Maine History Told by Mainers

The Loon

Submitted January 24, 2007 by Martha Stevens David

Jake laid his fishing gear down in the bottom of dad's old, green canoe and then he slid it quietly into the slowly moving water of the Aroostook River. The canoe rocked slightly as he settled himself onto the wooden seat and picked up the paddle. He pushed off and paddled silently along the edge of the shore as he slowly made his way downstream to where the river divided and then he cut across the current in the middle and paddled until he reached the opposite side. Then he lay the dripping paddle across his knees and let the canoe glide along the edge of the overgrown riverbank.

Although he'd been cruising this river ever since he was old enough to use a canoe and paddle, he never got over the feeling he felt when he saw the river again. He knew every crook and bend and where every sand bar was as well. It was just as much a part of him as the blood that coursed through his veins.

Just as the canoe started to go around a bend in the river he reached up and grabbed a low-hanging branch of a white river birch and pulled hard to the left. He guided the canoe into the mouth of the fast flowing Trout Brook that emptied into the river from the Garfield side. He stood and pulled the boat up along the edge of the brook until he reached his favorite fishing spot and then he quickly tied the boat to a branch.

He'd begun fishing here when he was five, over fifty years ago, when his father had first introduced him to this quiet place and he'd considered it to be his private fishing hole ever since. Dad was long gone now but Jake, somehow, always felt closer to him in this spot.

Jake reached down and dug through his fishing gear until he found the rusty can that held his angle worms. Withdrawing one, he swiftly threaded the twisting, pink worm onto his hook and dropped it over the side of the boat into the clear, cold water.

He shook a Camel cigarette out of a crumpled package, stuck it in his mouth and lit it and let his mind slid back to another place, another time. A time when he was just a little red-headed freckled faced boy and both he and his father were sitting right here in this very same spot all those many years ago. His father had been the one to teach him all the fishing tricks he now used and he'd been just as happy to pass all this tried and trusted information on to his children. "It's good to have rituals and customs," he thought to himself. "It keeps a man on an even keel."

He snapped out of his reverie when he felt his fishing pole dip towards the river. He leaned forward and looked intently at the spot where his line met the water. Ever widening circles in the water moved away from his line and he watched until he saw what had pulled on his pole. It was the biggest, most beautiful rainbow trout that he'd ever seen! Seeing the lovely creature swimming just a few feet away made Jake's heart jump and he felt a thin film of sweat break out on his sunburned forehead.

He didn't know what to do first! He scrambled to shift his pole over to where the large fish was lazily swimming around in circles and the canoe rocked back and forth. "Calm down, man!" He commanded himself and he loosened his grip on the pole and took an extra long pull on his cigarette. He let the smoke curl up out of his mouth, past his nose and tried to regain some of his composure. When he was somewhat calm again, he set about trying to catch the fish.

He reeled in the sickly looking waterlogged worm and quickly stripped it off his hook. Then he looped on a fresh pink worm and slipped it quietly back into the water. He jiggled the hook gently up and down a couple of times just to catch the trout's attention. Jake watched as the large fish floated over to his hook, nudged it a little with the side of his nose, slid past and kept right on going. "Son-of-ah-b#&$!!" He swore to himself. He wanted that fish in the worst way!

Jake sat where he was for the better part of the morning, watching that fish go through every kind of teasing motion that was possible. It would come floating up to the top of the water, turn on its side and slip past Jake in a silent salute as if to say, "Catch me if you can, sucker!" Then it would slide silently away again into the swirling, blue water. Seeing the fish, glide, slide, float and jump just out of reach reminded Jake of a finely choreographed dance routine. The trout would come up to the top of the water, turn on its speckled side with one fin up in the air, glide past Jake in a silent salute as if to say, "I'm way too smart for the likes of you!" The large fish slid by and rolled over, just out of reach; in front of him so many times that Jake was able to memorize every colorful detail of that fish! Seeing the fish, so close yet so far, made Jake's blood boil. "Teases me just like a frigging woman!" Jake thought to himself for the hundredth time. This frustrating routine was repeated over and over again and at one point, as the sun rose higher and Jake grew hotter, he lost control. He jumped up, grabbed his fishing net and began thrashing the water every which way, to no avail. The trout was still free, swimming out there in the peaceful cool water, just beyond his reach.

Finally, Jake caved. His belly was growling so much that he couldn't tell if it was his stomach or thunder rumbling off in the distance towards Garfield. And his bladder was way beyond screaming. Normally, he would have stood and relieved himself over the side of the canoe but after seeing that fish swimming there all day, he just couldn't urinate where that fish swam. He just couldn't!

He untied the canoe and with a last, longing look at the magnificent fish, grabbed his paddle and headed upstream for home. Just as he rounded the corner, he turned, looked back at the mouth of the brook and yelled. "I'll be back Mr. Trout, you can bet your sweet ass on that!" He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and bore down on the paddle. "Maybe next year I'll cave in and buy myself a frigging trolling motor." He mumbled to himself. "Yes sir! Maybe next year!"

Preoccupied with the day's events, he ate his supper in silence, replaying in his mind the frustrations of the long day. His wife tried to make simple conversation but he only grunted an answer here and there and after a while she gave up trying to talk to him. He spent the entire evening in his den reading everything ever written about rainbow trout and their habits. He planned, he schemed and he prayed that just one piece of all the information that he'd read would be the thing he needed to catch that fish.

Finally, along about midnight, he lay aside all the fishing magazines, slathered some of his wife's moisturizer on his pickled face and neck and slid into bed alongside his sleeping wife. He fell into a fitful sleep and he thrashed and turned so much that his wife, tired of him pulling the sheets off her and getting kicked every couple of minutes, slapped him on the back. He mumbled incoherently and fell back into his dream of catching the fish.

Along towards morning, when the moon was just a sliver in the western sky, he began talking. "Oh baby," he moaned. "Come to papa, that's it honey!" He turned in the bed and threw a heavy arm across his wife's chest. Surprised and still half-asleep, she turned to her husband, wondering what had put him in such a romantic mood so early in the morning.

Just as she was about to put her arms around him, Jake sat up in bed and yelled, "I'm gonna get you, you frigging fish, if it's the last thing I do!" Hearing this, his wife cuffed him across the back of the head and this really woke Jake up. He rubbed his head and looked at her in the dim light. "What's the matter with you?" he asked. She gave him one of her "if looks could kill" looks and snapped. "I might ah known that it was a frigging fish you was talking to!" And she moved over to the far side of the bed. Not only was Jake getting the cold shoulder from the fish, now he was getting it from his wife too!

Jake watched the clock all day at work at Pinkham's Mill and as soon as the five o'clock whistle blew, he was out the door and down the Portage Road in a cloud of dust. He'd packed all his fishing gear the night before and he flew past his house and down over Sutherland's flats to the Aroostook River.

He slid his canoe off the truck and into the water and he didn't bother trying to be quiet either. He paddled like a man in a rowing competition. He could have crewed for Yale. He paddled across the current until he reached the Garfield side and then he floated down river until he reached the mouth of Trout Brook and it was only then that he finally breathed. "Oh please let him still be here." he prayed for the hundredth time. He slid up into the mouth of the brook until he was in the same position as he'd been in the day before and quickly tied up to the same branch of the river birch.

He sat where he was for a long moment and just looked at the brook where it joined the river as it flowed past. The water from the brook was so pristine and clear that he could see the green river grasses as they flowed and shifted in the bottom current. He watched as water bugs skated across the glassy surface and then he smiled as once again, he saw the huge fish, rise, open its mouth and feed on one of the insects that waited there on the top of the water.

Seeing the fish, Jake's old heart jumped and danced in his chest and he had difficulty catching his breath. He couldn't believe his luck! The trout was still here! He'd worried all night that it would be to hell and gone by the time he got back. But there it was! "Well, I'll show him who's boss this time!" Jake said to himself as he hurried to cast his hook into the water.

It was a repeat of the day before. The fish, as though sensing Jake's desperation, began the old teasing routine again and the fish had it down to perfection. It would slide up through the murky river water and the setting sun would reflect off its silver belly into Jake's eyes. The trout would roll completely over and then slip away, as silently as it had come.

This appearing and disappearing act set Jake's teeth right on edge and he commenced to prayen with the fervor of a convert. He mumbled prayers to every deity he could think of and even a few he made up, like the "Fishin God of the Universe." "Oh, what tha hell," He thought to himself. It couldn't hurt.

This little game of bate and switch was playing hell on Jake's nervous system, his heart, his stomach and his bladder. He was falling apart and he wondered how long he could keep this up. He tried every lure and fly in his tackle box and every fishing trick he could think of and nothing enticed that fish!

When Jake finally looked up he noticed that the sun was hovering just above the western horizon and he slid his cuff back and looked at his watch. It read eight fifteen and he knew that he should be making plans to head for home in another half-hour or so.

Suddenly, he became aware of a pair of loons that had paddled into his line of vision. He watched as they floated together along the top of the river. Every now and then, one of them would dip its head down into the water and come up with a good-sized fish wriggling in its mouth. "Son-of-ah-b#$%!" moaned Jake. "Loons! Now I've really got competition!" He watched them for a couple of minutes longer and then turned back to the task at hand, praying all the while that the loons stayed where they were.

He reeled in and removed the fly that had been drifting along the top of the water and reached for his tackle box again. He poked around until he found the sandwich bag that he'd put in there the night before. He took out a piece of half-cooked elbow macaroni and a piece of hard cheese and slid these on the end of the hook. Smiling to himself at the ridiculous bait combination, he sang a little song as he carefully cast the bait into the water. "Fishy, fishy in the brook, come and bite my great big hook!"

Resigned to the fact that it was a loosing proposition, he was shocked when he felt a slight nudge travel up the line and down the pole to his hands. His fishing reflexes kicked in and he gave a sharp tug on the line. The next thing he knew, he was hanging onto the pole for all his might! He'd caught something, by gorry, he had! What it was, he really couldn't tell and he really didn't give a damn! He knew that it was big and that was all that interested him.

He stood and braced his feet in the canoe and again gave a hard check on the line. Suddenly, he saw what he'd caught! It was a loon! He nearly fell out of the canoe in his shock and then he saw that he was wrong. He'd caught a fish and a loon! "How could that be?" he asked himself. He pulled on the line again and reeled in the some of the slack. The large bird, feeling the tug on the fish in its mouth, squawked and dug its feet into the water. It was a standoff! Jake wanted the fish and the loon wanted the fish! Something had to give!

Jake, seeing that the sun was making a fast descent, knew that he had to do something soon and he began jumping up and down in the canoe, hoping against hope that he could scare off the loon. To no avail. Jake began screaming and shouting at the big bird but the loon still wouldn't let go of the trout. "That's my trout you stoopid ol bird! I caught it before you did!" Jake screamed until he couldn't scream anymore but it did no good. The loon just sat there in the water, looking back at him with the precious trout held firmly in its mouth.

Desperate, Jake's brain and his common sense shutdown. He slid his fishing pole between his knees and he grabbed his paddle. He picked it up, turned it around in his hand and brought it back behind his head. Steadying himself, he threw the paddle, like a javelin, at the loon with all his might! The paddle flew through the air and hit the water with a loud smack just to the right of the stubborn bird. Startled by the paddle hitting the water, the loon dropped the trout and took off across the river.

Jake, beside himself that his ploy had finally worked, quickly sat down and began reeling in his prize. As the fish came sliding up to the canoe, he reached over the side and grabbed it by its gill. He hauled it in and looked at it.

The loon may have been startled into releasing the trout but it had left its mark anyway. The once beautiful trout was all mangled and the skin was missing in several places. Jake sat where he was for the longest time and then he took the fish and slid it over the side into the water. Might just as well give it back to the loons, he thought to himself. I don't want to take it home looking like that.

It was then that he realized that he was in quite a predicament. He had thrown his only paddle at the loon and had no way to get back upstream to where he'd parked his truck. "I could walk up to the Garfield Road and hitchhike home," Jake thought but he decided to stay put when he thought about the five mile hike thru the wood in pitch dark. Jake spent a long cold night huddled in the bottom of his canoe and when he didn't return home that night; his wife called the warden's service to send out a search and rescue party to look for him.

When Jake's story about his fight with the loon and the trout was told around town the next day, everybody laughed and nobody believed him. Years later, whenever he saw a Bangor Daily News article about folks wanting to change the lobster on the Maine license plates to a loon, he fired off letters of protest to the Maine State Legislature. He hated those friggin loons!