There is this secret fishing spot that we visit at least once a year. It is one of those places we feel is a remnant of what it was once like in the land of plenty, where fish were genuinely abundant, say similar to isolated lakes and rivers of Canada. It is a place primeval, primordial in a way, a place where time has stood still, a place where man seldom treads. That is why it is kept a secret.
It was passed on to us by an old man who in his youth could go there, fight his way through the thickets, tolerate the onslaught of blood-lusting mosquitoes and deer flies while dragging his boat over land and bog. It is a place of leaches, huge dragon flies, deep cool holes, fallen trees and floating water weeds, but it is also the home of fish. These fish live there in all sizes but most importantly they come very large. Forty inch, shark-toothed Muskies lay like logs floating listlessly, crocodile like, eyes intent on young ducks. Big dark Bass violently grasp the rubber frogs and the Northerns slide through the water like torpedoes cast from a U-boat, slashing the thrown baits.
It is good to have a few of these spots so anglers can know what the real baseline is, to know natural conditions in the environment can do this. That is not to say fish cannot be removed from such a spot but once a heavy harvest is on, like so many places, the wildness will dissipate and the knowledge of the baseline will be lost. A new baseline will be set, one which has less fish, one that will not represent how it once was.
In the years we have traveled there, we have never harvested a fish, probably knowing we could, but still desperately wanting to keep it like it is so that we, or maybe a new inductee, might have the experience once again.
There are few of these legacy spots left because invariably one person will, in a moment of weakness or in a beer-induced moment of glee, tell another and the chain of knowledge trickles through the attentive anglers, some who may be more interested in their freezers. In no time, damage is done by those who do not respect the situation, fish numbers drop and the trampling of human feet begins.
It was that time of the year, maybe a touch late as the hot weather was sure to have made the weeds grow and the bugs hatch. There had been rains, and now it was even hotter. There never is a magic formula but we were prepared and of strong heart, maybe even foolishly, too eager.
On our arrival the situation seemed altered but still no signs of human usage, after all this is not a place where most folks would look and it is still not for the timid. An aging hobbler like me is a touch at risk simply because another crude stumble might find me skewered by a beaver-sharpened stick or embarrassingly covered with feted goose droppings.
We pushed and pulled the canoe through the fallen and piled underbrush only to find out that our friend the beaver had not done its handy work and a good portion of the retaining dam, that in part made the spot, had fallen into disrepair. It appeared to me the beaver were gone. Had they been tapped out?
We slid our way into the waiting water worried things had changed in our secret spot. The water level was clearly down. Not totally deterred, we started the usual game and in relatively short order managed to find the finned monsters hiding under an overly thick mat of half decomposed algae. Big pounding hits from Black Bass and Northerns rocked the boat but none were even close to being landed. Still we were content to know they were still there hungry, but not about to be easily caught in their shrunken lairs. The small changes of weather and missing resident beavers had definitely disrupted our wilderness outing.
About the time the bewitching hour of fish activity rolled around, the storms of summer found us trapped. The rains fell, and fell hard. In doing so, nature used her fat drops to alert every hell-bent, flying vermin of the swamp to our presence in their wild land. The swindling, dart-mouthed suckers honed in with a vengeance. We were not welcomed. We were now their target fish and they were fishing with weapons. The repellent washed off as fast as we could put it on. My only hope was the bulk of the biting scoundrels would concentrate on my partner who, in his great wisdom thought wearing shorts was a good idea. The lightening flashed as we paddled, plastic bag covered, toward higher ground and the car a mile away.
In a wet moment of reflection, we felt all was still intact and the secret still kept. The only news to be disseminated would be to invite a nice beaver couple back and maybe plead to the heavens to treat us better in our age.
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