By request I am reposting this ………thanks.
BNREECE©2010
Mud Lake
No matter where we go in Aroostook we seem to find two things, great fishing and adventure. Such was the case when I got to fish “Mud Lake”. Now let me preface this by telling you if you look on a map for Aroostook County you will find at least one Mud Lake listed for each and every township in Aroostook. In some cases they have two or three. So I am completely safe in telling you about “MY” Mud Lake. In fact the picture above is of Mud Lake…but not mine. My buddy Pete sent me this to use for my blogging work. A very talented photographer he sends me a lot of pics to use as I see fit. I think this lake is in the Patten/Mt. Chase area. Mine is …elsewhere.
My first trip to Mud was in the late 70’s, and a direct result of my involvement with a young lady. Being a very active outdoorsman all of life. My reputation for adventure was well known. I happened to meet her one-day, at the local barbershop owned by her father. The only barber I ever allowed to cut my hair. Which was very long, and at that time considered very normal. Roger never tried to cut it all off, but trimmed the ends and kept it manageable. I was truly a longhaired redneck.
Diane was a true county girl and loved to hunt and fish. Going with her father on many an occasion. He taught her to shoot straight and cast far. Talents a guy like me can appreciate thoroughly. As long as she is not making me routinely look bad. Which she did often, over the years of course.
Now during the course of my trim I teased her the way boys tease girls. Taunting her about her prowess as an angler and a hunter. Her dad got a kick out of it and let us sort it out. That came about when she suggested she teach me a thing or two by taking me into a secret lake. The trip in was enough to keep 98% of the usual green horns and ditch anglers out. Only the bravest would try the trip and only the toughest would go there again. But those who made the trek found trout in the trophy class, and lots of them. Her Dad just shook his head and warned me that it was a hard way in and a hard place to fish. Being a kamikaze type, I took the challenge and we set the departure time to be that Saturday at 7:00 AM. She seemed to relish the idea of teaching me a lesson.
I had only been driving for a little less than a year, but had my own car and earned my own money. Being a little arrogant at that time I made it a point to screech the tires as a stopped in her drive, announcing my arrival. Then I dashed from the old Plymouth Fury to get her and her stuff. She was ready to go and was coming out the side door as I walked up the driveway. I helped her with her gear and put it in the trunk. It was then that I first noticed her. You know, really looked at her. She was quite something in those blue jean cutoffs, red halter-top, red bandana, and had all the right curves. Being a couple years older meant nothing in those days. But now no parent would allow a seventeen year old with his own car to take a fifteen-year-old daughter into the backcountry. Let alone allow them to leave their sight.
I had borrowed a canoe from a buddy and had it strapped down on the top of the car. Using a pair of car top carriers I had borrowed from my neighbor. I knew if we were going to fish a lake we would need the canoe, or be stuck on the shore. Diane found the idea of a canoe to hilarious. Pointing out she had no idea how I thought I was going to get it in to the lake. Adding that I was carrying it on my own. She wanted no part of it. So we loaded up and headed out after that little bit of bizarre. Going south from town to a nearby township. We found the rutted up road that would wind through the woods near the lake but not to it. To say it was rough was an understatement. She had no map and surely no GPS to guide us, just the memories of her previous trips to the lake.
We left the road near some huge potatoe fields and skirted the fields along the headlands. Parking in the far northern corner of the farthest field back in from the road. There we gathered up our gear and headed into the woods. Following a game trail that came out in the corner. The trail was rough, as expected and forewarned. But was tolerable nonetheless. I had little trouble keeping pace with her. That seemed to bug her so she kept speeding up and at times looked like she was going to take a tumble or two. The bugs were out in full force and my trusty “muskol” was working just fine. Her tolerance for bugs was showing way too thin and I offered her some of my “Indian bug dope”. She refused it and assured me she was doing fine with that Avon stuff she had on.
We went about a mile cross-country on a series of game trails and footpaths she was following. The latter part was rougher and the trails were on a side of a ridge. Making the angles hard to walk. I spotted blazes and tapes that directed the observant hiker. So it was not all on memory that she was navigating. Each time we made a directional change that didn’t directly correlate to geography. I found a marker near there that told her to change direction.
We crested out on a ridge top at the mile and a half point that gave us a clear view of the lake. A truly beautiful piece of Maine scenery. The trip from here to the lake was going to get rougher. A swamp was between our ridge top and the lake on the far side of this valley before us. Another half mile of blow downs, black mud and muskeg. It was clear from here why she laughed about the canoe. But where there’s a will there’s a way.
We picked our way through the swamp. Walking on fallen logs most of the time and trying not to slip off the mossy wood into the black muck below. There were occasional rises here and there we could cross swiftly. But most of it was a slow and careful log crossing. Tussocks and root balls were handy stepping-stones as well. The land started to rise up and dry out, as we got closer to the lake. Then we had to cross a boulder strewn stretch of wetlands by jumping from an ever more abundant supply of rocks, to rocks.
We were now out in the full force of sun, no wind, and clouds of bugs. A moose was near and bolted at the sight of us. We made our way down the rocky shore to a sandy point. There we took a break and had a snack. Warm Coke and some pork rinds did it for me. But she filled her canteen from the lake and drank its clear cold water. A “Snickers” bar appeared, to give her a sugar fix. Then it was time to fish.
Being a new devote’ of the fly I had brought in my newly acquired 5 weight outfit. A Pfluegger Medalist reel carried the Cortland 333 floating line. The 3-piece nine-foot rod was a quick assemble. Adding a new leader took a few minutes. The #12 Muddler took more time.
Meanwhile Diane was already fighting her first fish on her Zebco bait slinger rig. A nice little brookie about 10 inches or so had taken the bait. Worms and spinners was all she had to carry. A hungry trout will grab a worm in the hottest and coldest of waters. The first went to a second before I could make my first cast. The latter was too small for her to creel. But she was well on her way to the ten fish limit.
Feeling the shame of it I moved up the shore away from her and nestled up on some rocks across from where we walked in. Watching the trout swimming about from my perch. I singled out a larger shadowy form and dropped the fly just this side of him. Trying to fall just short so the line wouldn’t spook him. He never had a chance to move towards it when a smaller trout darted up and ate it. Hooking himself as he turned, he never gave me the chance to tug it away before he got hooked. The little trout barely made the 6-inch mark, a keeper nonetheless. Diane never saw the size of the trout, but goaded me about her having caught two to my one.
Just then the larger form glided back through below me and I lobbed that tattered fly right into his path. He took it without a pause and was airborne at the sting of the point, as I lifted the rod to set it into his jaw. He danced like a ballerina on the end of that line for a good ten minutes before I could wrangle him in. Once netted, he came to rest on the rock beside me. (Having had to leap from my perch to this half submerged boulder to pull him in.) Diane saw that show and came over to admire the brightly spotted brookie, all 14+ inches of him. I gave him the usual coupe de grace, and placed him in the creel.
Diane worked her way out and around me and went further up the eastern shoreline. Casting worms into the lake all the while, searching for another taker. I followed behind her and worked the same places with the fly. She still kept getting fish on the bait. But the fly was getting hits two to three to her one. My creel was getting heavy with my good fortune. The limit then was 10 trout or 7 ½ pounds. The latter was gaining ground. I had four fat brookies and that first one, a puny 6 incher. The five trout were pushing the six-pound mark. I had room for one good fish, or a couple smaller ones.
Diane and I stopped on a giant boulder to take a break. We were having the time of our lives. Both of us catching some really nice fish, but none were record breakers. Then she told me that we were headed towards the inlet. The bigger fish would be in the cooler water there. The lake was oriented so that the inlet was to the south. The north shore where we came in was always the warmest do to the available sun. The cooler south end was that much more likely to be spectacular. The bigger trout would orient themselves in the best and coolest waters.
Diane had hoped to catch her limit without having to travel so far. But the lake was warming up too fast. Her desire to prove her point was giving way to the reality that we had a long way home. We could see the inlet from the promontory where we stood. Knowing that the fishing there was bound to be as good if not better than we had already seen. We headed on down the shore to the rocky cove. A boulder strewn cold-water trout heaven, if ever there truly was one. Time was running short and we would have to make tracks out of there. Being light to about 8:30 was great. But we had a long trek and trying it in the dark was not on my list of things to do that day.
We worked our way from shore out onto several boulders that littered the cove. Her on one of these great half submerged rocks, and me on another. Giving each other lots of casting room. The perches were somewhat precarious but useable. A canoe would have been better. We were raised to make do with what was at hand, and we were doing just fine. The trout were there and were not long in taking what we offered.
Although we were both looking to limit out neither one of us had that definitive trout that says, “I won”. That was until Diane hooked into her last trout. 14 to 16 inchers are fantastic fish. But a twenty plus is a whole other kind of thing. That was what hit her worm rig and it wasn’t giving up all that easy. I reeled in and from my perch tried to coach her genuinely. My words fell on deaf ears as she played that trout with absolute finesse and brought him to hand. With far greater ease than I myself ever could have, I have to admit. He was 23 inches of glistening green/orange/white and brilliantly spotted. A truly fantastic fish to end this glorious day, and this adventure, on in anyone’s book.
I wasn’t long admitting my defeat when I joined her on that rock. It was obvious that she was shaken by the experience. Reluctantly admitting that this was her biggest trout ever and her Dad was going to be so proud of her. As luck would have it I had brought along my old Kodak “pocket camera”, a cheap 110-cartridge camera I had gotten for Christmas.
I had been taking picture off and on. So I pulled it out and got her to pose with her “monster” right there on that rock. (A picture I believe she has to this very day.)
We weren’t long getting back down the shore to the trail home after that. The sun was setting way to fast for either of us. Swamps are dark lightless places in full sun. Take the light down to dusk and they are night. So we hurried up the ridge to the saddle where we had come down through and hurried back out the nearly two miles to my car. Not resting once for fear that darkness would overtake us far too soon to be safe. We made the car at about 8:15, and full dark was on us at 8:30. The drive out was an adventure in and of itself. But we were safe inside the car and headed home.
This was back before cell phones and we had no way to let her parents know we were out and safe. So we hurried home, in the hope that they would be patient and not get too worried. They were. We got home at a little after nine and worry gave way to adulation when my Tomboy walked in the door carrying her trophy on her finger like a sport. The creels were examined, and I got teased. But all agreed we had caught a truly tremendous couple of limits of trout, something for us both to be proud of. It was then that I had to admit that this little girl had taught me a thing or two about fishing and adventure.
We went on from there to make several more trips to Mud and to do a fair amount of hunting together that fall as well. That winter I deposited an old aluminum canoe on Mud. My snowsled made the trip in a cinch to pull off. Going up and in from the south, avoiding the swamp completely. The frozen terrain was far easier to navigate dragging the canoe, than trying to carry it in. Diane never knew it was there until the next spring when we made our first trip in. It was still chained to the tree where I left it, oars and all. We weren’t long getting it into the water, paddling south towards the rocky inlet. The biggest fish still hiding there, and did their part as well, as I remember.
That was over thirty-one years ago. It’s still there as far as I know, unless it has been stolen in the last couple of years. Diane and I rarely speak, having fallen short as often happens in relationships that have too many miles between them. We were engaged for a time several years after these events. I went in the service, and she met someone closer to home. But I look back on these days as some of the best of my youth. We went separate ways and became different people. (Diane if you ever read this, Thanks.)
Mud is still there, and we live on. A new generation will “discover” “MY” Mud Lake and young men will try to out fish their Tomboys. That is how it is supposed to be. You never know I might try to get my wife to wet a line in there yet. So far she has preferred more civilized territory. Then again we climbed Mount Katahdin on our honeymoon, just four years ago. At over forty-eight, I am still never too old for some adventure.
If you have a comment, please post it here. If you find “your” Mud lake…email me at: aroostookbasser@yahoo.com
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