Adventures of Pudge

SALMON FISHING AT ELBOW LAKE

As the plane dipped and turned on its approach to Elbow Lake Pudge could see why the lake had been given that name.

The elbow shaped surface rippled in the sunshine. Pudge and his dad had taken off in the plane about an hour earlier from

the south end of Moosehead Lake. They would send the next week by themselves at this remote lake in the northwestern

part of Maine, close to the Canadian border.

The pilot, Chuck Frazee, had recommended this lake to Pudge’s dad when he called and made reservations several

weeks ago. Chuck was an experienced bush pilot who had flown many hours over the back country and claimed he knew it

as well as he knew the back of his hand. ‘You’ll find all the solitude you want, plus good fishing for salmon and bass in the

lake, and brook trout in the inlet stream,” he had stated. “Of course, you’ll have to put up with the black flies. They can be

fierce at times, not too bad if you stay close to the lake.”

Mr. Hammond and Pudge had decided to take the trip by themselves as soon as school was out for Pudge. Ordinarily,

Pudge’s mom would have been with them but this year she had gone to stay with her sister, who was having a baby. This

was the first time Pudge could remember taking a vacation trip without her.

The day after school was out Pudge and his dad loaded the car with food, clothing, camping and fishing gear. Mr.

Hammond borrowed a canoe from a friend, this they secure on top of the car. Four hours later they arrived in Greenville,

Maine and looked up the pilot. Next morning all the gear was loaded into the plane, the canoe strapped to one of the

pontoons, and they had taken off.

As they flew they got magnificent views of the north woods of Maine. For as far as the eyes could see they looked out

over vast expanses of spruce and balsam trees, with an occasional pearl-like lake appearing in their midst. Also, on

occasion, they saw areas which had been clear-cut during logging operations; a sore blot to the countryside as far as Mr.

Hammond was concerned. When he mentioned this to Chuck, the pilot shrugged his shoulders.

“This is prime logging country up here, Mr. Hammond. They are starting to cut more selectively now than they did in the

past, but people depend on logging to make a living.”

As they flew Chuck pointed out several logged areas that had been more selectively cut. He also showed them a few

private fishing camps which he flew clients in to from time to time.

When they landed Chuck taxied the plane to a sand spit at the head of the lake. He maneuvered the plane so that one of

the pontoons was right next to the spit. It was a simple task for Pudge to jump to the spit and tie a rope from the plane to a

stump while the gear and canoe were off-loaded.

“You’ll find the inlet creek just to the north of this bay,” said Chuck, pointing along the edge of the spit. “A good place to

set up camp is right near the mouth of the creek. Good water, plenty of fire wood and no flies. I’ll see you in a week.” With

those comments Chuck untied the plane from its mooring, climbed in and waved goodbye.

Pudge and his dad were on their own. They wandered to the campsite Chuck had recommended and as soon as they

saw it agreed it was an excellent choice. In a short time they moved all their gear to the site, set up camp, and arranged all

the gear in an orderly fashion.

“Let’s go fishing,” said Mr. Hammond. It didn’t take long for Pudge to react to that invitation. Within 15 minutes they

were in the canoe paddling out into the bay where the stream entered the lake.

“This looks as good a place as any to try,” said Mr. Hammond. The salmon should be feeding on the food washed down

from the stream.” He tied a large streamer fly on his leader and motioned for Pudge to do the same.

Pudge tied on a fly and then watched his dad’s technique for a while, noticing the way the fly was allowed to sink slowly

and then retrieved in a slow twitching motion. Pudge began experimenting with the same technique. It had looked so easy

when his dad did it but Pudge soon found out such was not the case. It would take a great deal of practice to learn, he

decided.

In the meantime, while Pudge was practicing, Mr. Hammond continued fishing. At times he let his fly sink for a few

seconds, at others allowing it to sink more deeply. During this process he changed flies several times, to either a different

pattern or to a different size in the pattern he was using. Nothing seemed to work. After about an hour of this Mr. Hammond

suggested they either try another spot or try a different kind of fishing.

“How about trout fishing?” suggested Pudge. “We can always catch trout.”

“Good idea,” replied Mr. Hammond. They paddled the canoe back to camp, put on waders and exchanged their fishing

rods for lighter weight fly rods to replace the heavy salmon rods they had been using.

Where the stream entered the lake was very marshy and not suitable for wading. By making a wide detour around the

mouth they reached a section of the stream which was more wadeable. At this point the stream was about 20 feet wide and

fairly slow moving. Soon, both of them were wading and making short casts to likely looking pockets of water. Again, the

fish didn’t cooperate. Mr. Hammond had one strike, which he missed; Pudge had no action whatsoever.

“Let’s move further upstream,” suggested Mr. Hammond. “Perhaps we’re too close to the lake for the trout to be active.”

With this comment he waded ashore and headed upstream, Pudge following. As they walked the terrain became hilly and

the stream faster moving. Soon they were at a section in which the stream dropped in step-like cascades between short, flat

pockets strewn with large boulders.

“Looks good here,” said Mr. Hammond as he waded into the water and began casting toward a narrow run between

boulders.

Pudge moved past his dad and found a similar stretch of water. In a short time both father and son had a trout rise to

their fly. Each fish darted to and fro trying to shake itself loose from the hook. After Pudge netted his trout he turned to show

his dad and noticed that his dad had a trout almost similar in size and coloring in his net. They were two beautifully spotted

brook, each about 12 inches long.

“Good eating size,” yelled Pudge. Mr. Hammond grinned and waved an agreement. A short time later Pudge had

caught two more nice brookies and noticed suddenly that his neck was burning. When he reached back to rub it a swarm of

tiny black flies rose from his neck and flew around his face. Both he and his dad had been so absorbed in the fishing they

hadn’t noticed the flies, and Pudge remembered he hadn’t smeared repellent on. Soon, the flies were swarming all around

Pudge’s head, in his ears, in his eyes, up his nostrils.

“Dad, do you have any fly dope?” he yelled. “I’m being eaten alive.”

“I forgot it,” answered Mr. Hammond. “They’re attacking me too. Perhaps we should go back to camp and get some.”

Quickly, they scampered out of the stream and hurried back in the direction of camp. As they approached the camp site

Pudge heard a sound from the brush behind him. When he turned he spotted a bear ambling along in the same direction

they were heading.

“Dad, we have company,” he called. “There’s a bear following us.”

Mr. Hammond turned and also saw the bear. Apparently, until Pudge spoke, the bear had not seen them. The bear

stopped and tilted its nose in the air as if to get a scent of the intruders into its domain. It was not large, as bears go, so Mr.

Hammond assumed it was a young bear, perhaps a yearling. It had the most beautiful ginger blond color he had ever seen.

He mentioned this to Pudge.

“I thought bears were black or brown,” said Pudge. “This one’s different, it’s n a polar bear, is it?”

“No,” replied his dad. “It’s one of the many color variations a black bear can have. It is an unusual color, though. We’d

better get back to camp before he does. Me as much noise as you can, it might scare him away.”

With that comment Mr. Hammond continued walking toward camp singing as loudly as he could “Oh, the bear went over

the mountain, the bear went over the mountain . . .”

The bear, apparently startled by the rude outburst, scampered away. They could hear him crashing through the brush

when they arrived at the camp site.

Mr. Hammond was concerned that the bear would come back and raid their camp. “We’ll need to find a tall tree and

carry all our food there; that could be a problem so let’s do that first and get it over with.”

The closest tree they could find that had a long, high branch extending out was several hundred yards from camp.

Loading all the food that wasn’t bear-proof, into duffle bags and then carrying the bags to the tree took them more than an

hour. Fortunately, a light breezes blowing, which kept the black flies away while they carried out this chore. When the bags

were securely fastened high on the tree branch they returned to camp.

“We’ll leave both ends of the tent open when we’re gone from camp,” said Mr. Hammond. “That way, if an animal goes

into the tent he’ll be able to go out the back door if he gets trapped in there and won’t knock the tent down in his panic. Now,

let’s put on some insect repellent and clean those trout we caught. We’ll try the salmon fishing again in the morning.”

That evening, after a sumptuous meal of trout and baked potatoes topped off by a rice pudding Mr. Hammond made,

they sat near the fire and Mr. Hammond told stories of his boyhood. He had been born in 1900 and brought up when

automobile travel was in its infancy. Pudge was fascinated by the stories of what the roads and cars were like when his

father first learned to drive. The cars were called ’tin lizzies,’ the roads were either deep mud in which the cars got stuck or

hard baked ruts that produced a jarring ride.

“The fishing was different, too,” Mr. Hammond mused. “In those days people fished for the food they caught, very few

fished for the sport of it.”

As it began to get dark the mosquitoes came out in force causing the two to abandon the story telling, rush to put more

repellent on and head for bed.

In the morning the canoe was put back in the water and the two fishermen paddled slowly along the shore of the lake,

casting their flies toward shore or along the edge of sand bars and rock ledges. Occasionally, a salmon rose to their offering

but they were not successful in hooking one. Pudge, surprisingly, hooked a small bass on his fly causing Mr. Hammond to

comment, ”That’s one crazy, mixed up bass, he thinks he’s a salmon.”

After lunch and a short nap Mr. Hammond suggested they try the trout fishing again. “Let’s bring insect repellent with us

this time.”

“And keep our eyes open for the bear,” added Pudge.

For two hours they walked and waded in the stream, catching and releasing an occasional trout. The stream became

steeper, and faster moving, as they got further from camp. Also, the fish were smaller but more plentiful. In one section the

fishing was fast and furious. Pudge’s arms actually became tired from the continuous action. When they finally decided to

quit all Pudge could say was, “Wow!

That evening they had an early supper of canned stew and cornbread cooked in a small folding oven Mr. Hammond had

brought. They then put the canoe back in the water and headed out into the bay they had fished when they first arrived at the

lake. The sun was sinking low and cast a reddish glow over the entire surface of the lake. Pudge was mesmerized.

“Pudge, I think you’re going to be an artist,” his father commented. “You seem to appreciate the scenery more than most

people do. I’m happy to see that, I enjoy beautiful scenery too.”

When they started fishing Mr. Hammond had a strike on his second cast and soon had all the action he could handle as

a large salmon began a swift run toward deeper water. Occasionally, it stopped its run and leaped high in the air, at times

tail-walking in its attempts to free itself from the hook. Pudge was astonished at the size of it and found himself cheering his

father on as if he were at a sports event in which Mr. Hammond was a participant.

Back and forth went the salmon, dragging the canoe with it, Mr. Hammond constantly changing tactics, first allowing the

fish to take out long lengths of line, then reeling in rapidly as the fish headed back toward him. Pudge used his paddle to

keep the canoe in a straight line so they would be sure to stay upright as the salmon made its runs. In all, the fish zoomed

back and forth about 20 minutes before it tired enough for Mr. Hammond to reel it into the net. After holding up his catch for

Pudge to take pictures Mr. Hammond guessed its weight at 12 pounds. Then, making sure the fish was breathing properly,

released it back into the lake. As it was getting dark they returned to camp for a brief campfire and then to bed.

Next morning they arose to an overcast, windy day; the first day since arriving at Elbow Lake that the sun wasn’t shining.

Because of the wind the lake was covered with whitecaps.

“No canoeing today,” said Pudge’s dad. “I guess we’ll have to be satisfied with stream fishing; or perhaps you would like

to take a hike around the lake. Unless it rains, then we’ll be stuck in camp.”

“Let’s go for a hike while it’s still dry,” suggested Pudge. “If it’s not raining this afternoon we can try the stream.”

Mr. Hammond agreed to this. Ponchos and a lunch were packed in a day pack which Mr. Hammond carried. Pudge

carried a fly rod which they could take turns using if they found some fishing. They soon discovered that the hike they had

chosen to take was not going to be an easy one. In places the shore was marshy, which meant they had to walk a

considerable distance from the lake to skirt the marshy areas. In other places the trees grew to the edge of the lake and

again walking along the lake shore was impossible. Each time they moved inland they were immediately attacked by

swarms of black flies.

They discovered another small stream entering the lake about a mile from camp but decided it was too small to fish.

Half-way around the lake they came to the outlet stream, too deep and too marshy to wade until they walked about a half mile

downstream. Here, they found several beautiful pools they decided to fish before moving on.

Pudge fished while his dad built a fire to heat some soup for lunch. In less than ten minutes he caught and released three

plump brook trout, all from the same pool. Mr. Hammond then took a turn at the fishing while Pudge finished getting lunch.

He also caught several nice trout in a short time.

“If we want to make it back to camp before dark we’d better hurry,” said Mr. Hammond. “So far the weather has been

good to us but who knows whether it will stay that way..” Following these comments he extinguished the fire, shouldered the

pack and headed back toward the lake. Pudge grabbed the fly rod and followed.

The lake shore was easier to follow than the first section they traversed. The ground was more level, and drier, which

meant the had no marshes to cross until they arrived back at the stream near camp. Here again, it was necessary to go

upstream about a half mile before they could cross. By the time they arrived in camp it was mid-afternoon and had started to

rain. Soon, the rain was pelting down so hard they had to seek shelter in the tent. The rain continued hard for the next hour.

During that time little rivulets formed on each side of the tent where they had dug shallow trenches when they erected the tent.

Inside, the tent remained snug and dry.

“It’s a good thing we dug those trenches,” commented Mr. Hammond. “Otherwise, we would have a river running through

us.”

By late afternoon the rain had abated enough for them to go outside and assess the damage. To their consternation

they found their fireplace under water. Fortunately, the fire wood had stayed dry only because they had the foresight to cover

it with a tarp the last time they built a fire. When they wandered to the inlet stream they discovered it to be a raging, muddy

colored torrent.

“We won’t be fishing in the stream for a day or two,” said Mr. Hammond. “Let’s hope the lake is more fishable.”

For the next hour or so the two of them gathered rocks from the old fireplace and erected a new fireplace on higher

ground than the previous one. They also went to inspect the food supply which they had cached in the tall tree. When they

reached the tree they discovered that the branch had broken during the storm and their precious food supply was scattered

on the ground.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Mr. Hammond. “Let’s salvage what we can and find another branch. Luckily we have a supply of

canned food back at camp.”

The food loss wasn’t as bad as they had feared. Several small bags of flour and breakfast cereal had broken. Also, a

bag containing oranges, scattering its contents for a distance from the tree. Most of the other food had been packaged in

waterproof bags and was still secure.

Finding another tree branch was a problem. The tree they had used didn’t have another branch suitable for the purpose.

The closest suitable tree was too far away from camp, it would take them too long to carry the food back and forth. Another

bear-proof solution was needed. After considering several possibilities it was Pudge who came up with the answer.

“Why not tie a rope high up between two trees and throw another rope over this rope and then pull the food up between

the trees?’ His dad thought this an excellent idea and suggested two trees close to camp that would be suitable.

When they had accomplished this task it was beginning to get dark. There was still enough daylight left for them to cook

supper and straighten out the tent where needed. Fortunately, the rain had stopped and everything in the tent was dry.

In the morning all signs of the storm had disappeared. The sun shone brightly, a light breeze created a slight ripple on

the lake. “Let’s go fishing,” said Pudge.

For the next two days they paddled the canoe to the bay near the inlet stream and encountered fabulous fishing.

Apparently, the storm had washed quantities of food into the lake from the stream and the salmon were on a feeding binge.

They struck at everything Pudge and his dad threw their way. So many fish were caught and released that our fishermen’s

arms ached. All of the salmon were small compared to the one Mr. Hammond caught earlier in the week, averaging between

two and three pounds each. They also caught several small bass which were added to their evening meal.

On Friday, knowing they had to leave the next day, they fished the stream again. To prepare for the black flies they

applied liberal amounts of insect repellent to their bodies and made certain they had plenty of extra with them. The stream

was clear and back to its normal level and again the fishing was excellent. Pool after pool contained dozens of hungry brook

trout which rose readily to their flies. They followed the stream for more than a mile from the lake before it became to steep

and too swift to fish. At the eend of the day Pudge and his dad were two happy fishermen.

On Saturday Chuck returned to pick them up for their return to civilization. Pudge couldn’t stop talking for the entire flight

as he described their wonderful week to the pilot.