Whose Birthday Is This Anyway?

My first thought, back when Martha Shiels booked a fishing trip as a surprise gift for her husband, Bill’s 50th birthday was, what my line of work needs most is more Martha’s!  Then, as if to prove the Murphy’s Law corollary, “no good deed goes unpunished,” the season’s first big nor’easter coincided with the dates Martha chose for that thoughtful gift.  We parlayed, found some time in early July, and agreed to move the trip.  That would most likely mean we’d be fishing for smallmouth bass in the heat of summer rather than for salmon during the raw days of spring.

When the re-booked trip rolled around, the three boys, Patrick, 16, Tom, 14, and Robbie, 12 were out of school.  Good news for them.  It was a family vacation to Grand Lake Stream from the Portland, Maine heat, and two days of fishing some of the most undisturbed waters in the state.  What could be better?

Answer:  the weather.  That same Murhpy’s corollary, still exerting its force, brought back weather reminiscent of early May, with wind, rain, and temperatures that never got out of the 50’s.  In July!  Which raised a new question, one that guides are often faced with.  Can we make lemonade from these ingredients?

That first morning after the Shiels family arrived, I was reminded of guiding salmon fishermen on West Grand Lake in early May.  In fact, everything about the day seemed a throwback to two months previous.  If it was spring again, even for one day, I reasoned, maybe the salmon will be confused into acting like it’s spring again.  Following the thermocline, maybe they’d come to the lake’s surface, the temperature of which should have cooled drastically.

With little to lose, and a heart hopeful for lemonade, I tied flies onto the leaders of three fly rods. If things went bust, we could say it was worth trying, since it was all new to the boys anyway and they’d get to see how it was done.  If it worked, we could return to the dock triumphant, imagining we’d cracked some secret code.

An involuntary shriek went up when both Patrick’s and Tom’s rods bent double.  Simultaneously, two landlocked salmon breached the surly bonds and emerged from the waves behind the boat, their tails clearing the lake by at least a foot.   Bill struggled to get his line in and out of the way.  By some miracle, he did it, and by some further miracle, both fish were netted.  They were the first landlocked salmon ever seen by all three.  Though well above sufficient size, Patrick nobly released his catch, allowing Tom’s salmon center stage at dinner.

The premise had been proved:  the sudden weather throwback had reversed the season’s progress, which usually sends salmon to the deepest haunts in the lake and the coolest temperatures. It’s not that often salmon are found “up top” on July 2nd.

For his part, Bill wasn’t through making sure the premise was proven. I had my private hopes for him too, since his was, after all, the birthday we were here to celebrate. Fifteen minutes hadn’t passed when, a thunderous,”Got one!” nearly shut off the hearing in my right ear. I took to my feet, gesticulating for both boys to reel up.  The audience of three then watched Dad-Bill Shiels play and bring to the net, his first Salmo salar. 

The QE II couldn’t have come to the dock more victoriously than we three that evening, bearing two specimens for the lodge chef to prepare while they were as fresh as fresh can be.  Bill, Patrick and Tom all held their heads high while Martha cheered, and 12 year-old Robbie looked on, enviously. I was hoping against hope that if the weather held, he’d have his moment in the fog and mist the next day.

Murphy slept in that next morning.  Things stayed grey, overcast and wet until about 9 o’clock. That gave us time to get to good water and get a fly rod into Robbie’s eager hands.  First came the “bumps,” short strikes that got his attention, and certainly, mine.  I cautioned him to let out some line the next time it happened.  It would cause his fly to “die” in the water, then suddenly take off again.  This can be the piéce de resistance for an undecided salmon.

Well, I guess the story has told itself by now, and you’ve guessed all the outcomes.  Bill and I said we couldn’t have scripted it any better if we’d had the chance.  The only thing we might’ve forgotten to put in the story was Robbie’s salmon being the biggest of all. Patrick and Tom were happy for their younger brother.  So happy, that when they smiled, I thought I saw clenched teeth behind those wide grins.

After everyone left and I felt the usual emotional vacuum following the unexpected cup that overfloweth with lemonade, I remembered that first thought I had back when the dates were booked.  And then I remembered who it was that actually had scripted the whole thing–for her husband, and ultimately, for the whole family.  It was Martha Shiels, and it was true:  What my line of work needed, and what the world needs, is more Martha’s.  Even as I write this, I hear a fiendish Murphy, still cranky from having overslept, saying, “Ha!  Good luck with that! The Martha Shiels’s of the world are always in short supply!”