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    Wild About Maine
    Wild About Maine
    Wild About Maine
    Ebook127 pages1 hour

    Wild About Maine

    By Paul Freeman Thibodeau

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Local streams in the Lincoln, Maine, area set the stage for what would become author Paul Freeman Thibodeaus lifelong passion. His father, Paul Francis Thibodeau, taught him the rudiments of fly fishing. Later in life, with increased skills and knowledge, the younger Thibodeau ventured farther afield in Penobscot County in hopes of catching larger salmon, trout, and smallmouth bass.

    In Wild about Maine, he shares tales that paint an image of the outdoorsmen, the breathtaking landscape with Mount Katahdin in the background, and the challenges of fishing in the pristine waters of the Penobscot River. This collection of stories includes anecdotes about the interaction between fishermen, the prolific fish, and the areas abundant wildlife. In The Taking of Vinegar Hill, Thibodeau tells of searching for a secret trout pond with an old friend. The Never-Ending Mouse Tale narrates a lighthearted story of sharing ones home with an unwanted furry critter.

    Inspiring, educational, and entertaining, Wild about Maine provides a look at modern-day Mainers, the states wild creatures, and the wilderness they share.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchway Publishing
    Release dateJan 2, 2014
    ISBN9781480803992
    Wild About Maine
    Author

    Paul Freeman Thibodeau

    Paul Freeman Thibodeau is a 1966 graduate of the Portland School of Fine and Applied Art. Fly fishing is Thibodeau’s second passion; when he’s not painting, each summer finds him on the Penobscot River in pursuit of Maine’s bass, trout, and salmon. The author’s art can be viewed at www.maineartinspired.com.

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      Book preview

      Wild About Maine - Paul Freeman Thibodeau

      1

      The Taking of Vinegar Hill

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      D uring a family get-together in June 2007 at Pat and Alan Lane’s home in Enfield, Alan asked me if I’d like to see a trout pond in Lowell. After a 20 minute bumpy ride along a steep winding gravel road in his aging 4-wheel pickup, we reached the pinnacle of Vinegar Hill.

      There was an old trail leading to Trout Pond around here somewhere, but I haven’t been down it for years, Lane stated as he parked the vehicle at the end of the road.

      We got out and searched along the edge of the forest and happened on an ‘ancient’ skidder trail grown-in with raspberry and blackberry canes. A couple of days later I met the 6’ 7" former college basketball player at his home once again, and after loading our tackle in his canoe in the bed of his old pickup truck, we headed for Vinegar Hill.

      As we traversed the rocky woods road, Lane once again pointed out various landmarks near the crest of the hill.

      There on the left, to the west, you can see Cold Stream Pond, and Mount Katahdin in the distance, Paul, my guide indicated as we rumbled along the rain-rutted road in the crimson truck.

      The view on that clear sunny June afternoon was incredible. A variation of greens, of the rich dark pines, the different emeralds of hardwoods, and contrasting mint-greens of poplars, covered the rolling hills towards Cold Stream Pond in the distance, and beyond. The azure sky reflected on the pond, while brilliant afternoon sunlight sparkled on the water below.

      That’s Eskutassis Pond on our right, Alan stated as we reached the hill’s plateau.

      Suddenly a sleek bird of prey flushed from the roadside vegetation just 30 yards away, and swiftly darted across the stony thoroughfare before vanishing in the sunlit forest. I wasn’t sure what type of hawk it was, but because of its size, doubted it was a Red-Tailed hawk. Most likely, because it was a medium-sized raptor with a barred tail, it was a Marsh Hawk or a Coopers Hawk, on a midday hunt.

      As Alan reached the end of the dusty road, he reversed the vehicle near the old overgrown trail. After wandering through thorny raspberry bushes and another old skidder trail, we eventually discovered the ‘most recently’ utilized woods road. A dead maple lay horizontally across that trail. After my large companion put on his green felt hat that he’d previously dipped in ‘Old Woodsman’s Fly Dope’, we loaded the 16-foot ‘Old Town’ canoe with two fly-fishing vests, spinning rods, fly rods, paddles, my ice chest with cola, candy bars, bottled water, and chips for sustenance…we’d learned a long time ago not to carry too much gear on one of these wilderness treks, and then lumbered off into the woods.

      I’d brought along my ‘wife’s’ bug-baffler garden shirt to discourage the buzzing mosquitoes that had instantly appeared from the dense forest. I was sure I’d be safe as long as my partner was wearing that green felt hat! As we lugged the craft down the angled trail, stopping every 30 yards or so, I could smell the ‘Old Woodsman’ even from the bow of the canoe!

      Look at those fresh moose and deer tracks in the mud. They have been using this trail quite frequently, my friend commented with optimism as we tried to negotiate the thick ebony muck that expanded the width of the trail.

      Every few yards we’d stop to switch from one side of the canoe to the other when one arm would begin to ‘burn’ as the track became steeper. Sunlight filtered through the tall trees as we hiked deeper down that wilderness trail. Dappled light illuminated the beech, birch, maple, and fir trees, as we staggered downhill with humming mosquitoes in hot pursuit, and all the while I’m wondering how we’d make the return trip with the ‘ark’ to the top of Vinegar Hill.

      By then my buddy and I were on each side of the bow…both dragging the craft downhill trying to avoid most of the granite rocks that protruded through the black mud.

      That’s what I like about an old canoe…you don’t have to worry about putting a couple of dings in it, Lane stated nonchalantly as a sound similar to fingernails scraping a chalkboard emanated from the craft’s bottom.

      You stay here and I’ll see if I can see any water, I said, and slogged ankle-deep through moose tracks down the narrowing path.

      When I reached a dead rust-colored fir tree blocking the vanishing trail, I heard Lane cry, Ovah here, Paul. I’ve found an old 4-wheeler track.

      We began to drag the loaded craft towards the light as the trail fattened out a bit. Suddenly we witnessed a sunlit, well-groomed gravel road before us.

      Wow! There’s a road running parallel with the body of water right in front of us. I’ll bet that’s the trout pond! I told my fishing partner.

      Maybe we missed the pond and that’s Cold Stream, Lane stated dryly.

      We discovered the body of water was Trout Pond and quickly paddled towards the north shore. Because a breeze was blowing from the north, my fishing partner suggested we try the lee perimeter of the pond where I could cast a fly with less effort. Cumulous clouds moved slowly against the cyan sky creating intermittent shadows on Varney Hill that rose above the small pond. Weathered deadwood trees and beaver houses that were periodically touched by the warm light, and a wild turkey vulture flying above, created a dynamic scene against the emerald ridge that rose high above the reflective pond.

      Alan cast towards the shallows with his large copper-colored spinner he dubbed ‘cowbells’, and a night crawler, while I utilized several of my favorite trout flies. The sun became brighter and stronger, and any respectable trout would’ve been hiding under a rock in the depths of the pond. Standing in the bow of the canoe I cast towards several lily pads whenever we stopped and anchored, while Alan landed a couple of fat chub on bait. As a stiff breeze rose I made an effort at a long cast that landed in a crumpled lump, and then suddenly lost my balance, nearly tipping the canoe over.

      After a couple of hours without success we landed the craft on the wooded south shore, dragged the laden canoe uphill, and stashed it in the underbrush.

      What’s wrong with your leg? I asked my friend when I noticed him limping along.

      Oh, I twisted my right ankle playing college basketball and my knee on my left leg went stiff while we were sitting in the canoe. You go ahead up the hill, Paul. I’m going to put some more fly dope on my hat before I go in the woods again and I’ll catch up, the angler stated as I trudged into the woods lugging half of our gear.

      After searching around a bit I discovered the vague trail and hiked quickly uphill trying to outpace the deer flies and mosquitoes, periodically glancing over my shoulder to check for my fishing partner. Someone had recently told me that deer flies are one of the fastest flying creatures on earth and have been clocked at 90 miles per hour! Breathlessly reaching the crest of Vinegar Hill I stopped, expecting to wait for Lane. There, lumbering up the hill right behind me, he suddenly appeared.

      Good, you made it up the hill all right! I had visions of you lying at the bottom of Vinegar Hill calling your daughter Allison on your cell phone to come and get us! I said, out of wind.

      Oh, one good thing about having two bad legs is that you can’t put any weight on either one…so you just have to run uphill! the Mainer stated dryly as we returned to his old pickup and contemplated when we might discover the elusive brookies beyond Vinegar Hill.

      Hopefully Lane will still want to fish with me after reading this.

      2

      West Branch Woes

      I wonder if salmon have a biorhythm. Lately, that’s the only conclusion I can glean from their feeding habits. Catching fish, for me, on nearly every trip to the West Branch the past few weeks, has been like pulling hens’ teeth!

      On May 31st my fishing buddy Ryan Stevens and I headed for that famous river, in a rush, around 4:40 in the afternoon. I’m always excited and wired to go to a new spot on that magnificent wild flow…especially when my guide had taken 6 salmon there the previous evening.

      When we arrived at the parking lot 100 yards from our targeted pool around 5:00 p.m., we hurriedly pulled on our waders and fishing vests before trudging down the gated gravel road to the quick water. Ryan took position upstream and tied on a fly as I checked my vest for a favorite fly box…only to find it missing! That new $30.00 ‘trout skin’ box was

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