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As a Maine Guide, and a native Mainer, I learned long ago that you don’t just give away good fishing spots. I also know there are about a billion Mud Ponds in the state of Maine. So when someone asks me where the fish are biting I always say they’re biting at “Mud Pond.”

This is a story about a remote hike, paddle, portage, fishing, and bushwhacking trip that was nothing short of miserable, and also glorious.

My son Tyler is the real writer. He has an adventure blog at: www.livindeliberately.com I’m sure he got his writing talent from his mother, it’s a lot better than mine. He’s a grown man with a real job in Vermont. Like me he’d rather wander the ridges and mountain tops than be inside.  Also like me he has responsibilities and has made commitments that he must honor.

He came home for the Memorial Day Weekend. I sensed that he was a little worn out from the grind that is life and I knew I was. I hatched the idea that we’d have an epic adventure to a remote trout pond far from the reaches of man. I didn’t account for the blackflies and mosquitos… My bad.

 

It started off with a two and a half mile hike to the stashed canoe on “Mud Lake.” She was right where we left her this winter. Nobody was going to take her, she was well guarded by at least 10 million black flies. After I inhaled my yearly intake of fly based protein we were in the water paddling like we could hear banjos in an effort to leave the cloud of insects behind us. We succeeded with the help of a strong headwind. Normally when one paddles a headwind is a curse. Not today! It was a blessing, the mosquito Air Force returned to their home base. I think they were able to radio ahead though.

After a mile paddle we hit the pull out point. The portage was about a 1/2 a mile up hill. “Portage” for those that don’t know, is a fancy word for carrying your canoe upside down on your shoulders while you nearly suffocate yourself with your head inside. Suffocation would have been a welcome relief from the massive amounts of blackflies that poured into the upturned canoe. The buzzing inside the canoe was only matched by the loud thuds amplified by the metal canoe when the trail turned to avoid a tree but we kept going straight to impact said tree. Every once in a while we would set the canoe down, drink some water with black flies mixed in, and make inaccurate guesses as to how far away “Mud Pond” was.

 

We finally made it.  Being at a higher elevation we got an intermittent breeze. When it blew we were given a break from the flies. We got geared up to fish, ate our ham sandwiches almost free of flies, and slipped the canoe into the remote “Mud Pond.” I sure hoped it would be filled with native, never been touched by man, brook trout.

 

 

It was about noon, and I was tossing a sinking golden stone, my son was throwing a floating Royal Coachman. On his first cast, and on almost every other cast, he caught a fish.  I quickly dug out my dry fly box in search of a Royal Coachman, I didn’t have any. I tied on an Adams, it turned out the fish liked those too! If I had to guess we caught over 100 brookies in an hour and a half.  If we left a fly dangling in the water at the side of the canoe while we measured a fish, or just took a break, a brookie would come up and take it. It was nothing short of amazing. All the fish were in that frying pan perfect 8-10 inch range. I know there were bigger fish to be had we just couldn’t get to them.  I couldn’t tell you if there were any blackflies around. I was too busy to notice.

 

 

I made the decision to leave the canoe there and hike back to the truck over the ridge. We stashed the canoe on the eastern shore of “Mud Pond,” headed out with our limit, and our blackfly friends providing us an escort. I had hunted the area before and thought I could hit an old logging road that would make walking easier. I did, but it took me awhile to find it. Fun fact; bugs can’t bite if you are scraping your skin off with brush for a mile. At one point Tyler broke out in hysterical laughter. He said, “this is the most fun I’ve had being miserable in a while.” I had to agree. I finally hit the tote road and we cruised the last mile and a half to the truck. The blackflies came too.

We made it back to camp for Happy Hour. After cleaning the fish we bored his mother with stories of the  miserable fun we had. We left the next day.  Tyler went back to Vermont, I went back to work. I texted him from my office, I’m sure he was in his. I said, “man I wish I was fishing that pond again.” He said, “that was seriously awesome.” Neither one of us mentioned the blackflies. Trips like that, doing something completely outside of what most will do for a few minutes of living in the moment are worth the effort. The outcome is more than a sack full of clean fish, it’s also a clean soul… and some bug bites.

I just spent two very long fulfilling days teaching a free Registered Maine Guide Course to 26 Maine Veterans in support of House in the Woods with support from the Cole Land Transportation Museum. I spent a lot of time designing a course that could support such a large group, and give them the skills they would need to go down to Augusta and pass the test with the state of Maine. There were a lot of late nights of preparation, and as the first day approached there was a lot of self doubt. Those of you that know me may be raising an eyebrow at that, yes I wasn’t sure I could do it. You can’t fool these guys and gals, you have to be authentic or they’ll see right through you.

 

The course went fine, learning occurred, and I am 100 percent confident that they all, if they choose to take the exam, will pass. But that’s not really what’s important. At the very beginning we went around the room and everyone introduced themselves to the group. As the introductions went on I could feel a giant release of tension in the room, collectively we all realized we were around our people. We were in a place where it was ok to have a little morbid humor, to poke fun at each other, and to crack a jokes that would make a normal person cringe. Jokes like, “what is a dutch oven?” “hint, it’s not when you fart in bed and pull the covers over your spouses head.”

As we went along I had a conversation with a few guys that were in Fallujah at the same time I was. I haven’t talked about Fallujah in a long time. I’ve haven’t been in Fallujah for 10 years. I’ve thought about it plenty, Fallujah never leaves you. Surprisingly it was nice to talk to someone who got it, who remembered the streets, the smells, and the lack of all things decent except each other.

 

During the second morning several students individually came up to me and said they were really enjoying the course, it’s something they wanted to do for a long time, and that they appreciated what I was doing for them. That was a great feeling. To have someone truly, and honestly thank you for helping them. I don’t know if they had any idea that what we were collectively doing was helping each other.

 

I closed the course by challenging the room to pay it forward. They’ve been given an opportunity to use the skills learned to help another veteran, or a veteran organization. They have an obligation to do that, we are our own greatest strength as veterans. I finished by saying, “we are responsible for us.” I truly believe that. I’m very happy with the end result, and it has nothing to do with the curriculum.  I hope they all go on to earn the Maine Guide Patch that I proudly wear, and they realize how lucky this country is to have people like them. -Semper Fi

I’ve recently  heard about people very close to my age who  for one reason or another,  died. Yup, one minute they’re there, and the next they’re gone. No warning, no long drawn out illness, no last words, just dead and gone.

That got me thinking about all the things those folks wanted to do but put off. What a shame that they never got to do whatever it was they were hoping to do, something they really enjoyed.I guess we all have a certain amount of sand in our egg timer, we just don’t know how much we have. I’ve decided to not wait to do the things I enjoy. That’s partially why I guide, why I try to live a life outdoors, and also why I write. I enjoy those things. I don’t want to feel the grim reaper tap on my shoulder and think, “crap! Give me a few months, I really want to….”

 

I don’t have much left from my childhood, I’m sure most agree that when you’re 44 years old there really isn’t a viable reason to be wearing your high school letterman’s jacket. Those little league trophies were cool… When I was 12. And I seem to be getting along just fine without my Van Halen 1984 album. One of the few things I do have is my canoe.

I can remember when my dad brought it home. It was orange then, and was missing a seat. Dad probably got it for $50 bucks, or took it in trade for something.  He put a seat in it, and it became my means of transportation. The brand was Monarch. Most of the paint was scratched off, but she was water tight, paddled well, and fit me just fine. I was probably 12 when I would take off onto the little lake we lived on to catch bass. I would dream I was in the Bassmaster Classic competing against Jimmy Houston and Roland Martin. I’d read about them in the magazine stacks at the school library, I thought I could win Bassmaster in that little canoe. Many a bass caught on Mirror Lake put me over the top by a few ounces for the Mirror Lake Bassmaster title.

I had a couple of good boyhood friends, Kris Otis, and Jason Labriola. Kris went to school with me, and we’d spend most of our summer together shooting hoops, playing baseball, and trying to be cool. Jason lived in Massachusetts… he was cool. Ask him and he’d tell you.  His parents had a camp on the other side of the lake. Jay would arrive sometime in June with stories of the big town of Wakefield, Massachusetts. All three of us would pile in the canoe, paddle out, and tip it over. We’d roll each other around and around. Kris earned the nickname “airtank” because he could stay under forever. When we’d get bored trying to drown ourselves we’d duck under the capsized canoe and poke our heads up in the air pocket underneath. Under there, safe from the ears of adults, we’d lie about all the girls we kissed, and how much beer we stole from our dads.  We all knew the other person was lying, but the stories were good. I don’t really talk to those guys anymore. There’s really no reason why, we just grew apart. If I ran into one of them today I bet we’d talk about those days on the lake and how things turned out a lot different than we planned.

When I got a little older my parents and their friends decided on a camping trip on the Saco River. We’d canoe the rapids, camp, and have a grand time.  Kris had to come with us, I needed a canoe partner, my parents were happy to let me invite him.  Off  Kris and I went  in the orange rocket. the rapids seemed like they would swallow us up. With Kris in the bow and I in the stern we rolled through rapid after rapid in my canoe.  Every other canoe on the trip capsized at least once. My parents capsized with my brother Jason in theirs. When they tried to get Jason back in the canoe the boy let out a string of swear words that would’ve made a drunk sailor blush. Needless to say it’s probably been close to 30 years, and I don’t think Jason has been in a canoe since.

Kris and I were as cocky as barn yard roosters when we reached the last set of rapids. We’d remained dry on our first ever big rapids trip. One more small ripple and we were champions, at least in our own minds. Then I put us on the rocks. Over we went, and the orange canoe quickly folded under the current into a nice u-shape on the rocks. I was devastated. The canoe was stuck, and we couldn’t move her. Kris and I made our way to shore, and I promptly took an ass chewing for leaving the canoe in the river. That’s when Winthrop P. Houghton Jr. saved me. “Wink” as he was called, was a family friend. A free spirit, and a real Mainer. He lived in an old barn that we was forever trying to convert into a home. His bedroom was in the cupola. He had brown lab that would either bite you, or lick you to death, you never knew which. He was able to fix anything, and do some amazing finish work as a carpenter. Wink and my Dad were partners of sorts although I don’t think there was every any formal agreement. They both just seemed to work well together. Wink was a kind man, perhaps the most kind person I ever met. He didn’t want anything other than to be present in his life, and the lives of those he cared about.

 

 

Wink took a rope, waded through the current, and tied it to the canoe. He attached the rope to a tree with a loop, tied a weird loop knot down the rope, ran the tag end of the rope forming a Z.  With a quick tug the canoe was free and we hand lined it up to shore. Wink had used  mechanical advantage to free my canoe. We were all impressed. She was shaped like a U but we stomped on her as best we could to straighten her out. When you sit in her now she still has a nice bend, and even better memories of that day.

Not too long after that I went to boot camp. My canoe was used by anyone that wanted to use it. My brother Billy probably used it most. Every winter she was tucked away under the porch to sleep until ice out. Where she would be capsized, dinged, dented, and fished out of again. I don’t think it ever let anyone down.

At the midway mark of my Marine Corps career I came home for college. I was married with kids and not a ton of money. I wanted to get back into fishing and teach the kids how to fish. I brought the canoe up from Newfield to Orono and promptly painted it green. The Orange Rocket was now the Green Jet. Tyler and Emily took their first canoe rides in that canoe. My good friend Eric and I almost died of dehydration on a day long fishing trip. My buddy Chad and I had a day where we caught over 100 bass on the Penobscot in less than 6 hours.  It was only temporary. I had move again, and the canoe went to rest at my parents new home, off the lake. I don’t think it was used much for the next 10 years.

We’re using her now! She’s been living at camp Ernest Living. My daughter Emily and I took her on her maiden voyage on the West Branch. Emily was in the bow, I was in the stern, Emily was looking for rocks. We hit one, tipped over, lost my beer, and my mind.  We emptied her out, I found my mind, and Emily went on to catch her first fish on a fly. My friend Greg and I carried her down to Hale Pond last year and spent the evening remembering when we were bullet proof. We didn’t catch any fish but that’s not really what that night was about.

My son and I took it duck hunting one morning. I sunk in the mud up to my chest and the only thing that stopped me from going under was the side of the canoe. I thought we would have to call the fire department to pull me out. That’s another story too.

This winter Billy and I did something we’ve talked about doing for a while. We took my canoe to a way back pond.

It’s  about 2 miles from the nearest parking area, on the edge of a small lake. If you paddle across the lake you can portage up to a mountain pond that is filled with native brook tout. We tied it to Billy’s Bearcat snowmobile and I followed on mine. Billy’s son Eli supervised, he’s really good at supervising. We got her in and cribbed up so the water in the spring won’t bother her. I know that when I hike in this spring she will be waiting for me with orange showing through her scratched green paint, her slight curve from the Saco rock, and more memories than one guy should have from an old $50 dollar canoe. My hope is that someday I’ll hike out there with my grandkids, show them the secret path to the stashed canoe, and tell them that she’s all theirs if they promise to remember the man who gave it to them, and the stories he tells them about his adventures.

Just a quick rant. Not too long ago I was in the local big box sporting goods store buying a muzzleloader.  Yes, I needed to buy a muzzleloader because the deer have a vote. The deer where I hunt have elected to not get shot with a modern rifle. I needed to extend my season to see if the smoke pole was their preferred method of  death, but I digress.

As I’m going through the purchase I ask if there is a discount for Registered Maine Guides. The young man selling me the single shot smoke wagon quickly answers no, but then issues a follow up, “you’re a guide, who do you pro-staff for?” Huh, pro-staff? Bro, I buy my hunting clothes at Goodwill.

 

 

We went on to discuss the young man’s belief that you can get more clients by being a pro-staffer. Also, all that free stuff they send you when you’re on, “the staff.”  So I listened for a minute and then I said, “I have nothing against guys and gals that claim to be on the pro-staff for brand X or Y. I’m sure they’re  delightful brands. However, I’m going to use what I want and not pigeon hole myself to a certain brand for some free stuff.” He was cool with it. I asked for a military discount, he said no. As I left I said, you know how you get more clients? by putting them in a position to kill their desired game. You don’t need a staff to do that, and the guide is the pro.

 

 

In short don’t get fooled by all the crap out there. You need a gun, some bullets, some woodscraft, and some will. Everything else is just noise.

One week of blackpowder left and then time to get ready for next year. Some exciting things happening at Jim Neville Outdoors. Stay tuned in January for some big news.