There are, I figure, a few things you have to do before you’re a genuine, official, full-fledged Mainer who is allowed to say words like “ayuh” and “dooryahd.”

High on my list are these: You’ve got to get stuck in the mud (either on foot or in a car). You’ve got to know the difference between a “woods road” (which goes nowhere) and a “camp road” (which goes somewhere, whether you actually know where that somewhere is or not). You’ve got to be able to forecast weather based on the stench emanating from the paper mill 10 miles away.

You’ve got to know smelts (the fish) from smelt (the Mainer’s past tense of taking in a big snout-full of the odor the aforementioned paper mill is putting out).

And (here’s the toughie) you’ve got to know where to go to find smelts. The fish. Not the stench.

Up until last week, I figure, I was a bit of a failure as a Mainer. I knew smelts from smelt. But I didn’t know where to find them.

Enter my good friend Whip.

Whip, as you may remember, is the guy I call when I need something (like an ice shack) pushed or pulled, or when I need something else (like something you have to put gas into) figured out, fixed, or tinkered with until it works worse than it did when he started.

So there I was the other day, slaving away at my desk, when the always-friendly Whip walked by and started talking about something that smelt.

Of course, I pointed at the guy at the next desk. Then I realized he was talking about the fish.

Smelts, you see, were running.

I quickly enlisted the services of another buddy, because I’m not too good at directions and I was pretty sure that Whip might try to blindfold me before taking me to the smelting grounds. (I figured one more smelter would make it so uncomfortable in his truck that he’d have to let me drive my own truck … and he probably wouldn’t make me do it blindfolded).

After nearly an hour of highway cruising and camp-road lurching, Whip pulled over, started grabbing smelting gear, and told us that we’d arrived.

Now, I’d always heard that smelting was great fun.

Some day, I’ll probably find out if that’s true.

The other night, though, I didn’t do much smelting. I did a lot of trudging, a little bit of cussing, and a whole lot of flashlight-holding. My other fishing buddy did the bucket-lugging.

Whip? He did everything else.

Bucket Lugger and I just stood in the mud and cheered Whip on, as he plunged an ancient dip net into the stream, over … and over … and over again. In vain.

For a couple hours, we chased Whip up and down the riverbank, toting the flashlights and the bucket we were going to use to hold our late-night booty. We watched out for bears and other things that go “chomp” in the night.

We made up chants that rhymed with “Whip.”

“Dip, Whip, Dip” was a favorite, but by this time it was 2:30 a.m. and I was getting pretty punchy.

At times Whip waded into the current. At times he balanced precariously on rocks. But the whole time, he smelted. (At least, that’s what he told us he was doing. I think he missed his morning Tae Bo session and was looking to get in a good aerobic workout).

After about an hour and a half of frantic thrashing, Whip finally broke the handle of his net. He said he’d caught too many fish in it over the years. I suspected dry rot.

Even that didn’t slow him down.

After two hours, Bucket Lugger and I begged off as Whip loaded up his truck (and the four smelts and one shiner we caught) for a trip to yet another secret stream.

I headed back to town … a step closer to being a full-fledged Mainer … with another rhyme echoing in my ears.

Zip, Whip. … Zip.