Me & Den
Fishing in a Limo, Part III

Gator ahead, longer rope borrowed from New Yorkers, Del and Harley worked the limousine over an ancient stream bank where both vehicles had started spinning in loose gravel and black mud. Had to cut brush for traction under the wheels, and by pushing, lifting, getting plastered by mud spewing from tires, we finally moved both to a relatively flat stretch.

Few buckets of water splashed across windshield before Harley’s face appeared and then a few more over Den before we could see both. With better gravel footing, Harley tells Del to take the gator and go well ahead of the limo and take up slack so’s he’d get a runnin’ start for the next rise. Problem was, there was a small lake from the storm before the rise. Harley started slow as he could, accelerating gently until he was making a fair turn of speed. Waves were rollin’ as he was fast approaching the rise, not considering the “lake,” easily traveled by the gator might hold a few surprises. Muffled crunch and a grind, limo comes to a shuddering stop and water starts swirling up over the bumpers.

“Well,” Den says, “Well, that’s too bad, what we gonna do now?”

Untying gator, Del slowly maneuvers around back of limo. Kneeling, I fish a line around trailer hitch. Using a couple of stout alders, me and Den pry up on the front axle, managing to shake the limo off the rocks as Del applies pressure with the gator and Harley throws more mud and water.

Feeling the way by foot, we locate the road. Gator again in lead, we get the limo across. More churning, grinding, prying, mud, branches cut and placed, sticks flying, we get within striking distance of Stud Mill Road. Tiny light bulb in our collective, water soaked brain finally blinks. “Walk to the road! Walk to the road!! Stop a truck or 4WD. Ask for help!!”

Den, by popular demand, is elected to go while we continue the struggle. Maybe 20 yards gained when he comes back with the sorriest looking ¾ ton pickup anyone in right mind could imagine. Body held together with ancient rust. One rear fender gone, sporting a rear window with few remaining shards of glass. No front bumper. Den steps down from the running board, opens the driver’s door and introduces Scott and son, Scott Jr. These two looked like we’d no doubt look after a week of “fine living.” Scruff beards, clothes that looked like they’d been discarded from “Good Will” and washed at least four weeks previous. Both exuded a distinct odor, even in that falling rain, of grease, woodsmoke, bugspray, and cheap whiskey.

“You boys wouldn’t have something to ease the dryness?” says Scott the junior. “We’ve been working since three this morning and we drank all we had last night.”

I looked at Delvin. He looked at Den. Den winked at Harley in the limo and Harley, driest of our lot and hoping to remain so, got the message and squeezed through inside window to the bar. Returns with a bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon and passes it out the window. Den has no chance to ask if this might suit their needs before long arm of Scott the elder reaches over and in one magnificent sweep unscrews the top, brings it to his lips, takes a mighty swallow and passes it along to Scott the younger who takes his share.

The younger breathes, “My that’s mighty fine stuff. Would you fellers care for a touch?”

“Well,” Den allows, “Well, we might could just do with a short one, course we wouldn’t want to take anything away from you fellows.”

“Okay,” says the elder, as he takes bottle back from the younger and proceeds to take it down another swig before returning it to the younger who does the same. Bottle now showing some wear.

Delvin, whose eyes I thought would be washed away by the rain, they were sticking out so far, could only whisper... “Godfrey Daumonds.”

“Well,” Den says, “Well, what do you think we should do now?”

Scott the elder peers over at him under heavy-lidded eyes and says, “Well sonny, we’d better get this creation out to the road like you wanted. What “thehellandgodamned” is this anyhow? I never seen nothin’ like it before.”

Short order, Scotts had fastened a logging chain around the front axle on the driver’s side and towed the limo out to Stud Mill Road with the only minor problems (or so we thought) of a bent up fender and busted headlight. True to North Maine Woods tradition, they’d take no money but “just possibly might be interested” in another bottle of that “bird” whiskey if we had “another drop.” Harley, through the back door at this point, produces a bottle of Famous Grouse Scotch and passes it to Scott the younger who remarks that he just might have to go into raising birds for a living. He’s opening the bottle for a “taste” as we say good bye and many thanks.

Running the gator back for the trailer, we hook that on the limo while Harley wipes off mud from limo windows. We load the gator, check the gear, secure canoe on limo roof, strip out of our muddy clothing, change into something fresher: two loghaulers go by, and we get plastered all over again. Give up, crawl inside, head the caravan up Grand Lake Road, and pass around a victory bottle of Crown Royal: Scott-style.

“Harley, how come this thing is crabbing to the left?” yells Delvin. Had to yell cause Harley sits so far ahead of us.

“Those guys must have jerked the axle forward when they pulled us over that last rock,” he yells back. “If I drive slow, I think we can make it okay.”

I’m thinking “We’ve got 30 miles to go and it’s already 3 o’clock.”

Five o’clock, fender flopping, we crab up the driveway and park in the field beside Reever’s Inn. Ride over from Third Machias had been an adventurous one for Harley. With the big limo driving at an angle, she’d taken up more than her share of the road. Added to this unique configuration was the gator trailer with it’s own rhythm as Harley’d pull over real quick for the double bottom trailer trucks. There were a few damn close calls until someone must have radioed ahead to keep an eye out for us. Persevering, we made Grand Lake Village and stopped for gas at the store. Frank Lloyd, owner emeritus, leaning against the beer cooler, remarked, “You guys are famous. One day and you’re the talk of the North Country.”

Delvin went in to see Beryl and Raymond. Find out if they had room for us and a place at the table. Harley crawled under the limo to survey damage while Me and Den found a hose by the house and commenced to wash off multiple layers of various detritus.

Del was soon back. Good news and bad. Inn was full, but they’d find us table space for dinner.

No problem. We could sleep in the limo.

Being as how the little hand on the clock was easing on to six, we hurriedly cleaned ourselves up for presentability and trooped into the dining room. Out of the corner of his mouth Den says to me, “You watch this, we’ll see if we can’t get this place livened up.”

I groaned. I’d been in a lot of messes with Den and flashes of a few rolled by when we’d been asked politely to not return in this lifetime.

We no sooner get seated and served drinks than Den introduces himself to several tables.

“Hi, I’m Den and I push drugs. Wondered if any of you folks were open for a few rounds of cards later in the evening.”

Now, Reever’s Inn attracts fly fishermen from all over the world. Not only is it a first class inn, it’s also sponsored by Orvis and it’s guests are often some real heavy hitters. And the wives, often very successful fishermen in their own right, can be downright good looking.....a dangerous brew for Den who loves a good time and has this wicked wandering eye, quite amply proven by the string of past wives, live-ins, and girlfriends, all of whom still seem to adore and take care of him.

Beryl, with a twinkle in her eye and to hilarity of the guests, finally takes Den by the ear and sits him down at the table. Dinner that night was Beryl’s famous cheeseburger soup followed by a delightful baked stuffed halibut, jasmine rice, pan-seared and saute’d carrots and spring greens salad with Greek olive oil dressing finished off with a white frosted chocolate cake for a guest’s 75th birthday. True to form, Den would think of a joke, head over to a nearby table, get them in stitches, then return for the next course. Dinner finished, drinks and wine making their inroads, Den knew everyone he wanted to in this room of 20-odd diners. They were calling him by name now, and raising a glass to toast him. He was in high gear and Del, Harley and I could only wonder at what would come next. As the last piece of cheese was consumed and toasted with a fine port, Den had managed to solicit indications there’d be eight around the table for a “little fun game of poker.” Harley allowed he’d like to sit in and Del said he might sit in later. I’d never been good at cards and bowed out. Had a hard enough time getting thru math in school. Beryl had offered the use of their own shower, so Del and I took her up on the offer.

By the time we got back to the dining room, stacks of money were changing hands around the table at a fairly steady pace. In front of Den and Harley, however, the stacks of bills were a bit larger than the rest. I still couldn’t figure what Den was up to. He hardly gambled that I knew. Usually couldn’t sit still that long. And if a woman wasn’t involved, his attention span was measurably lessened. Evening wearing down, one by one the players would yawn, fold hands, give their excuses of “long day tomorrow” and exit the table. Finally, eyeing the large stacks of bills in their favor, Den, with that crooked, endearing grin and a twinkle in his eye says to the two remaining, “How’d you boys like to go double or nothing?”

“What do you have in mind?” the doctor says, eyeing Den’s stack of bills.

“Well,” Den says, “Well, we don’t have a room tonight, and Harley and I would be willing to put up this cash and a night in the limo for you two gentlemen’s rooms.”

Well, let me tell you that took a few seconds to register. Del looked over at me, kinda grinning. The light came on.

• R E C I P E •

Appalachian Cider-Baked Beans

For an ever so slight change of menu this Saturday night, try this baked bean recipe. I’m guessing the cook could sub good Maine Yelloweyes or Jacob’s Cattle for the pintos if desired.

3 cups pinto beans, rinsed and picked
3 cups fresh apple cider
8 oz. thinly sliced salt pork or bacon
2 small onions, peeled
6 T Sorghum syrup or similar
1 T dry mustard
1 t salt

Let the beans soak overnight, drain and transfer to an appropriate pot. Add cider and bring to a gentle boil uncovered and stirred occasionly, about 30 minutes. Remove from heat and drain, saving broth. Layer 4 oz. of the salt pork in the bean pot, spoon beans over. Bury the two onions and layer the other 4 ozs. of salt pork on the top. Then cook in a seperate pan, the dry mustard, syrup, salt, over low heat until salt and mustard have dissolved. About 3 minutes. Pour this over the beans, add the bean liquid with water to cover if needed. Bake at 300 deg. for 3 hours, adding water when necessary to cover. Check and cook 2 more hours if necessary. In other words, do just like you did last Saturday except with a few tweaks and minor ingredient changes. I can smell the aroma now!!

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur