Me and Den: Fishing with a Limo

“What’s up?”

“Hey... thought you’d left town. Must be two months since I’ve heard that growly monotone of yours.”

“Well,” Den says, “Well...you know Aunt Vin died.”

“My favorite.”

Den chuckled, “Anyhow, Brother Delvin and I are the last of the family.”

“Not much left is there?”

Silence as thought replaces words.

“Wait a minute. Don’t tell me she left you two guys something. I’d always figured she’d find a clever way to take it with her. The old Skinflint.”

“Well,” Den came back, “Well, she almost did. Delvin and I’ve had quite a time sorting out her affairs. Never knew money could be hidden in so many places and then how many charities a person could give it away to.”

“So what did she do for her loving nephews?”

“Did you know she had a limo?”

“What would she be doing with a limo?”

“She had it stored in the old barn up back. She went up there unbeknownst to any of us, sat in it and drank tea. Must have been 50 half-finished cups of Lipton sitting in and around it.”

“So what did she leave you two?”

He chuckled, “The limo.”

Laughed so hard couldn’t talk. Had to put the phone down and grab for the water bottle.

“Go damned if she didn’t do it one more time.”

“Well,” Den says, “Well at least it’s something.”

“Sounds to me more like a liability. What are the brothers Ellis gonna do with it?”

“That’s why I’m calling. Del and I thought we’d might take a fishing trip. Go Downeast in it. Hit the Barrens. Maybe stop at Third Machias. Whatever and wherever. Go for a week. Whaddya think? Wannago?”

Hardly stopping to think, “Hell yes. Won’t be launching another boat for 3 weeks. Sounds like fun.”

“We’ll pick you up. Just bring your gear. We’ll take care of tents and grub. Three more days. I’m pushin’ pills till then. See ya.”

Between spring launches at the boatyard, a week fishing with those two could be a break I needed. Fishing trip in a limousine.

Three days, Den and Delvin come cruising into the yard. Limo was an old white Lincoln. You remember the one. Hood ornament arrives long before rest of the vehicle. Boys had most of the gear strapped to top under Del’s 20' Old Town “Tripper.” Had the outboard on top as well with a 6' step ladder. Plenty of room to spare. Back of this old beauty they’d hooked a trailer. New John Deere “Gator” sitting proud. Trappings of a serious fishing trip.

Thought to myself, “How many bodies will this thing hold?”

Den and Del, laughing, emerge from the rear door.

“Who’s driving?” I ask.

From the driver’s seat comes a guy no bigger than a pint of spit.

Del introduces. “Meet Harley, he’s a painter at the boatyard.” (Del, like me, has a boatyard and following in his Dad’s footsteps builds some fine boats.) “Really good. Crawls into some tight places too when we need him. Especially the bilges.”

“We’ve got a chauffeur?”

“Well,” Den says, “Well, not only that. He’s an ex-bartender and a decent cook. Same price. You got any more questions or you ready to go fishin’?”

I lashed my duffel, rod case and bedroll onto the “gator” and slid into the cavern on wheels.

“You sure Aunt Vin only drank tea in this boat?” as I eyed the full bar, ice chest and glassware.

Den says, “Listen, just sit back and relax. Harley’s mixed us up a batch of margaritas. Turn that music knob up and be quiet. Remember this trip’s on us.”

“Here’s to it” and I took my first sip as we settled into some crazy and dumb conversation.

Hour later. Time seemed to blend from then on. Pulled off Route 9, otherwise known as “the Airline,” to the Beddington Road and then to “Stud Mill” Road, one of Maine’s major log-hauling arteries. Five miles and we swing into the public campground on Machias Stream.

Five fishermen from New York were sitting around a small campfire. Hardly looked up as we roll in. Limos in New York so common as to not make an impression in the North Maine woods. Later that evening, one wandered over and mumbled something about taking up too much room. Then, not waiting for a reply, turned abruptly and walked back to their campfire.

Day was beautiful. Bright sun dancing the tops of wind riffles as we unwound through the back door.

Unloaded gear as Harley mixed up another batch of margaritas. Poured three shoulder hung thermoses full. We unsheathed rods, pulled on insulated waders. Harley, as I soon learned would take care of setting up camp as well as cooking and bartending. Half hour later, we divvied up the stream. Me and Den going north, Del staying put. We hadn’t walked 30' but Del lets out a hoot. We stop, turn around and watch as a beautiful trout, full of winter’s pent up hibernation comes screaming off the bottom, rockets into the air, and proceeds to give Del a workout. Swam around rocks, closed in on snags, leaped across the top, doing anything he could to shake off this unforgiving fly embedded in his lower jaw. Finally netting, Del holds it just out of the water for us to see, then releases to fight another day.

Den chuckles, “Well, I guess that bar’s been set.” We start working our way upstream.

There’s a place on the stream normally about 75' wide known as Magoon’s Pool, and, depending on water flow, usually quite shallow. I wade to the opposite shore. Neither would be casting over fished water. Fishing light rods, wouldn’t need a large area. Banks of Machias Stream are pretty much grown in with budding alders and with the exception of a few places, we’d have to wade and cast.

For the last year or so I’d been using just one fly pattern on different hook sizes for various fish. Friend of mine, Dennis Smith, code named “Rexfish,” had developed the pattern in an evening of inspiration or desperation, we never could determine. Couldn’t tell if he’d had too much to drink or a severe upset stomach. He and I had used it for both wet and dry. Thrown them at Bass, Trout, Pickerel, Atlantic and Landlocked Salmon. Few fish could let it swim by. Confusion or hunger. Wish I knew. Dubbed it the “Ugly Fly.” My secret weapon. Den nor Del knew anything about it.

We worked the deepholes and backwaters of ice age boulders and streamside when possible. Enjoyed the warm sun of spring, relishing thoughts of the week to come. Mosquitos and blackflies were thick.Wanted their pint of blood, but with plenty of “Deep Woods Off” they were survivable. Fish were biting well and the “ugly fly” was doing it’s usual attraction thing. Lot of 8" trout with an occasional 12" to 14." I could see Den was having some problems. He’d get a fish on, then get into a tangle and spend another 20 minutes getting straightened out. He’d have a taste of margarita, then growl over “What you usin’ for a fly?”

I’d mumble something unintelligible and wave. He’d go back to fishing and do the same thing again. Finally, I looked over and Den was standing there in the stream taking his reel apart. He had his hat off, rod stuck in waders, hat holding parts. Looked like he might be losing a few parts in the process. I watched in amusement as he put it all back together again. He peeled off some line, made a few casts, payed out line from the coils in his left hand. What appeared to be a good size fish nailed his dry fly. Den switches the rod to his left hand, carefully pays out what line he has left, still plays the fish and then starts to reel it in. Nothing. Fish and line start heading downstream. Den reels. Won’t retrieve. Fish heads downstream even faster as colored backup line peels off the reel. Den’s trying to grab it. Finally stumbles ashore, lays the rod down, gets a hold on the line and starts to pull it in hand over hand. Didn’t much more than get the slack out before the line comes taut.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur