A fishing pipe sustains a peculiar relationship to its owner. Its dedicated purpose is to be disposable so that its inevitable loss is no big deal. However, the briar usually burns much better than expected, the bowl packs an amazing amount of aromatic memories and, so, the throw away el cheapo eventually becomes a greatly favored companion. Naturally, all of this conspires to seriously disturb the delicate emotional equilibrium of the highly sensitive fly fisherman, especially when he accidentally plummets his now precious pipe into unknown or unreachable places.

Sometime last year I was rummaging around Elliot Nachwalter's shop in Manchester Center, Vermont. This is a potentially dangerous practice, but the man married to a woman of wisdom can usually walk out of there without too much damage. It so happened on the said day that I parted the premises with two low-end DiMontues, perfect for the pleasure of mid-stream puffing. One was brown, the other was black, and both were the victims of a very bad sand blast. If I dropped one I would not worry about its demise--that was the idea. The brown one asserted its supremacy so I would carry it most often.

Recently, Amy and I took a trip to the Rangeley Lakes region of Maine. I packed the obvious requisites, including my Orvis bamboo and my brown DiMonte. However, unforeseen circumstances caused me to fish a glass Fenwick and smoke fine cigars much more frequently than anticipated. Surely, the Rangeley and Kennebago Rivers were environmentally compromised by the almost constant clouds of stogie smoke. I had one lit just about every time I stepped into the water. It was literally a matter of survival. Countless critters of the winged variety had their little buggy hearts set upon sucking my blood till there was absolutely none left. The cigar deterred billions and billions of black flies and mosquitoes while allowing me the free use of both hands to simultaneously swat the remaining kamikazes and swing the fly rod.

Upper Dam, well known to many who appreciate big native brookies, was less than twenty miles up the road from the town of Oquossoc, where Amy and I were staying. After marginal success in the Rangeley and Kennebago Rivers--losing a landlock, catching the creek chub from hell and releasing three small squaretails--it seemed appropriate to give the place a try. Upper Dam separates Mooselookmeguntic from Upper Richardson Lake. Fishing piers protrude from the base of the dam on the Upper Richardson side, affording risky access to the rushing water where trout and salmon love to congregate. Taking my chances, I descended a set of metal steps leading to one of the piers and began casting a yellow bead-head Wooly Bugger into the flow. Apparently, the trout were way too busy contemplating the mysteries of the universe to seriously consider the more mundane matter of striking my measly little fly. I had some inkling this was how it would be. On the way in I intercepted a guy who was on his way out, so I asked him, "How's the fishing?" "The fishing is good," he replied--angler's code for, "The catching is lousy."

Fishing is never pointless, although sometimes it may be pointless to keep fishing. This was one of those times. The brookies were not biting, plain and simple; neither was anything else. Nor was my own incompetence the problem. The offerings of other fly fisherman obviously more adept than I were summarily ignored as well. Since other waters were waiting to be tried, it seemed best to move on.

On the way back up the metal steps I heard a noise and knew something had fallen. A quick personal inventory revealed nothing was missing, so I headed for the car. Half-way there the irritating truth dawned upon me: my brown DiMonte lay at the bottom of Upper Dam. Because my last cigar was crushed I had crammed the pipe into my pants pocket before going down to fish. For whatever reason the insects were not troublesome at the dam, so I forgot all about the briar until I suddenly realized it was gone.

Some decisions are just flat-out stupid. It was deemed too troublesome to bother retrieving a thirteen dollar pipe, plus, I had the black DiMonte as a back-up. I had made the idiotic mistake of counting the cost, not the value, of the pipe. Memories are worth more than dollars and cents, and this particular hunk of wood has a good bit of angling history stuffed in its bowl.

Next April, when the salmon are running, I hope to fish the Rangeley area once again. A side trip to Upper Dam will definitely be on my agenda. But you can bet I'll be fishing for briar, not brookies.

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The Horsefeather Inn
P.O. Box 391
Rangeley Avenue
Oquossoc, Maine 04964
(207) 864-5465

�Mac� and Joan MacDonald, Propietors

A five minute walk to the Rangeley River, a ten minute drive to the famed Steep Bank Pool on the Kennebago River, and the best breakfast of any B&B in the universe�this is the place to stay if you�re the Rangeley area.

John 14:6
Jesus said to him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me."

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