Fishing for Brookies

Unedited and unpublished but plan to work on it.

by Michael Lee

He leapt out from behind a tree along the trail like cat pouncing on his prey. “Warden Walter Wishoneke” read the name badge on his soaking wet uniform. We were his prey - three very tired and very wet fishermen about a mile into the long three mile hike back to the road after our day of fishing in an isolated pristine pond in the North Woods of Maine.

“OK boys,” said Game Warden Wally, “open your creels and get out your fishing licenses!” The surprise on our faces surely showed and he grinned and added, “Kind of wet day to be fishing isn’t it?”

It surely was. It had started raining on our hike in early in the morning. I had been looking forward to this day. In my three years of fishing in this part of Maine the native brook trout had eluded me. I wasn’t a fly fisherman which limited the number of places I could legally fish for ‘brookies’. I had met Sam and Jeff some time back on a chat forum about fishing in Maine. They both used to live in a small town some 30 miles north of my place in Maine and were returning for a weekend of fishing. They planned to hike in to this remote pond that they used to successfully fish as kids and teenagers growing up in this wild and beautiful part of the state. Although the weather had somewhat dampened my spirits after we met at the gas station in their town, I was reinspired by Sam’s assurance that “This is great weather for catching brookies.”

By the time we got to the pond we were all very well soaked. Although we wore rain gear the rain was so heavy at times the water found its way in. Our boots were no match for the puddles and small streams we trudged through. With the rain came strong gusty winds and even with the temperature around seventy, our wet bodies braced for the chill of each gust. We made it to the pond, assembled our poles, baited our hooks and began to fish. I had a strike almost immediately and hauled in the first fish for the day – a six inch brookie. I was about to throw it back when Jeff reminded me that it was at the legal limit to keep and the small one’s tasted great. Into my creel he went but I hoped to land some bigger ones. We moved spots a few times over the next hour to try to find the bigger ones. Finally we hit the right spots – places along the lake shore where small streams fed by the morning rains were flowing in. With the flow of water came tasty grubs and insects that the brookies came looking for. Our worms must have been additionally attractive as we began to catch some beautiful eight to ten inch trout. We spread out a little so as not to cramp each other and so didn’t really know what each was catching other than we were all fully engaged in baiting worms, removing trout from hooks, and becoming oblivious to the persistent rain and chill winds blowing across the water. The hours passed and being more selective now, I released many smaller fish, keeping only those that came in at ten inches or more.

My mind wandered to the descriptions I had read of these beautiful fish we were catching. This particular variety of trout is a true native – not a stocked variety. This was its natural habitat and thanks to careful management and the remote location it has survived and even thrived to the extent that fishing with worms is permitted here. Most other ponds in the area allow fly fishing only. I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the strenuous hike but we were the only ones here on this day. By early afternoon we gathered and decided we had enough fish, each with our bag limit of five. Sam remarked however that even if we had cheated and taken a few more who would be out here on a day like this to check on us? He imagined the game wardens would all be snug in their cabin playing cards on a day like this. As Sam and Jeff ate the last of their lunch before the hike out, I allowed myself one final cast. I immediately felt a strong strike and carefully played the fish to shore. It was a lunker and looked to be bigger than any I had caught so far. My mind kicked in as I thought to myself, “I’m going to keep this one. Who cares if I have six fish in my creel instead of the five limit. Besides the first one I caught was barely legal size”. I was fishing this time from a rock a few feet above the pond. I brought my prize fish to the surface and decided that rather than try to lean over the rock and risk a plunge into the lake, I would hoist the fish up on to the rock. As I lifted it, I was once again in awe of its beauty and size. “He’ll have to go on the grill,” I muttered to myself. “Too big for the frying pan”. Just then the fish gave a flip of his tail and released himself from the hook with a splash and disappeared from sight.

Now standing in front of Warden Wally with my open creel, I thought again about that fish. “Thank you, fish” I thought. “If I had landed you, I would be in big trouble right now.” Wally checked our creels and licenses one by one. He looked a little skeptically at my first fish and I thought he would probably bring out his measure to check him, but he didn’t. We all seemed to pass muster, each with the bag limit of five and current Maine fishing licenses. He decided to hike the last two miles out with us and became quite jovial about the miserable day and lack of fishermen for him to check. Even when we reached our truck he hung out for a bit to chat some more. Eventually he departed and we began to change into some dry clothes we had left in the truck.

Sam also took off his wet boots and pulled down his socks. Our eyes popped as four more brookies, two from each sock, fell to the ground. “Damn,” I laughed, “Seems I have a lot more to learn from you local guys about fishing for brookies.”

Going Greek

Every year, usually in the early part of spring, I get this urge to “go Greek”. My Greek Day is often inspired by a combination of the color and the weather sometimes experienced in our New England Spring – a clear blue sky, the feeling of warmth when standing in sun, an increasing intensity of light, and the calmness that comes with little or no wind, and a fresh and shiny look to just about everything outdoors. This combination of conditions tends to take me back to the time I lived for the best part of a year on the Greek island of Lesvos.

“I need a time out!” I remember saying to my friends. “I need to get away where I can do nothing for a while.” Work and family life had been intense for a few years and I was also going through that mid-life questioning as to what really mattered in life. Through some connections I discovered the village of Molivos. With the help of my connection's friend who lived there I rented a house for six months for not a whole lot of drachma, bought tickets, took a crash course in Greek at the local community college, and then headed for the land of Helen and Hercules.

While that was then and this is now and I no longer have the urge to drop it all and head for the Greek islands, I do seem to get that pang of nostalgia every spring and it must be fed. This year I was ready for it. Before the urge hit I noticed a set of outdoor furniture on sale at the local hardware store. It was perfect. A blue sun umbrella with table and four chairs with blue and white stripes. A perfect likeness to the Greek flag. Just what I needed to prepare for my poolside Greek experience and I already had the grill.

Outdoor cooking over a charcoal grill was how most of the tavernas I had frequented in Greece did it. My favorite was surrounded by ocean on three sides.  The relaxed atmosphere, the great food, the stunning light, and the good wine did it. Who could worry about anything much while lazing under an umbrella by the ocean and enjoying a four hour lunch?

Taverna by the Sea

This photo of George's Fish Taverna is courtesy of TripAdvisor

It was early June this year when it happened. I was home for the day with no major commitments. The pool was open and I needed a day off.  Some cold beer, a chilled bottle of retsina, some octopus for the grill, and the ingredients for a real Greek salad, and all was set.

The grill was fired, some twangy bouzouki music blasted from the stereo, and the cooler was reachable beside the blue and white chairs where I sat, wearing only a swimsuit and sunglasses to soak up the sun and to eat and drink to all that was good in life.  I moved slowly as I grilled the octopus and prepared the salad.  Time did not matter today, and grilled octopus takes about 45 minutes to make it tender anyway, but who cares?

Grilled Octpus

Not Greece but Pretending

In Greece I was often surprised how quickly a day of doing nothing could pass so quickly. On many days my walk to the beach,  a bare half mile from my house,  could take up to two or three hours. Mostly it was stopping for coffee with neighbors. “Iassou, Mikalis! Ti pinis? Kafé?” I had become a regular at two or three houses along the way to the beach and felt great about accepting the hospitality offered, despite an awareness of a growing addiction for the thick sweet dark liquid that was brewed in the little pots on the stove and known as coffee.  It bore no resemblance to anything I had previously called by that name. The only problem was that by the time I got to the beach I was buzzing,  and any chance of dozing in the sun was long gone. My “going Greek” day at home was different. No ‘kafe’.

The memories soon begin to float to awareness as I lazed in the sun beside the pool.  It had been a strange time – probably one of a few times in my life when I had surrendered to hedonism beyond balance. Days were full of nothing but eating, drinking, and loving. I could feel "Zorba the Greek" springing to life from within and nothing seemed to matter. The music drew me back to wild rides over mountainous roads to raucous celebrations in neighboring villages and nights of ouzo and the smoke filled haze in the tavernas. My understanding of Greek had grown to the point that I could hold conversations long into the night with my new Greek and European friends. The end agreement of such conversations were usually always the same - nothing really mattered. Live for the moment!  Do it now! My time in Greece had given me a look at freedom, nihilism, and existentialism,  although I really didn't know it all at the time.  It also gave me consequences - a volatile and disintegrating relationship, questions about my integrity, and a lot of work to do to find balance in my life again.

Today, I look back and ask.  "What did this particular chapter in my life teach me?"

I know full well that Zorba is a part of me, and he is alive and well.  I also know that he needs exercise from time to time, and that he needs to do it within context.  The context of my life today, my priorities, the people I love, the things I value and all of the commitments I want to keep.  It was great to find him then and give him room to express, however awkwardly -  a great teacher. And today he gives me yet another lesson.

Can I expect my children to learn from my journey?  Probably not.  Yet I can relax in knowing that who I am today is a product of who I was then, but not the same.  My children learn from both - me then and me now.  They take a little piece of my Zorba.  And I think they know how to handle him more like I do today - room to play but not overpower.  But they still have their own lessons to learn in life which are not the same as mine, and they will undoubtedly set up their life to learn them, just as I did.  "Iassou, Zorba!"