From Medway north, through East Millinocket and Millinocket and into Baxter State Park, Jay Robinson pointed, gestured, and shared 48 years of knowledge gleaned through countless hours spent swatting black flies and casting dry flies in the Maine woods.

“There’s Pockwockamus Rock,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue in the oddly musical, sing-song cadence Dr. Seuss taught us.

“There’s a deer,” he said, miles later.

And after that, he slowed, tipped his head upward, and lowered his voice.

“And there’s Our Mountain,” he said, solemnly.

Our mountain. Katahdin. Still shrouded in snow. Magnificent.

“That’s what ol’ Percival said, anyway,” Robinson said, referring to former Maine governor Percival Baxter … the namesake of Maine’s most famous state park … the park that holds its most famous peak. “He said it belonged to all the people of Maine.”

Monday was a perfect day for a drive … a hike … a paddle.

It was perfect for a cast … or two, or three … hundred.

And that’s what we did – Robinson and I.

Jay Robinson grew up in these parts. He’s friendly, knowledgeable, and passionate about his trout fishing.

For the past several months, he’s also been an out-of-work papermaker, he points out.

Robinson guides part-time.

That, in case you’re wondering, means “when someone calls.”

If somebody does call, he takes them into the woods … our woods … and tells them what he learned from his father, legendary Maine Master Guide Wilmot “Wiggie” Robinson, and others.

If nobody calls? Well, he heads into the woods by himself, and fishes alone.

Wiggie Robinson is 81 years old now. He’s still strong, and loves to fish. He wasn’t able to join us on Monday, but that may not have changed too much.

At Slaughter Pond (Just drive into the park, make a few turns that you’ll miss unless you know what you’re doing, then dismount and hike a few miles into the forest … and you may find it), Wiggie and Jay have different theories.

Wiggie likes one shore. Jay likes the other. And even when they fish “together,” they really don’t.

“We usually hike in together, then spend the day in our own canoes,” Jay Robinson said with a chuckle.

Up here, there are plenty of remote ponds that hold native brook trout. You’ve got to work to get to them. On some days, the fish are very receptive. On others, you’ve got to be patient. But no matter what the fish are doing, the effort pays off.

The hike alone is worth the trip: Robinson has made the trek so many times, each portion of the three-mile trudge has a name, and the history lesson is taught methodically, pace by pace, yard by yard.

“We always called this ‘The Old Wagon Road,'” he says. “This is the ‘Lumber Camp’ … ‘Land of the Giants’ – see all the huge trees? … and this is ‘The Yellow-Brick Road.'”

On the water, a worthwhile journey improves.

From Robinson’s canoe – one of a dozen or more he and his father have stashed at remote ponds across “Katahdin Country,” as they call it – the scenery is breathtaking.

At the foot of the pond, Our Mountain looms, snowcapped and regal. Up its length, other peaks jut majestically. Double-top. OJI.

“Not a bad place to spend a day, huh?” Robinson asked.

Nodding unnecessarily, you tell him he’s right.

Eventually, the trout visit. And a moose. And a fox. And a rabbit.

And eventually, we leave … to return another day.

Postscript: Jay Robinson called on Friday … said that I can share a canoe with him any time I’m available … Note to relatives: If you can’t find me, you may want to check up north … I may be going back to Katahdin Country soon.

The region’s magnetism, I’m finding out, is common, and is apparently infectious: “I’ve got my trout and I’ve got my fiddleheads,” Jay said in the short phone message he left me before heading out the door … again.

“All I’ve got to do now is stay home some time and eat ’em.”

Easier said than done.

Printing a six-times-a-week newspaper, as you’ve likely guessed, is a priority at the Bangor Daily News. Hundreds of employees pitch in to make sure that happens, and that your daily dose of information shows up in those cute little green tubes before you rise to face the day.

There are, however, a number of other, lesser-known functions that we NEWS staffers find ourselves performing. Among those: We answer hundreds of phone and mail queries each year from folks looking for information ranging from lottery numbers to trivia question answers.

One such query landed on my lap this week, and I’d like to share it with you.

On Wednesday, Marilyn Brunette of the Katahdin Area Chamber of Commerce called, looking for help. A youngster had contacted her, looking for information on Donn Fendler – the man whose boyhood adventure was recounted in the book “Lost on a Mountain in Maine.”

Brunette asked. I answered. The forwarded info headed into cyberspace … and later that afternoon, the following response had materialized in my e-mail in-box.

I had assumed that the child in question was a local boy … and was wrong. For those of you who lament the state of today’s educational system and the youth of today, read on.

Dear Mr. Holyoke,

My name is Shaun Gibbons. I e-mailed the lady at the Mt. Katahdin Chamber of Commerce yesterday to get information for my book report about Donn Fendler. She asked you for help. Thank you for helping me. I live in Norristown Pennsylvania. Norristown is right next to Valley Forge. I really want to see Mt. Katahdin some day. I used to live right near Mt. Greylock. It is the highest mountain in Massachusetts. My parents said it is tiny compared to your mountain. I am the only person in third grade at my school who read a biography about somebody who is still alive. Your letter gave me the proof I needed to be sure that he is. Thank you very much.

I miss living in New England. We don’t get very snowy winters here like we did in Massachusetts or Vermont. But this year they said we got more snow than most of New England. No wonder George Washington and his army had so much trouble that winter! It didn’t bother me, though, because I am from New England.

I like your name. I used to live in Cheshire, Massachusetts. It isn’t that far from Holyoke, Massachusetts.

You were a big help on my book report. Now I know enough facts about Donn Fendler from when he was a kid and from now that he is grown up. My teacher Mrs. Parisi will be very surprised that I know so much. She thought that the book Lost on a Mountain in Maine would be too hard and too scary for me to read. It was hard and a little scary, but my mother told me how to pronounce Katahdin, so now it isn’t so hard. I hope I get an A on this report. If I do, part of the A can go to you too!

Thanks for the e-mail, Shaun.

And one more thing: The A will be all yours. Your initiative will undoubtedly be rewarded.

Game wardens often get a bad rap in this state, but the more time I spend afield, the more valuable information I end up getting from the guys in green.

Case-in-point: Last weekend, I headed to Greenville for a work-and-fish Saturday that I hoped would turn out to be short on labor and heavy on angling.

I’ve spent a fair bit of time over the past two seasons up in that area, but had found myself falling into predictable patterns, heading back to the same comfortable spots, rather than blazing new trails for places I’d yet to discover.

Enter Wdn. Adam Gormely.

First, a disclaimer: I’ve known Gormely for years, ever since he and I shared bus space on Brewer High School track trips back in the early 1980s.

Now, the truth: I don’t believe the fact that we’ve known each other for a long time played any role in the advice he was to give me.

Gormely asked if I was going to go fishing later in the day, then proceeded to do what wardens do every day … even when complete strangers are involved: He told me where fish were biting … and how to get there.

Gormely whipped out a well-worn map book, traced a route that would get me to the fish (assuring me that a bridge that was marked as impassible was, in fact, back in service), then sent me on my way.

I was rewarded with a pleasant drive and an afternoon spent in unspoiled terrain, with only a few other fly fishermen around.

The fish may not have been overly receptive … but that’s my problem, I figure.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.