Limo for a 4X4

Part II in a Series

I couldn’t fish. Couldn’t breathe for laughing. Had to sit down on the nearest boulder and watch. Could just imagine what he was saying. Finally he stops, looks over and starts laughing as well. We toast each other across the stream. Then, he takes the line and ties what’s left around a rock and begins following it downstream, slipping, swearing and laughing from boulder to deep hole to snag. Now he’s half swimming, bobbling along, trying to hold the line as the current picks up speed at the end of the pool. Careening off one situation to the next, he starts to fetch up and I see him struggling to stand. By this time I’m walking along the shore trying to get abreast.

“C’mere,” he gurgles and waves.

I wade towards him. Slip. Go under. Brace on a rock and come up standing about 6' away.

“There he is, just down from you. Behind that birch log. One with the beaver marks.”

I look. Can’t see a thing. Go to feel for my glasses. Gone. Lost in the tumble. See them bobbing a few feet away. Then it’s Den’s turn to laugh.

“One of my contacts has shifted. I can see the fish. How far away is it?”

I retrieve my glasses and hat which had come off at the same time.

“Work the line over.”

“Can’t, my foot’s caught”

Beginning to get interesting.

“I’m coming over. Pass me the line.”

“Okay, careful now.”

“You stay there.”

“Can’t do anything else. No choices.”

Feeling the bottom best I could with water-filled waders, edged over beside him, then fingered a good line grip. Felt along to where fish was wrapped around the birch log. Slow, gently, found free line on other side of log and work this tired trout to arm’s reach. Put my fingers around his gills. Slide fish knife from sheath, one Dad painted blaze orange years ago, and cut the line. Kept death grip on fish. Unbutton top few buttons of shirt with other hand. Hook still in its mouth, slide fish inside shirt. Mr. Trout would not be swimming home that evening.

Look back at Den. He’s standing. Hat gone. Water running off and around him. Now of all things, he’s trying to work contact back into his eye.

“Den, for chrissake wait till I get you ashore.”

He turns. Looks at me. Blinks. Smiles that half sided, crooked grin. “Aaaah that’s better. Now I can see.”

Alternately tugging, then prying with a fair share of flailing and swearing, occasionally breaking for an obscene chuckle, we free Den’s foot from rock and log. Relieved, stand to catch our breath. Laugh with leftover energy. Take a few minutes to steady breathing, few to relive the moment, few more to decide we need to collect whats left of our gear, start downriver.

Den works more than slow upstream, best he can do for moment while winding line on one hand. I stagger towards far side. Try to quiet this thrasher beating my stomach. Wished I’d taken time to remove the fly. Have some nasty welts and a bloody shirt by time I’d grab the alders.

Bankside, dry land finally. Pulled shirt open. Removed fly, line, fish, and blooded shirt. Lay this handsome creature of God’s handiwork amongst other relatives in canvas creel. Equipment in order, short rest, drop down to wading spot and an easier wade across. We sit for another breather. Remainder of Harley’s “Mexican Green” toasted away.

Wet and stiff, sun on ebbing path, slow and deliberate pace, we head downstream to campsite. Del’s kneeling by the stream, cleaning his catch. Looks up as we slosh beside him and stop.

“What in hell have you two been up to now?” as he eyeballs Den’s swelling face, my bloody shirt.

Den tries to grin as he says, “Explain later once we get these fish cleaned and freshen up.”

“Now Buddy.... where’s my fish?”

Opening creel, I poured the half dozen or so into the grass and said, “Take your pick.”

“Well,” Den says, “Well, it must have been the biggest one. I’ll take that one. Oh and by the way. Remind me to take another reel tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll take two, just to be safe.”

We walk. Might better say, “limp,” 50 yards or so up stream bank to campsite. Sun dropping fast. Not so fast, however, we can’t stop to admire Harley’s handiwork setting up camp. Two tents. Huge tarp strung over white-clothed table set for four. Gator unloaded and parked. With a looksee into tents, saw he’d unloaded and set out our gear as well. Den and me would tent together. Harley and Delvin same. Glasses sat beside tall pitcher of martinis cooling. Two bottles of rare French Sauvignon Blanc shared, another bucket along with bottles of PBR. Agreed PBR’s would be best course of action as we skun out of wet, slimey clothes. Harley offered warm water showers from Sunshower bladder. Fresh clothes offered new beginnings.

Could readily see that Del and Den hadn’t skimped on the tucker box. Dinner that evening was Steak au Poivre, cottage fries and fresh asparagus followed by a cheese plate. Enjoyed a delightful Pinot Noir with the steak and afterward sipped port wine with the cheese and dark chocolate somethings around dying embers of a campfire. Talked. Retold old war stories. Struggled to keep day going ’til eyelids closed for minutes at a time. Profound statements ending in mid-telling or trailed off in gibberish. Kept kicking one another to wake up.

Finally I say to Delvin, “Del, if Harley’s a painter, he’s sure missed his calling. I vote we keep him.”

I give Harley a thumbs up, slowly stand out of my camp chair, shake Den and we toddle off to our tent. Manage crawling into bedrolls, clothes and all. No reading that night to find sleep.

Dawn broke as a warm Downeast sun filled tent with light, competing with tantalizing aroma of Harley’s fresh coffee, baking biscuits, and bacon. Me and Den spend a few minutes in “deep discussion” of yesterday as we make our way out of bedrolls and tent.

“Well,” Den says, as he looks over at Harley who’s setting the table again, minus tablecloth. “Well isn’t it nice to be alive today.”

Harley looks up, looks Den all over and says, “Den, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say someone had beat the hell out of you. You do look lucky to be alive.”

“Lemme get my contacts in so I can see too.”

Face looked like someone only a mother could love and one that needed mother’s care.

With fresh-air fueled appetite, breakfast of biscuits and strawberry jam, fried eggs, home fries, Dutch cheese, smoked salmon and bacon dispatched, I broached the subject of what and where today. With little discussion we agreed that spending another day here would be quite in order and Harley wouldn’t have to break camp as well.

We three split up. Took various sections of the stream. Caught and released some fine fish as the morning wore on. With sun at high point we assembled just downstream from campsite on “Big Pine Rapids’’ where Harley met us with a lunch of cold trout, steak sandwiches, red potato salad and staple beverage, cold PBRs. Not a care in the world but to replace devoured trout for tonight’s dinner and find some fiddlehead greens to accompany. Thoughts that a cloud in the sky was not to be seen, sailed right over and by. “Bluebird” days in Maine, often pre-cursor of an approaching storm, are few and far between. Generally carry a price tag. Tonight would be no different.

We fished over and around each other for the remainder of the afternoon. Picked enough succulent fiddleheads to share with the NewYorkers who we figured had never heard of them, took two stroke swims in frigid water to cool off, beat each other up with wisecracks. Laughed like a trio of schoolkids playing hooky.

Dinner that night was a repeat Harley performance. Elegant cold and shaken vodka martinis for the cocktail hour. “Brook trout au Vin Blanc,” steamed rice, fiddleheads and warmed biscuits from the morning breakfast for dinner. All complimented by a spectacular Pinot Grigio. Then, as a final groaner, warm apple pie and clotted cream followed by cigars and a delightful Spanish port streamside as we watched a thumbnail moon work it’s way off the clear, blue tinged, horizon.

Our barely decipherable New York neighbor had stopped over for one of his brief dialogues as we had gotten up from the table. Thanked us for the fiddleheads, which Den in one of his memorable moments had tried to tell them how to prepare. I managed to catch just one word, “...weather...” in the mumbles. Passed it off as something about the great weather we’d had that day.

Somewhere around three AM, my anointed hour of wakefulness, it started. First the wind. Then drops. Big drops. Like BB’s hitting the canvas. Followed immediately by sheets of water as if a Machias Stream diverted skyward were dumped on our campsite. Lightning flashes competed for attention with horrendous claps of thunder as the water continued to come down. Wind shook the tent as hard as I well remember third grade teacher, Miss Robbins, shaking me for not paying attention in class. Den never missed a beat. Continued to snore the storm away.

By early light and a steady drizzle still gracing the dacron fly cover, stuck my head out to survey the damage. Tents had stayed in place, but neatly arranged portable table with overhanging fly tarp were nowhere in evidence. Chairs were blown into the alders. Garbage can had rolled toward the stream leaving a not to be mistaken trail of refuse, and the canoe, now sitting upright by the limo, was full of water. Wasn’t long but what we had rousted foul weather gear from our packs, pulled on waders, and cleared up the mess as Harley managed to get the Coleman stove going for coffee. Camp yard was a mass of dead leaves and river bottom mud.

“Well,” Den says,“Well, what are we gonna do for fun today, boys?”

Silence settled in for a minute. Finally Delvin spoke up. “There’s not going to be a fish in this stream even considering a fly with the water rising like it is. Let’s head up for Grand Lake Village, spend the night at Reever’s Lodge. Rain lets up we can head over to Elsemere Landing tomorrow for some landlocked salmon. Give us a chance to visit with Raymond and Beryl. Harley’ll have a night off and enjoy some of Beryl’s fine dining.”

Sounded as good a plan as any, seeing as how it was the only one put forth. Even Den had nothing to say.

We slogged around, breaking camp, rounding up the blownaways, loaded the canoe, cleaning up as best we could. Harley threw a towel over the drivers seat, got in, and started the limo. Let her warm up as we three proceeded to direct his next move. Limo, naturally enough, was parked facing the trees with trailer and gator behind. He’d have to back and turn before we could head out. With that long a vehicle, mud, and a short tongued trailer going would be tricky at the least.

“Come back slow,” Del says, as Harley slips the monster into reverse and steps lightly on the gas pedal.

Limo and entourage travel about two yards over the only dry ground and then start to spin. Tires designed for macadam were no match for the encountered goo of which this campsite had become.

“Well,” Den says, “Well, what do we do now?”

Council of war and we proceeded to do one of brighter things we’d do that day. Unloaded gator, unhooked trailer and pushed it to the side. Wound several tent lines together to form a stout line and hooked one end to back of gator, same to the limo. Limo in reverse, Del driving gator, mud flying in all directions (Mainly coating back of the limo), they managed to slew the limo back and sideways enough to go forward. Del then hooked on limo front, slew that around to at least get headed in the right direction. From memory I knew this would probably be the easy part. “Passage” in from Stud Mill road was no “fourlane.” It was laced with minor sloughs, rocks, small rises and narrow. Passable on good days, often a challenge for anything shy of a high bodied 4x4 on bad. But, we had a plan. Come “hell or high water,” appropriate term, we’d be in Grand Lake village that night for dinner.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur