Me & Den
Fishing in a Limo, Part IV

We woke that morning, sun drenching the white painted rooms, refreshed and looking forward to three more days of fishing . Weather report sounded encouraging. Enjoyed a huge sportsman breakfast of omelets, pancakes, cured, ham and fresh fruit. Doctor and his friend the stock broker had been up for sometime. Guess they would as leave have given up that pile of cash for the good night’s sleep we enjoyed. Limo seats are comfortable for driving, confining for sleeping. Wondered if they kept each other awake with snoring.

Harley, always thinking ahead, had arranged for a local mechanic to try and straighten the front axle and re-attach the fender while we three gave some flies a workout on Grand Lake stream. Plan was to set up camp that night over at one of our longtime favorite campsites, Elsemore Landing, and fish the surrounding lakes by canoe for the remainder of the trip.

We pulled on damp waders, worse for yesterday’s adventure, with probable leaks, geared up and walked down through the picturesque little town of Grand Lake to the fish hatchery. We’d started late and many of the pools were already being fished. However, as the morning wore on and the clearing Northwest wind had begun to drop we’d slipped cordially into the lineup. This was the famous spring scene for Landlocked Salmon which any fly fisherman who chases salmon has attended at least once in their lives. Two runs a year, one in spring when cold moves out and one in the fall before cold moves back in.

We had some good action. Del, after working Middle Pool had moved to the rapids just below. His third cast, with line streaming overhead in magnificent curls, had settled his fly in the deadwater just behind a large boulder. Salmon made an unholy strike as it touched the water. Nice fish. Looked like it would clear a good two feet. With sure steady play and pull, Del worked the fish in. Was a play to warm the cockles of a fly fisherman’s heart. Perfect choreography as he finally led the fish into his net. Onlookers, sitting or standing on the bank gave Del a cheer, then clapped again as he held the fish up just long enough for me to snap a picture, then held it head on in the fast flowing water as we ran a quick check on it’s length.... “24 3/4”. Perfect size and a memorable fighter. Del, waded into the stream a few more feet, keeping the fish tenderly in his hands to make sure it was breathing well. This was catch and release at it’s finest. Tribute to both Del and his fish.

Between us, by mid afternoon, we’d caught and released eight beautiful fish. Even caught Den with the movie camera as he, in his own inimitable way worked a fish from strike to landing. More laughs from the bank audience than oohs and aahs. Played out with a great grin and bow from Den as he swept his hat into the water and back on his head.

By then, Harley had come picking his way down the bank. He’d stopped by Delvin, working back upstream, and informed him the limo had been repaired as best the mechanic could do on short notice. He whistled and waved to me and Den as I was just releasing a fish. We walked to the hatchery where Harley had parked, pulled off wet waders, and enjoyed a couple of ice cold PBR’s and some cold chicken sandwiches Harley had managed to prepare while waiting for the limo. We finally slid into the back seats as Harley engineered the limo with gator trailer onto Grand Lake Stream road headed for the campground.

Surprisingly it was almost deserted. Short order, with the four of us working together, we managed to put together a fairly presentable campsite, knowing full well that Harley would add his fine touches later. With the blessing of Harley, I pulled my waders back on, tied on ugly fly with another as dropper and walked over to marsh cove. See if I couldn’t win the hearts of a few bass to grace table as Bass Chowder. Now I love to fish, have ever since Dad the Doctor had passed me my first bait casting rod at the lake where sister Suzanne and I caught smallmouth Bass by the pailfulls. Size aside, they’re still responsible for a good adrenaline rush with that first strike. Twice that evening I had two tuck on at the same time. All were a good bit north of 12”. By the time I had the second of that scene ashore, and with line so tangled had to cut it off and tie anew, the one fly was enough. Dropper had to go. These bass couldn’t get enough of the “ugly” fly. Wasn’t long but what I had a decent string.

On a flat rock, I fileted out the white flesh for Harley’s chowder and walked back up the bank . Den and Del were just waking from naps as I passed the filets to the smiling “chef of all trades” who in turn took my request for a Vodka martini, dry, straight up, shaken, rocks on the side, twist of lime skin.

With great and prolonged discussion during the cocktail hour, and Den’s Perfect Manhattans the evening’s libation, we managed to argue down the next day’s strategy. Consensus we’d take the canoe and cooler, head on up into Big Lake, spend the day, and try for some of the big lake trout noised about at the general store. Stories of their size this year were causing intermittent bursts of pitterpatter in heart region.

Harley, Lord love him, had outdone himself again. We sat down to a magnificent Bass chowder seasoned perfectly with salt pork scruncions and a touch of black pepper. Main course was chicken Francais, saffron scented risotto, fiddleheads with Hollandaise sauce, sided by hot biscuits and Kate’s butter. I was beginning to plot how I could lure this guy from Del’s boatyard to mine. Oh, and he finished all this up with semi-frozen vanilla ice cream, chocolate sauce and a splash of Bailey’s to top. Watching the moon come up that evening didn’t begin to show on the agenda. It was into the tents and dead before Harley’d had time to wash the first dishes.

With the canoe launched, 15 hp. Johnson secure on the stern, gear loaded and a substantial breakfast of oatmeal, pancakes, coffee and bacon under our belts, we pushed off from the sandy beach and began fishing our way to the northwest, up Pocumcus lake and into Junior Bay, then out on the famous West Grand Lake. Me and Den had enjoyed a number of good fishing trips up in this country, staying in various lake campgrounds. From any of these sites we’d have canoe access to Scraggly, Junior, Mud, Keg and with a short portage, in to Syslodopsis. Fishing could be tricky, but there always seemed to be something biting whatever time of year.

We rigged fairly heavy gear to go deep for the lake trout, setting up two outriggers with trolling rods and leaving another lighter rod in a holder to work about 20’ down if a wayward salmon might be enticed. I’d also tied the “Ugly” to a streamer pattern to see if the deep denizens would possess similar taste preferences to their shallower brethren. I’d quietly rigged one of the deep rods. We weren’t long in finding out.

There was a delightful, leftover northwest chop that morning. Sun was in full glory as we worked our way up and then into West Grand. A short half hour passed before the port downrigger, one with the Ugly fly, let loose. Line a’screaming. Den grabbed the starboard rod and passed it forward to Del who began reeling in while I took the shallow rigged rod and did the same. Den lifted remaining rod and held the fish in position as best he could. We wanted a clear field of play with no interference for whoever was working the fish.

I put the motor in neutral soon as we hooked up and with plenty of open water around shut it down. Del, after reeling in the starboard rod had picked up the movie camera and commenced taping the battle. This was not a small fish. Den had tightened the drag and still the fish would scream out line on a run. Words like “Judas” and “wicked” floated about as Den would give him a little slack on the run then reel in as the fish gave back. Back and forth the contest ran. Den gaining some line, working the fish up aways, then losing ground.

“Den, you sure you haven’t snagged a stump or something” I said with a laugh.

“Well”, He says, “Well, if it is a stump, it’s sure as hell got an outboard driving it.”

Pump and reel, pump and reel. Den’s enjoying every minute of it when, suddenly, the reel begins to lose interest in this first struggle of the day, decides it’s already had enough and tries to quit the scene. Out of Den’s hand it spins, up against the first line guide as the fish decides to turn in our direction. Den plunges for the reel and in the midst of this adrenalin rush, instead of connecting, manages to knock it against the gunnel where it catches for an instant in one of those forever remembered slow motion scenes and tumbles, splashing and bobbling, over the side and out of sight. He looks back at me. A look of “well, what do we do now” on his face. I’m as dumbstruck. Line picks up speed again, run through the rod still held tight in his left hand. Del keeps the camera running.

I edge forward from my seat by the motor and grab the line.

“Eeeiyah” I grunt, as the playing line runs through my hand and brings the blood. I grab the boat sponge to wipe it away as line continues to surge away from the canoe.

“Del, pass Lee your bandana”, which Del unties with his free hand and passes to Den. I reach for it, dislodging Den’s unhooked tackle box which spills onto the canoe floor. I wrap the red bandanna tightly as possible around the still flying line and squeeze. At least we’ve managed to slow this monster down. Sticky red blood begins to soak the wet bandanna.

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

I look over the side. Reel is nowhere to be seen. Drag must have been kicked on free spool at the gunnel as it tumbled over.

With Den holding the rod for dear life and Del thinking he’s got a winner for “Wide World Of Fishing”, it’s left for me to figure a way out of another ridiculous situation.

Not daring to tie or loop the free line around anything solid for fear of a quick jerk and snapped line by the fish, I reach into my pocket and retrieve another bandanna, slip this over the line and wrap it over and around my right finger and pass the line from my left with the bloody bandanna to Den who takes it in his right hand and holds on as best he can. Not an easy task with blood dripping and water flying. I reach over the side, wash some of the blood away, get my right hand around the free line and pulling it into the boat by coiling it carefully over the end of a paddle. Den can do little but hold the fish and trying to keep line away from the canoe and motor.

Minutes pass in slow motion. Tension and concentration could be sliced with a knife. Suggestions quietly passed.

Coil by coil, line around the paddle.

Del breaks the spell, “Can’t you guys hurry this up? Battery’s goin’ down.”

“Turn it off for a while,” Den says.

“Hell no, I might miss something.”

Reel finally breaks surface. Holding it tantalizingly close beside the canoe, I gingerly reach over the side and pull it into the canoe, jamming it to the floor.

“Pass the butt back. I’ll try to get the reel on.”

I’d no more than got the words out when as Den was turning, the line slips from his right hand and again starts to run out as fish decides he’s got a second chance and best make the most of it.

I lunge forward, try to grab the dancing reel which has a mind of it’s own and plows through the overturned tacklebox, picking up line, flies, pliers and plugs in it’s path. Tangled mess follows. Del is leaning over Den with camera grinding. Finally I catch the reel on a passby and hold on. Time stops again.

Nothing to do now, but cut the rat’s nest tangle out.

With reel now firmly anchored back on the rod, and fish end of the line tied around Den’s wrist, I’m able to tie the line back onto the reel and free Den’s hand so he can begin again to work the fish toward the canoe. No question this was a big fish. By now Den had played off most of it’s energy and it was surrendering to the fight. Den maneuvered it to a clear shot for “Wide World” as I kept net under. Keeping rod tip out he slipped to the left and countered my weight.

Slow and careful, giving orders to Den, “Reel....Hold....Slow now....Towards me...little bit more..Hold right there”, I slid the net under the fish’s tail in one sweep and and. Like trying to hoist a pair of cement blocks. Hardly move.

“Den, I’ve got him now! I’m shifting back to center. You come too. Grab the end of the net. When I say we’ll roll him in.”

Del got a tape measure from the mess on the floor and we wasted no time recording the Lake Trout’s length and girth. Removed the “lovely ugly” fly from it’s huge mouth, weighed it as best as we could, then with Den at it’s head and me on the tail, set it back in the water. We waited. Den trys to move some water into it’s mouth with one hand while I gently manipulate it’s tail. Few minutes there’s movement. Tail starts and big “Togue” responds. Body slowly begins to twist. Swims away. Heads down.

We sat back. Noone spoke. Not even Den. Drained. I finally started the motor and idled out a ways to where it had all started. Shut down again.

Finally Den says, “Well”, He says, “Well now, that was quite a little adventure.”, in just about the most awestruck tone of voice I’d ever expected to hear from him.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur