Getting Bogged Down in “The Bogs”

by A. Sayward Lamb

On Monday morning, July 6th, of this year, my friend Ivan Morey, and myself headed out on a brook fishing trip up in the Rangeley region of Maine, to do some fly fishing for Eastern Brook Trout, more commonly called Red Spots, or Brook Trout, by the natives. This was a trip that both of us had talked about for several months, and decided if we waited until the latter part of July or early August, we not only would catch brook trout, but would also combine the fishing trip with picking raspberries. In areas where wood-harvesting operations had taken place a few years earlier, we knew we could find some raspberries and wild Maine blueberries.

So, with our lunches packed, and our hand tied flies, as well as other necessary gear stuffed inside the pockets of our L.L. Bean vests, we took our fly rods, reels, with fly lines in hand, and loaded them into the truck. We also had my blueberry rake, as well as buckets and berry boxes, to hold our berries that we planned to pick after limiting out on trout. We took an iron skillet, some butter, and a propane stove so we could have a fish fry on the tailgate of the truck after. Ivan brought along a complete change of clothes, but I only took an extra pair of shorts, a pair of socks, and my moccasins.

Ivan picked me up at my cottage about seven A.M. and we headed out on about a seventy-five mile journey to reach our destination, which we simply called, “The Bogs”. Ivan told me that it had been about five years since he last visited that area. My first thoughts were that it had been about ten years earlier for me. My wife, Cynthia, informed me it was more like twenty years since I had been in that part of the country. Anyway, both of us were looking forward to a full day of fishing and berrying.

The stream we planned to fish is a very slow moving one, and consists of beaver dams that not only hold back the water, but inundates much of the lower lying areas along the stream and for a considerable distance back into the woods. This moisture causes a massive growth of alders, swale grass, and sphagnum moss, which covers the ground throughout the area. This makes walking very treacherous all along the stream.

Access to the area can be reached from State Route 17, and also by turning on to a logging road, to gain access to the opposite side of the stream.

This day we chose to take the shorter route by making our approach from the northern side of the stream. After arriving in the area, we both commented about how much the landscape had changed since we last saw it. We both remembered vast cut over areas where logging operations had taken place. Now we found thickly forested land, mostly covered with spruce and fir trees, literally “thicker than the hair on a cat’s back”. These trees had grown to a height of at least twenty feet.

We drove slowly along the logging road for some distance, looking for openings that would indicate where logging operations had taken place. After about a half-mile, we decided that we had better turn around and head back to where we came from. After turning around we drove back about a quarter mile and could plainly see a wide swath where the old skidder road used to be. Now it was grown in with raspberry bushes that were well over six feet high. Ivan parked his truck alongside the roadway, and we made preparations to head towards “The Bogs”.

The sun was still shining, although we did notice a few light clouds moving in from the west. The weather forecast was for some showers and thunder showers later in the day. We both mentioned that we hoped they would hold off until we caught our fish and got back to the truck. With this in mind, we left our raincoats in the truck.

The temperature was quite warm, but I still wore my sweatshirt to protect me from the bushes and mosquitoes. I wore some old sneakers for wading along with some long pants. Ivan wore a long sleeved shirt, long pants, and old shoes on his feet. We put on our fishing vests, and gathered up the rest of the gear. We left the frying pan and propane stove in the back of the truck, and planned to use them when we came back from fishing.

Starting out, the walk was all down hill, but still we found the walking very difficult through those thick growing raspberry bushes, so thick that we literally had to “plow” our way through them. It didn’t help with very uneven ground underneath our feet. There were rocks, stumps, and skidder ruts. How glad we both were that we had our walking sticks with us. They helped to keep our balance, as well as providing a prod to feel our way through the thick vegetation, and rough terrain.

We were both old enough to realize we didn’t need any injuries to hinder our way both to and from the area. I had not forgotten the time, about fifty years earlier, when my father stepped into a hole and fractured his ankle while fishing this same area. Fortunately, there were several men in their party that day. They made a litter from poles and shirts, and carried him out. I was told that it was a slow process that took several hours to carry my father out. There were many places where the men had to cut away undergrowth in order to make way for the litter. We also realized if either of us was injured, we would have to depend on others to locate us and come rescue us. Thanks to modern technology, Ivan had his cell phone with him, in case he needed to contact someone.

After leaving the raspberry bushes we came out into more open country which had been cut over by loggers several years ago. The old stumps were quite tall and very noticeable. It was in this area that we found many blueberry bushes heavily laden with huge wild blueberries. We both picked a few along the way, as we continued towards the stream. I commented to Ivan that when we caught our limit of trout, I would be heading out so I could get my pail and blueberry rake, and come back to harvest some of them.

We had previously determined that we were a few days late to pick raspberries, but the blue berries were ripe and ready for picking.

We continued on our way over the sphagnum moss that covered the area. This indicated that there was a lot of moisture on the ground, so we kept a close eye out for any potholes, or other obstructions, as we picked our way around the stumps and blow downs.

I was beginning to realize that the distance to the stream was farther than I remembered. Both Ivan and I agreed that we were some distance upstream from the usual path that we had taken on previous trips. Still we felt that once we arrived at the stream, we would still find water that was being held back by beaver dams. We knew we were approaching nearer to the stream when we began to see potholes of water, and lots of entangled alder bushes.

Once stream side, we assembled our fly rods and tied on our flies. Ivan was using only one fly, but I chose to use a dropper line and fish with two flies. With this done we were now ready for the fun to begin.

By now the sky was becoming completely clouded over, and I remarked to Ivan that this was better than fishing the bogs in bright sunlight.

Both of us were using small wet flies. We managed to get our lines out over the thick alders without getting entangled in the bushes, which hung out over the water as well as alongside the stream. The alders were so thick that we could not see each other from even a distance of fifty feet. The only way we kept in touch was by our voices, or by wiggling the alders to let the other person know our location.

Each of us had strikes almost as soon as our flies landed on the water. The trout were small, but full of fight and we both enjoyed catching them. The minimum length limit is six inches, with a daily bag limit of five trout.

Most of my strikes were on the dropper fly, but I was a bit slow to react, and had several misses. Our intentions were to release all except the bigger trout but now we noticed rain drops beginning to fall upon the water. Soon it began to rain harder as we continued to cast our flies, mostly by roll casting, due to the obstruction of the alders.

With the rain falling harder, we both agreed that we hadn’t better be too fussy on size, as long as they were legal. In the end, my largest trout was only about eight inches long, while Ivan had one fish that measured nine inches.

With the rain increasing in intensity, we knew we had better head back out to the truck. We both realized it would be a hard trip, under these conditions. Our actual fishing time was short, because Ivan roll cast his fly into the alders on the further side of the stream, and lost it off. A little later his leader became too short, so he changed leaders, all the while complaining that his fingers were too stiff, and he couldn’t see the line too well with the rain pounding down. I had trouble keeping my tandem line from getting entangled. Eventually, we got back to fishing and it wasn’t long before we both had our limits of trout. Both of us felt like drowned rats, as we headed back out of the woods.

Ivan said to me, “I know we have to go back through these alders and bogs, before we get back to the evergreen trees, and the cut over land, where the blueberries are located.”

I told him not to worry because I had brought along a compass and had taken a bearing reading even before we left the road, to head into the woods. I took the compass out of my pocket and showed Ivan the direction we had to travel. Although I had no actual knowledge of the distance back to the truck, I would estimate it was at least a half-mile, (as the crow flies). Of course, we had to take a zig-zag course to avoid the worst of the wet holes in that boggy area, as well as winding our way through those never ending alders.

Mainers have a name for thick brushy areas, and that name is “Puckerbrush!”

I believe those bogs have to be the hardest area, both underfoot, as well as entangled brush and alders, that I have ever been in.

Maybe this statement has something to do with our ages. Ivan is eighty-eight years old, and I just turned eighty years old. This, along with the pouring rain, and thunder, made for very uncomfortable conditions. One of the discomforts that I noticed was the difficulty I had to pick up my short legs over the numerous “blow downs,” and hummocks, especially in those boggy areas. For some reason, my wet pants legs seemed to stick to my legs, rather than slide, so they hindered my walking quite severely when I tried to step over obstructions.

We had to continually watch ahead, to determine what route to take and still stay within a reasonable direction that my compass reading showed as the way back to the truck.

Before we even got out of the alders, Ivan began to tire, and mentioned to me that he wondered if he would ever be able to make it back out of the woods? I kept encouraging him by telling him that he was “doing just fine”. Occasionally he would inquire if I were sure we were headed in the right direction, so I would check the compass. I reminded Ivan that both of us were old enough to know that “the compass is always right”, and as long as we heeded it, and headed out correctly, we eventually would come back to the logging road somewhere near the truck.

I suggested to Ivan that if he was tired, maybe he should sit down on one of the stumps and rest his legs. He informed me that he was getting really cold with the wind and driving downpour pounding down upon us, so he felt he just had to keep moving.

Eventually we came out into the cut over area, and the alders were left behind, so the walking was somewhat easier and visibility was better. Now the ground was covered with sphagnum moss, stumps, wet areas, and blow downs. I noticed Ivan was becoming much weaker, so I was becoming very concerned about his ability to continue.

While we continued along our way, my mind was thinking of some sort of plan that I would have to take if Ivan finally gave up trying to continue walking. I often inquired “How are you doing?” He told me he was exhausted, but for me to keep going and he would follow my trail.

By now the thunder and lightning were constant, although not really close enough to make me feel endangered. The wind was blowing much harder and the cold raindrops were driving down with even more intensity! I knew Ivan was getting colder, as his lips were turning blue, so I only hoped he was tough enough to continue our trek out of the woods. I was not concerned about myself, because I was still comfortable, which I believe was due to the strenuous exercise we both were getting. Again I asked Ivan if he wanted to stop to rest, and his answer was the same, so we continued over the old cut over land.

By this time I had given Ivan my walking stick, so he would have two of them to aid him in walking. To make it easier for him, I was carrying out both of our fly rods.

We had only traveled a short distance further through the cut over area when I noticed a skidder road that ran parallel to the logging road where the truck was parked. Immediately in front of us were dense firs and spruce trees, and I didn’t relish the thoughts of having to push our way uphill through those wet trees. Instead, I suggested to Ivan that we follow the skidder road in an easterly direction, hoping to find the same opening that we had walked down earlier that morning.

The skidder road was hard to walk over because of the remnants of several trees that were left in the roadway, as well as a couple of huge rocks, that were impossible for Ivan to step up over, so he crawled on all fours to get past them. I helped him to his feet, and we continued only a short distance further when I saw the opening, with no trees, and the raspberry bushes, which indicated to me that we had finally arrived at the old clearing that we had walked down that morning.

I was mighty relieved to have found the right place and doubt if this would have been possible without using the compass, because there was no sun, with very limited visibility, making it impossible to locate landmarks. We stopped to look up the old roadway. I now knew that the truck was only about three hundred yards away. I mentioned this fact to Ivan and asked him once again if he thought he could make it up the hill. He said, “You lead, and I’ll follow”.

I knew it would be a really hard walk uphill, through the thick raspberry bushes. I continued to urge Ivan to keep moving behind me. We had just started up the hill when Ivan told me the only way he would make it was to hang on to me and let me pull him up the hill.

I took back my walking stick so as to free one of Ivan’s arms. We found that he could hang on to my fishing vest by grabbing it by the opening around my armpit. This worked fine and we found some of the depressions and rocks along the trail to be more than Ivan could step up over, so he managed to get down on all fours and crawl up over those obstacles. Once he got up past them, I helped him on to his feet and we resumed uphill.

Once in awhile his feet became entangled in the raspberry bushes, so I would stop and pull them away and we would slowly continue on our way. We were less than one hundred yards from the truck when I slipped on a log that I didn’t see and fell forward. Of course, Ivan was hanging on to me, so down he went to the ground. We both were unhurt, and laughed about us “two old tumble-turds”, as we struggled back to our feet.

A few days earlier, I was telling my good friend, Milt Inman, about our plans to go on this fishing trip. Milt told me he would like to have gone along to take photos of us two old guys winding our way through the woods. I wonder what kind of a picture we would have made, with us “two old geezers” lying on the ground, soaking wet, and yet laughing at each other? We got up and straightened ourselves as best we could and slowly continued on our way towards the truck.

In a short time Ivan said, “I’m so exhausted I can’t go any farther.”

I said to Ivan, “Look up ahead of you and tell me what you see.”

He said, “ I’m so tired I can’t even lift my head.”

I told him, “We are only fifty feet from the truck, so hang on to me, and we’ll make it.”

Somehow Ivan mustered what little strength he had left and made it to the road. There was a deep ditch alongside the graveled road, so Ivan crawled up over it on his hands and knees, to the rear of the parked truck, and pulled himself up by hanging on to the rear bumper, with me aiding him by lifting on his belt. He walked around to the right side of the truck and I opened the door. Then I helped Ivan by lifting his right leg up onto the running board, and then boosting him up onto the truck seat. Ivan turned on the engine and soon we had the heater blowing warm air.

After a short rest Ivan removed his wet clothes and put on dry ones. As for me, I took off my wet sneakers and removed my wet pants, then put on dry shorts, which didn’t stay dry with my wet shorts still on underneath them. I also removed my wet socks and put on dry moccasins, so I was in fine shape. As near as I can tell, it took us at least two hours to walk out that approximate one half mile of wet and soggy terrain. We noticed that we had a good two inches of water in the pails in the back of the truck, during that two hours of time. No wonder we got soaked!

It wasn’t long before I was really getting very hot from the heater blowing full force inside the truck, but of course, Ivan was still cold. I asked Ivan if he wanted to eat his lunch, and he said, “Later”.

I drove down the road a short distance and turned the truck around, and we headed for home. Ivan rested during the time it took me to drive down about twenty miles of highway and when I stopped beside the road in a small parking spot beside the roadway, he asked if I was warm enough? I told him I was roasting, so he suggested I could turn the heat down to a lower level. I was glad to see he was warm enough and was getting his strength back. He and I both ate our lunches and after that short stay, we headed home

The trip out of the woods was a tough one, even for me, but for Ivan it was a nightmare! For him, I believe it was a life-threatening venture. Of course neither one of us expected it to be this way, and we both believe it would not have been this way if the rain had held off until we got back out of the woods

One thing for sure, we never did get that planned “fish fry”, due to his condition and the pouring rain. I forgot and left my sneakers where I stepped out of them, and I also am missing a floating fly box full of trout flies.

In case you are wondering, both of us are doing fine. Ivan does have a reoccurrence of a sore shoulder, which he blames on arthritis. He also says that this is the end of his hiking into the woods to do any brook fishing. I may feel the same way when I am eighty-eight years old. Ask me then. Ivan tells me that he never would have made it out of the woods, if it were not for me helping him. In that respect, I believe he may be right but as they say, “All is well that ends well.’

The End
Copyright 2007
A. Sayward Lamb