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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?

I’d like to note the untimely passing of Dick Turmenne, a guiding colleague of many years in Grand Lake Stream.  I believe Dick was 64 years old.  Dick, who was from Calais, ME, was best known for his expertise on the stream, but in later years took on the local lakes as well.  One longstanding sport of Dick’s had this to say:  “Dick was the best man I’ve ever known.”  That’s high praise from anyone, and a wonderful tribute from someone who’d come to know Dick well over many years.

A lot goes on behind the scenes of a guiding operation in order to make the days memorable…

This was my column in the November, 2012 issue of Northwoods Sporting Journal. 

Usually, our sporting guests take away the impression that life in the Downeast Lakes region is just as docile as it looks.

It’s probably a good thing that our transient population of sports and tourists don’t  mire themselves in the controversies that sometimes boil beneath our mirror-calm veneer.  If they did, Vacationland might lose some of its charm.

Still, curiosity causes some of our visitors to engage in local issues.  The truth is, you almost hate to see it coming.  For example, someone this season remembered reading that there’s a dispute going on in Downeast Maine over wind power.  If you admit it’s true, then take one side or the other, the day is transformed into something other than what it was booked to be, which seems a loss.  Even so, it can be difficult to sidestep topics inititated by the client.

“So, I’ve read that local guides and lodge owners oppose wind power.  Why is that?”  Now the cat is out of the bag on an otherwise perfect day.  The sport has pulled you into the game, like it or not, and nothing short of rudeness can get the tranquility back that existed only a moment ago.

“Well,” you stumble, “I think–I think it’s because they believe wind turbines will diminish our draw as a sporting destination.”  You’re trying to summarize and at the same time do justice to what you’ve read and heard from others on the issue.

“Really?” came the reply.  “Really? Isn’t that why Ted Kennedy didn’t want them on Cape Cod, in view of his house in Hyannisport?   Is that really their argument?”

You’re thinking, “Dear God, does he actually want me to answer that?”  You don’t want to be in this conversation in the first place.  You try smiling but it feels more like a smirk.  You pray for something, anything, to derail this train of thought. What’s worse, your silence, far from being golden, is mistaken for a cue to continue.

“Have you traveled in the world at all?  Canada maybe?  Or even in this country?  Did you know that entire college campuses are being powered by wind?  That whole communities are already relieved of dependency on foreign oil?  Believe me, when you see that, you’re not turned off.  Instead, you’re impressed that it’s a region looking after itself.”

You smile, or smirk some more, and try pointing to a likely bass haunt where the dark water between two glacial boulders makes an inviting target.  He ignores this attempt at deflection, and continues…

“Tell me, was there equal outrage over paper mill plumes that put cancer rates 600% over national averages?  Or fossil fuel emissions that put the northeast in the nation’s tailpipe, sterilizing lakes, and impacting air and ground water?  Are local guides and lodge owners up in arms over that?” He waits for a retort, but your long sigh doesn’t pass for one.

“Uh, not that I know of.”

“Of all the beachheads to pick, you mean to tell me they chose wind energy?  As for ‘diminishing your draw as a sporting destination,’ do they realize where people like me have come from to be here?  Do they actually think seeing windmills on a rural ridge bordering a beautiful lake compares to the concrete jungle and highrises we’re looking at the rest of the year?”

Moments pass as though this challenge too awaits an answer.

In a last ditch effort to bring the focus of the day back to where it belongs, you pick up a resting rod and make a cast.  Before you can finish your silent prayer that a fish will strike, the lake explodes, the sport bellows, “Hey!,” sights in his own target, and just that fast you’re into a double hookup.  Two girthsome smallmouths are landed, admired and released.

Politics and controversy are thus left in the backwash, right where you want them.  Now, there’s anticipation in the air.  Now you’re both appraising shoreline and structure.  Now you’re back to the reason you came here in the first place.

Some say this is where to ply your case, peddle your cause.  Some say it’s an opportunity lost if you don’t.  You were thinking otherwise.  You were thinking that this is where to listen to small voices, and whispers, not to big ones with axes to grind.  You were hoping to let the loons have their say, and the kingfisher, and the rythmic sound of paddle strokes.  You were hoping a deeper message could be heard.  One that would stick, even back in the concrete jungle.

Randy Spencer is a speaker, performer, writer and guide.  Please visit www.randyspencer.com for more information.

In her own mind, Brenda Hoover would be the most unlikely choice to be anybody’s hero.  That’s because she’s so modest and unassuming.  Arriving with her husband, Andy, and a brand new L.L. Bean rod, she needed casting instruction, only it didn’t take the usual half day.  In 30 minutes, Brenda graduated and was on her way to hooking and landing some of the best specimens I’d seen all season.  In three short days, Brenda and Andy plied three different bodies of water, each with its own distinct character, while Titan and Neptune, the two gods fishing guides are most intimate with, saw fit to whip up the seas only once.  Andy worked from the bow, landing smallmouth bass, pickerel, white perch, yellow perch, and even catfish as they call them in the Hoover’s native Pennsylvania.  Fishing from midships, Brenda beamed, not only from the successful rounds she won with her new rod and new expertise, but from the spectacle of the lake and river shores, from those sparkling September waters in Maine, and from the days in general.  Laughter seemed to come to her as easily as breathing.  It was impossible not to muse how lucky Andy had been to land this prize 38 years previous.  And it was impossible, once I learned that Brenda is a breast cancer survivor who also manages, but is not defined by her non-Hodgkins lymphoma, not to view her as one amazing woman, and my newest hero.  Yes, we did discuss the inevitable subject–why women outfish men–but we didn’t need to come to a conclusion.  The conclusion came to us!