Love is Blind (and slimy)
Most people don’t get it when we tell them we love fishing. They think they have it figured out, but they seldom do. It’s the kind of love that ignores the obvious annoyances like biting black flies, soaking downpours, and relentless winds. The kind that gets us up early, keeps us out late, and wreaks havoc on our bank accounts by preventing any sort of monetary growth. We dodge ice chunks in early Spring, brave blistering sun in the dead of Summer, and travel to some of the most remote (and not so remote) waters in search of trout, salmon, and muskie. We miss family functions, skip out on work, make lasting memories, embellish those memories to spin a good fishing tale, and spend every day on the water as if it’s our last.
I know very few people in this area who love fishing as much as I do, but Alex Plourde is most certainly one of those few. Ice fishing has always taken a back seat to fly tying in my book, but Alex truly loves pulling fish through the ice in sub-zero temperatures. Nearly always practicing catch and release, here is Mr. Plourde planting a kiss before releasing a feisty salmon back to the icy depths. Love is blind, and in this case slimy.
See you on the water, whatever the weather.
-Ben
Sunny Daze
I love taking pictures. No particular rhyme or reason as to why, I just enjoy being behind the lens. For some people I guess taking pictures could be about showing off, and I can see that. Living in a beautiful place is nothing to be ashamed of, and even I have been known to snap the occasional “look where I live” photos when the opportunity presents itself. Photography is like fly fishing for me in that I am constantly learning and growing every time I’m in the field. Each outing I appreciate the process a little more, and every new photograph feels more polished and refined than the last.
Every photographer has a signature style or element that is readily apparent in all of their work. For me, that element has always been clouds. Adding clouds to any backdrop introduces a highly manipulative element that can give photos personality and depth. I live for partly sunny days when the cloud cover is sparse and well-defined, stretching endlessly across a deep blue sky in dancing streams of white and gray. But above all, I love shooting clouds during the final moments of daylight. The special relationship between cloud cover and the fading sun is one that I’ve grown to appreciate deeply in recent years. Sunset backgrounds cycle and disappear often, only allowing precious moments to get that prime shot. I feel blessed to live in a place where the sun always sets against a stunningly beautiful, natural background. I do my best to capture those pristine moments before they slip away, and over the years have managed to photograph more than my fair share of sunsets in what I regard as some of the most relaxing and remote locations in the world.
The photos below are some of my favorites, and the moments they were taken are moments I will never forget. Over the next few days Up’North will roll out 12 never before seen sunset photographs taken from 2009 to 2011. Some are completely natural, never altered or touched up in any way. Others have alterations in contrast, saturation, and exposure. I take great pride in these shots, and appreciate any and all reader comments or constructive criticism.
As always, thank you for visiting Up’North Maine Fly Castings. Check back soon for new updates, and be sure to check out the gallery for my complete collection of outdoor photographs and landscapes.
Tight Lines,
-Ben
“Hardly Hunting”
Sitting silent listen closely whisper windswept wilderness.
Frozen fingers each breath lingers cotton cammo woolen dress.
Warmth a mystery ancient history snow falls steady forest floor.
Miles from nowhere movement somewhere listen closely breathe no more.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Densely darkened daylight dimming vast horizon fading fast
Sunshine struggles falling farther treeline silhouette is cast.
Honest hours watching waiting notice nothing clear dismay
Deadline drawing nearer precious time ticks hopelessly away.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Hardly hunting seldom shooting simply sitting solitude
Finding joy in failure crisp clear mind inspired pleasant mood
Empty handed hasty headed home down back roads steady roll
Surely passing time descending purifying country soul.
Quality Time
Some days, some hours, some moments are far too timeless to capture in a single photograph….but I can still try can’t I?
- A weekend catch for gramps! Togue, Trout, and more!
Thanks, But no thanks.
-Howdy folks.
It’s been quiet the year, and this season has given me much to be thankful for that I didn’t have before. I found my way home, secured a teaching job back in northern Maine, and made some memories to last a lifetime both in the woods and on the water. 2011 didn’t find me fishing nearly as frequently, but the times I did get out were extremely successful. Luck played a big role (or the only role) in that success, but I have no problem pretending it was all raw determination and talent.
As Winter continues its devilish dance with the remaining guardians of Fall, fly fishing in northern Maine shifts gears as the season grows cold. Fly rods bow down to tying vises, reels and fly lines take a back-seat to streamer hooks, threads, and feathers. Tying is typically a relaxing way to burn a few hours (and a bottle of wine) and nothing is quiet as exciting as filling those badly depleted fly boxes for the upcoming season. Looking past the obvious benefits, sitting down at the vise also allows for abundant time to reflect on the dying year. With only one month left until we close the books on 2011, I can’t help but reflect on everything that I’ve enjoyed since November one year ago. What many people fail to realize is that joy doesn’t have to be one dimensional, and that hatred can actually bring an extremely satisfying sense of joy on many occasions. With that in mind, enjoy Up’North’s first EVER (oh yes) “Thanks, but no thanks” list. Call it what you want, but know that my opinion (while typically correct and of sane nature) is simply my opinion. You don’t have to like it (you should) or agree with me (again, you probably should) but at least by the end I’ve hopefully helped you think about what might bring you joy during this holiday season. Here. We. Go.
- Crocs — While comfortable and convenient, Crocs get a bad rap for a number of reasons, the most obvious being that they make anyone who wears them look like an idiot. Beyond being detrimental to your social life, studies show that Crocs are actually detrimental to your health and life-skills as well. Tripping becomes a frequent occurrence, and several people have reported actually losing the ability to tie their shoes or even fasten velcro.
- Easy Loops — Most fly lines come with a “quick loop” at the end to fasten a leader quickly and efficiently, but I’ve discovered that it actually hinders my fishing more than it helps. Some of my worst knots on the water have formed AT this convenient loop, and this season I finally did away with the loop altogether on all but my heaviest setups. Well-executed nail knots allow for clean, crisp presentations, and cause a minimal disturbance on the surface when picking up the line. Just snip it.
- Bemini Tippets — I hate them, very much. They knot, sometimes before they even touch the water. They don’t help me cast further, they don’t make changing tippets more convenient, and they cost 100% more than they are worth. No thanks.
- Decaf Coffee — You are an impostor. Stop tying to be something you clearly are not. You don’t even attempt to give me energy, just sitting there in the pot pretending to be your useful, delicious relative. You will never cure my headaches, you will never join me on early morning commutes, you will never enjoy morning fog on the river, or grace the dash of my pickup during hunting season. Just go away.
- Ethanol – You take up 10% of my gas, but I don’t recall inviting you to my tank. You play crude jokes on my motors, cause more harm than good when it comes to the environment because of your lengthy manufacturing process, and fail to increase my gas milage regardless of what I put you in. You eat up government subsidies that would be better wasted elsewhere, the key term here being wasted. I like corn, but would gladly give it up if it meant I would never have to deal with you again.
- Honorable mentions — Pop tarts (you make me fat), whole wheat pasta (gross), cheap fly reels (you’re a drag), machine tied flies (with love from China), unpaid vacations (time is money), pants you have to iron (usually means I’m not fishing), candy corn (tastes like?), hummus (all flavors are equally gross), and flooding (rain isn’t always a good thing).
So there you have it, short, sweet, and on the money. Feel free to add your very own in the comments section below, and remember that joy is what you make it.
Happy Holidays, and all that jolly jazz.
-Ben
Storylines
Scratches, scrapes, dings and dents. Every canoe has them, some worst than others. Minor or major, repaired or left open, each mark tells a story that might inspire laughs, tears, or even a healthy amount of finger pointing.
Lord knows my canoe bears it fair share of scars. A few of the most memorable were acquired during an afternoon portage between Deboullie and Gardiner pond with my buddy Alex. Over rocks and roots, through gravel and mud, from one pond to the other. The bottom of a canoe reads like a map, lines scattered in every direction outstretched like mountain streams. Each one runs differently, signs of character carved one by one, memories of shallow waters and sleepers that wait silently just below the surface. The simple fact is that sometimes canoes just need to take a beating, something most will do willingly year after year. Just like a pickup truck isn’t meant to sit in a showroom, no canoe is bred to take the easy way out.
Storylines
Many Miles
I typically don’t introduce or explain my photos, most of the time I feel like they do just fine telling their own stories. I enjoy shooting in black and white because I find the photos less distracting, and at the same time more entrancing. The absence of color is always something I’ve been drawn to in photography, so it seems only natural that I shoot and edit my photos in the same fashion.
These shots were taken along a stretch of railway that follows the Fish River near Fort Kent, Maine. For nearly a century these rails have played a vital role in northern Maine’s working economy, shuttling various goods and even passengers years ago, and transporting timber to area mills to this very day. They represent American history in it’s purest form, stretching for miles along pine ridges and through rustic communities. Every mile tells it’s own unique story, and pictures here are worth way more than a thousand words.
Swaying Silhouettes
Pressed against a fading sky,
A darkened day,
Light won’t comply
Trees cast shadows, outstretched high
Black branch swaying lullaby.
Burn a Candle
There are only a few remaining sporting camps in the North Maine Woods that can trace their true roots back to the 1950s. These extremely remote, remarkably eloquent Historical landmarks are truly frozen in time, rarely disturbed time capsules preserving a piece of Maine’s culture that so few are fortunate enough to recall, let alone experience firsthand.
Well, count me among the lucky ones. Full story coming soon, consider this photo a teaser!
Watch us like a hawk, big things dropping in the coming days.
-Ben
October Ol’ Buddy
Nothing to tell now, nothing to say; Fishing is over, but I’m hunting today.
Oh October first, what a love/hate relationship we’ve developed. You’ve clearly taken the side of trout and salmon across the Saint John Valley, and for that I hold a grudge. Your sense of humor is sick and twisted, stealing away my fishing season, while on the same day allowing me to roam the forest with a shotgun looking for helpless partridge. I guess you’re not so bad after all, I do love guns…and camo. At the end of the day, I guess you’re not so bad after all.
(P.S.–Tell the snow it can wait until at least November, I’ll need a hand tracking what few deer we have left.)
Safety First! Happy hunting ladies and gents!
-Ben
Less False Casting
- Today I finally dusted off the fly rods and went fishing. It wasn’t a long trip by any measurement, but to say it was needed would be the understatement of the century. With only a few hours of daylight left to burn, I spent some time casting off the cobwebs and dragging on a cigar as the pond mirrored the autumn sky. The theme of the day was simplicity, and I feel like my late afternoon adventure captured that perfectly.
Nature's Mirror
No fish to speak of on this trip, at least not on the end of my line. (Here come the excuses) Typically this late in the season finds me more researched and organized, but this whole “real life” routine I’ve found myself in these past few months hasn’t left me with a ton of time for trial and error. I always have a special selection of flies for Soldier Pond….this year, not so much. I ate through my leader tying on a buffet of streamers, wets, and dry flies, getting only a few nasty flashes for my troubles. I guess it’s true what they say about getting back what you put in.
Like most return trips after a long absence on the water, my first dozen casts were anything but elegant. Throwing line off a bridge is a different game in itself, so some minor adjustments were inevitable. The one problem I’ve identified time and time again with my casting technique is with the number of times I tend to false cast. It’s almost as if I feel the need to adjust and readjust my stroke, which only compounds any errors resulting in a lackluster cast when I finally do shoot the line. I began limiting myself to no more than two or three false casts and saw immediate results in both distance and accuracy.
Thats when I started thinking about the concept false casting more than I probably should have. By now most of you non-fly fishing types are probably completely lost, but I’m pleased you’ve read this far regardless. False casts are the casts you make with a fly rod before eventually releasing line onto the water. A few false casts are almost always necessary for loading the fly rod and making lengthy casts, but how many largely depends on your technique and skill level. When I found that only a couple well executed false casts made my presentation more accurate and gave it more distance, I started to think about how I might apply my false casting theory to daily life. Less is more?
The great thing about practicing your cast is knowing that no matter how proficient you become, there is always room for improvement. Small, subtle changes can result in significant improvements, and improvements are all you can ever hope for. Practice doesn’t make perfect in fly casting, because new advancements in gear force you to continuously adjust. You get older, stronger, weaker, and are sometimes forced to adapt when conditions change or new waters present unique challenges. I’d like to think I can approach life in the same fashion, making minor adjustments while avoiding situations that might result in wasted time or energy. In short, less worrying about the minor details, and more focus on the bigger picture.
Less focus on the false cast, more on the final presentation. Sounds like a plan.
-Ben
Autumn Morning
Leaves are changing rearranging cast of colors autumn glow.
Gently falling crisply calling out to winter’s ice and snow.
Pave the roads with nature’s gold, hues of Fall all fade to rust.
Tires sound the changing season dashboard heater shakes off dust.
Exhaust fumes dance their devilish dance, winding wispy to the sky.
Shotgun shells and hunter orange, smoking gun dares birds to fly.
10 plys roll to kick up dust but dirt holds firmly to the ground.
Twisting trails dawn frozen puddles crashing crudely haunting sound.
Floorboard cocktail mud and wrappers, coffee casualties of war.
Thermos close at hand as daybreak calls for just a few cups more.
Lesson Learned
- Americans don’t need to be told why today is important, it’s not something we struggle to remember. We don’t need reminders about the cost of freedom, or the countless sacrifices of so many who’ve put country first on the front lines. We don’t need lessons on how to be American, we tow the line every day.
The freedom I enjoy.
A day that needs no year to be instantly recognized, the 10th anniversary of September 11 means many different things to many different people. After a sunrise coffee and morning mass with the family, I spent most of this bluebird day watching football and pouring myself over lesson plans for the upcoming week. This planning session took on new meaning, as I found myself struggling with an unexpected question; How do I teach my students about 9/11 when they have little to no personal memories of the attacks themselves? For my generation, it can be almost haunting to recollect the hour-by-hour events that unfolded before us on that faithful day. Personally, I can’t help but feel so utterly selfish when I think about how insignificant my problems seem when placed next to the hardships of those who have lost and given so much. If 9/11 has taught me anything, it’s that time is precious and tomorrow is always a new day. Looking back on those events now should only provide the necessary strength and courage to look ahead, and a sense of pride that comes exclusively with being an American. United we stand, defiant and bold in the face of faceless enemies.
This week I finally get to step away and visit some of my favorite fishing holes, but I do so knowing that across the world there are thousands fighting for my freedom to get out on the water. This may be a “day of remembrance,” but most American’s have remembered, and will continue to remember those lost on that day ten years ago for the rest of their lives. My students may not have vivid memories of their own, but they can all personally relate to the pride that comes with being an American citizen.
My only issue now? Americans are born with that pride, it’s not something they need to be taught.
…Square one. God Bless!
-Ben
And It Rained.
- Not much to talk about on the fishing front, record rains over the last few weeks have all but washed away any chance of a successful river trip. It started long before any hurricanes crept their way up the coast, and the relentless wrath of mother nature is showing no signs on letting up.
Cabin fever is setting in and my patience is wearing thin. With a mere 25 days left before I’m forced to hang up the rods, it’s a scary thought that the fishing may NEVER recover during our short stretch to October. I’ll never give up, but a battle of epic proportions seems imminent.
Focus.
Calling this season a wash might be an understatement, but lets reflect. Given my days on the water and my success rate, I’d hesitant to blame anything other than location and scheduling conflicts. Maybe conflicts isn’t the right word, but you get the picture. Regardless, all of this time indoors has really allowed me some freedom to dig down deep and reflect. Being home is clearly a good thing; friends, family, and a familiar environment have really taken me back to the golden years. But things are clearly different, not that different is always bad. Like I said, rain makes me think.
Years ago on a pond in the middle of nowhere I found myself in the center of a sudden downpour that I won’t soon forget. Casting quietly from a short aluminum canoe, I was taking advantage of a bright spot that fought its way through an otherwise dismal day. The season was coming to a close, the weather virtually mirrored what we’re seeing this year, and I was in desperate need of some time on the water. After about twenty minutes (and twenty jumping ghost fish) I sat puzzled as to why I wasn’t having any luck. The glassy surface said rain, but at that moment no drops were falling.
Blitz
While the brook trout danced mockingly around me, I ate through my leader changing flies until my fingers went numb. Then, as I was tying on just ONE MORE, someone turned the switch off. The surface of the pond mirrored the hardwood horizon, unbroken and eerily still. Thats when I heard it, a low rumble that seemed to be gaining steam. My instincts told me logging truck, but as the noise intensified I quickly nixed that thought. I clipped the tag on my latest knot and turned my attention to the tree line behind me. What I saw was the most magnificent, awesomely powerful wall of water I had ever laid eyes on. Like a blanket quickly covering the forest, I watched as the sheets of rain raced towards me at full sprint. I flipped my hood up and turned my shoulder as mother nature dumped buckets of water into my canoe. Relentless, unforgiving, cleansing. Time stood still as driving rain played a deafening tune on the back of my jacket. Paddle in hand, I pointed my canoe towards the cabin and the promise of dry cloths and a warm meal. Minutes later found me chatting over some drinks with a few good friends while our clothing and gear drip-dried around the wood stove.
What I experienced that day is something I’ll remember for as long as I fish, and in that long list of memories this one ranks close to the top. Sitting here today, I can honestly say that there isn’t a rainy day that goes by when I don’t think of my experience on that pond. A remote location at the end of the world, the end of my world. Ancient Chinese philosopher Confucius said “No matter where you go, there you are,” and the philosophical redneck in me would have to agree. Lately, rain to me means a fresh start, a clean slate. Here I am, enjoying my little piece of heaven in the only place I know how to be truly content. Here I am, and here I’ll stay.
The sun might not always be shining, but I get along just fine in the rain.
-Ben
When Old means New
- The last time I could call Fort Kent home and actually mean it was early September, 2006. That was the year I left the Saint John Valley for the first time in my life, before this website was ever a thought. 5 years, 3 cities, dozens of fly rods, and 2 Bachelor Degrees later, it seems this lost dog has finally found his way home.
More than half of Fort Kent still thinks i’m only home for an extended vacation, which I can certainly understand. Moving from Portland to northern Maine on just two days notice hasn’t left a ton of time for reflection or questions. Two weeks into my first full-time teaching job, I still can’t believe how quickly my life has changed. A few key, calculated decisions have planted my feet firmly in native soil, and with a little luck my time as a County boy “transplant” in various parts of Maine has finally come to an end. New memories, new career, and a new chapter. It’s hard to believe that all of my hard work has finally paid off, and I can say with confidence that even in the utter chaos and confusion that comes with being a first year teacher, it was worth every headache and hardship. The late night study sessions, missed fishing trips, and time away from home were all necessary sacrifices, and those sacrifices are without a doubt what having me sitting here today.
As I continue to make adjustments and get comfortable, things will gradually pick up around these parts and the content will start to flow at a more regular pace. Some extremely exciting times are ahead, including a foliage and fly fishing filled September, and my first full hunting season in nearly five years. More photos, new gear reviews (its a big list), trip reports, the return of the “Fly Box” page, and so much more!
So sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride. This is a new beginning, and things can only get better from here!
Tight Lines,
-Ben
“Simple” B&W
A little photographic love to show that I’m still alive and very much kickin’. It’s been a slow process changing gears back here in the County. Hold tight for some big news, exciting new ventures, and a few fancy changes.
These Boots
Big announcements coming in the next few days…..involving new stomping grounds…..or old stomping grounds. Lets just say that our upcoming content has some seriously rich and exciting potential. More fish, more photos, more of everything that helps to put the “Up’North” in Up’North Maine Fly Castings. Check back soon for all the details!
Poetic Justice: “Home”
I find myself compelled to tell
A tale of weather, fish, and flies
Of orange autumns and painted skies
The place my memories dwell
Now far removed but close at heart
I sift through dreams that draw me near
To spawning trout and ghostly deer
A past, a present, worlds apart
Where life has grace and time stands still
And simple pleasures foster smiles
Dirt roads and hardwoods stretch for miles
Leaves fall in silence, icy chill
A single breath soon shows its path
Floats like clouds so brisk and bold
Unforgiving frigid cold
Fall retreats from winter’s wrath
I close my eyes and let thoughts roam
To all I’ve loved and left behind
A peace of mind I’ll never find
Return to all I’ve known,
a place that I call home
County List
It’s been a solid six months since the last time I’ve assembled any sort of list on Up’North. Over the course of two years you’ve seen fly rod lists, shotgun lists, various holiday lists, streamer lists, and even the occasional beer list. Seeing as how my recent ventures only put me in the County on a limited basis, I thought it only fitting that I piece together a list of ten random luxuries I miss from the northern reaches of our great State.
The Original Up'North Banner
- Fireside Chats- Random shenanigans and various follies around a real northern campfire. No silly rings, pits, or city ordinances. Using hardwood and cedar you cut during the day from the back of the house. Adirondack chairs, fresh cut steak, homemade wine, and beer that isn’t “brewed” in Germany or Ireland.
- 15-Minute Fishing Trips - Random, unplanned, unprepared fishing trips for no rhyme or reason. Chasing trout and making the most of remaining daylight as the sun fades behind backwoods ridges. Forgetting fly boxes, making the best of knotted and worn leaders, and still feeling completely satisfied when the fish don’t cooperate.
- Porch Sitting- No interstate traffic. Scratch that, no traffic on any kind. Watching the grass grow around my black lab while she sleeps. Tying flies on the picnic table. Old school country, old and new friends. Sleeping where you sit.
- Cruising the River- Stand up carving in an Old Town Canoe. Johnson 8 runs perfect, Johnson 8 wont start. Bringing more fly rods than any three people could ever need. Forgetting food, coolers, but never beer or whiskey.
- Family- Gramp’s stories, Gram’s cooking, hockey with dad, coffee with mom, piecing together the night’s events with my younger brother.
- Ghosts- Not Caspers; Grey Ghosts, Green Ghosts, White and Marabou Ghosts. Size 2-6. Salmon candy. Spring runs, chilly evenings, flannel shirts and tandem streamers. Knowing that your fly is money in all conditions.
- Dirt Roads- Dodging logging trucks, Marine and Murs antennas on the roof of the pickup. 10 ply tires, Katahdin truck racks, rusty ratchet straps, Cooler parties on the tailgate. Endless miles to nowhere.
- Hunting Beard- Sporting the classic Fall scruff. Itchy face for the first few weeks. Not shaving because “it helps keep you warm” on the trail. “Picky” on the ladies’ cheek. The first clean shave after you hang the gun up for the season.
- Fall- The season that sets the standard for all others. Late nights and early mornings at hunting camp. Not too warm, not too cold. Crackling leaves, Autumn colors, camo and fluorescent orange. Trout and Salmon moving back into the rivers. Cast and blast. Seeing your breath on a crisp October morning, lighting the first fire in the wood stove that same night.
- Less is More- Best friends, fishing, hunting, food, family, and everything else is well within reach. It takes 2 minutes instead of 20 to drive 4 miles. No malls, no crowds, no need to lock your truck or house. Everything you need, less of what you don’t. Money in the bank.
The list goes on, and on, and on, but then it wouldn’t be a top ten….with more than ten.
See ya!
Taking Time
We don’t have beaches in Fort Kent, at least not what someone from the Maine Coast would call a beach. Life is certainly different in the southern region of the state, and lately I’ve noticed the subtle differences more frequently than in months past. Some might regard me as an overly critical person, and on some days I might agree. I’ve always been the type to overanalyze even the most simple of situations, so god help me when the right combination of heavy and hectic suddenly find themselves front and center.
Northern Maine is nothing if not simple, and beyond the countless fishing spots I still see in my dreams, I miss having the option of stepping away from reality for a while. Life moves too quickly down here, and my mind just isn’t wired that way. I pause and ponder like a 90 year old man, constantly taking in my surroundings and wondering what I might be missing. Caring too much in a hectic world causes one hell of a headache, and I’m definitely guilty as charged. City livin’ certainly isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Years ago when I found my mind staggering in a similar fashion, a fishing buddy turned my attention towards a beach not far from the city. His intentions were purely fishing related, but I discovered so much more in the process. Casting into an escaping tide, all that weighs on my mind is suddenly caught in the rhythmic motions of the retreating sea. It isn’t the northern dwellings I prefer, but something about this beach puts my mind at ease. I may not know what the next day, month, or years will hold, but I find myself oddly at ease with all that is unanswered and gray. The good most certainly outweighs the bad, and I would hesitate to call anything about my experience truly bad at all. Different is probably a better description, and in my book different is almost always preferred.
For those who missed the underlying message, I’m fly fishing again.
-Ben
I.
- My mind has to be in the right place to write, whether its poetry, short stories, and even daily accounts on the water. I feel like this applies to all people, so I’ve never been one to immerse myself in guilt of grief over the fact that I can’t bang out gems on a daily basis. I started Up’North as a side project that would allow me to focus on my passion for fly fishing, photography, and of course-writing. It’s funny how one’s initial intentions always seem to take on a different shape over time. Graduation comes and goes, career opportunities present themselves, and that focus you were so sure about before becomes blurry and requires adjustments.
Consider this the first adjustment.
The fishing hasn’t changed in northern Maine, neither have the fishermen or the tall tales they always seem to tell. Early Spring is always money for salmon, brook trout always dive hard after the take, and the spots that don’t look at all productive are usually the ones that produce the best fish. My departure from northern Maine in May is one that I’ve taken unbelievably hard, even if I rarely show it. Beyond fly fishing, I long for the comforts of home just as much as the next guy. As a result, my time north is typically reserved for holidays and special occasions, most of which don’t leave much, if any room to wet a line.
Because of this, many have questioned my passion in recent months. I can’t say I blame them, people thrive on routine and grow stressed when popular trends are diminished. With so much going on, I simply have less to write about. I take less pictures, I test less products, and I have trouble finding time to take even day trips. But my first question for everyone remains consistent; how would you define passion? I get various answers, and nearly all of them are unique to the person depending on careers, families, and location. For me, passion means soaking up every special moment when I finally do find myself on the water. It means spending less time worrying about documenting every fishing hole, and more time basking in the simple elegance of a northern sunset, or the flowing conversation of a fireside chat. It means taking chances, making choices, and standing by them proudly even when others feel the need to criticize. I fish for myself, no one else.
I am extremely proud of my accomplishments, in fishing and beyond. I lifted Up’North from a cookie cutter template with recycled materials, and transformed it to something original and fun that people enjoy from Maine to Russia to New Zealand and back again. So what if I post less, fail to review your favorite insect-repellant t-shirt, or spend more time behind the camera than I do holding the fish. Up’North is me, and as long as I keep changing, you can rest assure that it will follow suit. Don’t like my perspective? Start you own blog, write your own materials, build your own networks, and find your own niche.
The next three months could go a number of different ways for me, and I couldn’t be more excited about how open ended everything is looking at the moment. I could stay in Portland, I could move to an even larger city, or I could find myself back in the familiar comforts of Fort Kent surrounded by family and friends. I might not update daily, but I’ll never let it die. So don’t form any expectations, just check back often and I’ll do my best to keep you entertained and informed with as much original content and nonsense as possible.
The only approval I need is my own, so that might explain why I don’t answer any hateful emails about “bad” reviews, or why I don’t cover bass fishing in southern Maine with the same level of “enthusiasm” as trout fishing in the North. My passion for fly fishing, like life, is real at an unimaginable level. Thanks for playing.
-Ben
Release
Release the stress
Release the tension
Release the headaches we won’t mention
Regroup your thoughts
Relive the bliss
Recover time
Release the fish.
S.I.D. 7
-If you haven’t already noticed, Sleeping in the Dirt: Issue 7 dropped on Thursday. As is to be expected, Aaron Otto and the gang bring us great photography, intriguing articles, and an all around polished digital magazine that lingers around the status of This Is Fly and Catch. SID7 is automatically my favorite issue of the bunch, but that probably has something to do with Up’North being featured in it (Pg. 44-45) for the first time ever. I consider this a huge honor, and on behalf of myself and the rest of the Up’North clan, I would like to thank Mr. Aaron Otto for including this humble northern Maine blog in his spectacular magazine.
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Something special sets SID apart from every other magazine out there today, digital, print, or otherwise. No, it isn’t the fact that it’s the only legitimate mag. to ever feature Up’North, although that argument could be made. Instead, something real, relatable, and almost comforting can be found in reading stories and looking at photos from locations people fish on a daily basis. Great moments in time forged right in the backyards of average Joes, weekend warriors, fathers, brothers, and sons. THIS is what Fly Fishing means to me, and so many others like me who don’t have the luxury of mixing work with pleasure, or traveling to Chile for a weekend getaway. The type of dedication SID represents to me comes in the form of men and women who have careers in everything other than fly fishing, or a family life that simply makes it impossible to spend every free moment on the water. Men and women who take advantage of every chance they get on the water, laying it all on the line for that fish of a lifetime, that moment of truth where every second counts and nothing else matters. Men and women who cast a fly to blow off steam, while making lasting memories in locations that don’t leave them with lasting debt.
At the end of SID: 7, AO writes, “You know SID, because you’re one of us too.”
Touche’ AO, Touche’
-Ben
Happy Mother’s Day!
Doesn’t it seem unfair that mother’s only get one day? For as long as I can remember, my mother has worked tirelessly so my life could be just a little less stressful. The time, money, and stress that she has lost and endured on my account makes her saint-worthy, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without her help.
So take this one day to show your mother just how lucky you feel to have her support. Use today to show her how much you care, just like she does the other 364.
Happy Mother’s Day!
-Ben
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