Drizzle Fishin’
by Lee Wilbur
Two mongrel Black Mallards sat quacking in the water by the fishing skiff. A light sprinkle just graced the still water of the fog-strewn lake, now broken in every direction by the splashes and swirls of landlocked salmon working the surface. Summer’s fledgling hatch of baby alewives were now in schools. A salmon’s favorite food supply. Yale had promised his youngest granddaughter Ellsworth, the 7-year-old, one that had been crazy for fishing since she had caught her first smallmouth bass at age four, that this morning they’d be on the lake early and chase the elusive salmon. Dressed in a colorful slicker with already damp blonde curls peeking from under one of Yale’s old, Red Sox baseball caps cinched tight, she would have made the cover of a Trout Unlimited magazine, or a model for LL Bean’s summer catalog. She was Yale’s favorite amongst his eight, quickly became his sidekick, even able to steer and troll the old 3-horse Johnson perched on the stern of the wooden skiff. Loved to drive his old pick-em-up truck around the camp road picking up birch bark for the fireplace.
With an efficiency belying his years of fishing and age, they soon were on the lake, wet flies of a pattern long established, three feet behind clear bobbers, lines streamed out some 30 to 40 feet. With a quick movement of the rod forward, the bobbers threw up a spray resembling salmon rising and feeding on the schools of alewives. Few words were spoken as Ellsworth and Yale intently watched the lake’s surface and their rod tips as they trolled along the shore, always staying a good 75 yards out. Occasionally, one would point out to the other a large fish working the surface. Yale, using his index finger kept trying to clear the drizzle from his glasses. It was a hopeless task. Ellsworth was fortunate. Her time for eyeglasses would come much later in life.
“Gramp,” Ellsworth said in a controlled yet excited voice, “I’ve got one on. Stop the motor. Get the net it's a good one.”
Holding his rod in his right hand along with the handle of the 3-horse, Yale pulled the horizontal throttle to off and immediately began reeling in his line. The bobber skimmed across the surface with the fly streaming behind. For just what seemed a split second his attention was broken and he stopped reeling when Ellsworth, awestruck by the beauty of another leap from the water by her salmon, screamed for him to look. “Wham,” Yale’s rod tip took a definitive bend downward, his lightly tensioned reel singing as line released from the spool. He also had a good fish on.
“Gramp, Gramp, what do we do now? I can hardly reel my line?”
“Don’t horse it,” he replied. “Just take your time, reel when you can.” His fish took its first leap into the air, followed by another tailwalk as it tried to throw Yale’s fly and exit the scene in the same gyration. Neither his fish nor Ellsworth’s showed any interest in checking out the interior of any skiff.
Stiff, slow, and careful, Yale rose to his feet, set the tension tighter on the reel, and lowered the rod tip, applying more tension to the seemingly Olympic-trained fish. The drizzle had coated his glasses again and water was dripping from his nose as Ellsworth in a choked voice tried to speak. “Graaump. It's...it’s the Eagle!!”
Yale tried to look upward, tried to see where Ellsworth was pointing. His glasses gave a myopic vision of the scene as he felt his line once again scream out and realized the eagle had taken his salmon. Scant seconds went by when the line went slack. Quickly he fingered the water from his glasses and looked back. He could barely see his fish in the water, dropped by the eagle as it tried to fly with the salmon in its claws. He reeled. Nothing. The bloodied salmon was trying to dive as the huge eagle circled, then dove again to pick it up. Yale sat down. “Unbelievable.” as he exhaled slowly and turned to look at Ellsworth who in deep concentration was beginning to gain on her fish. He watched her, reveling in the passage, offering words of encouragement, of advice, as she, with rod held high, followed “her fish” and maneuvered it ever closer to the skiff.
“Oh Gramp, please be careful not to lose this one.” Yale said, as she held the net in the water, waiting for an opportune pass. “This is my first big salmon and I want you to mount it on the wall with the others.”
There was still plenty of life left in this old boy. He’d dive, try to swim under the skiff, work his way forward, then aft, any trick to gain his freedom and stay out of the net. Up to the surface in a tantalizing splash. Yale made a pass. To the side and down again the salmon went. Finally, on another pass-by, Yale had the net perfectly positioned and pulled Mr, Salmon over the side and down onto the floorboards of the skiff. Both sat looking in wonder. This was a big salmon.
“Gramp,” a pause, “Gramp, I’ve changed my mind. Can we send it back to its friends. It’s too beautiful to die.”
“Sure sweetheart. But first we’ll put it in that pail with fresh water then we’ll go back to camp and trace it on a board. That way you’ll see it with bragging rights, he’ll go back to his friends, and I’ll have the memories to show my old fishing buddies.”
AJ and I had attended a Down East Yacht Club function this winter in Florida, potluck-style dinner, where I tried this excellent salad done by friend Murphy Stevens, who with husband Al, winter on their Grand Banks 42 in Sarasota. I quickly asked Murphy for the recipe, saying I’d like to pass it along to my scribble readers if she wouldn’t mind. You’ll have to play with the proportions because Murphy, like myself, cooks by feel.
* R E C I P E *
Lettuce-Baby and Red Leaf, Combo (if possible)
Original Cranraisons
Walnuts
Blue cheese
Pineapple tidbits
Orange Juice
Olive oil
Ken’s Red Wine Vinegar dressing
For the dressing: Combine the Ken’s, olive oil and one-half to three-quarters cup of orange juice. Should come out to a “Hot Pink” color, so start with half cup.
Before serving put a wet paper towel over the salad and refrigerate.
When serving pour a small amount of the dressing and toss, adding more dressing to your taste.
Fair Winds and Good Roads