Given that Friday’s post was largely a paean to the big water capabilities of the Grand Laker, I should have predicted what happened Saturday; a clear, bluebird day turned dark and violent in a matter of minutes, and instead of a light breeze, we faced a wicked wind and big swells that grew in size every minute.
Forty-five minutes from the boathouse. Don’t believe what I wrote about the seaworthiness of the Grand Lake Canoe? This is the start of our run home. It got much, much worse. (Brought to you via a waterproof camera set to “Winslow Homer “mode.)
Then it started raining very, very hard. The wind whistled. I saw lightning in the dark clouds that were overrunning us.
Which is when things got bad.
Happy, Sunny Day…
The day started peacefully enough. Bluebird even. We fished mostly poppers until early afternoon, caught some nice, hard-fighting smallmouth, had lunch, and largely enjoyed the warm weather.
Early in the day. Stripping a Sneaky Pete in bluebird weather. I’m only seconds away from the trip’s first (and hopefully last) pickerel. (L&T Nancy photo)
With darker clouds looming to the Northwest, we raced to rocky structure in the hopes of catching big, aggressive smallmouth in the dead calm that precedes a cold front. Fish are often unbelievably aggressive at the edge of a front, and because I’m greedy, I wanted a few of them.
And, true to form, I quickly hooked four smallmouth, including a 12†fish and another slightly smaller fish that chased the popper right to the boat. But – despite the years I’ve spent fishing lakes – I wasn’t prepared for what happened next.
I heard a faint hissing noise that kept growing louder – a thousand “snakes on a plane†heading our way. I looked to the Northwest and saw what I can only describe as a solid line of wind on the water.
On one side of the line, the water was dead calm, and on the other, swells were already building.
The “line†washed over us (I’m guessing 30 miles an hour), and the air went from warm and humid to cold and dry in literally a heartbeat.
It wasn’t an isolated gust of wind; it was the leading edge of the cold front that dropped our overnight temperatures 20+ degrees. I’ve seen fronts move in over the course of half an hour, but never one so clearly defined that I could pinpoint its passage to within a couple seconds.
Without a word, I put away my rod and Nancy fired up the motor. “No problem†I thought, “We might get wet, but we’ll stay on the front edge of the storm.â€
Duh. I thought wrong.
Twenty minutes from the boathouse. It was raining hard and the thunder was loud, which was just as well – that way the L&T Nancy couldn’t hear me whimpering. (The camera lens dramatically flattens the waves. They were tall.)
It’s tempting to describe the long run home in heroic terms, emphasizing our triumph over the deadly, uncaring forces of nature, but the truth is it was a miserable run where a novice boater (which the L&T Nancy isn’t) could have easily gotten into some serious trouble.
The swells were big, the wind was whitecapping the waves which slapped the canoe, the rain made it hard to see, and – late in the run – the nearby lightning strikes rattled our teeth.
Swamping the canoe or motor in that situation can make a miserable situation dangerous, but even as she navigated the maze of islands and shoals on the way home, Nancy eased us through the worst of the waves with only the bare minimum of trouble.
Five minutes from the boathouse. We were chasing the front edge of the storm, but that white area kept shrinking, and we pretty easily lost the race. It’s hard to see, but we’re climbing the back side of a swell that – despite my elevated angle – obscures the land in front of it.
Competence in a situation like that isn’t so much demonstrated by heroic measures as it a measured calmness – an ability to navigate situations that could easily go from bad to much, much worse (but don’t).
We were fortunate that the last run to the boathouse was downwind, because the thunder and lightning started getting uncomfortably close. Figuring home was a close as any other shelter, Nancy opened the throttle and we rode the waves – arrowing the Grand Laker into the narrow boathouse slot perfectly.
Adventure over.
Thirty seconds from the boathouse. I’m filing the whole affair under “Unintended Outdoor Adventures†and never assuming that a Maine cold front moves at the same speed as the California variety.
Today’s weather is very windy and though the swells are smaller than yesterday, it’s still whitecaps out there. Fishing is unlikely, but I’m going to take the chance to rest up and put together some of the spare pictures from the trip so far.
See you in the boathouse, Tom Chandler
Yikes…glad you guys are ok Tom. You’re right…a cool head prevails in those situations (but many times, that’s easier said than done). It is amazing how quickly things can go from – we need to get going pretty soon to oh sh**.
hakujinmike(Quote)
FINALLY- some hot pickerel action!
You say somthin’ about some waves?
Sully(Quote)
Sully, when I finally got that footlong pickerel to the boat, I found myself fervently wishing that you were there to “share” the experience of navigating all those teeth with me.
That little sucker turned my $2.95 Orvis Sneaky Pete popper into a tooth-scarred, featherless, rubber-leg-deprived wood and a hook. And yet – because I’m a friend to all animals – I released him anyway.
@ Mike, it’s a reprise of a centuries-old story; the guys get everyone into trouble, and the women end up getting us out of it… 8-)
Tom Chandler(Quote)
And you thought flying was bad.
Smellslikefish(Quote)
Your pictures and narative have avery familiar ring to them regarding quick weather changes. We inadvertantly encountered several situations this spring and summer when we had woefully miscalculated the quickness of the change. The frequency and unpredictability of such occurrances led me to conclude last year that for me the charming Grand Laker might not always be the fishing boat of choice. (There was a guest at Grand Lake Lodge in July or early August who was “sporting” a 300hp Yamaha outboard which would push his fishing boat up to 80 mph, obstensibly to outrun storms. – I have a lot more affinity for surfing on those big swells in the Grand Laker, like you did – as long as you don’t get too close to the edge of crazy.) For us, the problem arrives at the moment that we realize that we might have made a quite bad decision to be out there.
Peter Cornwell(Quote)
can’t resist……great picture of the L & T Nancy piloting the Grand Laker like a true non-sport with the threatening dark clouds and significant bow wave….as they said about Bert Dow (in famous children’s books)…”a firm hand on the tiller”.
Regarding the pickerel bastards, we have been to a tiny stream between Farm Cove and Big Lake, only reached by kayak, where there are frequent spots where it is absolute tumultuous merriment catching the bastards, with an occasional big (Big Lake type) bass or perch. I got one bass in there that was as big as Brad’s a canoe paddle. It is not exactly the type of refined high brow fly fishing that you might be used to, but for us Farm Cover survivalists, it is a whup-ass good time.
Peter Cornwell(Quote)
I don’t know if I’m really used to “refined, high brow fly fishing” since I’ve fly fished for carp, crappie, bluegill, all kinds of bass, and yes – even suckers – but I tend to draw the line at species that do unhappy things to thumbs and flies alike.
A lot like fishing for alligators. Great sport and a big fight, but it’s unlikely anyone’s going to enjoy the release part…
In any case, someday I’ll be up here long enough to find all the little places (hell, this was my first time up Junior Creek) where the bigger fish hide out.
Tom Chandler(Quote)