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ON THE DEATH OF AN OLD FAMILY FRIEND
By John Clark
When you marry, you gain more than a partner. You acquire new relatives,
different ways of thinking, new customs, and family celebrations. All of
these are more or less expected parts of a new blended life. If you are
lucky, you get some unexpected things as well. I gained new realms to
explore—hunting and fishing through parts of Maine that had previously been
odd names on a topographic map.
I got in the habit of sitting on the front steps with my father-in-law. He
would talk about catching trout in a spot a couple miles in from a
particular tote road or trolling for salmon just before dusk with a Rangely
spinner below a certain dam. As we watched the setting sun creep across the
hill on the other side of the road, I would share my own memories of
fly-fishing the Carrabassett River with my father before it was lined with
ski chalets, and trout were still plentiful enough to be fooled by
eight-year-old boys. I’d reminisce about the gold nugget my grandfather
found while fishing the north branch of the Dead River and how my father
would hike nine miles into Spencer Stream to catch monster trout. These were
companionable moments interspersed with the cry of hawks and the beckoning
sounds of floatplanes on their way to Moosehead Lake.
I began to explore some of these inherited realms, sometimes alone,
sometimes with my wife or my friends. There was something magic about wading
down the middle of a stream, automatically casting streamer flies while lost
in thought. Sometimes those moments would be pleasantly interrupted by the
sharp tug of a hungry trout or the wary gaze of a deer caught in the act of
drinking. By the end of the day, my body would be tired and my soul
recharged.
Certain spots began to acquire their own lore: the overgrown blueberry field
where a bear was surprised while eating grubs from an anthill; the
streamside trail where a mother hawk maintained her uneasy vigil until
satisfied that we were uninterested in her hatchlings; the remote pond where
moose and deer ambled through the shallows together, completely indifferent
to our presence; the springhole where I suddenly found myself chest deep in
frigid water while ice fishing. Each became a part of a blended heritage to
be shared with my children while sitting on front steps and listening to the
sounds of summer.
One August, while fishing one of my inherited streams, I dangled a fly in a
small pool below the remnants of a long destroyed mill. The spot had often
rewarded me with dinner. To my astonishment, a huge brook trout swam out of
the jumble of old millwork to eye my offering. After looking it over with
the contemptuous experience of troutlike wisdom, he turned gracefully and
swam back into the rocky den from where he had come. I was stunned. In years
of fishing this brook, nothing of this size had ever shown itself, nor had
there ever been a hint a fish this big existed. Numerous attempts with
different flies resulted in a couple curtain calls but nary a nibble. I
returned home to share my adventure. Over the rest of the season, I returned
several times. Each time my mammoth friend would emerge, eye my offering,
and grandly swim back to his rocky hideaway. His pool was so small and his
length so long that he had to use the entire pool to turn around. One
evening just before the season closed, I brought my wife Beth with me, and
she was treated to a command performance complete with a tentative nibble on
the evening’s offering.
Summer slipped into fall, fishing was replaced by duck hunting, and then by
deer hunting. Winter brought holiday gatherings where I shared the story of
my mammoth friend with those “from away.” Ice fishing became the prime
weekend activity, with slow periods filled by meals cooked over outdoor
fires and everyone remembering fishing tales from past seasons. More than
once I shared the story of my friend, and we all wondered how such a large
fish had come to live in such a small pool.
As winter faded into spring, Maine experienced what was to become known as
the 500-Year Flood. Heavy rains rapidly ate away the snow cover, creating
torrents where small rivulets had been just the day before. River towns were
evacuated, and it seemed like entire forests were rushing madly under
bridges. The events surrounding the flooding and the safety of loved ones
erased all thoughts of my friend.
When spring once more passed its mantle of green to summer, I returned to
the stream. As I approached the old mill site, I was saddened at the changes
brought by the flood. Pools I had fished for years were unrecognizable, with
rocks pushed far downstream. The remains of the old mill were gone. After an
hour of fishing in every possible spot, I realized my friend was gone.
Smaller fish still lurked among the nearby rocks, but the big trout was just
a memory to be shared with friends and family on summer afternoons when the
siren song of floatplanes fill the skies.
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2008 Wolf Moon Desk Calendar
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