My dog Mutt and I had been fishing most every morning in the summer of 1978. We had a couple of great spots around Limekiln Lake where we could find enough fish and fun for the both of us.
Mutt knew we were heading for a fishing expedition when she saw me out behind the garage turning over some old planks.
It was there that some of the best worms for enticing sunfish, perch and the occasional brook trout were breeding.
Whenever I started to root around in the dark black loamy soil, Mutt would start a large hole of her own.
Though she was a better digger than I, most times she didn’t find the good worms.
In the process of digging, my hands and her paws and snout were engrained with dark dirt.
If we didn’t scrub ourselves hard enough the stains would stay with us for almost a week.
Once we found enough fish food we walked through the last of the morning dew on the lawn and made our way to the fishing hole.
Along the way Mutt stopped in every ditch and culvert to seek out new smells.
Occasionally she plopped her belly down into the wet areas and waited for me to pass by with my fish pole.
We had been to quite a few spots already that summer but there was one old beaver pond that I was curious about.
I had scoped out the trail that led to the pond a couple of times but never had my fishing gear with me.
Before long we were trekking down an old logging road on another great morning adventure to the unnamed pond.
The trees canopied the trail, so the temperatures were almost cool.
Mutt scampered off a few dozen times chasing the noise of an unhappy critter as I carefully hiked along.
Once we got close to the beaver pond I could detect the faint burnt-wood smell of the muddy shore.
When we reached it we discovered there wasn’t much of a shoreline at all.
There was a two-foot tall narrow gap of green matter interspersed with gray rock and mucky spots with an overhang of dying black spruce.
I stopped and took a look to see if the beavers were home.
Mutt eased into the water up to her neck and lifted her nose into the air.
I scanned the shoreline and dark water of the very small pond.
It appeared that beavers had not been working around it for some time.
Mutt came back up on shore and found a place to lay in the deep ferns to sun dry.
I set my hook with a worm, slipped off my sneaks and carefully made my way through the mucky waters to a rock that was just big enough to place my feet upon.
I tossed cast after cast as my pant legs dried. I felt as if I was king of the quiet no-name pond that was filled with the best fish.
Some days the fish were biting and other days, not so much.
On the days they didn’t bite, Mutt and I explored the woods around it in search of another fishing hole.
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller, lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com