fiddlehead traps?" he said, eyebrows arching slightly.

"Thatʼs right. Iʼll need five. Even numbers, two through 10."

"You want even numbers, do ya?"

"Yes sir. A friend of mine says the big ones are really biting in the Penobscot right now."

I glanced at the checker players. One had a worried look on his face and seemed to be calculating the distance between his seat and the nearest exit. His partner had curled his hand around a piece of firewood next to the woodstove. In retrospect I suppose he was wondering if it might become necessary to defend himself.

"The big fiddleheads? Theyʼre biting?"

"Right, so if I could get those traps? You see, I left the bait ham in my car and itʼs warm out today."

"The bait ham? Itʼs in your car?"

I heard the scrape of chairs as the checker players got to their feet.

"Right, so can I get the traps?"

The old gentleman seemed to have reached a decision. With an unsteady smile he said, "Sorry son, Iʼm fresh out of fiddlehead traps."

"Oh, that disappointing. Do you know anyplace else that sells them?"

"I'm afraid not. You might try up Millinocket way or maybe even Bangor. They sell everything down there. Sorry."

"Thatʼs OK. Thanks, anyway."

I left disappointed but resolved. Iʼd go home, cut out my minnows and make the trip with Walt on Saturday, anyway. I figured I could watch and learn and buy some traps at a later date. I spent the evening carefully carving two-inch long minnows out of the ham, wrapped them in foil and put them in my freezer.

The next day in the teacher's room every eye and ear was riveted on me as I related my failed attempt to secure the proper equipment for the capture of the elusive fiddlehead.

"I do have the bait though. Itʼs home in my freezer."

Finally, my colleagues could stand it no longer. I sat there in confusion amid the hooting, laughing and backslapping. It dawned on me that I had been had. After a few minutes, when the noise had died down, tears wiped away, noses blown and seats regained, Joe filled me in on the joke.

"Now donʼt be angry," he began. “I figure this is a good lesson for you. You seem a bit full of yourself and it doesnʼt hurt anybody to be taken down a peg. Why donʼt you meet me at the public boat launch at 7 Saturday morning. I'll take you fiddle heading. You can bring the ham sandwiches.”

I met him at the boat launch as planned. We headed out onto the river and Walt told me everything I could ever want to know about fiddle heading. He explained that we would be harvesting them from the shores of several small islands that dotted the river. At one point he stopped the boat and looked at me seriously.

"There is one thing I should have told you before we left," he said. "These islands are part of the Penobscot Indian lands. Weʼre not, technically, supposed to be fiddle heading here. The tribe has game wardens out and about on the river. It would be bad news for us to get caught."

"So what are we going to do?" I asked.

"Oh, we should be alright if weʼre careful. Iʼll tell you what you should do. Stand up in the bow and keep a sharp eye out for the Indian wardens' boats."

He turned the boat eastward into the sun.

I stood up and put my right foot on the gunnel of the boat near the bow with my knee raised, looking like Washington crossing the Delaware. The sun was bright and I wasnʼt wearing a hat so I shaded my eyes with my right hand. I heard Walt laughing quietly behind me.

"Whatʼs funny?" I asked.

"Itʼs not often in this day and age that you see a man on the lookout for hostile Indians," he said with a grin.

He had gotten me again! This was a guy I was going to have to keep an eye on.

I looked over at my son. He looked back defiantly, as if daring me to try to teach him something. I hope he meets a guy like Walt someday.

David Mason lives and works in Portland.