Writing about the canoe Andrew Weegar built for me in 1991 brought back memories made in that canoe.

After taking possession of the canoe in North Bridgton, Weenie and I launched it in Highland Lake and put it through a few tests. It was August, and the water was warm. We paddled out a ways, then leaned on the starboard gunwale to see how far the boat would tip before it flipped over. We swamped the boat to see how high it would ride in the water, then attemped to empty and right the boat and climb back aboard. Satisfied with the boat's performance, we put it back on the car and headed north to one of my favorite trout ponds. Here's where things got perfect.

I rigged a flyrod with floating line and tied on a Royal Wulff. We launched the boat and paddled to a cove where an ancient tree lay half-submerged close to the shore. Perfect trout cover.

Now, Weenie had never been fishing. She was a Kentucky beauty queen, not really an outdoorsy type. So I really wanted her to experience not just the glory of paddling a handmade canoe on a beautiful Maine trout pond, but also the thrill of catching a brook trout.

I stripped some line off the reel and began to false-cast, aiming toward the semi-sunken tree. The cast, if I do say so myself, was a good one. The big Wulff settled lightly on the still water a couple of feet short of the tree. Before I could even complete the thought of how tempting the fly looked, the water erupted as a nice brookie smashed the fly and hooked himself. I handed the rod to Weenie and talked her through the process of bringing the fish to the boat. Her blue eyes were like saucers, her lovely mouth was agape as she felt the power of the fish at the end of the line. She did well. I netted the fat 12-inch brookie, removed the fly, and held it up for her to admire before slipping it back into the pond.

One cast, one nice fish, one impressed beauty queen, on the canoe's maiden fishing voyage. Perfect. Could you script something like that? Never.

When we hauled out and lashed the boat to the roof of the car and headed out the logging road toward what passes for civilization up there, it began to rain, then pour. Suddenly we were smacked by one of those microbursts that seem to come from out of nowhere, a mini tornado, almost. The violent wind wrenched the boat -- my new canoe! -- off the roof and sent it clattering down the side of the vehicle, still tethered by the straps that were holding it down. The worst of the wind passed in a moment, but the rain was still coming down hard. We got out to reposition the boat and were drenched to the skin in seconds. After securing the canoe on its proper perch, we drove out to the main road and searched for a hot meal. The first restaurant we came to was just closing, but we looked so pathetic they took us in and fed us. By the time we finished eating their excellent food and draining a bottle of good wine, we were dry and happy. A perfect ending.