by Mitch Lee
It was a typical mid-July day in 1978 when there were entirely too many people enjoying the shores of Limekiln Lake.
Between all the activity at the summer cottages and by campground visitors, and the sounds of boat traffic and cars passing the house it was hard to find a quiet spot…I had to find some solitude.
And when a 12-year-old living in the mountains needs solitude he only has to grab his fish pole and with dog in tow, strike off into the woods.
My dog Mutt and I had hiked along for almost an hour bushwhacking our way through a few stands of swampy Spruce.
Ultimately we came across open lots of Beech and Maple and a nice wide creek.
Under the shade of trees I breathed in the smell of moss-covered rocks and a hint of Balsam…it was a perfect moment of silence.
I dug a worm out of a small plastic cup that was wedged into my back pocket.
The sandwich bag I had wrapped it in was clouded in moisture.
When I pulled it free I saw the seven worms I had carried were still wriggling in the black earth I had scooped them up with for my travels.
Mutt struck off on an old deer trail sniffing along in search of her own solitude as I strung the worm over the hook and plopped it into the creek.
Propped up on a good flat rock I ran my sneakers across its slick surface being careful not to make any sharp movements.
It wasn’t long before a dark black backed nine-inch Brook trout gobbled up my hook and was reeled to the palm of my hand. It was squirming just below the surface.
I carefully unhooked this magnificent specimen to release it back to the water. I gently rested it in my hand and watched it take a few tail wags before it slipped back into the dark creek water.
I carefully made my way to a different site that seemed fit for a Brookie to live. I hopped from rock to rock and dipped my worm here and there.
I was rewarded often enough that a few hours of good catch and release had produced twenty fish.
But at that point I had decimated my worms and could no longer fish.
Mutt had long since given up on hunting and was half asleep. With one eye peeled she watched me as I moved down the creek.
She gave no notice when I showed her the last fish of the day and placed it back into the cool water.
But when I started to hook up my pole and hopped out to the stream bank she was quickly at my side.
We pushed our way through the forest and traced our way back home.
Those few hours of alone time were just what I needed to balance the rush of people who had invaded our Lake and would be enjoying themselves for the next few weeks.
—
Mitch Lee, Adirondack native & storyteller,
lives at Inlet. ltmitch3rdny@aol.com