TR: Autumn on the Rapid

On November 22, 1963, I was driving my 1961 Corvair Monza on Terciera,
the Azores, with my young daughter strapped in a car seat, when I heard
the news. She was too young to realize what a terrible day that was,
and she couldn't understand later that evening why her mommy and daddy
were crying. Most people remember where they were on that terrible
day.

Nine years ago yesterday, September 11, 2001, I was at Lakewood fishing
the dam pool when the dam keeper's wife, April, came running down to me
screaming something about "Tauruses." I finally figured out that she
meant "terrorists" The rest is history. The Second Maine Clave was
going on that week but there were only a few participants in camp. The
representatives from NC were in transit. Jeff Miller and Injun Joe got
stranded in Baltimore (I believe), and took charge of the last
available rental vehicle, an 8 passenger mini-van. They made it to the
Clave. Unfortunately, our boy lawyer, wayno, got stranded in
Cincinnati. No one should *ever* get stranded in Cincinnati (or
Cleveland for that matter), Wayno never made it to the clave. It was
a good clave, with lots of nice brookies and landlocked salmon landed.
However, it was overshadowed by the events of that week. Most people
remember where they were on that terrible day.

I am at Lakewood once again, remembering the bad and good things about
that week in 2001. I hope this week will be less traumatic and more
therapeutic.

I don't like the heat of summer. Spring and autumn are my favorite
times of year. Cool days and chilly nights warm the heart of this old
man. I am loving it now in north-western Maine and the Rapid River.
I would have said northern Maine, but Myron would jump on me about the
*real* northern Maine. smile A fire in the stove, Joanne and I are on
the porch of Trail's End watching a befuddled Jenny trying her best to
outwit the red squirrels. It is cool, a bit overcast, but it is right
now the loveliest place on earth.

The lake is very low, the result of an untypically dry summer.
However, the flow is still cool at 400 cfs, and the river wadeable
where it counts. I will be able to wade to *all* of my favorite
haunts, so I expect lots of good fish this week if I can find out what
they want. d;o) Wading means getting wet, very wet, so I will ensure
I have my proper undies on - no cotton. Someone in this nuthouse
turned me on to capilene many years ago. I swear by the stuff.
Whenever I wade, I have capilene next to my skin and in chilly weather,
merlino wool layered with fleece. I used to wear jeans when I waded,
but if they got wet they remained wet and clammy the rest of the day.
That is no way for an old man to survive.

Monday, 13th:

The Lakewood alarm clock went off at 0600 hours, as usual. One minute
I am sound asleep, and then Whit turns on the generator and on come the
room lights, including the reading lamp just above our heads. Jenny
whines for her breakfast, while my coffee is brewing. Outside it is
cool. We had rain overnight, heavy enough to awaken us with its
euphony on the roof of our cabin. A slight breeze from the east could
mean a bad day fishing. We shall see. There are low lying clouds to
the east - strange looking grey clouds. They hug the farthest shore.
Hopefully they will burn off during the day and not come across the
lake.

An excellent breakfast in my gullet and I am off to the river. Friends
are headed down river to the Pond in the River, and a couple of
new-to-the-Rapid guests are talking about following them. I headed to
the dam, my old haunts, with easier access.

I spent an hour at one of the most productive runs at the dam.
Nothing. I threw everything I *knew* would catch a fish, Nothing. I
tied on Harry's caddis and managed to fool one little landlocked
salmon. He rose and struck. I set the hook and missed. Back to
muttering about "what-the-hell-do-they-want." A change of venue was in
order, so I packed up and carefully negotiated the rocks and took up
station on the far side of the pool. First cast with a size 20 PT and
I had a 12+ inch brook trout on. However, I had put my raincoat on
*over* my landing net. Duh! Old man mistake. I played the fish close
enough to get ahold of him, when he thankfully spit the hook. Off with
the raincoat. I need that rubber basket net.

I successfully waded out to "Flat Top" a hugh rock that is usually
underwater, but at 400 cfs can be reached by very careful wading. At
900 cfs the water comes to the very tip top of my waders. At 400,
there is an inch or two to spare. For the first time this year I did
not get wet. From this fishing station I have excellent access to
several feeding runs. Once again, however, the fish were being very
picky. They didn't want the PT. I tried several soft hackle nymphs
and still nothing. I was happy to be fishing, but the catching was
kind of bothersome. Finally, with Harry's caddis, I hooked up with a
small salmon. He jumped, and jumped, and jumped again, and then he
skittered across the top of the water towards me. I've never seen a
salmon act that way on this river. I've seen whitefish do that in
Labrador trying to get away from a northern pike. I can only imagine a
larger fish was after him. Perhaps a togue (laketrout that has made
its way into the river via the dam). There have been some very large
(26 inch) togue taken in the river by streamers.

That was it at Flat Top, a little salmon scared to death, skimming the
top of the water for his very life, knowing his horrible fate if he
faltered. The wade ashore was filled with apprehension. To get off of
Flat Top you must commit yourself to stepping down about three feet to
another flat stone about 3 feet square and water deep enough to get
totally soaked. Next is one giant step to the rock filled bottom of
the river. This is usually where I take on water, do a Full Reid, or
otherwise just plain get wet! Success! I made it off of the rock and
waded ashore, stumbling old man style along the way. The inside of my
waders will not get washed on this day.

Fortunately for me there was no one at the dam. I found out later that
everyone in camp save me was at PiR, along with another 12 or so
fishermen. Glad I didn't go with my buddies.

It was only 1100 hours, plenty of time to try the first crib of the
dam. This spot has evolved into one of the best spots on the river,
with feeding lanes to the left, straight ahead, and to the right. The
only problem is getting down to it. I have to lift my tired legs and
sorry ass over the railing, and then step blindly down the side of the
crib, finally onto the rocks. That's the easy part. At that point I
am still about five feet above the water and no way possible to land a
fish. So, rock hopping begins. It isn't much fun for me getting to
the bottom of the rocks, but it must be hilarious watching. I have
taken some bad falls at this spot and have scars to show for my
efforts. Slowly, carefully, I make my way, rock by rock, to the spot
were I can cast AND land fish.

There were still a couple of items in my fly armory that I hadn't
tried, and when checking one of my fly boxes I discovered a size 20
orange body and orange glass bead head nymph with a black soft hackle
and some flashaboo tied in. On the first cast to my left, into the
deepest water, I got a strike, set the hook and landed a marvelous 16
inch brookie, all turned out in his handsome spawning colors. Two more
casts into the same run and I had another brookie, smaller in size but
no less marvelous. I think I have found what they want! I fished for
the next hour and landed two more small brookies and a couple of 14
inch salmon. Joanne and the pup showed up at the apple tree next to
the dam, and I managed my way back to them and camp, tired but with a
good feeling inside. My wife, my pup, and some fishing memories make
for a good day.

Today I broke a new rule I had set; I took a 2 hour nap after lunch,
lulled to sleep by a fire crackling in the stove, and rain drops
hammering the roof. happy sigh

More to follow........

Dave