something elemental

     you've never been faced with starvation - and neither have i, but if you were would you know how to tackle the situation?  we took a step last weekend towards solving that problem.

we'd done the brutal ride up to john swan's beautiful camp on kennebago lake, over the height of land - which spooked sally almost to the point of panic - down into oquossoc on the rangeley lakes and then cross country nine miles on the old logging road to the cottage.  john was there, up to his chest in the lake, messing with the new lund boat - aluminum and more practical than the rangeley he had moored nearby, but not nearly as pretty.  "hey," he shouted.  "come in.  have a drink.  no.  better yet, we'll take a booze cruise...."

we have a new puppy called maisy - she was whelped in cape may - which had never taken so long a ride, let alone seen a lake or swum in one, or had a boat trip [all of which she did over the next three days] and she was a little reluctant to jump aboard.  after a few moments of wind in her hair she relaxed.

john took us down through the logan, cruising the opposite shore, dipping into the river, stopping at all the spring holes and brook mouths.  no luck.  at one creek a great blue heron  flapped away sedately as we pulled up.  "no chance of any takers here," i said.  "that sucker's put them all down."

john agreed.  "we'll go to the hatchery," he said.  "guaranteed."

guaranteed it was, with little trout bashing our yellow wulf on every cast.  sally had never caught a trout on a dry fly and was delighted as the little buggers slugged away at her every offering.  maisy lay comfortably on her wool binkie, taking in every cast and studying every defeated brookie.

that evening john looked at maisy's tangled coat and, over a large vodka said, "let's try something.  hold her still, sally, while i snip some hair from her tail."  with a tuft of white fur, three inches long,  a hook, a whip of thread  and a drop of cement he produced, the "maisy" fly.  the next day, back at the hatchery the bigger trout in residence slashed with abandon at this new offering.

we'll never starve, i thought, watching an eagle ride the thermals rising from the lake, curling the edge of west kennebago mountain.  not as long as we have maisy with us.