Me & Den Fishing in a Limo, Part VI

In twenty minutes it’s over. We’ve followed the hatch to stream’s mouth, throwing keepers ashore as we stumbled through the water hastening over and around boulders and snags. We’re shaking. Adrenalin slowly wears down as each tries to tell of casts and plays, thrashes around rocks. There’s laughter at mishaps, retying another dry fly on and forgetting to trim the line and still catching, 6 inches of monofilament line hanging from the trout’s mouth and trying to get the hook out. Del’s completely soaked from slipping off a rock. Wonder he hadn’t hurt himself. Den has another contact worked up in his left eye and he’s kind of walking sideways. Del goes for his brandy flask. Liquid therein soon destroyed amongst us. We work our way back upstream in the fading light to collect the fish.

A thumbnail moon has climbed over the trees to the south as we motored in to the campground. Trip down the thorofare had been uneventful but slow as we watched for rocks and picked our way along. As he’d done every night for us, there were good smells wafting over the water and down on the landing from Harley’s cookstove and fire. Only tonight, and added to the welcome, were sounds of fiddles, guitars, banjos and a concertina. Bluegrass. Bluegrass music. A group of Bluegrass players had pitched camp for the weekend. Fun in the air. Could be a fun evening.

We pulled the canoe onto the sand, clambered out and while Del and I toted the daily gear up the bluff to the campsite, Den commenced to clean the fish. Harley filled us in on the afternoon happenings with the bluegrassers and I took a perfect manhattan back to Den along with an ice cold martini on the rocks for myself. We sat for a minute on the gunnel of the canoe and talked. Seemed like we’d been away from home for a month.

“Christ, I hate to go back to Thibideau’s,” he said. “I’ve got to find somewhere else to push pills. I can’t continue working in a place that’s so screwed up. Somethin’s gonna happen. And maybe someone’s gonna get hurt. I don’t want to be there when it does. My pharmacy license is at stake.”

“Leave.”

“I’m goin’ to. I’m giving notice Monday.”

“What’ll you do.”

“I’ll stay in drugs. Maybe find a spot in Ellsworth. There’s a new chain coming in. I can probably get a position there. After this week, I don’t want to be miserable. Life’s too short. Besides, you and I’ve got water left to thrash.”

I chuckled as we started up the bank.

Athian Lewey, 85 years old, Grand Lake, 1898. Birch bark canoe in foreground. Fishing jug in foreground of canoe. Lapstrake Grand Lakes canoe in background. Photographed at West Grand Lake near Grand Lake Stream Plantation. Maine Historical Society photo

“Next time you’re bringing some real eyeglasses, and I’m gonna tie em’ around your neck with double knots.”

Bluegrass was in the air. Must have been at least ten RV’s, tents, or tagalong trailers set up with two or three groups gathered. Musicians playing at one, then moving to another. All playing and singing the old songs. The three of us freshened our drinks and worked our way around the campground while Harley finished dinner. Joined in singing a few numbers. Least Den and Del did. I couldn’t carry a tune in a basket, nor remember the names of tunes. Just enjoyed listening. Both Den and Del could play and Del had had his own bands over the years.

Den did a little jig to a polka and I could see he was beginning to warm up to the evening. Not long before Harley collared us for dinner and we’d sat down at the long wooden picnic table with carved ancient initials and “Joe loves Mary ’96” with an arrow thru the hearts covered by a checkered table cloth. Where Harley kept coming up with these menus I could never figure.

Tonight, our last on the trip, was one we’d all been waiting for. Loved everything Harley’d prepared during the week; however, this was the finale and the standing ovation and we did stand at attention as he set the pail of bean-hole baked beans on the table and with a flourish lifted the lid away.

Now, as most New Englanders of old stock know, there are baked beans and there are baked beans and then there are “BEAN-HOLE BEANS.” Harley, just after we’d left in the morning, had dug a hole just outside the camping area, placed some rocks in the bottom and built a fire. As the wood burned down to just the right degree, he set the cast iron pot with prepared beans (“Jacob’s Cattle,” soaked overnight), salt pork, molasses, etc. on the fire and filled the hole back in with dirt. Beans had soaked up the smokey flavor as they baked all day. To say “wicked good” would have been an understatement. Accompanied by Rice’s “red” hot dogs, slaw, “county style” potato salad and Harley’s inimitable, feathery soft biscuits, and washed down with cold PBR’s, we proceeded to make “oinkers” of ourselves. Meals of this olympian manner come along only once every few years and deserve great honor. Harley was done proud. I wasn’t sure we’d manage to stand after. Fresh apple pie was saved for breakfast.

For awhile we sat, hardly able to move. Minutes passed before Harley stood up. He walked over to the limo and brought back the remaining bottle of Courvoisier as a “digestif.” We laughed and toasted our extraordinary cheffer. Talked in circles of another trip, perhaps in the fall, and finally felt sufficiently able to wobble over and listen to some more fiddlin’.

Camp chairs in hand, the four of us picked out a group and sat down. By now the tempo had picked up in direct proportion to the libation consumed. This was a lively group, not remotely related to the prohibitioner beliefs of their forefathers. We sat for as long as we could stand it, limbs tappin’ and shakin’ to the beat. Den as always was first out of the gate. He grabbed an older lady by the hand, moved onto the gravel area in front of the players and commenced his version of a Virginia “whirl.” At least that’s what he called it the next day.

Wasn’t long before there were several more dancing and twirling and then more wandered over. Finally the other groups moved over and those musicians joined in or waited for someone to step aside. By now the dancing had moved onto the dirt campground road, potholes included. Both Del and Den had taken turns on guitars. Then Den on a fiddle which I hadn’t seen him play since we were kids in high school. Someone, between numbers, yelled out “time for Cajun,” and the call was then taken up by several others. “Cajun, Cajun.”

This loose-knit group, pausing only for a few seconds for the lead from one of their number, broke loose with some of Louisiana’s finest. Fiddles shrieked as banjos roared. Over and over again, the numbers peeled forth. Calls would ring out for more, and names of numbers would be shouted. No one wanted to stop until, exhausted, a few of the players took a break and the tempo slowed. Den got their attention. Kind of got them around him and I knew in a heartbeat what was coming next. “Rootin Scootin Boogie.” Den couldn’t end an evening without “Rootin Scootin Boogie,” though he usually asked for it to get a slow crowd moving.

If that didn’t get the group moving again. Off and running. No let up. Must have been at least an hour of Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Johnny Cash and contemporaries as time passed three. Players had begun to retire to respective campsites. Lights were doused as the final trio played

Four weary warriors made their way to the picnic table.

“Well now”, Den says, “Well now, that was some endin’ for some kind of a week.

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur