North Maine Woods and The Big Twenty……Day 2

After a hard night's sleep, I awoke to a rattling noise. Something was rummaging around our campsite. I could hear a deep bumping sound. There was no snarling or grunting but something was creating a raucous. Could it be some animal was attacking our coolers? I slowly peered through the zippered door of the tent to see what it might be. There in the middle of the campsite was a grizzly looking Richard Bartlett. Richard was on a tear. He had made his way into the food coolers and was on a rampage determined to find the coffee that he had packed. But, it was no where to be found.

I rustled on my cloths and offered to give him a helping hand. His paw was firm and definite as it made its way from one food cache to another. Still no coffee! His grizzly instincts insisted on a morning cup of joe. It helps move things along. I also can be a bear without my morning cup of joe, but I’m more of a black bear.

After a fruitless search we determined the coffee would have to wait; we had a breakfast, packed up and headed for The Big Twenty .

The big twenty is as far north as you can go in the contiguous United States. The sun rises earlier and sets later. And, when sleeping in a tent, it can make for a short night’s sleep. We left the campsite heading north on to the Estcort Road. The Estcort Road leads to Estcourt Station (Delorm's Maine Atlas, p66, inset) the most northern point of entry into the contiguous United States. It is used mostly for logging trucks and is heavily guarded by armed personnel.

We took a right on to the Airport Road, heading east, and made our way to Dead Brook. Now….I’m not much of a fly fisherman…..and I don’t have too much experience walking in swift running streams…..so, sometimes I get a little nervous. We made are way to an access road about a half mile long that ran perpendicular to Dead Brook, followed it to its end and geared up. The walk through the woods from the truck to the stream was short. When we approached Dead Brook, it was high, running fast, and had many deep pools. I looked at Richard “I don’t know buddy!” “What?” he replied. I looked at him shaking my head “I just hope this brook doesn’t live up to its name. First, I haven’t had my coffee. Second, you bring me to a boarder crossing reminiscent of Northern Ireland, and now you want to throw me into this wild running stream!” Richard smiled “Suck it up candy ass!”

As I stuck my foot into the stream, it seemed as if the bottom was nonexistent. I slowly lowered my foot into the stream. Finally, I felt bottom. At this point, one foot was still on the bank stuck in some sort of limb while the other foot was submerged in two feet of swift running water. Hmmm? “What a nice spot!” I thought to myself. Richard preceded down stream and I transversed the wilds of the upper stream.

Why is it that every time I go fishing with someone they want to go down stream? Is the fishing better? Is the walking easier? Is the smile on my face just too much to bear? Whatever! I started making my way up Dead Brook. It didn’t look so dead to me. I quickly hooked on to half a dozen trees and than half a dozen Brookies. I was uncomfortable with my footing. When I made my way back to my point of exit, Richard was no where to be seen. I had been given instructions to pick him up at the bridge which was at the intersection of Dead and Airport Road when I was done fishing.

I was secretly glad to see him take off. I wanted out! I didn’t have my stream legs on and I was tired, wary, and beat after navigating the stream for only forty five minutes. I headed back to the truck, grabbed a bunch of corn chips and started the engine to warm up. It was raining and 45*f, which is great for keeping the bugs down but not so great for my bones.

Richard met me at the bridge about an hour later. He was walking slowly down the stream executing his cast with the skill of a seasoned fly fisherman. I made my way to the stream, fly rod in hand, and started casting. I executed a perfect roll cast. I smiled his way and waited for the strike. A flurry of activity exploded out of the pool at my feet. Richard was smiling too! He pulled in a hefty native Brook Trout from the water at my feet. Learning can be such a hard experience. Some times pride has to be put aside and questions must be asked.

Richard had snuck his streamer down a ripple between two rocks and teased at native out of the water only three feet from my hold. He stripped his line with short pulses setting his fly back in place until the Brookie struck. He knew it was there. Don’t ask me how, but he did! He then teased the Brookie into striking. It fought hard in the swift running water dancing across the top at times. Native Brook Trout have so much spunk it makes me want to either kiss them or eat them. But Richard returned the Brookie to the water even after my plea for a fine morning treat. We left Dead Brook after Richard teased me and the Brookies a few more times.

The strong water of Dead Brook left me a little shaken. Could I handle this type of fishing without falling in to the stream? Last year a friend of mine, Tom Mouzas, had fished the Miramichi on Irving owned property. He was fishing a pool known for its Atlantic Salmon. He was also fishing in swift water when he lost his footing. He bounced along the stream for fifty yards or so not being able to right him self. Finally, Tom got his footing and proceeded to catch a nice Atlantic. The vision of him floating downstream kept bouncing around my head like a cat chasing a ping pong ball. I was glad to be out of the waters of Dead Brook. We decided to hit some smaller water that afternoon. I felt relieved.

“Marc, that is the biggest water we’ll be fishing” Richard muttered between my ramblings of having a stream mishap. Unbeknown to Richard this was not true. We we’re camped on the Little Black River. It was tugging at both of our minds. Richard had never fished its upper waters before. He had only fished it from a canoe in its calmer lower waters; we had not brought a canoe on this trip. The upper Little Black intrigued Richard as well as me, but its deep holes and swift current made me envision a reenactment of Tom’s episode without the Atlantic Salmon. I was not yet tempted to take the risk.

We made our way to Campbell Brook around twenty-five miles down the road. Everything is a country mile in the North Maine Woods. You may go twenty miles and have it seem like only a mile of southern Maine driving. You seldom meet any other cars. The miles pass quickly under your feet while traveling forty-five to fifty miles hour and discussing techniques, fish and wildlife. We arrived at Campbell and I was relieved to see it was a smaller water than Dead.

We geared up and headed into the brook. I headed up stream and Richard headed down. What is down stream anyways? Does Irving have a Blue Canoe convenience store stashed along the banks of lower waters? I quickly learned that I caught more fish walking down the stream than up. Once, while fishing with my late friend Gilbert Gammon, we deduced that the better action of down stream fishing must be related to feed. As you walk down a swift brook, food that is hidden under rocks is dislodged; the fish go into a feeding frenzy. They start gorging on everything. Is this just some backwoods thinking or reality?

Once while filming a documentary in Alaska with Tom Mouzas in Katmai National Park, some of the under water footage revealed some interesting traits of the Alaskan Rainbows of Kulik Lake. While having my camera under water, we filmed Rainbows chasing fish in that were hooked. It was as if the activity of the hooked fish created a response from the other Rainbows in the Kulik. They would chase the hooked fish in as if waiting to feed on the leftovers from a gorging.

I believe the under water world is connected by the tiny electrical impulses created by a fish’s nervous system. When the charge is felt by various species, it arouses their interest and they want to investigate. I’m not a scientist, but I have read some interesting articles on this.

Back to Campbell Brook…… The stream was running swift and I picked up a few Brookies upon entering the stream. This time I wanted to fish more aggressively, but I saved my energy for the trip down and quickly made my way upstream. The stream is fairly easy to walk. There are some gravel banks that enable me to elude the slippery rocks of the stream. I walked until I was a little fatigued. The grade was not steep, but I walked swiftly and turned around to test my skils. The action begins.

I have worked in Yellowstone National Park as a Park Technician, and I have fished Alaska’s streams. But during all this time, I never became a proficient fly fishermen. I wanted to stay in my comfort zone. I now wanted to hone my skills and test the waters. I took this trip with a seasoned fly fisherman to improve my technique. One thing I have figured out so far is that if you want to learn how to fly fish, you have to do it on a brook that has plenty of fish; and Campbell Brook provided this opportunity.

I put on a Muddler Minnow and let it float down stream with the current. It looked wimpy and did not have much action. I used a roll cast to flip it across the current. I was using a five weight rod that I had picked up for my son. It was a starter kit with rod, reel and line; its light weight made it easy to cast. I hook up with a minnow sized Brookie barely four inches long. Then another, and another and another. Four cast, four fish…..and they where getting progressively bigger as I made my way to the head of a pool. The day was still overcast, drizzly and windy, a good fishing day and the Brookies where scattered through out the stream. I caught them in the rapids, on the edge of banks and under submerged stumps. All were returned to the water; I was tempted to keep a few. I should have strapped on my Arctic Creel which I had brought specifically for this purpose.

I stopped on a sandy bank to cast into a larger pool. I could hear the rustling of the wind as in blew into the leaves. I made a roll cast into the opposite side of the pool letting my muddler run with the current then dart across. Bang! A Brookie inhaled the muddler just as it turned into the current. I tried the same roll cast and picked up another Brookie. This scenario kept repeating itself as I made my way down the brook.

I made my way further down stream, and I realized the floating line and 2.5lb tippet was perfect for the depth of the water. I lost one muddler on this stream beneath a stump and made my way to the bottom of the stream after loosing several more flies. I also lost count of how many native Brookies I had caught. It was a dream walk which built my confidence and strapped on my stream legs.

When I returned to the bridge, Richard was in the truck. He had found the open bag of corn chips and was feeding with the same intensity of the Brookies. “Are you hungry” I asked. “Well yaaaa….!” Richard replied. We made our way back to camp where Richard prepared perfectly aged strip steaks, camp potatoes and a fresh garden salad. Dinner was exquisite! You must remind me to bring a master chef on all my fishing trips. “Thank you Richard, that was delicious!”

I laid back on the bench thinking of the water I had covered. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with walking the water of the brooks. I was developing a walk, a stream walk, one foot slowly moves while the other retains a firm footing. Then the process is repeated constantly searching for stable ground. I walked down to the stream to peer at the Little Black River which we were camped by. It was tugging at me but I was not ready.

My next post will deal with day three, wildlife and the hazards of being with coffee in hand.

Be safe and have fun fishing!