As far back as I can remember, somewhere around the middle of May each spring, curly green plants began showing up on the table with regularity. More of a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, these strangely shaped ferns were no more to my liking than dandelion greens; however, the rest of the family went crazy over them. In fact, then and now, fiddleheads are considered a spring treat, a delicacy devoured by pretty much everyone in my town, and throughout Aroostook County.

I joined the family in scouring the riverbanks, bogans, swales, and swamp edges where dark, moist soil sprang forth with curled shoots that resemble the head of a fiddle. How many hundred gallons I’ve picked in four decades boggles the mind, and I still can’t acquire a taste for them. While brook fishing, I often come across patches of fiddleheads each May, and still take the time each outing to fill a hat or a plastic bag or two. I deliver the spoils of my work to family and friends who eat all they can fresh, and can or freeze the rest to be brought forth to oohs and ahhs at meals on special occasions.

Even out-of-staters aren’t immune to the addiction of these short-lived spring legumes. Friends who have never even heard of a fiddlehead before visiting northern Maine return home with a bag of ferns for the freezer and an acquired taste for life. In phone calls and letters from outdoors companions across the U.S. who have fished, hunted, and shared meals with me, fiddleheads are a common thread. Let me tell you about one fiddlehead feed I remember fondly.

Pharmacy fishermen

After graduating from college, I attended Boston’s Massachusetts College of Pharmacy, beginning as a third-year student in the five-year program thanks to my college degree. Along with lectures were “hands on” technical labs that would try the patience of Job. The two proctors of my pharmacology lab were a couple of graduate students not much older than myself. As the semester progressed it became clear that along with pharmacy we also shared an attraction to fly fishing.

Pals and lab partners throughout pharmacy school, Bob Beauchman and Rich Harvey carried on the friendship as frequent fishing buddies away from academics. Their trout fishing thus far had been confined to weekend outings in Massachusetts and Connecticut at “put and take” waterways where stocked trout were the only option and crowded casting the norm. The pair had read articles and heard stories about Maine’s secluded pristine streams full of native brook trout and badgered me regularly for details.

There were even good-natured threats of more difficult lab experiments just for me and perhaps even missing re-agents and equipment if fishing forecasts weren’t forthcoming. I brought photos one afternoon, and after lab we retired to a nearby pub for food and fishing. I told Bob and Rich that if all went well and I wasn’t required to take any summer courses, perhaps they could join me for a long weekend of fly fishing for speckled brookies in the Crown of Maine. Grins, handshakes, and a promise to go all the way to the Dean if necessary were exchanged and plans got under way then and there.

By mid-May classes were over and final exams just a haunting memory, and I was happily headed home to “the County” for a few weeks of R & R. Bob and Rich had only two weeks’ break before summer classes began, and they had to teach a class and oversee two lab courses for 10 weeks. The duo showed up on my doorstep only a week or so after I arrived home. It was no surprise since we had planned to take full advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend to allow two full days of fishing with a travel day on each end.

Having never traveled farther north than Portland and Old Orchard Beach previously, the sights and sounds of Aroostook amazed them and immediately and fully captured their sportsmen’s hearts and minds. They saw their first moose. Each brook and stream they drove by called to them to stop and wet a line. Our vast array of forest and farm fields put them in awe.

Their stops at Kittery Trading Post and L.L. Bean also put them in awe, as well as in debt. They had clothes and gear for a platoon of fishermen and flies for an army, some patterns I’d never seen or heard of, and hope never to again.

First fish

Early the next morning I introduced my flatlander friends to the Prestile Stream, with the scenic wooded banks and feisty native trout. For the first couple of hours Rich and Bob moved about as if in a daze, spending more time gawking, exploring, and asking questions than fishing. During that time they each managed to catch about a half-dozen fish and missed hooking three times that many due to slow reaction time. The sudden swirls and splashy strikes shocked the boys and bore no resemblance to stocked trout.

Though only 8-10 inches, the brookies fought hard on lightweight gear and the amazingly vivid colors mesmerized the neophyte anglers. Each trout was fully inspected and compared, and to this day they still talk of the orange bellies and fins, vivid green vermiculations, and the brilliant red and yellow polka dots. No immigrant miner finding gold in a new country could have been happier, nor as hooked as this pair was on a new territory, native trout, and traditional fly fishing.

Throughout a full day of casting and catching along the various stretches of the Prestile Stream, the fishing pharmacists accounted for 41 trout, releasing all but 10 that were kept for a much-anticipated fish fry supper. We waded and walked various sectors of stream and shoreline, and late in the morning on the way back to the truck for a lunch break, Rich and Bob discovered fiddleheads.

I came upon them kneeling over a shaded patch of dark, black earth studying “these curly green plants.” I gave them the background, pertinent info and culinary possibilities of the popular fern, and at first they thought I was pulling their legs. When they realized I was serious, they were all for picking a mess then and there. I had a better idea, and promised them a real treat if they could hold out one more day.

Brookside brunch

Visit the Maine coast and a shoreline steamer lunch of lobster, clams, and corn on the cob is commonplace, but farther north we have our own little tradition of a bankside brunch. The morning of the second day was to be spent wading a secluded section of Three Brooks, a small stream that eventually dumps into the Prestile. This picturesque creek is shrouded with woods and every bank undercut, bathtub-size deep hole, and long riffle holds feisty 6- to 10-inch brookies. I surreptitiously gathered the components and ingredients of my surprise the night before while keeping my fishing friends in the dark.

Come the morning, a small backpack was ready for each of us, with all the items carefully and securely stowed for rough travel and even to withstand wet weather. No amount of questions, shaking, or feeling about would reveal the contents, which for Bob and Rich added even more excitement to the outing.

Fishing was fabulous. Every nook and cranny held 6- to 8-inch brook trout and most were anxious to grab a colorful wet fly or a well-placed dry fly floating nearby. We were spread out fishing different sections of a brook, and got together at mid-morning to compare notes. We agreed to meet at a specific point downstream at 11:30, and then separated for two more hours of fishing.

When Bob and Rich arrived at the rocky spot of beach where the brook made a sharp turn, I already had a small fire of driftwood going and a fair bed of ashes laid out. I’d pulled a couple of large pieces of deadwood and a tree stump near the rock-bordered fire pit. Taking the knapsacks, I handed the boys my creel and told them to clean the nine medium-size trout inside while I got lunch started. What my buddies didn’t know was I’d spent the last half hour picking fiddleheads while the fire burnt down to cooking coals.

Into the coals went foil wrapped packets of potato wedges with salt, pepper, a dash of garlic and onion salt, and butter. Water was set to boil with a dash of salt, fiddleheads would be added later and cooked until tender. A couple of slivers of salt pork were added to the frying pan for cooking grease and each trout was liberally coated in a plastic bag filled with corn meal, a bit of flour, and a couple of condiments, and then placed in the sizzling pan.

A loaf of homemade bread was sliced, dairy butter and homemade bread and butter pickles laid out, and a small container of vinegar opened for the greens. Two thermoses of real ice tea and lemonade were opened, and paper plates, plastic utensils, and paper towels set out. The smell of campfire cooking is only surpassed by the taste.

When everything was cooked and served, we sat down in our remote dining area to enjoy a sumptuous lunch. I passed on the fiddleheads, but the boys had no problem finishing my share. They watched me butter a slice of bread, pull the backbone and ribs from a trout and fold it into a sandwich of luscious pink meat. They followed suit, and conversation gave way to chewing and lip smacking.

Bob and Rich returned to the city with frozen trout and fiddleheads for a couple of meals, but none that would match that brookside lunch. In the many trips and outdoor meals we have enjoyed since, that first one will remain special. New experiences often make the best old memories, and the pink and green tradition of Aroostook trout and fiddleheads lives on.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com