“Historic Routes”
For decades, rail and water were the only way to transport goods or travel in northern Maine. Winding along the Fish River, these tracks once shouldered the weight of passenger trains shuttling citizens to and from towns across Aroostook County. I can imagine my grandparents as children, their faces plastered to the windows of the moving cars, watching with excitement as log drives of the time bulldozed the banks with timber headed to area sawmills.
Time and technological advancements have changed the logging industry as well as the way we travel, in turn changing how we use area railways and rivers. The logs now travel a similar path, loaded onto the bunks of log carriers that have replaced passenger cars on Maine’s railways. These days, most wood travels by truck from Maine’s working forests directly to area mills. Rail service is scarce now, and rarely the cheapest or most time effective method of transporting lumber. Rivers play a far different role in the logging industry during modern times; typically avoided in order to protect the natural environments and the many plant and fish species that call them home. Log drives are a distant memory that very few can say they’ve seen firsthand, though signs from this historic operation can still be seen if you know where to look. Area fishermen spend more time on the water than loggers these days, casting bulky flies and lures to landlocked salmon and native brook trout that call the Fish River home. It’s no secret that my favorite river in the area is the Fish, and I can’t help but wonder what the fishing might have been like before log drives and the industrial boom of the early 20th century. I guess pictures like this one hold more history than initially meets the eye.
Happy Castings,
-Ben
Money Money Money
I don’t share a ton of secrets on here, so consider this a little Christmas gift from me to you. The streamer on the top is the latest rendition of my “money-maker,” a proven pattern I am continuously building on season after season. Trial and error have really done the trick for this streamer in recent years, and this version will be the end-all of this pattern. A peek is all you get, so analyze away. The colors are simple enough, but no less than 7 different materials form the tail (a little long here, chop by half), wing, and neck. Tie it weighted if you see fit, but I never felt the need. Trout seem to be first at the table for this meal, but salmon are always a welcome dinner guest.
The soft-hackle pattern is simply braided red/green 70-denier thread with a red neck and tail. It seemed like the obvious “just for fun” wet to tie on Christmas day, but I can see it working come mid-June. Tis the season!
-Ben
Up’North Christmas Carol
So here we are again, sitting patiently at the doorstep of another Christmas. Between the weather, work, and shopping season, I’m not sure how I managed to make it this far in one piece! This last year has been full of surprises, and the Christmas season certainly has a way of putting things into perspective. More than gifts and cookies (but not much more), Christmas is a time to take stock of all that you have to be thankful for. My list is vast, encompassing everything from my first career teaching position, to that beautiful day I spent on the river during a trout frenzy in May. The road has not been without its twists and turns, but the scenery is always breathtaking.
If anything, this last year has really given me a new outlook on change. I guess I used to be somewhat naive when I returned home from college, thinking the places and people that fill my life weren’t changing in any sense of the word. The fishing never got worst, but it never really got better. Summer days on the lake never ended on a bad note, even when I managed to have “too much fun.” Even my dog never seemed to age, continuing in her relentless cycle of eat, sleep, eat, sleep.
Now that I once again call northern Maine home, the little details I had missed for nearly five years have found their way back to me quickly. The crowds are different now, new faces dot the landscapes of bridges, streams, tackle shops, and river banks. Best friends still remain, only as a more refined group of hardened locals. We laugh about the past, but work diligently towards the future, never really knowing what tomorrow might hold. Time still moves slowly in these parts, but with more purpose than I noticed before. The little things I miss about my past suddenly don’t seem so important anymore, proving once and for all that less truly can be more. In between work, early bedtime, and weekend errands, I’ve come to realize that my little place in the world is growing up with me. Like a finely aged wine, my life seems more refined on this night before Christmas. My mind is at ease, with fewer questions remaining unanswered than in earlier years. I know where I belong, and for that I am blessed and eternally grateful.
Up’North has followed a similar path as of late, not counting our usual lull during the holiday season. I must have the most patient readers in the world, because traffic has remained steady even in my numerous and prolonged absences. I think it’s fair to say that the focus has somewhat changed, and I’m at peace with that. People want original content in any shape or format, and I couldn’t be happier to oblige. At the end of the day, I draw inspiration from all corners of the globe when determining the direction of Maine Fly Castings. I would like to thank everyone who played a role in my success this year, be it through endorsements, inspiration, or any sort of contributing content. The list includes, but is certainly not limited to, the Fishing Poet Mr. Matt Smythe, brother Lipton, aka the Roughfisher, all the fellas at Chi Wulff, LOTFO, and everyone at LLBean. Ian Majszak of Detonation Studios, Nick English and all the people at Simms Fly Fishing, Ben and the rest of the clan at Leland Fly Fishing Outfitters, and any other fly fishing industry figures who have opened their arms to me and my humble website. Rhon Bell of BackwoodPlaid.com for the outstanding photography and constant support, Mr. Michael Gracie for your consistency in producing an outstanding blog that remains among my favorites, Brett Colvin and Jason Morrison for your inspiring work behind the lens, and any other blogger, writer, photographer, artist, or fishing junkie who has dropped me a line to chat, given me helpful advice, or just produced quality work that I truly enjoy.
The best part about my experience with Up’North is the people I meet and interact with along the way. If I could thank all of you in person I would, but geography can be both a blessing and a curse. I hope to chase a few fins with each and every one of you when life allows, and look forward to eventually sharing stories and drinking your beers when I visit in the near or distant future.
Merry Christmas ladies and gents, make it one for the record books.
-Ben
It’s Rollin’ Round the Bend
As I continue to organize and edit photos from my recent trip to the Big Eagle Trains, here are a few more shots from my journey back into the beginnings of northern Maine’s logging industry.
The Big Eagle to Umbazooksus railway operated two trains on 13 miles of tracks from 1927 to 1933. A awe-inspiring site to behold today, one can’t help but wonder how truly magnificent it must have been to see this operation in full working order. Most accounts say that the two cars would run around the clock, passing each-other on opposing lines as they shuttled wood between Big Eagle and Umbazooksus lake, where a large unloading trestle was constructed to offload the timber. To help make the daunting task of unloading less strenuous, the trestle was built with one rail raised a full six inches to actually tilt the car. Additionally, each twelve-cord capacity car was assembled with a 12-inch pitch at its base. Once offloaded, the logs began their long float towards the Penobscot River, where they would eventually arrive at Bangor area lumber mills.
Nearly 80 years later, walking along these once lively rails is a haunting experience. Each car, each switch, and nearly every piece of equipment sits idle, waiting for work that will never come again. Victims of industrialization and rapidly changing technologies, the cost to move these items out of the remote wilderness, including the two locomotives, proved too much. Rendered obsolete, the cars were backed into the yard one final time in 1933 where they remain today, linked up and ready roll. Nearly all of the 13 miles of tracks still exist today, though badly damaged and all but swallowed up by the aging forest. Massive hardwoods stand strong between the rails, their roots weaving between the ties. The extreme remote location allows for a level of preservation not possible in more accessible areas, safeguarding this unique and rare piece of history from treasure hunters and the pressures of population growth. Few places offer such a memorable experience, deep in the heart of a century-old working forest.
This switch is by far the most preserved on the line, only yards from where the two locomotives sit today. As the track winds through the dense forest, the iron rails become more difficult to make out under thick moss and fallen trees. Take it from me, few things are as haunting as stumbling across a set of railroad tracks in the remote wilderness.
When not in operation, the 60 rail cars were backed into this yard. While their largely wooden bodies have weathered away, they still sit perfectly upon the rails. Standing between the two lines, one can easily make out the seemingly endless line of dilapidated cars. By far my favorite view of the experience, pictures simply don't do this scene justice.
As the cars sit idle in their final resting place, massive trees stand proudly between the rails of this once busy line, a stern reminder of just how far back in time this living museum reaches.
Stay tuned, this journey is far from over.
-Ben
I Hear that Train a Comin’
Today I took a walk with my father and a few friends to take in some truly breathtaking history deep in the North Maine Woods. Along the famous Allagash Waterway, between Big Eagle and Chamberlain Lake, lies the remnants of a logging operation dating back as far as 1902. Two massive steam locomotives, over 40 rail cars, 13 miles of rail, and literally hundreds of additional artifacts from lombard haulers to a 3000 foot tramway, lay scattered over a massive area between the two lakes. A stunning glimpse into a time long forgotten, an entire operation that was capable of harvesting and transporting hundreds of chords of timber now sits dormant, swallowed by the remote wilderness.
I’ve been pouring through 300+ photos for the last four hours, and I still haven’t finished the organization and editing process. It amazes me that such a large piece of history can even exist at all, and my pictures honestly don’t do it justice. As I continue to pick and choose my favorite photos for a more in-depth feature to come later, here is a little sneak peak to hold you over. I really can’t stress how extremely remote this area is, the entire historical context of this place simply blew me away.
The remnants of a 3000 foot steam driven log tram that operated from 1903 to 1909. The tram system shuttled over 500,000 board feet of pulp per day between Eagle Lake and Chamberlain Lake. The logs were then floated through a chain of lakes until they reached the Penobscot River, where they began their long journey to Bangor Area sawmills.
These two locomotives hauled 40+ cars over more than 13 miles of track between 1927 and 1933. Hauled in by lombard log haulers from Quebec, they were assembled in the remote wilderness without the help of cranes. At their height they transported over 100,000 chords of pulp to Umbazooksus Lake. Ruled obsolete, they were backed in and parked in what used to be a maintenance shed for the final time during late 1933. The area has been abandoned since.
A single line split into two so the trains could pass each other as they shuttled logs back and forth during the 13 mile journey to Umbazooksus lake. Dormant since 1933, the forest has taken over and large timber now grows around, and in between the rails. Here is a shot looking down the tracks toward the final resting place of the two locomotives. Truly a sight to behold.
And there is plenty more where that come from! Stay tuned for a more complete photographic history lesson in the coming days!
-Ben
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.
The Chase
Can’t you see the sky is falling
Breezy bitter Winter’s calling
Early darkness quiet appalling
Reds and yellows drifting, stalling.
Grounded graceful calming hues
Crunching underneath my shoes
What a pleasant path to choose
Autumn colors, absent blues
Perfect painted fading sun
Light escaping, on the run
Soon the friendly chase is done
Day defeated, night has won.
Rematch sees the morning break
Frozen fingers, shiver, shake
Remaining leaves begin to quake
Flurries near, make no mistake.
The Moose Whisperer
Plenty of Bulls were in the area during my father’s scouting trip on Thursday, but we aren’t looking for Bulls. Friday was more of the same story, with a few impressive Bulls presenting themselves for shots, but no cows to be seen.
Above is a video filmed by my father on Thursday using his point-and-shoot Canon. Him and Jean-Marc go way back in the world of moose hunts, harvesting a cow in the early 90′s, my fathers 56inch Bull in 1997, two more 50+ bulls in 2000, and my 52 in 2009. Jean-Marc is a registered Maine Guide with an impressive moose hunting resume and a long list of happy clients with trophy bulls. He certainly speaks the language, and watching him in action is impressive to say the least.
Yet another reason why Fall in Maine is my favorite season.
-Ben
Roaming Gramps
My grandfather recently enjoyed some memorable success during his first ever Maine Moose hunt. At 75 years young, he reached out to a large cow firing his trusty .308 from over 200 yards….in a free-standing shot. More photos from his hunt to come shortly! Break out the bourbon, its a celebration!
My Grandfather, James Nelson Corriveau, stretching his legs during the 2011 Maine Moose Hunt. (Allagash, ME)
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
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.
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
Assembling an Army: Fall Colors
- Fall colors for Fall fly fishing, say howdy to the ladies of Autumn! This simple, stripped down “Ghost” pattern is a go-to for me in a variety of conditions, but Fall typically finds these favorites at the front of my box. Make no mistake, these babies work wonders under the right conditions. Simply find the color your trout fancy and pound the banks. Floating line with a light leader-tippet setup is typically my winning combination, but feel free to experiment based on your home conditions!
It really can be that simple, trust me.
Army of Ghosts
Tight lines and happy September!
-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
Son of a Beach
Mother of god is it hot in Maine. Head for water, submerge yo’self, sit and wait for winter. Never leaving my air conditioned office again.
Recent Reader Comments