Laskins Loafin’ Around in Maine, February, 2019

This is just embarrassing that I’m finishing this journal in mid-May, there is no way around it.  We took this trip three months ago!  But I don’t like to leave things incomplete, so this has to go up before Florida and that's on deck.  And it turns out, when I opened this journal, that it was surprisingly complete.  But it will be more of an impressionistic essay than a daily report.  There is only so much you can say about ski days because you are kind of doing the same thing, which is skiing, eating, and pretending to watch movies but ending up falling asleep.  Wherever we go, this happens.  But there is a deeper adjustment occurring.  The banter – which, as the kids get older becomes a major part of a ski day – is so deep and insular and of the moment that you really can’t capture it all in a journal.  Used to be that they’d say something funny because they were younger and it was cute and just what little people say.  Now, they talk all the time (unless they’re irritated or mad at us, in which case they don’t talk at all) and the wit zings around the room like currents in a crowded terminal full of coming and going electric busses.  The conversation (on pretty much any topic) sparks and fizzes and is pretty great to be part of.  It is also hard to capture in writing.  Clearly, I’ll need to look into dictation software or mic’ing them up like that four-year-old who took the hockey parent world by storm this spring.  Or, you'll just need to join us to get the full experience.

But to our story, which begins sometime late one night . . .

We had a rousing rendition of Super Skier on the way back from dinner tonight – putting everything to right.  Not that there has been anything wrong with our visit to Sugarloaf USA but we usually listen to Super Skier on the way to the ski area and as Peter pointed out we didn’t drive to ski this time, we just drove straight to our slopeside condo, so Superskier would have been weird.  Also we got caught up in an endless loop of Beatles tunes.  Still, I am feeling off my game. 

Stupid hockey upended our usual Western ski plans this year.  Cue the tiny violin for this .00001 % problem.  But skiing in New England over a school break week does indeed present challenges.  While significantly less expensive and less dramatic and less hassle than hauling ourselves and our gear out West, here there are way more OTHER PEOPLE with whom you have to stand in – gasp – LIFT LINES, as well as navigate the cafeteria at lunch with and just generally deal with their shit.  And you know New Englanders, they’re the worst sometimes!

Sugarloaf will both affirm these issues and put the lie to them.  Significantly, this is a new era in Laskin family ski trips, in which we are enjoying the comfort and not small convenience of ski-in, ski-out lodging.  While we wouldn’t give up the lovely comfy house with the hot tub in the charming walled yard in Taos for anything, really, we do find the opportunity to remove the boots and collapse into a nap in front of the fire remarkably pleasant. 

The Loaf (as regulars call it) is old-school (not OG) New England skiing, except that it its idea of old-school is approximately 1975.  The day lodges are that kind of modern that doesn’t stand any aesthetic test of time, and services are pretty much non-existent, although those that you do encounter are super-friendly.

Take Bill, for example, (not ours) who checked us in to our condo, and whose nametag proudly announced that he’s been a “Sugarloafer Since 1957!”  Let that sink in, and consider that the Sugarloaf Ski Club started in 1950 and the first rope-tow was installed in 1953.  Bill’s been around a while, and has seen it all, and is completely unflappable even in the face of grumpy New Yorkers who are upset that the three families sharing two condos do not get three parking permits.[1]  One per unit, says Bill firmly, noting that they can park the third car there but without the permit it could be ticketed and/or towed.  When you check in, Bill gives you a long and detailed account of everything in your package, carefully noting all the places on your map with pen circles, right down to the shuttle bus which starts at 7:41 and then switches to an 11:41 route in the middle of the day. You are nothing if not thoroughly checked-in if you are fortunate enough to encounter Bill upon arrival but you may actually not get to your condo until the next day. 

Sugarloaf may be so rooted in its 1970s vibe because 1971 is the “When the World Came to Maine.” The resort, then boasting a gondola, hosted a World Cup race that year, and the success of the event apparently propelled Maine into consideration for the 1976 Winter Olympics.  I’m guessing it was the last 37 miles on a two-lane road that stopped more of the world from coming after ’71 but by all accounts the World Cup was a wild success, culminating in a banquet featuring lobster and moose.  Because:  Maine!  I can’t really do this event justice, so I recommend you read this article and watch the video.  You won’t be sorry and you will wish you had been there because it sounds like it was an awful lot of fun. 

There are still regular competitions here, some fairly big-time like NCAA championships and this year’s US Alpine Speed Championships.  Here’s why:  the snow is pretty great.  It’s cold enough that they get a lot, and they take good care of it.  They have a snazzy-looking Competition Center right at the main base area, because this is also the home of Carrabassett Valley Academy, which counts among its notable alumni Bode Miller, and Seth Wescott.  So there is a lot of training and racing here and you know they wouldn’t do that just anywhere.

I think that there is a lot of training and racing here because there aren’t a lot of people here which means there isn’t a lot of anything else here.  Where are all those speedsters going to stay next month?  There are a couple of hotels, a few hundred condos, and that’s about it.  And the weirdly-proportioned cafeteria – kind of square-S shaped with doors opening out to the COLD at all kinds of odd spots – just cannot handle that kind of volume.[2]  Bill, Sugarloafer Since 2018 but as far as we know no relation to Bill, Sugarloafer Since 1957, who made my sandwich yesterday at a non-championship pace, is really going to be overwhelmed when the world comes back to Maine. 

Meal service and food more generally has been a sub-theme – first night dinner at the “fancy” 45 North took forever despite there being almost no one eating by the time we got there.  There’s the aforementioned sandwich situation and last night’s apps at the Shipyard brewpub arrived almost instantly after our waitress left to “put in the order” leaving us to wonder if we had someone else’s Brussels sprouts?  Not to mention the endless wait for subpar brisket at Seth Wescott’s otherwise hugely entertaining barbecue joint, The Rack.  But you know, everyone is friendly, and the snow is good, so really what is the big deal.  For New Englanders, these people are remarkably laid back.  Indeed, we might even say they are . . . loafing around.  Hey-oh!

But if the food options are pretty limited – pack it in, people, and just cook a lot of spaghetti – you would be missing out if you didn’t drive ten miles north to eat at the White Wolf Inn in Stratton, at least once.  We arrive late on a subzero night, as the snowmobilers are heading off into the full moonlight, but are happy to tuck into Cast Iron Bitch local brew (the friendly waitress whispers it behind her hand because there are children present) and venison chili and an extremely large chicken pot pie.  Right now you are probably thinking, that after a long day of skiing?  Bliss.  And you’d be right.   Next time we’ll have to hit ‘em up for breakfast.

About that subzero business.  You are really far north here, and it is freaking cold.  Those snowmobilers had on arctic survival suits.  The temp only gets into double digits – and not high ones – on our last day, which inexplicably feels colder than the rest.  It’s two-runs-and-in kind of cold.  But there are the requisite cinnamon rolls bigger than your head when you do stop mid-mountain, and hot chocolate that somehow tastes like the best ever even though it is just the usual shpitz out of the machine and there isn’t any whipped cream only marshmallows.

I’ll also note – and this is a big one – I don’t think I’ve heard a voice intensified by anger yet.  You know what I’m talking about, the parent who, having spent a fortune and is exhausted, snaps and hisses in rage at children or other adult who is whining or sad or just generally being uncooperative about something.  The kind of voice that makes you feel simultaneously superior that you would never do that and also a little afraid that they might grab the kid’s arm a little too hard and also embarrassed for both the angry person and the recipient of their anger.  You always hear that at some point on a ski trip because skiing trips can be hard!  Everyone is having fun and chattering and loving being out in the cold but someone isn’t and someone else is also cold or tired or has spent a boatload of money to be here and has just reached the end of their rope.  So you don’t say anything because that just makes it worse and you hope that we all find the better angels of our nature sometime soon.  Anyway, I didn’t hear that voice once here and that speaks volumes in its silence.[3]

Our fry are of course seasoned ski trippers, and even better, they are great skiers!  Information Specialist Peter is the fastest member of our party these days – Payroll Specialist Bill has resigned himself to bringing up the rear – and Izzy’s hockey has given her legs of steel so her skiing is now so elegant and easy (we cannot call her Private Hokey Pokey on skis, that is for sure).  They’re also funny as heck.  Young people today have a language all their own, fueled in part by the interwebs, and it can be hard to understand what the heck they are talking about.  They are deeply conversant in funny videos and can cause each other to dissolve into hysterical laughter with just a sentence that usually starts “you know that guy who says . . . .”  They gamely attempt to bring us in on the joke, even showing us the videos, and you know what?  They ARE funny.  But we struggle with the language.  Slopeside lodging, for example, is not wack, but neither is it yeet, apparently because the latter is not an adjective.  We fossils attempt to keep up but apparently we are nothing more than fodder for giggles collapsing into laughter.  It was probably my suggestion that maybe – just maybe – OG meant Old Guard as well as Original Gangsta that really destroyed Peter. 

Sugarloaf is so proud of its two high-speed quads that it has trademarked them as Superquads™.  Given the number of times they stop and we swing in the cold mountain breeze, we don’t think they are so super.   And once I have read a history of the Loaf I’m left to occasionally wonder how this place is still running.  While popular and rich in abundant natural resources of snow and vertical feet, the Loaf has endured a number of financial and development setbacks in its almost 70 year history.  Yet every time disaster has threatened, including a bankruptcy declaration in the mid-1980s and various lift malfunctions in the early 2000s, resources have been found to upgrade, improve, and generally move the place forward.  Except that there is no more gondola, and that is kind of too bad, given how cold it is.  The remains of the gondola station at the very top are dark hulks frosty with wind-driven snow and surrounded by stunted trees because they are at the timberline and look like nothing more out of a dystopian fantasy or possibly the start of a James Bond movie.

We are actually mystified by the lift lines.  They only occur when ski school starts off at 10 am, and then again after lunch.  But they’re pretty long for such Superquads™ and the thing is, where are all those people on the slopes?  It’s school break week, a time to be avoided at every other ski area in New England.  But here it is seriously almost empty, we have great wide runs from top to bottom to ourselves, and that’s pretty great. 

So where is everyone?  Well, it is way the heck up here in the middle of nowhere Maine, and it takes a long time to drive here, so there’s that.  Many Loafers are in fact locals, and there just aren’t that many people here in east nowheresville Maine.  Also, see above on how it is f’ing cold.  It takes a certain kind of hardy New Englander to put up with this business.  Also see above re:  services – this ain’t Deer Valley, peeps, if you can’t carry it, you probably shouldn’t be skiing it.  But you know, we kind of like it.  It feels authentic, the skiing is great, and now that we know that we just have to bring ALL the food, we might even come back. 

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[1] I don’t actually know if they were from New York, but there were some cars with NY plates in the parking lot at the condo check-in center.  And New Yorkers hold the same position in New England as Texans at western ski areas, so. 

[2] I should take this back.  We found another enormous room where all the people who bring their lunch – and there are a lot here because sensible Maine – eat at giant round tables.  But you have to go down a teeny narrow staircase to get there.  This lodge is inexplicably maze-like and there are way too many stairs. 

[3] I did hear kids wailing.  You always hear kids wailing at some point. 

Maine 2015: We Took to the Woods - But Stayed at the Hotel

I really wanted to write another journal about our second trip to the idyllic Lakewood Camp on Lower Richardson Lake in central Maine.  And I will give you some highlights, so stay tuned.  But if you really want to know what it is like up there, you should just read Louise Dickinson Rich’s We Took to the Woods (Grosset & Dunlap, 1942), which is a memoir of her life in the very same woods – just a couple of miles from Lakewood Camps (which she refers to, jokingly, as the hotel) – albeit in the 1930s and 40s.  Rich’s wryly affectionate tone fits so perfectly into the piney Maine woods that you will never want to leave.  She makes it sound simultaneously kind of awful (no indoor plumbing) and perfectly marvelous (characters and adventures and warmth and humor, all delivered in a kind of friendly Katherine Hepburn style).  While we aren’t driving around the place in Packards, or lunching on endless canned goods, Rich’s tale will do more to lure you to the area than my little notes ever will.

5/22/15

We are pretty excited to be returning to Lakewood Camps for our second annual “fishing” weekend with our friends the Kafka-Gibbons.[1]  Boy let me tell you that it is a totally different drive to Maine when the sun is out.  Last year, (some) fear and trepidation and (lots of) clouds and rain.  This year, rainbows follow us in the launch’s wake, boding well for the weekend . . . except for an unusually stiff wind that makes our trip across the lake longer than it should be, and causes the flags at camp to stand straight out in a stiff salute as we arrive.  After our crossing I feel like I have eaten 500 York Peppermint Patties. 

It is pointed out to us but even we flatlanders can’t miss the unusually low level of the lake this year.  Maybe they didn’t have any spring rains, or perhaps there were a couple of hot days already that just made the snow evaporate rather than melt slowly into streams.  Whatever the cause, there is new rocky shoreline to explore, and the dock rides so high you could take a stand-up paddleboard under it.  (Not that you would want to – the lake temp is about 50 degrees.  But you get the visual.)

But o you cruel sun, you mocked us with your light and shallow warmth, so quick to dissipate as you set.  Now my fingers are so cold I can barely type. 

The thing about going to a camp like this is that it is exactly the same every year, even when it is not, and that is just how you want it to be.  So dinner is chicken parm and apple pie, as last year, but the lake is low and the dock looks different.  A little change is good, but pie for dessert should remain forever and always.

Another thing about going to a camp like this where everything is exactly the same every year is that you still wrestle with the big decisions, even if you’ve made them before.  Do we fish tomorrow or hike?  One-day or three-day fishing licenses?  Bag lunch or lunch in the lodge?  Will there be molasses cookies wherever we end up?  It takes forever to sort out these details, but that is the point. 

Despite firing up our Franklin stove before dinner, it is almost dead when we return because we lingered over the first of what will become a raging post-dinner Yahtzee habit.  So we stuff as many logs as can fit into the stove, put on more pajamas than we’ve ever worn in our lives, and try to sleep.  At least we won’t be hot. 

5/23/15

If you like a cool pillow and sheets, Lakewood Camps is the place for you.  If you stick your face out from under the sheets it gets very cold.  But under the sheets you are treated to a faint air de mothball.  

I think the sun came up beautifully this morning but it was too cold to go outside and see.  Word is that it was in the high 20s last night.  Paul, who may at times be a saint, brought me coffee.[2]  

Even the lodge is cold at breakfast.  That is cold.

We have moved up in the world because Delmar Cabin is pretty fancy.  The living room area is a little bigger than Welly, and it doesn’t tilt quite so much. And the porch roof is new.  Best of all, it is in a little enclave on the far side of the lodge, away from the other cabins, with just the K-G’s cabin, Trail’s End, next door.  It is like our own little compound which is pretty great.  There are even rustic street lights to show the path at night.  Before 9:30 of course.  After that, you'd better have your flashlight.  If you don’t remember all these details, check out last year’s journal for the deets.

In an effort to warm up, several of us take a very long walk this morning, while Paul just plunges in for a long fish down by the dam.  On our walk back we passed lots of fishermen hiking out to their cars with nary a fish.  Paul fished all day but Peter noted that the tranquility of his day was not disturbed by fish.  The boys are full of bon mots this weekend.  Paul says that there are no bad adventures, only bad planning.  He was careful to point out that he himself did not say this (what an excellent example of academic integrity!).  Nevertheless, this is why he has six sets of base layers for waders.

After that exhausting morning we nap outside under the blue sky wrapped in blankets not really sleeping but unable to form coherent thoughts or words and our eyes are most definitely closed.

If you are really lucky or maybe just in the right place at the right time, Whit will slip you a molasses cookie.  If you are really nice you will break it into small bits to share with your family.  But you could also just not tell anyone and eat it yourself. 

Patty takes me and Peter down to cast some flies after our nap and cookies.  It is quite beautiful but the river is indeed low.  And the wind wreaks havoc with our lines.  (Lines?  Sheets?  String?  In fishing, each piece of equipment has a special name.  I don’t remember many of them, although I am immensely proud of my new waders and ginormous wading boots.) 

Tonight's meal is another winner, from the popovers to the blueberry pie (prime rib in between).  Maureen stops by the table après to share news of former guests but I concentrate on pie.  

5/24/15

The stove had me worried last night but it is behaving now and finally starting to send out some heat.  Although it is more comfortable this morning than yesterday.  Possibly even 40!

Bill notes that there are any number of charming details in our cabin.  Like the light in the bathroom that you turn on by tightening the bulb in its socket.  (Turning it off is trickier.)  And the many chairs that have "give "which is a euphemism for torn and sagging seats.  The bureau drawers that require two hands to open because they are so old and swollen and have spent years in cold and damp and heat and dry.  And those mothball-y blankets.  This all provides an excellent visual/sensory background for We Took to the Woods. 

Today was the kind of day (mostly) that you expect to have at camp in Maine. Glorious blue sky, warm sun, a touch of breeze to make the trees talk to each other.  Paul takes me and Bill fishing in the morning and Izzy clomps along cute as can be in her waders and oversize sunglasses, to splash around and keep us company.  

She courted the muse of the river and spontaneously started creating original poetry.  Here are her favorites:

You splish and splash but don’t get wet

You see a flash, and then you fret

Because that bass you did not get.

Whit’s cookies are delicious!

And so are all the other dishes.

No electricity at night makes me superstitious,

But when I see the generator, I’m not suspicious

In the day, you can catch lots of fishes

My only wish is

            To go back to Lakewood Camps

After this she simply starts narrating the entire fishing process in a sort of epic form, with heroic language like  "the fish gigantic" and so on.  It is hugely entertaining.

Another morning undisturbed by fish (for us – Paul caught one later in the day) until Bill caught . . .himself!  He took a tumble in a rock and managed to hook his pinky.  Since Paul was scoffing at the local custom and fishing with barbed hooks, this presented a bit of a challenge.  But if you run a fishing camp you have to be prepared for this sort of thing and it turns out that Whit is also an expert at removing hooks from body parts.  His says that his secret just to pour as much betadyne as possible over the wound, but in fact the removed the (what kind of fly) painlessly and efficiently.  (Although he did tell Bill not to watch at one point.) Anyway, now we have a story to tell and any pain was dulled by roast beef sandwiches and homemade chocolate pudding for lunch.  

You feel a bit indulgent, almost shamefacedly so, when you have lunch in the dining room on a nice day.  Shouldn't you be out building character?[3]  But of course if you were, you would miss chocolate pudding and that would not be smart, and you might just lose a character point for stupidity.  That is something you can ponder on the way to your post-prandial nap.

Quite a bit of canoeing and kayaking also happened today and Peter had such a good time fishing with Paul that he stayed down at the river after Paul came back up to give the girlies a lesson on the dock.  You surely know the saying that if you give a man a fish he will eat for a day but if you teach him to fish he will eat for a week. Paul and Patty have taught us all how to fish so how come I am still doing all the cooking in our family?

We don’t hear as many loons this year (they are probably too cold) but while the girlies and I are out paddling we actually spot one that might be swimming with a chick.  It gives our flotilla a wide berth.

We have achieved the state of relaxation where conversation happens more in fits and starts as we sit on porches gazing out at the lake, and includes random comments like “hel-lo dead mosquito in my drink” from Izzy.  If you realize that this state of mental melt, not lots of fish, is the desired result of a visit to Lakewood Camps, then you have achieved true understanding.  Character, schmarachter.

5/25/15

It is always a good idea to get up early one morning and sit on your porch to see the day.  Of course, it has to be warm enough that a blanket and pajamas will do, which today is finally the case.  There are lots of birds twittering - there always are here - and a little bit of ripple on the lake, and a motorboat speeds by in the distance.  Who is up and out so fast so early?  Someone anxious to get a fish, no doubt, therefore possibly someone who has not achieved mental melt.  It is overcast this morning, which doesn't bode well for the day but makes for a lovely pastel sunrise over the lake.  

This is my favorite part of any day, watching the water wake up.  Another boat makes its way across the far side of the lake, and swings in a wide arc toward the camp’s dock.  Who is arriving now, and why?  Who is leaving early, and why would you do that?  Whit comes down his apron to bid those unlucky breakfast-missers adieu, and brings the cart up for the next unlucky souls.

Dinner last night ended with pumpkin pie which was difficult for me, but if that is the hardest trial I have to bear here I think I will survive.

Here's how hard a winter it was up here.  The ice has been out of the lake maybe 15 days.  When Whit and Maureen arrived the first week of May, there was still ice between the cabins.  Some of the south-facing, sheltered daffodils are blooming right now, but more are still just thinking about it.  The flowering trees have buds but that's it, and the rest of the trees have that misty early spring green, but nothing particularly robust in the way of leaves yet.  Maureen tells us that when they get up here in early May, they have to brace some of the buildings to stand up straight, because the snow and ice made them all lean so much.  The ground under our cabins is still frozen, so they won’t actually settle until later in the summer, and then, says Maureen, “We’ll see what we’ve got.”  That's just how it goes in Maine when the winter is hard.  

Next year we might come over Labor Day weekend, which would be splendid because then we could swim.  Paul swam this year, and claimed it was manageable.  But he did put on a lot of clothes for dinner that night.  In any case, we are glad to be planning our return to “the hotel,” even if it is more than a year from now.[4]

My city jewelry hangs cold and heavy as we motor back across the lake to The Outside.

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[1] The K-Gs are down one teenage boy (Gabe) but up one super-friendly sister (Cathy), so while the overall amount of food consumed has probably decreased, the chat factor is increased exponentially.  She's a talker, warned Patty.  This is an example of the pot calling the kettle black. 

[2] At Lakewood Camps I drink coffee because tea feels too refined.  Plus which, I expect it might be a challenge to get a decent cuppa.

[3] Another reason to love Louise Dickinson Rich:  she feels that living in the Maine woods, particularly with no plumbing, in the winter, builds character.  (17)

[4] Richardson describes it as follows:  “Middle Dam is quite a community.  There is the dam itself, a part of the system for water control on the Androscoggin, with the dam-keeper and his family, Renny and Alice Miller and their three children, in year-round residence.  Then in summer the hotel is open.  We only call it a hotel; it is really a fishing camp.  In winter it is closed but there is a caretaker, Larry Parsons, who stays in with his wife, Al, and a hired man or two.  So the permanent population of Middle Dam hovers at around nine, and that is comparative congestion.  We get our mail and supplies through Middle, and it is the point of departure for The Outside, so its importance is all out of proportion to its population.”  (16)

Maine 2014 - Gone Fishin'!

Friday

The drizzle starts shortly after hitting the Maine Turnpike with everyone else from Massachusetts on the Friday of Memorial Day weekend.  A sign a little later helpfully informs us that the Fire Danger is LOW today.  Whew.

This is our third family trip to Maine, and as the previous two have been fun (too much at times, see K'Port 2010), we sign on immediately when our friends the Kafka-Gibbons family (Paul, Patty, Gabe, and Charlotte) invite us to join them on their annual trip to Lakewood Camps, a fishing and sporting camp in the Rangeley Lakes region.  They promise to outfit us with fishing gear, and great plans are made to ensure waders and fishing instruction for all who want it.  Bring entertainments and layers and flashlights, we are told.  Patty also notes that while fashion is not a priority, liquor is. 

To get to Lakewood Camps “(since 1853),” you drive and drive and drive some more.  On the Maine Turnpike you might see something like this emblazoned on the back of a car:  "Ass, grass, or cash, nobody rides for free."  Keep classy, Maine.

Once off that big highway, you wind through the global village that is central Maine:  Poland, Naples, Paris, Norway, etc.  It is a bit like going skiing, in fact it is almost all the way to Sunday River, although not quite as cold (see Bethel Maine 2012).  At some point you turn right and think you are really in the middle of nowhere, and then you realize that in fact you can get here from there. 

(To pass the time we are listening to Robert Louis Stevenson's The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  I hope that I can someday use the phrase "he gnashed his teeth at me in devilish fury" because it is such a perfect articulation of the idea of teeth-gnashing.) 

Then after you drive some more, you finally get to a dock with a small parking lot, and Tom is there to greet you and stow your gear on the launch and ferry you across the lake.  You will see a loon, that is pretty much guaranteed, and it will be the first of many.

Eventually you will see the camp, and land at the long dock and you might just think to yourself wow, it is now not only wet and rainy but cold and windy.  All your bags and coats and boots and Monopoly and fishing gear and bikes and the aforementioned booze, is toted up to your cabin while everyone smiles through the drizzle and seems genuinely happy to be here.

Our cabin is named Welokennebacook but is known as Welly because who knows how the Indians actually pronounced that.  It tilts a bit to the left, but the K-G’s cabin is held together by a giant cable running through it.  The cabin to our left dips rather alarmingly in the middle.  If you want to play marbles, go to the main lodge, where things seem to be on the level.  

The digs are, um, rustic, but in a real camp way.  There is a big room with tables and chairs and the Franklin stove that we may want to get going STAT, and a little bathroom and two bedrooms.  There are copies of magazines about fly fishing lying around, and reproduction posters from the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Game that say things like "GEE MISTER!  WILL THERE BE ANY WHEN I GROW UP?" and showing a scrappy boy with a stick fishing pole asking this question of a well-dressed fly-fisherman who has a basket loaded with fish and a scurrilous look upon his face.  You might almost say he is gnashing his teeth at the poor wee lad.

I note ladies in skirts in the old-time pictures hanging slightly askew on the wall of Welly, so clearly fashion was something of a priority, once. 

Isabel is immediately enchanted with the whole place.  She gets to hang out with the big kids, including the super cool Charlotte, and she can dash around outside to her hearts content.  She and Charlotte explore, discover squadrons of hummingbirds, start a puzzle, and go kayaking after dinner. 

You don't need to go out in a kayak at dusk to hear the loons, you can hear them from your bed, it is that quiet here.  But it is very nice to float out a bit in the gloaming and hear those stunning birds chortling and calling mournfully in the gathering darkness.  You might even think you are unearthing that inner peace that folks say is to be discovered in just such a pursuit.  Until your son bumps his kayak into you and starts bickering with his sister. 

Saturday

If I went outside right now, would I actually spot the woodpecker who has been working so furiously, if with indeterminate rhythm, on the outside of the cabin next door since 5 a.m.?  Possibly.  But that would require putting on more clothes.  Which is not necessarily a bad thing, considering that it is about 45 degrees in here.  IN here.  But that in turn would require removing oneself from one's cocoon of blankets and pajamas in front of the fire (which one just made, yes, I am an awesome backwoods mom).

But there is also that inside-of-an-oyster early morning light over the lake, hills emerging out of the mist, sunrise business going on so out I go camera in hand, and hooray, spooked that woodpecker! 

Only half an hour until the electricity comes on. 

Here's what the little sign on the wall has to say about the Franklin stove.  "This Franklin Stove is an invention by Ben.  He told us it works best with the doors closed, less smoke and more efficient use of the wood.  He said no lightening [sic] would strike your camp if you place some paper on the grates, add some cedar kindling on top, and then some hard wood.  If you should burn only cedar, lightning may come your way."  He's right, as it turns out.  Well, I don't know about the kindling, but I can speak for the doors-closed bit.  This thing is cooking now.

Oh my god he is back.  He is like that woodchuck in Caddyshack.

You’d better get up before the bell if you want breakfast.  Bells are rung at 7:30 (breakfast), 12:30 (lunch) and 6:30 (dinner).  At dinner the night before you can order bag lunches, which consist of a giant sandwich on tasty homemade bread, some fruit, and a couple of the best molasses cookies ever.  One expects a good molasses cookie in Maine, but these are real winners.  Meals are generally hearty New England fare - prime rib, haddock, turkey, and such, but the glory of this kitchen are its pies.  With pale, thin, Crisco-only crusts (so says Whit, owner and cook of Lakewood Camps), last night's blueberry was a perfect purple pile. 

But we’re here to fish, not ruminate on the food.  Fishing, I'm told, is a bit like skiing.  Equipment intensive (I would venture even more so than skiing since wild animals are involved so not only is there stuff to wear and stuff to catch fish with, there is also stuff to keep fish in, like magnetic nets).  At breakfast you'll see folks who've already been out and caught fish.  Everyone is dressed in shades of khaki because apparently fish can see colors, so they would know you were out to get them.[1]  Except for blue, which might confuse them into thinking you are the sky.   

A lot of time fly-fishing is spent trying to think like a fish.  (You might be wondering, like I did, what is the other kind of fishing called, if this fly-fishing.  Just “fishing,” apparently.)  Fish are smart, you are told (they know you are not a friend).  But also dumb (they think your blue shirt is the sky).  They are strong, but also lazy.  They don't keep bankers' hours, but they're out there whenever you are.  They are in the still water, but near the fast water because that is where the food is.  They are hungry, but not today.  They know you are there, but they don't because fish are dumb.  And so it goes. 

Basically you look at the water and try to “read it,” which remains a bit of a mystery to me, and then you cast and cast and cast and hope that a fish takes pity on you as a beginner and bites.  If you are fortunate enough to have Paul as your instructor, you get lots of encouragement and have the great pleasure of seeing your son, who looks very handsome and tall in waders, cast like the picture on the cover of a 1950s-vintage outdoors magazine.  Is he a chubber in the making?[2]

I did ask what new fisherpersons are called, you know, like greenhorns, or swabs.  There isn’t really a term but fry was proposed.  I am totally fry.

But here’s the really great thing.  You are standing in a cold rushing river, and YOU ARE NOT WET.  Fishing is wicked equipment intensive but the best of all are the waders since they mean you can practically frolic among the boulders and never get wet.  It is quite fantastically fun.  And there are birds everywhere.  I'm told that people see God on the river, or find themselves, or become otherwise transformed.  I can report that none of those things happened to me but I really did enjoy it.  

After all that effort and your molasses cookies you might need a nap.

The day is yours to do with what you wish, and while most fish, others, such as Isabel and Charlotte, might build a survival shelter in the woods.  At 6, however, anticipating that 6:30 dinner bell, you might gather on one or another cabin's front porch for cocktails.  If you are thinking ahead you will have already started your fire so that your cabin is toasty by shower-time and bed later.  Then after a giant dinner you can break out the Monopoly board.  But you'd better be ready for bed by 9:30 because that is when the electricity is shut off and not even the water runs.  So you build your fire super-high before you go to sleep and it is still cold in the morning so you have to get up and start all over again.  

Izzy is particularly fond of wrapping herself in a giant blanket and plunking down in front of the fire for a good read.  Clever girl.


Sunday

At Lakewood Camps you rise not necessarily with the sun but with the g.d. woodpeckers at 6:06 a.m.

The sign board in the dining room at breakfast states the choice of dinner entrees, and after much discussion about the relative merits of each choice, you place your order.  Today it said BRINED ROAST TURKEY or HONEY BAKED HAM.  Under that were two drawings, one of a pig, the other of a turkey.   Under them it said 'decafe or regular joe.'  I ordered Regular Joe the turkey while Peter is looking forward to ham from Decafe the pig.

No fish again this morning but I'm pleased to report that I've developed a little blister just below my right ring finger, and my right arm is feeling a little fatigued from all that casting.  While not yet at the point where I have actually caught a fish, I'm feeling pretty chuffed about my progress.  I tried a Crazy Eddy for a while.  Turns out that Crazy Eddy is not the guy across the river but a kind of fly.  This is one that you use in rapids, apparently, as it looks like a wounded – not dead, per Gabe, but wounded – minnow.  Bill wonders if it has Xs for eyes, or perhaps just one X since it is not dead, but wounded.

At lunch we chatted with another family who come here regularly, the beautifully-coiffed Melissa Lee and her husband Duncan who has the vaguely maniacal intensity that signifies a hard-core outdoorsman.[3]  They told us about the trip they have planned for later this year, to fish 140 miles south of the Arctic Circle.  Apparently you drive for 20 hours, the last ten on logging roads with only intermittent strips of tarmac built by Chinese logging concerns, then you get on a float plane where the non-English speaking pilot shows you the EPIRB button in case the plane goes down and he is out of commission.  Then you are at the camp but to actually fish you take a boat across the lake and hike another hour to get to the fish which are in fact the same kind you get here in the Rangeley Lakes region but about four times bigger.  Not my cup of tea but that Duncan sure does have an extraordinarily accommodating wife and son. 

Bill and Patty are happy to have found kindred canoeing spirits in one another, and take a long sunny paddle across the lake while Izzy and Charlotte help wash potatoes in the kitchen for dinner.  KP!  The boys take a muddy bike ride which ends with leaps into the cold lake, and only one iPhone casualty.  You can join in any of this, or not, and if you do, your book and reading glasses will be right where you left them on the porch when you come back because it is that kind of place. 

I don't think I've mentioned the birds, except for the g.d. woodpecker and the crooning loons on the lake.  There are your usual gulls and Canada geese, and any number of woodland birds chirping away.  I believe I saw a merganser while fishing.  There are also swift houses all along the dock and those attractive blue-backed fellows swoop and soar overhead as a pack of kids hang over the edge catching chubs.  If you sit on the porch of the main lodge you may feel like you are coming under attack from the hummingbirds who buzz around and fight and dive onto the feeders and in and out of a nearby cedar like Spitfires over the British Channel.  This time, I know our side will win.

Maine really proves the adage about the weather changing every ten minutes in New England.  This weekend we have had cold, fog, gentle rain, driving heavy rain, wind, hail, warm sun and cloudless blue sky, and even a double rainbow over the lake.  

Monday

The morning is spent packing up and preparing for the long and pretty boring drive home, and wheedling molasses cookies out of Whit. 

I think we did all experience that sense of inner discovery that going to the woods is supposed to engender.  Here’s what we learned:

Peter has the makings of a fine fisherman, and displayed remarkable equanimity when faced with the potential destruction of his phone by freezing cold lake water. 

Isabel has a new bestie in Charlotte and learned how to wash potatoes and really really really loves Lakewood camps, so much that she cried this morning and made Bill swear that we would come back next year.

Speaking of Bill, the raging after-dinner Monopoly game revealed that he is a capitalist pig-dog slumlord rail baron.  Who knew?

As for me, I like fishing.  I would go out right now if I could, but what would I do if I caught a fish?  I haven't had that lesson yet!  Besides, the waders are kind of cold, having sat out on the porch all night.  I think I'll stay here by the fire a little longer.

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[1] Fifty Shades of Khaki could be the name of an erotic novel set in a fishing camp if that weren't so incongruous I can't even finish this sentence.  

[2] Chubber:  super-outdoorsy-type, wears ragg socks and hiking boots with shorts and is a member of the Outing Club wherever he goes to college.  I don’t know if there are female chubbers, but Nat Crane, director of William Lawrence Camp is the archetype.  This term may or may not have been invented by my parents, but it was certainly popularized by them. 

[3] Duncan is not a chubber.  I can’t really explain why but if you saw him next to Nat Crane you’d understand.