Maine never ceases to amaze me. I traveled seven hours to get to The North Maine Woods from Southern Maine. The sun rises half an hour earlier and sets half an hour later than in Southern Maine and I’m still having a hard time sleeping through these shorter nights. Last night wasn’t as bad as my first night. I finally fell asleep after an hour of steering at a night sky that didn’t want to go dark. I do love it here in the North Maine Woods. It is reminiscent of Alaska, longer days and shorter nights.

Finally…..we have coffee. We made a special trip to Ashland yesterday, twenty five miles from camp, to purchase a pound of the black stuff. And, being the first person out of bed gave me the chance to light the Coleman, put on a pot of coffee and start a small fire to keep the bugs down.

Richard Bartlett, my “in-camp” master chef and seasoned fly fisherman, likes a smudge-pot fire, plenty of smoke and very little fire. It was easy to accomplish considering the damp weather we have had. But Saturday morning, the weather looked like it might clear. It was still over cast, but the sun kept trying to break through. I could see blue splotches racing across the overcast sky. It was true mountain weather even though we were not on a mountain.

I took a stride down to the Little Black River, which was less than one hundred feet from our tent, and I took in the view. The Little Black’s water was still flowing strongly; it was beckoning me to cast a fly and transverse its wide body. The Little Black was a strong flowing river this morning; the intermittent showers of yesterday helped it remain strong and vigorous. I perched myself on a rock and noticed eddies being formed by various underwater structures. Some of the structures where large boulders; they jutted out of the stream to claim a piece of real estate. Some of the other rocks lay just beneath the surface creating turbulence and areas of calm water where Brookies could hold. My fear of the swift running water was still too strong for me to over come. I grabbed a bucket of water for morning camp duties and hauled it back. I wasn’t ready to fish this strong flowing water……yet!

Richard was just rising when I returned to camp. “What’s on the menu today Richard?” I asked. “We’ll be fishing Pocwock Stream, maybe the East or West Branch and who knows….we may even run down to the Saint John and plunk around one of the mouths” Richard answered with a gleam in his eyes. I looked at him and replied “Is that big water? Because if it is…..I don’t know? I keep having these visions of myself bobbing for fish as I float down stream. That is, if I float; I’m a sinker you know! I didn’t bring my PFD(personal floatation device).” Richard looked at me and shook his head “You worry too much!”

When I was working in Yellowstone National Park, for the National Park Service, I had nearly drowned while horsing around with fellow park workers. A bunch of us were jumping into the Fire-Hole River from a swinging rope perched above a narrows. It was a part of the Fire-Hole that narrowed from over two hundred feet to less than thirty. The current was strong, and the river was deep at this point. On one of the jumps, I got caught in a strong undertow. It was more than I could overcome. I remember looking up from underneath the surface of the water and seeing the sun getting dimmer and dimmer and dimmer. I thought that I may drown. I kept gasping for breadth with my mouth closed. My lungs would expand and collapse without taking in water or air. It relieved the sensation to breadth, but only for a few seconds. The only thing that saved me was a saying I had heard as a child. “You always come up three times before you drown.” my uncle had told me while swimming together one day. “That’s right three times!” he reiterated. As the light grew dim, and I kept falling deeper and deeper into the bellows of the Fire-Hole River, and I kept repeating the mantra “You always come up three times; you always come up three times; you always come up three times”. I didn’t! I came up once…..right in between two people enjoying a cocktail on the “cliff like” rocky edges of the Fire-Hole. Their eyes popped like that of a great white when I burst through the water between the two of them while gasping for breadth; I held on to the side of that cliff for dear life while trying to act as if nothing was wrong, and all the while filling my lungs with oxygen. That was the end of my jumping days. But, I fear this incident still has a hold on me.

Back to camp: Richard and I finished breakfast, cleaned the dishes and headed for Pocwock Stream (Delorm’s Maine Atlas, page 70, D4). Access to the stream is on a lightly traveled side road that leads to the Saint John River. The access can be hard to find; I know it took us a good deal of time to find it. It is currently marked by a piece of fluorescent orange marking tape, the kind used by surveyors to mark a pin, and is tied to a branch adjacent to the trial's head. Once finding the access, it was a short bush-whacking walk to the stream. Pocwoc stream is a stream dotted with small holes. Its upper reaches hold some nice trout. I didn’t mind the level walk that was dotted with sand bars, pebble beaches and various rocks to set my sorry ass on.

I walked up the stream vigorously perusing the holes and eddies, and I stopped when I felt slightly fatigued. I developed this technique on Campbell Brook. The walk down the brook will take me five or six times longer than the walk up while I fish for natives. I enjoy fishing a stream on the way down to my entry point much more than on the way up. Plus, once done fishing, I am at my exit. This way, I do not have to endure a hard upstream walk to return to the point of entry. This technique works well for me. My first three casts all yielded Brookies that were in the six inch range, then as fast as it started it stops. The weather was still over cast but it wasn't as rainy as Friday. I walked at a deliberate, slow, calculating pace and developed my technique of roll casting to banks, stumps and eddies.

Pocwock Stream helped me to develop a roll cast that can be used on many different Maine streams and brooks that are choked by alders. I let my fly drift into the swift current, lowered my rod and than loaded it by quickly raising the tip and flipping the line in the direction desired. I tried to never back cast. The stream was too small. Pocwock is a thumbs-up stream, easy walking, nice holes and plenty of places to sit and retie.

I left Pocwock with a new confidence in the native Maine Brook Trout. The Brookies of the Maine North Woods are wild and aggressive; in an effort to stay alive, they seek prey constantly, and by catching their daily bounty of feed, they grow to see another day. I loved fishing this area.

At this point of the fishing trip, I had not yet run into one fisherman while fishing the streams of the North Maine Woods, and luckily, I had not run into threatening wildlife either. Black bears have never concerned me. But, if I would happen to cross a black bear with a cub, or a moose with calf, I know that there can be trouble. I have had both situations occur in other parts of the country. Moose will charge if traveling with a calf or in response to the desire to mate. A grizzly, on the other hand, will charge if you break the scent trail linking it to its cub. The sow and cub may be apart, but the sow remains in constant contact with her cub by remaining down wind and on scent. You may not even see signs of them, but if you break the scent trail that links a cub with its mother, look out! Another thing that I learned form an Alaskan guide, is that bears will start yawning when they become stressed. If you are watching a bear from afar and it starts yawning, this is not a good sign. If you ever see a grizzly yawning, you better get a moven. I know what your thinking…..why wait until you see the grizzly yawn. At times, I have had the necessity to be closer to grizzlies than most. The trick is to read their body language, be with a well trained guide, and make sure they are well fed at the time of your encounter. The most important thing of all is to let bears and wildlife know you are in the area by making noise. They don’t want to encounter you. And, you do not want to surprise them. Bears usually attack when they are stressed or startled.

When I returned to the truck, it was empty. I looked around but could not see Richard in the lower reaches of the stream. Richard then appeared like a magician right beside the truck. He had been fishing the pool on the lower end of the culvert and I could not see him from my perch. “How was the fishing down stream Richard?” I asked. “Oh, I had to work for them” Richard replied. “But there’s a nice Blue Canoe convenience store at the first bend in the stream!” He must be reading my mind!

We opened the cooler and Richard offered up launch. I wasn’t that hungry but ate I plump juicy apple as I listened to Richard explain his exploits of the good luck he had down-stream. I smiled and concurred that the fishing was fantastic!

I started the truck and we headed for our next adventure that was a deep woodlands stream. I have been sworn to secrecy on this one. I will give you a few hints. It is a mildly steep walk. It holds beaver that used to be positioned down stream, but that are now positioned upstream…..lucky me!

I began my walk up the stream; my legs were starting to burn with fatigue. The first corner in the stream holds two pools. Both have old logs in them. As I passed the second pool, I noticed a dam building project. I glanced to catch a view of the engineers; they are not in sight. Then, I hear a tremendous sound. A boulder has fallen from the sky and hit the center of the pool. My heart stops.
No matter how you prepare for it or whether you know it is coming, the thump of a beaver’s tail on the water is always a heart stomping event. I knew the beaver may be in the stream. I knew that he may stomp the water with his mighty tail proclaiming his discontent with my presence, but I can never prepare myself enough to keep my heart from skipping a few beats when it happens. The pool was full of small natives and it should be a good spot next spring if the beavers aren’t trapped.

I made my way further up the stream and stopped short of where I wanted to be. The number blow-overs covering the stream was getting to much for me. I stopped and tied on a muddler minnow. I had six of them and was trying to reserve one for each stream we fish.

I started toying with small brookies laying beneath a small blow over. They were relentless as they hit and run with the muddler. I was sitting on another blow over as I played with them. It ended up being the perfect place to stop as I caught and released six of the precious little brookies which were a rainbow of color in the afternoon intermittent light. It was still cloudy that afternoon, but the sun kept making small appearances through the cloud cover. I enjoyed fishing this cloudy and wind swept day that kept bugs at bay and the fish spread through out the stream.

As I walked down the stream, I again used my roll cast to reap the harvest of the brook. First, I would roll cast to the right. Then, I would roll cast to the left or center. Some areas were more productive. Undercut banks seemed to hold the largest trout; they also held the largest probability of loosing another muddler. The temptation was too great and my forth muddler remained in a clump of brush extending deep into the under-cut. I only had two muddlers left in my box at this point. But the temptation to tie another on is too great. I give in. I will only have one muddler minnow left for the last day of fishing if I loose this one.

As I make my way down to the head of the beaver pool, the larger fish are up in the stream. As I approach the pool the fishing gets slower and slower. The pool has seemed to go dry. Where did the fish go? Then it happens all over. I knew it would. That heart thumping sound that always makes my heart skip a beat. I knew the beaver was there, but when his tails hits the water, it is akin to a boulder falling out of the sky or a child cannon-balling into the water. And in the peaceful North Maine Woods, it will always makes my heart skip a few beats.

I made my way down stream fishing all the while. And, as I approached my exit point my left knee began to give way. I was heading for a face first encounter with my biggest fear. But wait, I view the glimpse of an alder to my right. I grabbed at its flimsy branch. It holds firm and props me up the way my wife does when the challenges of life seem too great. I am grateful. I can now view the alder as friend, not foe.

As I left the stream, I looked back at it. Its current was swift and its alders were strong. I feel the calm of a new born being held by its parents for the first time. I feel renewed as I limp back to the truck.

Richard was in the truck when I returned to it; we made a speedy dash to camp which involved a fifteen mile road trip and a half mile drive into camp.

I wonder what Richard will cook for supper tonight? He likes to surprise me. Will it be fresh scallops in an Alfredo sauce, sirloin tips roasted on a fresh fire or beans and franks? Only time will tell!

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