Maine Misadventure
 

This post was buried in an older thread. I feel so proud of it I want
it up front.

It's about a recent experience I had in Downeast Maine.

***

I already have an amusing anecdote about fishing (or not fishing) in
the
region. When I was up in November for the home inspection, I had a
Saturday stayover on my frequent-flyer ticket, so I decided to find a
place to fish, preferrably for trout. Now one feature of Maine
fisheries is that most moving water is closed from October until
Spring, so I only had a few places to choose from.


I went and bought a Delorme Atlas, a fishing license, a bright orange
hat (they hunt up there), and some bear spray (just in case). I mapped

out a route from Machias where I was staying (Hello Broadway B &B) to a

promising flowage between routes 1 and 9 in Washington County, North of

Cherryfield, if anyone know where that is. Oh, I need to tell you that

the jokers at Bangor Airport gave me a convertable car to rent when I
left Bangor. The sad thing is that at first I was excited about it-
excited to get a convertable car- in Maine- in November.


So anyway, I took Route 1 (the main route along the coast) about
halfway there, but there was this great meandering path through the
wild blueberry fields, which Delorme said was paved. I had a full tank

of gas, water, beer, and my lunch in the car, and it was 8:00 am, so
onto the meandering path I went.


The road was enjoyable albeit somewhat monotonous. Occasionally I
passed a house or a barn, but mostly it was scrub and blueberry fields,

some with large boulders stranded in the fields from the last glacier
that went through.


Everything was going great until I climbed up a long hill where the
fields dropped off on both sides. I came down the hill and was in the
middle of a vast field that was level into the distance. Then the road

became dirt. At first it was well packed dirt, so I went on. Keep
going, I thought, the road is straight and the pavement will pick up
again. Then the road ended in a T. I had to turn. I turned north.?.
(My destination was north-west). I kept going; sooner or later I had
to find a road that was on the atlas. One turn turned to two which
turned to twenty, and I was lost . . . lost in Blueberry fields. It is

hard to describe how extensive they are, but on the map they are
probably 15 miles by 30 miles square. What could I do? I kept
driving, field after field, turn after turn for two hours. Alone
except for the radio, no sign of humanity other than the road.


After two hours, miracle of miracles, I saw an SUV coming down the road

coming toward me. Now the dirt path was narrow, so we would both have
to slow down and pull to the side to pass. I could see that the driver

was about to nod and pull past, so I rolled down my window and waved my

arms frantically.


He stopped, lowered his window, looked me up and down, and said in a
ringing down east accent, "You picked a pretty fine car for running
around in the blueberries fields." I had to smile at that comment.
I had no choice, I stuck in the middle of the blueberry wilderness.
Without his help I may be stuck forever. I quickly described my
plight, and asked him to guide my out of the fields. He said to turn
around and follow him, which I did. We took innumerable turns, went
past a lake, and down and up a gully where I also got stuck. After
about twenty minutes we were on hard packed dirt, approaching a paved
road. He stopped at the intersection with the paved road, and I pulled

around him to thank him for the help. Before I could open my mouth, he

pointed his arm out his window, past my car and said, "The road to
the Bangor Airport is that way." I thanked him and went on my way.
Of course, I wasn't going to the airport, but he figured that after
getting lost so dumbly, I couldn't be from around there and would
probably benefit from leaving as quickly as possible.


Lessons learned: Maine is big, and Eastern Maine is more rural than you

can imagine, probably more rural than any other place east of the
Mississippi. Blueberry farms in Maine are big. Roads in Maine end
abruptly. Finally, the only way to be sure where you are is to have a
GPS.


I didn't get to fish that day, but I am not discouraged. I am moving
to an area with much wilderness- more every year, and I will enjoy
exploring it.

Maine Misadventure
 

I enjoyed your story. It reminded me of my college days at the
University of Maine at Orono when we would explore all those woods roads
on weekends to see where they went. Sometimes we would hunt pah-tridge
and rabbit, sometimes we would ice fish, but the driving was half the fun.

Pete Collin

Maine Misadventure
 

Memphis Jim wrote:


I didn't get to fish that day, but I am not discouraged. I am moving
to an area with much wilderness- more every year, and I will enjoy
exploring it.


Cool story. What does "much wilderness - more every year" mean?

I didn't think that was happening anywhere.

Willi

Maine Misadventure
 

"Willi" wrote in message
...
Memphis Jim wrote:


I didn't get to fish that day, but I am not discouraged. I am moving
to an area with much wilderness- more every year, and I will enjoy
exploring it.


Cool story. What does "much wilderness - more every year" mean?

I didn't think that was happening anywhere.

Willi

It's what happens when you quit mowing the back forty.

Danl

Maine Misadventure
 

"Memphis Jim" wrote in message
oups.com...
Everything was going great until I climbed up a long hill where the
fields dropped off on both sides. I came down the hill and was in the
middle of a vast field that was level into the distance. Then the road
became dirt.

Great story. It really brought back some memories.

I spent may hours riding through the barrens in the back of an old hard top
jeep driven by my cousin's father. "Mack" was a born and bred Mainer, had
little use for comfort, and was happiest when there were as many people
around as possible. So my father, my cousin (dad's age), Mack, my cousin's
two sons (both a bit younger than me), and my brother and me, along with a
very happy full grown lab and a dozen rods (classic Down-East fishing rods
of the telescopic metallic variety), would load up in Mack's CJ7 and roar
off from Northfield down to the barrens. Mack had no idea how rough the ride
was in the back of the Jeep, or perhaps he thought all the bodies crammed
together would offer some sort of cushioning, but at the speeds he traveled,
we all spent as much time airborne as seated, if you can call the fender
well a seat. I never decided whether he drove fast over the rutted dirt
roads because he was anxious to get to the brooks, didn't have any idea how
bloodied we were getting from the impact against the roof, or just thought
driving fast was fun. In any case, by the time we rolled out of the Jeep, I
would gladly have walked back to camp rather than ride back. Of course, by
the next day, I had forgotten this discomfort, and was always ready to do it
again.

Mack always knew where the fishing was going to be good, and since there
wasn't a lot of fishing pressure in the brooks of the barrens back then, it
was almost always wonderful. In fact, I can never remember seeing another
fisherman in all the trips we made. It always seemed that the barrens were
our private fishing grounds, and I can remember my cousin's outrage when he
thought someone was building a house near one of the brooks. They weren't,
but it got his attention. We were meat fisherman, and kept our limit for
dinner and the freezer long before there was any realization that the
resource was limited. I learned early how to best preserve a nice bright
brookie in a sphagnum moss lined basket creel so that it's flesh would still
be firm at the end of the day - a skill I haven't needed to use in nearly 30
years of C&R. That's just the way it was back then, even with an 8 fish
limit. Dad says my grandfather was devasted when Maine dropped the limit to
25 fish a day. There are many nice brooks and "rivers" on the barrens, and
while I haven't fished them in 35 years, they always held fish. The season
allowed fishing in "rivers" after August 15, but the brooks closed. If the
map said it was a river, we fished it, even though many of the rivers were
significantly smaller than some of the brooks.

Sorry for the ramble. I cherish the experiences I have had fishing out West
with my wife, but in the end, there is simply nothing like the joy of
fishing a brook so tight with alders that you have to poke the pole though
the branches.

And but for a wrong turn or two, you were in the right place.

Jim Ray

Maine Misadventure
 

"jimbo" wrote in message
...

...Sorry for the ramble. I cherish the experiences I have had fishing out
West with my wife, but in the end, there is simply nothing like the joy of
fishing a brook so tight with alders that you have to poke the pole though
the branches....

Thanks for taking us along. It was a much nicer ride than you had to endure
to get there. :)

Wolfgang

Maine Misadventure
 

Hey Peter; I went to UMO. Did we have this conversation a few years ago?

--riverman


"Peter A. Collin" wrote in message
...
I enjoyed your story. It reminded me of my college days at the University
of Maine at Orono when we would explore all those woods roads on weekends
to see where they went. Sometimes we would hunt pah-tridge and rabbit,
sometimes we would ice fish, but the driving was half the fun.

Pete Collin

Maine Misadventure
 

"Memphis Jim" wrote in message
oups.com...
This post was buried in an older thread. I feel so proud of it I want
it up front.

It's about a recent experience I had in Downeast Maine.



Sounds like my entire teenage years. I spent many a summer (and winter) in
the blueberry barrens. By the way, the region you were headed for (sounds
like around Cathance Lake?) is not so great for winter fishing.

--riverman

Maine Misadventure
 

riverman wrote:
Hey Peter; I went to UMO. Did we have this conversation a few years ago?

--riverman


"Peter A. Collin" wrote in message
...
I enjoyed your story. It reminded me of my college days at the University
of Maine at Orono when we would explore all those woods roads on weekends
to see where they went. Sometimes we would hunt pah-tridge and rabbit,
sometimes we would ice fish, but the driving was half the fun.

Pete Collin


Oh, Maybe. I tend to repeat myself. Graduated '91.

Maine Misadventure
 

"Peter A. Collin" wrote in message
...
riverman wrote:
Hey Peter; I went to UMO. Did we have this conversation a few years ago?

--riverman


"Peter A. Collin" wrote in message
...
I enjoyed your story. It reminded me of my college days at the
University of Maine at Orono when we would explore all those woods roads
on weekends to see where they went. Sometimes we would hunt pah-tridge
and rabbit, sometimes we would ice fish, but the driving was half the
fun.

Pete Collin


Oh, Maybe. I tend to repeat myself. Graduated '91.

December, '84. Worked in Boardman for the Geology department before Steve
Kahl built the new labs out by Stillwater Village (near the Cabins field:
you missed the Cabins era).

--riverman