It’s been all rain and gray and wind during my fishing trip to the Underground’s New England World Headquarters, and while it would be easy to whine about it, in truth, I find it a good fit with my mood, which has taken a decidedly Bergman-esque swing.
So I’m leading with a happy picture:
In fact, I caught myself converting all the green-saturated photographs slated for this report into dark, moody black & white images, an impulse I fought (though you’ll find a couple of those stuck in the end of the report).
Two nights ago a powerful electrical storm rolled in, and as it crashed and banged and woke us up and reminded us we’re tiny wind-up toys compared to the weather, a bolt hit very close by.
Everyone who’s experienced it knows the spike of adrenaline that energizes your system when the flash and the bang occur simultaneously, and it was then that I focused on the idea that my tiny cabin was built atop a somewhat lonely, exposed hill.
In addition to forcing myself and the L&T to confront our aversion to electrocution, the lightning knocked out the phone system in the town of Grand Lake Stream for a full day.
For some, that was a problem, but all the fly fishing bloggers in the group (me) found ourselves without a publishing schedule, and yesterday was the Big Day Out With Guides, so I went with a free conscience.
Grand Lake Stream Guides preparing to pummel us with lunch.
In the past, I’d forced my somewhat narrow fishing perspective on the area, flinging flies when something else would have worked better.
I always caught fish, and the guides were invariably polite, even when they knew where the fish were far better than the crazy Californian with the fly rod.
A West Grand Lake smallmouth that ate a plastic bait.
Grand Lake Stream has been a New England sporting mecca for a long, long time, and the local guides are acutely aware of the accumulated knowledge we sports sometimes confuse with mindless tradition.
So this time, I said the hell with it and went with the flow, agreeing to hold a trolling rod (rigged with a flashy spoon and leadcore line) while we slowly circled an underwater plateau in Chris Wheaton’s comfortable Grand Lake Canoe.
The first fish was a Lake Trout; reviled out west for its tendency to damage native fisheries, but a regular (and delicious) part of life back here.
Then the L&T caught a very, very nice smallmouth bass, and before we headed in for the traditional shore lunch, I landed two landlocked Atlantic Salmon.
These are the same fish I used to fly fish for in Grand Lake Stream, and they exhibit the same tendencies to look pretty and jump high when hooked.
Because the whole fishery is largely hatchery supported, the salmon were bopped on the head and placed in the fish box for the big guide lunch.
That’s where the guides ignite a big fire and fiendishly conspire to feed you more grilled steak, grilled Atlantic Salmon, boiled onions, grilled potatoes, camp coffee, ice cream and fire-heated pie than any grown person could eat.
I won’t lie and say I practiced anything approaching restraint, though I will say I still don’t feel any guilt around it, reasoning (between raspberry pie-flavored burps) that I’d need all my energy for today’s Second Annual Intra-Lake Wiffleball Game.
This is where a group of lying, cheating ringers from the Farm Cove end of West Grand Lake (including a couple teenagers with legitimate Olympic-level credentials) plan to slaughter us more thoughtful, artful types from the South End of the lake in a clearly rigged game of wiffleball.
Of course, tagged onto the end of the meaningless-if-we-lose contest is the Annual “Eat Lobster Until You Grow Claws” dinner, after which I’ll likely be too fat to reach the keyboard.
Still, I’m a courageous sort, so you’ll see more from me soon, assuming the phone lines (home to the slowest dialup service I’ve ever experienced) stay connected.
In truth, there’s more to report (and I’ll get to it), but before the wiffleball game, I’ve got to lay my hands on some steroids (it worked for Barry Bonds).
See you on the juice, Tom Chandler.
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