Forget Fly Fishing; The Underground Goes for Weight

Vacationing fly fishermen often agonize over concepts like the balance of big fish to numbers of fish, or time spent on the water versus time spent with the family.

Frankly, I’ve moved far beyond those pedestrian concerns, and over the last two days, I’ve wholly abandoned any pretense about fishing, focusing instead on what has clearly become this trip’s goal: Weight Gain.

Will Raspberry Pie doom fly fishing as we know it?

On past trips, my most common refrain was “just one more cast.” Now it’s more likely to be “just one more piece,” and I’m not letting anyone badger me into leaving the table early, if you get my drift.

Yesterday, the L&T Nancy, myself, and local hotshot guide Chris Wheaton found ourselves out on Big Lake, a parade of 11″-17″ smallmouth doing their best to jerk the fishing rods out of our already snack-slickened hands.

The L&T Nancy with a big smallmouth bass. (Officially, I’m not jealous)

As one battling bronzeback after another fell to our flashing rods, I felt the first pangs of hunger, and found myself suggesting we “give the fish a break” and putter over to a nearby shore to being the day’s shore lunch.

“For chrissakes, it’s only 8:30″ the L&T Nancy snapped. (Empathy might not be her strong suit.)

In my defense, I’d like to point out that I’m largely powerless over food, and that this vacation has found me subjected to an endless stream of temptation, the goodies arriving as if on a conveyor from the Tempting Foods LLC factory, which terminates somewhere on the top shelf of the camp refrigerator.

My first few days weren’t too bad, but the slide began in earnest at last Friday’s Lobster Feed, where several crustaceans fell to my fast-moving lobster fork.

It acquired more momentum at the next day’s guide shore lunch, where the guides unmercifully plied me with boiled onions (drizzled in butter), fire-roasted potatoes (soaked in butter), steak (butter was pretty much everywhere at this point), bread, beer, and yes — homemade pie (two of ‘em).

The next few days were a blur of rich food, home-baked molasses bread and frequent snacks from what might be a 55-gallon drum of salted peanuts.

Yesterday’s Big Lake shore lunch was particularly brutal; appetizers were minutes-from-the-water smallmouth fillets (masa flour & salt, fried quickly, and lightly drizzled with lemon juice), followed by all the usual suspects (yes, steak), and topped with… more pie. Lots of pie.

The beginnings of a Maine Shore Lunch. Fishing no longer matters…

The punishment continues today with birthday cake (not mine), the Friday evening Grand Lake Guide’s Association barbecue (chicken), the Saturday lobster feed (by the same group), and the constant stream of temptation in between.

I’m starting to have some serious doubts about Sunday’s departure, fearing that I’ll no longer fit through the door of the small jet that flies us from Bangor to Boston.

Still, even as my weight ballons and my subcutaneous fat layer takes on Wally the Wonderdog-esque proportions, I hold out hope for my eventual deliverance.

Right now, I’m safe; the wind is blowing hard and the lake is whitecapping, which reminds me — didn’t we have some butter-cream frosted cupcakes in the kitchen?

Nancy saw an eagle in flight. I saw fried drumsticks. (L&T Nancy photo)

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, food, shore lunch, maine[/tags]