Angling for Osmerus Mordax

Osmerus Mordax in Unnatural Habitat

"At the time of year when most anglers hang up their rods,
store their gear, and warm the easy chair next to the fireplace, Rainbow Smelt offer an opportunity for action!"

- Captain Dave

We told ourselves that this time would be different. It was much warmer this year and there were no snowstorms to contend with. We chose a different location and we had learned important lessons from last year--lessons on depth and jiggling. We were prepared to stare into the dark trench carved into the the ice beneath our shanty and patiently wait for the shifting tides to draw the schools of prey to the chunks of bloodworms dangling near the bottom of the river bed. Most importantly, we brought more beer.

This impulse purchase turned out to be a bad one

We took the Downeaster from Boston to Portland--our arrival slightly delayed by a jarring emergency stop in the New Hampshire countryside, which the conductor informed us was "on account of morons on the tracks." After a night out in the Old Port, we headed to a 4-Hour Sale! at a redneck wonderland, where we bought gifts for our friend's newborn baby and felt slightly frightened about being American.

It had me at: "when Pappy cleans his gun..."

This place was truly amazing. It had a huge fake habitat in the middle with a variety of taxidermic specimens scattered about in life-like poses, an aquarium with local species of fish, a carnival-like shooting gallery, cafe, and a Bargain Cave. Paul immediately went to find some fishing paraphernalia and then I lost track of Dan somewhere near the jerky section. When I came across Dan again, he warned me of the masses of "Wilford Brimley-looking people wandering through the gun section." Incidentally, if I'm ever under attack by zombies, nazis, communists, or aliens and need to arm myself, Cabela's is the first place that I would break into.

Squirrel

After an hour or so of superstore awe, we left to have a primitive, manly brunch of crab meat benedict (served over wilted baby spinach) and gather supplies for our evening on the frozen confluence of Kennebec and the Androscoggin.

Our friend, Hugh, could not make the trip this year, but he sent along a package that we were to open once we arrived at our smelt shanty. The package contained a tin of octopus in oil (with “man pills” written with a Sharpie on the top), some pictures that he created/altered (including one of Bill O’Reilly--“You are about to enter a NO SMELT zone”--and another of Alton Brown with a quote that made absolutely no sense to us), and a letter instructing us to eat the man pills and hang the pictures on the walls of the shanty. We obliged. None of this is strange to those who know Hugh.

Arthur C. Clarke reminds us of the Big Picture

outside our smelt shanty

We spent most of the next 6 hours in our shanty—trying to keep the fire going in our stove, drinking beer, cooking kielbasa with onions, and catching a bunch of shiners (like a smelt, only smaller and less desirable) and even the occasional smelt. As the evening wore on, the beer in our bucket was slowly replaced by minnows of various sizes. Full disclosure: I'm the one who kept letting the fire die and managed to pull only one smelt out of the water, but I did my fair share of cooking, eating, and drinking.

Deadliest Catch

Dan and I left the next day, after another lumberjack brunch—this time my eggs benedict came with caramelized onions and brie. We left the few smelt we caught (3 or 4?) in Maine for Paul to give to his grandmother, who is apparently a smelt fanatic, and headed South on the Downeaster.