A warm shack (on a frozen river): Part II

Paul, art, Hugh

Saturday AM: We were awakened by Hugh, the human equivalent of a tornado in a trailer park, who arrived early from New Hampshire. After a quick cup of instant coffee and a few moments admiring the extraordinary artwork in Paul’s house, we were out the door for a hearty breakfast at a fine local establishment, where we focused on our egg/cheese/pork nightmares. It was then that Hugh and Paul began 24 hours of communicating entirely in quoted movie dialogue.

Last minute supply run (beer, snacks, subs, etc.), a swing by the Portland Head Light, and then we were finally off to the Cathance...

Hugh, the Ancient Mariner, at Portland Head Light

The River Bend Smelt Camp was a bit further north, in the town of Bowdoinham. After a short drive, the four of us slid and shuffled from the mini-van across the icy parking lot to the main camp house on the bank of the river, where we paid $15 a piece for a package of blood worms and 5 hours in the shanty of our dreams. It was late afternoon as we made our way across the river (again with the sliding and shuffling) to a line of shanties near the opposite bank, the cold Maine sun drooped low in the sky and muffled voices drifted from the row of shanties.

our shantytown

We located #31 (it looks like it was #23 at some point in it's lifetime, and possibly #28, as well), and attempted to situate ourselves in the slightly cramped interior--the four of us in small wooden folding chairs and collapsible canvas camp chair around a wood-burning stove; the beer/food nestled in the snow just outside the door.

knife and PBR tallboys

Essentially, smelting is to fishing, as beer pong is to tennis. There are two long trenches carved out of the ice on either side of the smelt shack and 8 lines with hooks and sinkers hanging from wooden pegs on the wall. Basically, you cut-up the bloodworms into bits, bait the hooks, and drop the lines into the trenches. Apparently, there is a little bit of science involved in all of this--i.e. the depth of your bait, whether you jiggle the lines or let them drift, etc--but, the rest of the sport involves sitting and drinking. And trying not to let pieces of your sandwich fall into your trench.

the abyss/trench

Well, in spite of periodic jiggling and depth adjustment, the smelt mostly ignored us and we ignored the smelt.

jiggling

paul stares at his trench

untitled

While we waited on the smelt, we ate, drank an assortment of beer, told (mostly) bad jokes, quoted movies (Paul & Hugh continued their odd style of communication), and played the name game in attempt to keep the boredom from setting in.

night falls on the shantytown

Note for next time: bring a radio and more beer.

5.5 inches of victory

At last, Dan caught one, which Paul quickly gutted, slapped in cast-iron pan greased with a slab of Crisco, and cooked on our wood stove. When the beast was ready to be consumed, I was in the middle of adding more bait to my hooks (inspired by Dan's luck) and my hands were covered in worm juice. "Go ahead, I'll wait for the next one," I said when offered a chunk of smelt flesh.

taking in the night air (it is colder than it looks)

This turned out to be a bad decision. In spite of my vigorous and inspired smelting efforts, the final tally:

5 hours

4 smelters

1 smelt

I told you it was cold