Just finished reading “Fall undersold Down East” and I had to respond . As a former camp owner on WGL for16 years I can attest to the good if not great Fall fishing on the lake. Here are some numbers..mid Sept. To mid Oct., 1-1/2 -2hrs. trolling per day in the evening, 137 salmon all released. Troll slow..down riggers and lead line not necessary. Did not see another boat on the lake!
Bass fishing. – best day , afternoon fishing, 41 bass all released…1 22 inch, 4 -18 to 21 inches, none under 14 inches, no live bait, casting shoreline. I know all fishermen are liars, but those numbers are real…I had beautiful weather , beautiful foliage, no bugs, no fisherman ,entire lake to myself, plus good fishing….sure can’t beat that!
I am sure we passed each other during our travels on the lake. I was the lone fishermen with the black and whie English setter in the bow, he was my only fishing partner!
Well it is time to put the fishing rod down and grab the shotgun..I will let my fishing partner find some birds…he is pretty good at it! Hope you appreciate this info from a guy who fished WGL for 16 years and enjoyed every moment of it!
This column appears in the November, ’13 issue of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. Pictured are (left) Bob Lloyd from FL, and (right) Andy Hoover from PA
“Why aren’t there other boats on this lake today? Why aren’t other people fishing?”
It was a classic, stump-the-chump question that I couldn’t answer. The temperature was 74 degrees. The water reflected a profound, azure sky, and the sun shimmered on riffles caused by a light breeze. There were no insects. There was no humidity. It was certifiably among the best days of the season. And my sports, a couple from Smyrna Beach, Florida, both fly fishers, were catching hard-fighting game fish one after another.
Even more confounding, they were one of only two couples staying at a sporting lodge that offers 50 beds! That’s four per cent occupancy.
The problem was, it was September 12th. How is that a problem you ask? Well, if you’re in the demographic group Gen X or younger, there are of course school concerns, and so September vacations are a non starter. Understood.
But that still leaves an awful lot of people who could be availing themselves of some of the best weather and fishing Downeast Maine has to offer. In fact, a quick Google search will show that the fastest growing age group in the population is over 55. And it’s comprised of the folks with the most discretionary income and free time to do things like travel to Grand Lake Stream to see those sparkling blue lakes, catch the heaviest fish at the end of their growing season, and witness the beginnings of resplendent fall foliage.
And yet, the town, the lodges, the lakes and streams are barren compared to the company they kept only days before. All for no good reason other than calendar dates and old stigmas, summing up to the misconception that things are over in Maine after Labor Day.
That’s a bad rap. Over the past dozen or so years, I’ve cultivated a roster of clients who now exclusively book their trips for September. The rewards of that decision keep them coming back year after year. It’s not that there’s anything special about my particular brand of guiding. It’s the fact that you’ve got so much going for you before you ever wet a line. The strongest likelihood of lots of beautiful days in a row seems to occur in September. On the other hand there’s a much smaller chance of a withering heat wave than in July or August. And the fish?
Well, let’s take smallmouth bass first. Essentially, they have about four months to get everything done. The spawn and the weight gain must take place between late May or early June, and the end of September or early October depending on the year. As the season progresses, they are on the feed nearly full time. Anglers will see bass with beer guts in September–the result of feedbags full of crayfish, shiners, and every available forage. Sometimes, it seems in the late season as though these fish sense the end when water temperatures drop, and they respond by speeding up the feeding frenzy. When the water temps dip below 50, they go into a kind of dormancy.
Next, landlocked salmon. They are moving in droves toward the stream in advance of spawning time. On the lakes, it becomes easier, using a Gray Ghost or Governor Aiken or other preferred fly to locate a salmon near the lake’s surface as water turns colder and the thermocline climbs I’ve paddled very slowly down West Grand Lake in a canoe in September trying to count the shadowy shapes below me–salmon moving towards the dam. I couldn’t keep up. Meanwhile, the stream fishing can light up at any time during the month and then just keep getting better until the season closes October 20th.
The marketing energy to bring people here seems to work well for the early season. Unless that’s a fallacy and the early business would come anyway. What seems to need spiking, and focus, and selling, is the late season business. If you’re guiding here in September, you’re in a good position to measure activity. While it’ often said that the GLS area boasts the highest concentration of guides in Maine, there are seldom six of the them guiding fishermen in September on the same day. More likely, it’s two or three.
In my own travels, I talk it up, show pictures and testimonials, and try to cheerlead the business any way I can. I wonder what would happen if not only lodges, but the Chamber of Commerce decided to try to spritz fall fishing. Their spring togue tournament was a big hit, so there’s a track record there for success. It may be true, as the saying goes, that “opportunity is missed by most people because it is dressed in overalls and looks like work,” but here’s one just begging to be tested.
Randy Spencer is a working guide and author of “Where Cool Waters Flow: Four Seasons with a Master Maine Guide.” His new book, “Wide and Deep,” is due out in April. Visit www.randyspencer.com
My long time sport and friend, Craig Fowler from Carbondale, Colorado held his underwater camera a foot and a half away from this snapping turtle as it ate the remains of the fish I’d just cleaned.
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!”
So that’s what can happen to a boy in just four years. In one photo, you can still see the toddler he was once; in the other, the young man he will become. In the meantime, he’s in that adolescent purgatory of no longer being the little kid you can coddle, and not yet the young man you can throw the car keys to. Even though we parents think they have it soft compared to the way it was for us, it’s a really tough age–all awkwardness, arms and legs akimbo, raging hormones, and temptations to try things that strike terror to the heart.
The keel and compass for weathering such stormy seas comes from the time spent with Dad. That’s just as good at 14 as it was at 11, even if he sometimes bores the living daylights out of the poor kid. That’s mostly a joke. All parents bore their adolescent, teen kids. The fact that Dad’s out here spending time with him is what counts. It’s what will stick.
I had a Dad who did such things with me. I hope you did too. Happy Father’s Day, F. Carl Mahoney, father of Eric Mahoney, the kid from Kansas.
You came down with a hard cold and had to cancel a fishing trip that had been planned for a year. Or some jerk ran a red light and sidelined your truck the day before your trip. We’ve all been there. These and a hundred other things cause a cancellation and every one of them makes a true angler heartsick.
Then I met Robynn. Her trip too was on the books for a year. Back when she and her husband Charlie booked it, we had just logged her first lesson in fly casting basics. It was enough to inspire plans for the following spring–this spring, and Robynn meant to follow through, no matter what.
There were no colds or fender benders standing in her way either. There was something bigger. Something that might’ve stood in the way for a great many people, including me. It was a diagnosis.
And it wasn’t Robynn’s first diagnosis. It’s just that she’d been granted a reprieve for the previous four years. Then, without warning, it was back. She knew all the signs: the fatigue of five wet blankets on your back all the time, the loss of muscle tone and mass, and the weakness. She only needed one doctor’s visit to confirm what she already knew.
So, there it was, back again. And, right out in front of her was the fishing trip and the second installment of her quest to become a fly caster. Charlie wasn’t going to press it. He knew that Robynn herself would know her own best course of action.
And, as you may have guessed by now, Robynn’s course was action. No couch. No recliner. No convalescing. It was pack up and go. The trip from Concord, NH to Grand Lake Stream might only be five and a half or six hours, but try it in Robynn’s skin when her remission was in remission and her symptoms had returned with force.
When I arrived at our meeting place on time, I was late. She was already there with a huge smile on her face. Charlie, in the backround, gave me that, “hey, what can I say?” look, and within thirty minutes, Robynn was sitting in a Grand Laker canoe with a fly rod in her hands.
I won’t go into the details of the day. That would be to betray trusts. Chatam House Rules: what is taken into trust among friends stays in trust. I’ll only say that she was harder on herself to learn the finer points of fly fishing than any instructor could ever be. When she hooked, played, and netted fish, her eyes were brighter than the bluebird day we were blessed with.
It betrays no trust to tell you than Robynn’s going to be fine. Don’t worry on her behalf because she wouldn’t have anyone thinking of her as a patient. Charlie knows it, I know it, and so do all of her friends. Her course of treatment is full of promise and good success rates. Add to that the nature and disposition of this person (not patient), and you don’t have to be that bold to make a positive prediction.
I think she’d allow me to share one snapshot from our day on the lakes. We managed to find a beautiful lunch ground with a sand beach. As I cooked fish and burgers over an open fire, and Charlie and I talked about trout fishing in his beloved Wisconsin, Robynn spread out her jacket on the beach and stretched out on her back. She was quiet for a long time, so between stoking the fire and getting the guides coffee to a rolling boil, I walked over to check on her. There she was, eyes closed with a broad smile stretched across her face. She was not only gathering strength for the afternoon’s action, she was immersing herself in the happiness of the moment.
Well, there’s my snapshot of Robynn for you. I share it because I think we could all use a dose of whatever power it is that she has tapped into.
I definitely see Robynn back for Chapter Three of her fly fishing story. If Charlie isn’t concerned right now that she might soon be out-fishing him on a fly rod, he might want to get used to the idea. It would take a lot to stand in the way of Robynn becoming a proficient fly fisher. After all, she’s no stranger to overcoming obstacles.
Shelley and I have just returned from Waterbury, VT, where we put on a presentation for the MadDog Chapter of Trout Unlimited (so named because of two premier rivers of the region– the Mad, and the Dog). The night before we arrived, it had snowed in certain locations around the Northeast Kingdom. The afternoon we left, forsythia was in bloom and maples buds were bursting. Spring’s miracle opened its petals before our eyes.
Thanks to director, Clark Amadon, the chapter organized a trout fishing expedition for me through Judd Levine, an educator and coach in the Montpelier school system. Judd has every attribute of the best guides I’ve known, though he does not ply this trade. We probed and spot fished The Dog River, The Winooski River, as well as various branches and tributaries of each. An inveterate fly fisherman himself, Judd regaled me with the local flora and fauna, making entomological observations along the way, as well as giving timely tips and suggestions on fly selection and presentation.
Judd fishes the way the best bird dogs hunt. He is on point, every sense enlivened to a pitch of intensity. If a trout dimples the surface inhaling an Ephemerella subvaria (Hendrickson mayfly), Judd isn’t going to miss it. Judd has secret haunts, permission to park where others can’t, and knowledge of sections of the rivers that are routinely passed over by incidental fishermen. I wish I could recommend him as a guide, but then Judd’s freedom to give chase on a moment’s whim or presentiment might be curtailed. Conjure up the Brad Pitt character in A River Runs Through It, and you’re looking at a sport cut from the same bolt of cloth.
We’ve heard, since returning to Maine, that the TU annual banquet was a “very big success,” according to Clark Amadon. He went on to write, “It was the second largest in terms of money raised and the largest given the per/person contribution.”
No better news could have crowned the experience of having been in this region of Vermont. The snow-capped mountains, the lush valleys, most of the roads paralleling streams that beckon you at every turn to stop and make a cast–it was another trip we hated to see come to an end.
The stream restoration work, the conservation efforts, the camaraderie and fellowship of your local chapter of Trout Unlimited are more than enough reasons to join and contribute. You can find your nearest chapter at http://www.tu.org
Here’s Shelley at the book and CD table at the Country Club of Vermont:
For years, Matt Mitchell and his partner, Karen have done the leg work, the paper work, and the publicity for one of the premier organizations promoting the health of the smallmouth bass fishery in Downeast Maine. The Maine Blade Runners continue to support catch and release, an ethic which they not only preach, but practice.
Following sinus surgery a couple of weeks ago, Matt began to hemorrhage, and then slipped into a coma. He was transported to Portland, but as the situation turned more dire, he was sent to Mass General in Boston. We received news this morning that Matt has come out of the coma, and is now breathing on his own.
The family has incurred enormous expense. Family, friends, fellow fishermen, and supporters of the fisheries Matt supports are coming to his aid. We’re looking for donations–of any size–to help this family defray a huge burden so that the healing process can truly begin.
Please send ANY size donation (made out to Matt Mitchell) to:
Tina Ryan
547 Basin Rd
Addison Maine 04606
207-497-2811
Tina is also organizing a Benefit Supper Friday April 12th at 5:00 at the Addison Town Hall.
It didn’t take her long to get the hang of it. Lay the tipup off to one side, pick up the line, set the hook, and then hand-over-hand the line until there’s a fish flopping on the ice. She did not number in the millions of American children that day, the ones in the recent national statistics. The average American child now spends 52 hours per week in front of some kind of electronic device, and 40 MINUTES per week outside! We had to get the upper hand on those odds, so we spent 7 hours on the ice. There was a fish dinner that night to show for it. Makes a grandfather proud.
It was snowing straight down! In other words, the wind wasn’t blowing–a dramatic change from the whole previous week. Once I got out on the lake, it was a virtual whiteout. Ian already had a 17″ brook trout on the ice, and it was one beautiful fish to behold. For all the cold temperatures of recent days, the thickest ice we found was 8 inches. In other parts, only 3! The fishing was not fast and furious, but certainly good enough to keep you interested. As usual, we socialized with any and all other ice fishermen we met. I understand Ian had a surf ‘n turf entree that night: Brook Trout and Sirloin Tips! Now, how in the world can you beat that?
