For many Maine anglers the long Memorial Day weekend has become a time for a traditional spring fishing trip. Even for the unfortunate sportsmen whose work obligations prevent a full, three-day outing, usually a dawn ’til dusk venture can be arranged. Fishing, food and friends; whether for a couple of hours or a couple of days, what better way to spend a holiday.

At least that was my theory a few weeks ago. In retrospect, after a Memorial Day trolling outing to a set of remote lakes in the North Maine Woods I may just stay home and barbecue next year. Musquacook Lakes are a set of five liquid azure gems secluded in the deep North Maine Woods about 50 miles beyond Ashland’s Six-Mile checkpoint. Teeming with brook trout, and so many moderate-sized togue that the limit is six per day, the Musquacooks get light angling pressure year-round due to their isolated locale.

Tough Traveling

Even under normal travel conditions the Reality Road is a rocky, rough washboard meandering through thick forest where heavily-loaded hauling rigs rule the road. After Aroostook’s record snowfall, the spring melt and run-off deluge destroyed entire sections of many Crown of Maine woods roads. The extensive damage closed many of the remote routes, so my ice-out trip to the Musquacooks in mid-May had to be postponed. Frankly I was amazed to learn the road would be open Memorial Day. The North Maine Woods management team and their road repair crews performed an astonishing amount of work in a short time.

Nonetheless, it’s still a long, cautious drive hauling a canoe trailer watching for rough, under-repair terrain and wayward wildlife that consider the gravel roads just another game trail. Loaded so fully with gear that the inside rear view mirror was useless, my new SUV got Dave Ash, Roger Shaw and I to the shoreline of First Musquacook about 9 a.m. That’s when the first of several life lessons was bestowed upon our trio. With more than 100 years of outdoor experience between us, one might suspect we were aware and could avoid most glitches – wrong again!

Before leaving the paved road, we removed the outboard motor from the stern of the canoe and stored it in the back of the truck, lest the rough, bouncing ride damage the motor or canoe. We forgot to stow the motor riser, a brand-new unit that now rests somewhere along the route. We also made the mistake of leaving the motor battery in the canoe where both cable connector bolts and wing nuts shook loose during the drive, one of which somehow fell through the drain plug hole. No spare at hand.

We made these discoveries while preparing to launch. I was dismantling a rod-holder, hoping to make one of the bolts fit the battery when luck smiled upon us and a friend from Presque Isle arrived to launch his Scott canoe. Scrounging his truck and tackle boxes a replacement bolt and nut were discovered. Loading gear and launching took place in short order and, despite the stumbling blocks, Dave, Roger and I were soon dragging plugs, lures and flies around scenic, secluded First Musquacook Lake.

Tight-lipped Togue

An overcast sky and mild breeze that created a perfect salmon chop on the lake surface provided ideal conditions. The fish seemed to have other ideas however and we motored about for 30 minutes with nary a strike. My theory that lake and brook trout would be cruising just beneath the surface taking advantage of the warmer layer of water didn’t seem to be panning out. Wondering if perhaps the water had warmed too much, sending the fish deeper, I dangled my fingers beneath the water beside the canoe. It took only a few seconds of submersion to send frigid tingles along my digits and disprove that theory. After all, we had seen more than a dozen banks of snow at various shrouded locations along the road while driving to the lake.

As self doubt set in and we bandied about our choices of lures, location, boat speed, wind direction, fishing depth, and any other inane excuse that came to mind, Dave hooked a fish. A bit on edge, we all watched with anticipation and dread until finally that first trout, a dandy 15-inch brookie, lay in the bottom of the net. As they say, the skunk was out of the bag, and although fishing wasn’t fast, they all didn’t have lockjaw.

Roger Shaw’s theory on fishing lures is simple and straightforward, “What have you done for me lately?,” and if the answer is no strikes in the last 10 minutes, it’s time for a change. The man stocks and offers up a variety of lures, spoons, plugs and flies that rivals Abercrombie and Fitch’s Sporting Emporium in their heyday. As Roger changed his fifth bait of the trip, a couple of snide comments crossed my mind, but upon considering I was the only one in the boat without even a strike I quickly decided silence was the better option.

Biting my tongue turned out to be excellent foresight when Roger’s trolling rod arced over and began bobbing as another trout hooked up less than five minutes later. Hoping a change of venue might also change my luck, I carefully maneuvered the big, 21-foot Scott Hudson Bay canoe among the large boulders, submerged logs and shallow water connecting Second and First Musquacook. Almost an hour later I zigzagged my way back through the tricky thoroughfare passage with only picturesque scenery and a second brookie for Dave to show for our tour of First Musquacook.

Food and Solitude

I suggested that if the fish weren’t biting, I certainly was, and received a quick quorum from my boat mates as they rapidly reeled in lines and we skimmed across Second Musquacook to the boat launch area. Roger got the old Coleman stove fired up, dug out his frying pans and set to cooking thick, juicy burgers and a pile of home fries. I wandered over to chat with another trio of anglers who were packing up to hit the road after spending a couple of days camping and fishing togue.

Their luck had been fair on trout and steady on togue up to 24 inches, but no bragging-size fish. Using lead-core line and sewn smelt, the campers had found the fish hovering around 25 feet in 30-foot depths. No wonder our flies and plugs, running no more than four feet below the surface were receiving so little attention. The other fishermen offered us their remaining smelt, but since we had no deep-dredging lines along we thanked them and declined.

A steady breeze kept the insects at bay as we sat at a rough-hewn picnic table and devoured two hamburgers each on fire-toasted rolls and mounds of seasoned slices of fried potatoes. Fish, fowl or fried meat along with the fixin’s always have a better flavor when prepared as a shore lunch. A cold beverage from the ice chest and homemade dessert rounded out our noon repast as we chatted in the splendid solitude of woods and water and listened to the loons croon. If we hadn’t hooked a fish, the lakeside meal and scenery still would have made the long ride worthwhile.

Later that evening I’d have to think back to those pleasant feelings several times to ease my frustration. But for now, a quick cleanup and packing of cooking utensils had us back on the water less than an hour after beaching the canoe for lunch. Both other groups of anglers had loaded up and left the lakes so Dave, Roger and I had the entire waterway to ourselves. While eating, our trio had bandied about the idea of packing up and shifting our efforts to Clear Lake, a trout pond only 12 miles away. In the end we decided to stay put and simply expand our trolling area and vary our tackle and tactics.

For the next couple of hours we worked the southeast cove extensively with a wide variety of baits. Our luck remained status quo: Dave and Roger each took fish once in awhile while I ran the motor and kept checking my line to see it there was actually a lure still attached. Save for one 19-inch togue, all of the takers were brook trout and when we loaded the canoe just after 5 p.m. for the long trek back to civilization I was still fishless and feeling like a true Jonah.

Twilight Tire Trouble

Other than a couple of moose playing in the road, our return trip was pretty uneventful, although my lack of success did sneak into the conversation several times. Then, between Six-Mile checkpoint and Ashland, after leaving all the rough road behind and finally reaching pavement a warning light on my dashboard began to flash. A second later I could feel the reason and pulling over we found the right rear tire pancake flat. The three stooges could not have put a better comedy routine together than our trio trying to locate the jack, handle and lug wrench, and then fight an obstinate spare from under this new truck on very uneven ground.

After much discussion, manual reading and several knuckle-skinning events interspersed with some colorful language we got the truck up on a jack I wouldn’t use on a tricycle and began removing the wheel. Remember, there’s a trailer and canoe still hitched in place and the entire rear of the SUV is packed sardine-can tight with a motor, gas cans, canoe seats, nets, cooking and fishing equipment.

Now imagine our response when I lugged the flat around the truck to place in the canoe for transport and found the left rear tire was now flat! Several vehicles stopped to offer help but no one had a 17-inch spare. One good Samaritan had an electric tire pump and we got enough air in the second flat to make a four-mile mad dash to Dave’s house where another spare tire and a real hydraulic jack were at hand. Dark was closing in fast when we were finally on four fully-inflated wheels once again.

Lessons learned: no more four-ply tires on woods roads, there will be 8- or 10-ply rubber all the way around; regardless of how much gear is going to be packed, a real truck jack, a tire plug and repair kit, and an electronic or battery air compressor will be on board – even if a tackle box remains behind. I shudder to think if our problem had occurred after dark on the coarse, sloping, gravel logging road.

Now you well might ask my true feelings after the long drive, no bites other than black flies and mosquitoes, and two flats with only one spare. Well, I can be ready by morning to go again. The friends, the fishing, the food, the scenery and the wildlife make it worthwhile. Besides, I have to redeem myself, there has to be one foolish fish out there.

bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com