Maine Metaphor: Experience in the Western Mountains. S. Dorman

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СКАЧАТЬ out across the lake, my attention caught by something unseen, a sound, perhaps, on the quiet morning. The wader continues casting. There it is again, a knocking. Then distantly I see the canoe, paddle knocking against its sides. I call the fishermen’s attention to it—canoeist with a speck of red (a life jacket?) in an aluminum boat against the opposite shore. I’m thinking, game warden?

      Light-eyes returns with the flies. The tall languorous wader moves to shore and we wait while the other tries to attach the new fly—small and brown like a mosquito. He says his hands are numb. This operation takes a while, long enough for the wind to pick up and move the water, lure blackflies into my face, send chills through my sweater. The canoeist paddles for our shoreline and poles into another access several yards away through the trees. Overhead pines move; the sound in their boughs increases. Wader stands dreaming—looking around at the water, the pines waving overhead, the cold working fingers of Light-eyes.

      At last the fly is secure; the wader moves off again, flicking his line. The canoeist walks over, accompanied by his black Lab retriever, and I see then that the spot of red in the distance was no life jacket but a great red beard.

      The first question is always, “They bitin’?” or some variation thereof. The conversation takes off from there with speculations, acknowledgment of conditions, talk—when they’re not biting—of better days.

      Suddenly the wader hooks one and it comes flying back—muscular, flashing silver, fighting. It wriggles in water in the sandy bottomed access and Light-eyes takes hold of it, unhooks the fish. The two young men speculate on its length as Red-beard and I look on. He doesn’t look or act like a warden, but you never know. The trout does not look like it’s worth $110. The languid wader deposits the trout in his cutaway plastic milk jug, attached to the waist of his brown waders. Red-beard says nothing.

      Another man, driving a 4x4 pulls up, gets out, asks the opening question. The boys already know he’s no warden because he was here the other day when they took two over the limit.

      The tall wader returns to his work and the talk continues. The identity of the trout comes into question. Is it brook trout or splake? Four-by-four and Red-beard discuss with Light-eyes the difference between the two. The brook trout, or brookie, has convoluted patterning on top and is more speckled toward its silvery pale bottom. It has two red spots, the true identifier. The splake, like this one, doesn’t. Splake, I learn, are hybrids and unable to reproduce.

      Tall-one remarks that his waders are leaking; his foot is soaked. He comes to shore and goes to the car to change. A good-humored discussion heats up about the best way to patch waders. Red-beard suggests a make-do approach: duct tape works well as a temporary fix. The merits of duct tape are considered all around. Duct tape, baling wire, and a hammer constitute a Maine make-do toolkit. Red-beard claims duct tape is tough enough to patch a canoe. Four-by-four says he’s got some in the truck and goes for it. By this time Tall-one has returned from the car wearing his sneakers and carrying the waders. He asks if the tape will stick to wet fabric.

      Tape dangles from 4x4’s hand as the leak is examined. He jokes about pulling a MacGyver. The TV show of the same name is a hit in Maine for the title character’s make-do approach to problem-solving. The tape lies on the wet waders like ordinary material and won’t adhere.

      The newcomers depart, no summons issued. Undaunted, Light-eyes dons the leaky waders and heads into the lapping water, determined not to miss his shot.

      His casting is filled with whistling energy. I step back quickly, suddenly aware of his great patience here today. Patience he maybe did not feel while working to attach the flies, while waiting his turn with the pole and the waders. I feel the contrast between the two natures of these fishermen.

      But his turn is short-lived. The line soon catches in the pines overhead and breaks away. He does not want to lose the fly, so he comes ashore, shucks the waders, dons his sneakers and climbs the tall skinny tree. He reaches high and snags a dangling line, grasps the thin branch and yanks the fly loose. Turns out it’s a different fly—one he lost the other day!

      Astonished he throws it down to Tall-one, who reports that its full of pine tar.

      “No problem. I’ll boil it! That’ll loosen the tar.”

      The pond is smoothed out, but big drops make rings on the surface as the young men gather their gear. All that remains of the outing is the little splake. It’s been lying in Tall-one’s milk jug, without water, ever since it was caught.

      Light-eyes lifts it out and sets it in the sandy shallow water. The fish flops onto its side. He drags it through the water a few times, trying to load its gills with oxygen. But slightly it revives. The tall fisherman gives its life a try, pushing it back and forth, jiggling the fish from side to side. At last it gains breath, begins keeping its head down. The splake’s sides sheen up with purple iridescence in the late-arriving morning light. Late-arriving oxygen. Slowly it makes its way toward the deep.

      The Unemployed Eat

      The fishermen have invited us to throw a fish-fry using their catch. The quiet one is to bring an electric skillet and has already provided four kinds of fish: white perch, hornpout, brook trout, and smelts. The fish have been saved up, filleted and frozen, waiting for a celebration.

      I whip up a little tartar sauce. I make shortcake and cut fresh strawberries. Our son, J. D., cleans house. Still unemployed, Allen works in exchange for rent. He has been installing a drop ceiling in the room upstairs. Résumés for both of us are afoot, but we are still unemployed.

      The fish-fry begins with the early arrival of guests. Paul and Lucy, of Hippie Hill, come to the door with their son Amos. I slide past them with apologies; run next-door to alert the fishermen: find they aren’t quite set to come fry fish, so return to find Paul decanting some of his earthy homebrew. Allen is still upstairs cleaning up from ceiling installation. The homebrew, a dark potent beer, will get him down quick.

      Meanwhile the kettle is on for Lucy. I begin pouring gingerale for Amos, a fifth-grader who just won the district chess tournament. J. D. is up in his room watching TV, expecting company of his own. The fish are already here, in whose honor the fry is being held. I’ve got them out thawing on newsprint.

      Paul is pouring for Allen and himself. He speaks of the week’s upsets, which include the washing away of his newly dozed drive up the steep hillside. Then there was the rejection of a load of perfect birchwood by an area wood-turning mill. His load of wood had been ordered by the mill, yet after Paul unloaded it from the truck, by hand, it was rejected. Lucy says he is very determined to enjoy the evening.

      The tall fisherman arrives and begins mixing up batter. I pick up a bowl of thawing, gutted smelts and run warm water over them. Ice lies in small glistening chunks inside silvered cavities against tiny backbones. A push with my thumb dislodges the ice. I pick up another smelt, working quickly for I am hungry. The fisherman has forgotten the electric skillet, so I run next-door for it. I want to prod his friend into coming, too. Even though Light-eyes is the talker, he is shy around new people. I am unsuccessful in convincing him to join us anytime soon. I do extract the promise that he will come sometime and bring plates and bowls.

      I return to find Paul, Lucy, and Allen visiting in the living room corner of the house. Amos is at the counter where the quiet cook is presiding over the preparation of fish. Handing the cook his skillet, I look into the bowl to see little smelts slathered in batter. Smelts remind me of sardines. As the cook heats and begins testing the oil, Light-eyes appears sooner than promised with the extra tableware.

      Talk begins heating up. I dart about, listening to conversations, readying sauce, checking on another of our neighbors’ contributions: СКАЧАТЬ