Uh-Oh

“How about Sunday morning you and I get out and do a little fishing?”

My fishing friend from up the lake, Austin Mitchell, who’s probably released more fish than I’ll ever catch in my lifetime, had called for the second or third time. I’d been so busy working at a longer list of projects and catch-em-ups than I care to think about, one of life’s highest priorities was relegated to back burner for a month after Florida return.

“Six. Pick me up on the dock.” I’d stood it for as long as I could. Had to get a rod in my hand and line in the water. Fact I hadn’t stopped by the town office for a license yet was a “no-never-mind.”

Air was cool as it had been most of June but sun was out with the promise of at least a bit warmer day. We set the lines out, Austin with the only one I’ve ever seen him use, a “Mooselook Wobbler,” and I with a “grub something or other,” which should have been consigned to the “Ex Lure” bucket years ago. Not sure I ever caught anything with it. Hardly held the thought of a “maybe this time.” For several evenings and early mornings I’d spotted risings about 200' offshore and convinced Austin we should troll that area first instead of what I’ve come to term the “Mitchell loop” which covers deeper water where Austin will swear the big ones swim.

We’d putted along, catching up, for about a mile when Austin could stand it no longer and heads for Smelt Point and the southern apex of the Mitchell loop. Hadn’t gone twenty yards into deeper water when an old troller cum-surf rod began to scream. Austin, contrary to most fishermen, never slows. Boat stays on course. There’s no stopping to net. Trophy be damned. His theory being other rods are out and still fishing. Better odds and I’ve come to believe him...except when the real big one slams and I’m on light tackle.

“This one feels like a good one,” the boat coming up and onto plane as I reel. I give him an “attaboy” and appreciation. We have a fish for AJ’s breakfast, alleviating her disappointment at not being able to join us that morning. Nice fish. Unfortunately, skinny as an elongated smelt. Our salmon haven’t had much girth for over 20 years. Biologists say there’s not enough feed, yet the Bass who’ve been in residence since the late “30’s” have produced some real whackers. Strange situation but not one to spend overly much time in cogitation.

We continue trolling, pick up a few small Bass, pan size. Austin had brought along some fish stocking reports for State of Maine, and an album he’d kept since he was a child. Pictures in there with rod in hand looked like he’d just shed the diaper period. Pictures of ice fishing, trips to East Grand lake, strings of fish large and small. Fun to look through at old friends I knew, most passed along to outdoor heaven. Some maybe having to knock a few times at the gate.

We poke into a few coves, then with time getting along head back to our camps on the eastern shore. Sun was warm on my back, feet up on middle seat leaned back in the swivel. Could not get any better than this.

Then, Austin says in that kind of tone which does nothing but let the beholder know that something is definitely amiss, “Uh-Oh.” That ominous tone of there could be a game warden visit alongside the skiff in just a few moments. Tone generally accompanied by that sort of uneasy feeling in the pit of one’s stomach.

“Can I see your licenses, boys” as Fisheries and Wildlife officer Phil Richt pulls alongside and takes hold of the gunnel.

Austin produces his.

“Sorry Officer, I haven’t picked mine up yet.”

“Catch any fish this morning?”

Austin shows him the Salmon.

“Do you have a tape measure?” Phil says.

“Nope, haven’t put one in the boat yet this year.” His last one was a ball of rust.

Warden Phil doesn’t have one either and passes Austin a five-dollar bill. They go through the measure by six inch trick, (I measured a bill later.... 6 and 1/8 inches) and appears this poor emaciated Salmon falls in the “no-keep-em” slot between 17 and 22 inches. Might have made the 22” trophy category if we could have stretched it another inch or two.

We talked for a bit. Told us we were in the wrong. Had two violations. Good about it. Doing his job for which I admire. I suggested he write me up. I was definitely in the wrong. Let Austin, the holder of Maine’s record Yellow Perch, off the hook (so to speak). At 72, I’d never been picked up for a violation and must have been overdue I’m sure. He agreed. Then tells me I could have had a lifetime license at “70” for $8.00. I laughed. Story of my life. We shared a few more stories. He came from Portage area where we partridge hunt in the fall, so that brought some more conversation. Yesterday I finally got around to reading my summons. Today, the 4th, I’m driving to County Courthouse in Ellsworth on the last possible day to pay my fine...along with court costs.

• R E C I P E •

“Another Marinade”

Yes, there must be as many different marinades as there are variations of fish in the sea. And honestly, I’ve never met a marinade I didn’t care for. Something to do with the music created between meat and poultry (and fish) juices that come together in surface marriage in a delightful manner. But to be even more honest, I don’t think the ingredients really matter as long as there’s oil, a vinegary something, and a shake of salt and pepper. More is icing on the cake. This is one I put together a few nights ago with pork chops. Amounts are dependent on number of chops. Ounce or two of bourbon, squeeze of lemon, couple ounces of olive oil, salt and pepper. Then take the lemon peel of squeezed lemon and cut into half inch by half inch pieces and twist for the lemon oil. Mix these into the marinade and make sure as you turn the pork some lay on the surfaces. Fifteen to thirty minutes will do. Grill at highish heat both sides then turn down to finish. Do not overcook till they bounce. Tricnosis is history from our parents time I’ve got to believe.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur