A Christmas gift for all the Facebook friends. The Legend of Big Fin A friend, Patrick, first introduced me to the concept of Big Fin, when he shared with me that his father, Ray, had often encouraged him to go fishing on their trips to Maine by telling him they were going after Big Fin. The idea kinda stuck in my head and here is the tale. Hope you and your Dad enjoy it Pat. The tale begins in Maine back in the glory days of the 1890s. The great hunting and fishing camps were flourishing. Names like Thoreau, Whitman and Leonard had brought the north woods to the attention of the world. The swells from NYC and Boston had made the north country their own personal hunting and fishing grounds. The Bangor and Aroostock Railway had opened up the great north country bringing in a flood of well healed sportsman. It was not uncommon for local trappers and woodsman to earn a few extra dollars by working as guides for the big camps. One of these characters was, in his day, somewhat of a legend, he was called Griz by the locals. Not because of any personnel knowledge of the creature, more that he was said to resemble one, especially down wind. He would travel down from the back country in the spring stay through the late summer and disappear into the wilderness about the time of the first frost. His arrival each spring was met with a list of self described sportsman eager to sign on for a canoe trip into the lake region and deep woods. It was late May and the spring hatches were in full swing, the camps were booked full, Griz had a client for a 6 day trip into one of the lakes. Not a talkative type his conversation was often limited to one sentence and assorted profanity. They left before sunrise on the first day. “Where are we headed might I ask?” The client questioned after an hour of quiet paddling down river and not a word from the back of the canoe. Griz, only a hulking silhouette against the slowly brightening horizon. “North” was the reply. Another hour slipped away as the sun began to rise, the quiet interrupted only by the monotonous dipping of the paddle. The surface of the river slipped by disturbed by an occasional rise and a spreading ring of dark water the only evidence of the demise of another May fly. “ When can we stop for some fishing, the trout are rising.” offered the client. “Two days.” Came the response. “ Two days! I came here to fish not a sight seeing tour, sir.” The client retorted. “ Ill say this once, I swear by Saint Joans sweet ass, these here waters is fished out. Nothin bigger than the size of your hand left. We headed to virgin water, where the trout are the length of your lower arm and as big around. The day slipped by, a short break for a cold lunch of cheese and bread, and the canoe slid ever north along the winding channel occasionally interrupted by a side stream joining the channel, an outlet for an unseen lake. They caught the attention of a moose and her yearling calf dinning on water chestnut in a back eddy, then ignored as they passed by. The great forest had closed in around them, dark and oppressive, overhanging the river. The great firs packed dense against the shore broken by patches of birch and aspen. Small trees and tangles of brush competed for the little available sunlight along the rivers banks. The client was kept occupied more time than not slapping at assorted biting insects, Griz seemed oblivious to them. Shortly before dark he swung the canoe into a shoal of gravel and set up a camp for the night. The camp was quickly set up and a small fire banked toward the canvas awning that was attached to the front of the tent. “Make yourself comfortable, Ill be back in a bit” with that Griz set off down the shore line a Smith & Wesson gripped in his hand. Half an hour later he was back with a rabbit. He prepared the meal quickly with practiced hands. A small folding table was set up and a dinner of roasted rabbit, potato baked in the coals and boiled greens from the rivers edge topped with a bottle of wine. Finally settled by the glowing coals of the fire, the occasional hoot of an owl and the mist drifting over the river with the cooling of the evening the two sat taking the measure of each other. “First trip?” Griz was the first to break the silence. “ Been up here once before, several years ago, booked a trip with Carl Smithers for a week. Had a great few days of fishing for Salmon.” “Smithers you say, He dont know sh*t.” Replied Griz smirking into the glowing coals. “ I found him to be a gentleman and seemed to know his business.” The client ventured in response. “ We had no lack of fishing and treated well besides.” “Gentleman dont catch fish and any fr&*in sod could get you on salmon during the run. Another day will see you up to your arse in trophy trout. Well see if you and that stick of bamboo you brought are up to it.” “I assure you, sir, I am a capable angler and that piece of bamboo is a Leonard.” affronted the client glowered at the old man as if challenging him to further insult his ability. Avoiding the issue Griz pointed to the fly box tucked in the clients jacket.” Let me see what ya got there.” Retrieving the box, he glanced at its contents and tossed it back the his client. “ None of those will do, we aint fishing for pan fish.” Getting up he picked through a pack at the side of the tent and returned with a pouch. Throwing it to the client “ Those there are what youll be using on the lake were going to.” The client opened the pouch and retrieved one of the flies which he examined by the light of the fire. The first thing that struck him was the size. It had to be at least a #2 hook. The fly itself was tied with a mixture of brown feather, red and white bucktail and black hackle. “ What do you call that, Ive never seen anything like it” “Trout killer” was the only reply. He continued to examine the fly, which to his eye appeared to be expertly tied the, head varnished to a high sheen with an eye dot on each side. “ I tie them myself, its what you need to attract the big uns up here. No little sh*t bug imitations for those old boys, no f#*%^ sir.” This left the client to ponder what kind of trout would be likely to find that huge fly at all interesting. Leaving him to his imagination, Griz retrieved his pouch and wondered over to his bedroll and was soon snoring loud enough to keep the creatures at bay. Morning found them again paddling steadily northward. Shortly after noon, Griz steered the canoe into a small river and resuming his steady paddle now against the current with no apparent let up in the speed of their progress. As evening began to fall, he pulled to shore “We portage from here, not far now. We set up camp when we get there and well be on the lake in the morning.” said Griz “Then well see what kind of angler you are - city boy.” He added with a grin. The day began overcast, with a low bank of muddy gray clouds sliding in over the treetops, promising a day of drizzle and biting wind. The pair set off from shore after Griz had rigged the clients rod with a heavy leader, short tippet and one of his Trout Killers. Nearing the opposite shore Griz pointed to a rock outcrop that penetrated the shore plunging below the surface 10 ft off shore. “Cast along that edge of rock just off the point, steady fast retrieve.” The client did as he was instructed only to be met with an outburst from Griz. “ Slam that fly down on the water, Man! That aint no way to get their attention! Try it again,” This time he cast forcing the rod tip down with effort, the fly smacked the surface. The second haul on the line produced a massive strike, taking the client by complete surprise and the fish was soon off. “Geezz! By Saint Angness f*(^% bloomers what are ya thinking Man – Ya gotta set the hook! F#@!&%# set the bloody hook! Feeling chastised and not a little embarrassed the client smiled sheepishly at Griz. “ Sorry I was caught off balance, wasnt expecting a strike like that. It wont happen again. Just, I never cast a rod that way it was always about finesse and presentation.” “Saint Helens tits, boy, this aint no charity ball, this about catching big trout and mean ones at that. Theyll give you no bloody quarter, so dont give none. Lets move and try along that down wind shore.” They allowed the canoe to be taken by the breeze and bear down towards the far shore. 40 yards out Griz gave the order to cast in toward shore at a 45 degree angle. The client put strength into his forward cast, slamming the fly into the water with a splash. Several hauls brought another strike. This time the client snatched the tip up hard. The fish charged off toward deep water. “Keep his head up! Bare down on that line, man! You got him now!” The result was the reward of a great fish leaping for freedom that sets an Anglers pulse racing, his heart in his throat and tears to his eyes. “Oh, my God, Oh my God” the client kept repeating as the trout ran and leaped and ran again. Griz was grinning from ear to ear, hunger for the chase glinting in his eyes as he kept the canoe in position. Finally the trout was brought to the boat and deftly netted by Griz. “My God! Is that a brook trout? Ive never seen one that big! It has to be at least five pounds.” exclaimed the client panting with excitement and exertion. “Its just the beginning, son, there are more of them out there. Not bad, not bad handling that fish – for a city boy.” Griz remarked as he turned the canoe out into the lake again. Realizing after a few moments when he turned from Griz, he had just received what was likely the closest he would ever come to a compliment from his guide, the client broke into a smile that would likely have lit up a room. Several more trout were caught and two lost to broken tippets.. The end of the day brought the reward of grilled trout seasoned with Grizs special herb mix from a pouch squirreled away in his pack. A bottle of wine was emptied in remembrance of a day that would not be forgotten. They retired early wondering what the next day would bring. The following morning began much the same as the day before. The client now adept at casting the massive streamer brought to boat several more of the massive trout. They were having another great day on the lake. As evening approached Griz angled the canoe toward a cove guarded by downfalls that protruded from both points. The wind at their back, Griz allowed the canoe to drift in. The first cast brought nothing. Griz moved the canoe back toward one of the downfalls. The cast landed with the now familiar whack. The line stopped dead. “Set the hook! Set the hook!” Griz yelled. The client heaved on the line. Line began to spool off the reel in a scorching rush. “My hand hurts, damn its burning my hand!” Griz began paddling to keep up, soon realizing they were in fact being pulled by the fish. “Easy, easy like wooing a virgin, let him run. Hes hooked good.” The fish turned and headed toward open water. “ Keep his head up, hes headed for deep water.” Forty yards out a dorsal fin cleaved through the water. “Look! Look at that will ya! Its as big as my hand! Saint Petes Balls! Hes a bigun! Hang on, son! We gotem! Yes, Sir, Hell tire soon enough.” The client with a look of grim determination glanced over his shoulder at Griz. “ Hes a record for sure – a world record- no doubt!” Frustrated with his lack of progress the fish turned again angling back toward the cove. The wind picked up as if conspiring with the fish, now at the back of the canoe aided the fish in its run for the cove. Griz realizing that they were on a collision course with one of the dead falls tried to bear away digging his paddle in and pulling with all his strength. Again the huge dorsal cleared the surface, baring down on the dead fall with determination. The next few moments appeared to happen in slow motion as if time itself wished to observe in detail what occurred next. The canoe slewed sideways, the fish dove down below the log, the client was pulled into the middle of the canoe, Griz erupted into a string of profanity that included at least 20 saints and a number of words the client was sure werent in any dictionary. The canoe driven by wind and fish slammed into the dead fall, the line snapped with a resounding - Crack - and went limp. A light rain began to fall, the wind died, the surface of the now still lake a pattern of tiny rings and all was quiet. The client sat in the bottom of the boat, his knees tucked up to his chin let go a small sob. Griz sat still looking off into the forest his face unreadable. After a while he backed the canoe away from the dead fall and turned the bow toward their camp, neither said a word as the sky deepened to night. That night they shared trout and a bottle of whiskey from Grizs pack. The spirits, as often the case, eased their tongues and as the clouds finally cleared revealing the star lite heavens that can only be seen from far away places like this; client and guide shared their stories and formed that rare bond a few men experience in the wild. The next day they began the return up river and back to the camp. Of the return there is little to say other than it was congenial. Upon their return it didnt take long for the story to spread that they had encountered a real trophy down river, but were reluctant to reveal exactly were they had been. The client, after promising to return, boarded a train south and was gone. Spring brought the young man back to the camp, after several letters and wires he had failed to hear from Griz or any news of him from the camp agent. He inquired of several of the locals, on his arrival, they could offer little information as to Grizs whereabouts. He finally encountered Carl Smithers returning from a trip. Over a whiskey and water at the camp bar, Smithers shared what he knew. He said that shortly after the client had left, Griz had restocked his supplies and headed down river. He hadnt been seen since, in the spring Griz had failed to show and till now nobody had laid eyes on him or heard tell of him. After a long conversation the client convinced Smithers to cancel one of his trips with a promise to show him where they had encountered the trophy that had eluded them the previous year. The trip down river was uneventful and finally spotting the entrance to the side stream they concluded their journey by setting up camp on the same site he and Griz used the year before. That evening he showed Smithers the fly Griz had used, who agreed it was nothing like anything hed seen before. They pushed off on the lake early and headed for the cove. As they neared the downfalls, there - not far off - was a canoe sunk in the shallows, near by a broken rod lay on the shore lapped by the gentle rise and fall of the lake. They examined the canoe, which had a fist sized hole in its side, unmistakably Grizs canoe. Something epic happened here, evidenced by the shattered Lancewood rod and breached canoe, the forest and lake the only witnesses.. They searched the lake to no avail, finding no trace of him or his gear. Upon their return to the camp it was agreed that Griz likely met his end on the lake after something had breached his canoe, strange that his gear was gone as well. They speculated as to what could have caused the fist sized hole in her side. “Could a fish have caused that?” Pondered the client thinking of his experience with the fish. “Never in my days have I seen the like.” replied Smithers uncertainty creasing his brow. They fished the lake for two days, caught a number of good sized trout, but nothing close to the Big Fin the client had described. Their time there shrouded by the mystery of Grizs disappearance; they at last packed camp and headed for the river. Upon their return they shared what they had found. The story went from camp to camp, traveled south to the tackle shops and cities. The story became a tale to be told around campfires and passed into legend. The young client returned to his city life, Smithers worked the camps until old age and aching joints forced him to retire to Bangor. Neither divulged the location of the lake, preferring to leave Grizs ghost in peace. The camps continued to flourish until the big war and depression changed things. Guides and clients still ventured into the lake regions deep woods in search of the lake. Today, in our modern times, anglers continue to seek out the hidden places in the back woods of Maine in search of a legend - “Big Fin”. AG Palmer
Posted on: Thu, 25 Dec 2014 23:37:44 +0000
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