The Great North Woods
Certain words and phrases conjure up unique, powerful emotions in my soul. Descriptors like “Blue Lines,” “wilderness,” “public lands,” “The American West” and “The Great North Woods” seem to awaken something in me more than the intrinsic properties of the words would naturally imply. That urge, that pull we feel, was most properly put to writing by John Muir when describing that “…the mountains are calling and I must go.”
My first experiences in Maine were some of the most demanding, difficult and fun times of my life. My brother and I flew up to Maine in late July 2018 with the intent to conquer the entirety of the Appalachian Trail in one fell swoop. Little did we “flat footers” know just how long or arduous our journey would be. I won’t delve too deeply into our thru-hike of the AT here and now but know that we persevered through all our trials and eventually strode proudly into the north Georgia mountains as bona fide mountain men. My return to Maine this late summer was under different circumstances. This time I came to experience the bounties of the cold, tannic waters of Maine, not as an aside, but as my primary concern. My family and I stayed with Tim Harrison at his remote camps near Caratunk. Tim’s lodge and camp are located just a few hundred feet off of the AT and all hikers know of Tim’s fantastic cooking and never-ending hospitality. I met Tim on my thru hike and told him emphatically that I would return, finally, I had!
Over the course of five days, my family and I hiked multiple locations along Maine’s Appalachian Trail. We summitted Little Bigelow, traversed the hills North of Caratunk and finally walked the foothills of Baxter State Park to take in Mount Katahdin in all her glory. At various points we saw cow moose, bald eagles, loons and even a Canada lynx! Even though Maine has known the presence of ‘civilization’ for hundreds of years, the woods of that great state still hold much of their ancient majesty. Even here though, native wildlife lives alongside introduced, exotic species. Endemic Brook trout now co-exist with introduced Landlocked Salmon, Smallmouth bass and a host of other organisms that are alien to the region. Even where it isn’t so readily apparent, humans have impacted our surroundings in countless ways. Still, the rain falls, the trees grow and the fish swim on.
We fished Pierce Pond and her outlet, the Kennebec river gorge, Nesowadnehunk stream, and many creeks and bogs besides. In just the five days we were there, we experienced small stream wet wading, a guided float trip down a major tailwater and motorized trolling out on the Pond. We caught wild, native Brook trout in the waters they had best adapted to since the previous ice age. Not merely the five and six inch beauties of the southern Appalachians either, but aggressive and piscivorous predators looking for large meals. Our best Brookie measured out at just under 17 inches and she had the girth and shoulders to reinforce her presence as one of the great trophies of the Kennebec river. This wasn’t the tight bow and arrow casting from back home either. Instead, we were either throwing sinking lines to fish in deep, stained waters or drifting high riding grasshopper and ant patterns over cobbled tailouts. We floated with Mike Pilsbury from Kennebec River Anglers and Mike made sure we connected with some great fish. My dad and I both caught the largest wild Brook trout we had ever seen and we played with some acrobatic Landlocked Salmon in between the catches of trophy charr. These leaping silver torpedoes, the wild Landlocked Salmon, were a novelty to us Southerners and a fun change of pace from the other salmonids we are so much more familiar with. We were in Maine for what were likely the last few days of terrestrial fishing before the frosts began and so we tried to take every advantage of it. Fishing terrestrials or ‘hoppers’ as they’re called, is visual and highly exciting. We would fish great buoyant foam dry flies over likely runs and we would eagerly watch as the fish darted out into the open in hopes of snatching a calorie-rich meal from the surface. That’s almost exclusively how we fished the small streams in the area that week. We waded in shallow water, slowly creeping up on deeper pools and always looking for signs of actively feeding fish. I would typically fish a larger pattern like a Chubby Chernobyl to a small and more subtle dropper fly like a Quick Sight Ant. Fishing these flies in tandem seems to gain the decisive interest of aggressive fish while also giving the angler a chance at the more finnicky fish that is perhaps looking for a smaller meal. I usually fish the smaller pattern on about a two foot dropper tied off the hook bend of the larger “attractor” fly. When fishing these small streams, I don’t take too much time to pick apart water. I come to a spot, approaching as stealthily as possible, and plan to make about a half dozen drifts. If I haven’t aroused interest from the fish, I’ll either change flies or move to a new location. This is symptomatic of an over-eager personality but it pushes me to see more of a new body of water and it serves me well in scouting missions. After all, with the right conditions we would probably all rather catch fish on surface patterns than dredging nymphs anyways!
Exploring new water and revisiting streams from my past are two of my favorite things to do. I’m always looking for my next adventure, my next catch, my next challenge. Maine represents all of that for me as the time I’ve spent there was some of the most interesting of my entire life. I believe I’m paraphrasing the great fly fishing author John Gierach who said something like “rivers and streams don’t tell the same stories but they do all speak the same language.” Wherever you go, whatever you’re fishing for; listen to the sounds of the water and they will be familiar to you. Heed the call of the wild. Wade in the water and allow your mind to be swept up in it
