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Just Smelting Away…
Journal—March 21--Tuesday
 Eleazer
Peabody
This is the journal of
Eleazer Peabody. Nearly his entire life has been spent in the outdoors
of Maine. He recalls many of his adventures from his childhood up until
the present.
The
days are quite nice with just a little chill at night.
The lakes down country are opening up, and the brooks
are roaring with snow melt. Fishing seasons is just
around the corner. Smelt runs will be beginning here
very soon!
Oh, what a night last night. I spent the late, late
evening following my friend Jack
Stevens around to all the local smeltin’ hot spots. And
I must report that some were actually very hot! I left
my truck at Leo Cole’s farm in Greenwood City and rode
with Jack down to Herm Fuller’s Store. Well, Herm’s
Store was certainly a store in the general sense, in
that there certainly were things to buy. Most of the
merchandise came in bottle form by the “six pack”. The
location of the store was near the Paris Town Line—Paris
is a “dry” town, so the customer base here at this small
out of the way location is immense on weekends or
special nights like this.
Jack was fond of the Black Label, which was lucky, as
the choices tonight were slim to none. I would settle
for a cold Moxie, for I need to keep my eye on Jack
tonight. When we left, I would be doing the driving in
Jack’s Studebaker pickup. We got to Herm’s store just in
time to stand in line by one of the slide top coolers.
Herm picked out a half dozen cold ones from the cold
water and ice inside the rusty sided cooler. I had to
search for some time through the cold water in another
cooler for just two twelve-ounce Moxies. Jack also got a
pack of Raleigh Chew so as to draw up a spit—as if a
fella’ needed to chew a cud! The old National cash
register had a bell that almost chimed out a song,
because it was opening so much during our time in the
store. There were some other homemade snacks and some
candy for sale, but they were not too popular this dark
night.
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There were a couple of
guys from South Paris in front of us, and they were
headed to Bryant’s Pond smeltin’. They stocked up as
if they were to be there a week. Cecil Farnum
happened by as we were getting loaded into the truck
and checking over our nets. He told us that most of
the smelters were at the north end of Bryant Pond,
South Pond both sides, and into Indian Pond. He said
“Red” Martin wasn’t too happy with the fellas last
night getting stuck in his field near Indian. He
made them wait until this morning to haul the truck
out with his Allis-Chalmers Model B tractor. This
probably wouldn’t be a bad place to go; as the walk
was too long in the back way for most of the
smelting crowd—especially with Martin on the
warpath. We figured that this might be the best bet
for later on, after checking out the action around
the other places. |
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We finally headed out up Old County Road toward
Bryant Pond, Maine. The road was rutted from the
freezing and thaw we have had over the last week.
The Studebaker bounced along and slipped from side
to side the whole way to the Howe crossing at the
foot of Bryant’s Pond. I had to stop and clean the
headlights, as the mud had splattered them over.
Jack was working on his second brew by now.
I suggested we stop at Stowell’s Mill and look up
Mose or Oliver Swan. They worked the night shift as
watchmen and boiler operators. Mose usually would
take a side trip down to the mill brook pool from
his regular rounds. He surely would know if the
smelts were heading up under the railroad through
the twin stone culverts. We bumped into the mill
yard and stopped at the foot of the hill near the
tall water tank and parked by a pile of sawdust and
shavings. This mill produced turnings from hardwood,
like pail handles, brush handles, and so on—similar
to those of Mann’s Mill. I pushed open the door to
the boiler room and met a blast of hot air pushing
out through. Oliver was shoveling scrap wood into an
open fire door with a broad blade shovel. He noticed
the chill on his back, and turned to greet us. Jack
offered him a swig on the Black Label, as we sat on
the long “bummer’s” bench just inside the doorway. I
had a few sips of my Moxie, as Jack and Oliver
caught up on the weather and things. Mose was off
tonight, but Oliver told us that they had seen a few
smelts early this morning before daylight in the
mill pool. Ah, another place to check later when all
but the diehards, and those under the heavy weather,
were home snug in bed. We relished the last bit of
heat, before heading around the lake.
The old Studebaker sputtered by the ball field and over
the railroad crossing. I could see yellow circles of
light from kerosene lanterns on the water just ahead. We
parked behind a half dozen vehicles, dirty from the “mud
season” roadways. Jack was ready for some action, but
headed off without his net. I trailed along behind just
taking in the surroundings. At first the only sounds
that could be heard were the quiet stirrings of the
water in the lake from the light wind, and the gurgling
of the water over stones in the brook. Jack had squished
his way through a wet patch of alders and stood on the
low bank of the lake. I arrived soon after and stood
quietly beside him, as we watched two men with broad
hooped nets. They gently moved the heavy nets across the
area just off the mouth of the brook, and then lifted
them into the light to check for silver fish. Both men
had a quart or two of smelts, and poured them into a
pail on the nearby shore.
I could see now through Jack’s flashlight that the
school had moved out into deeper water ahead of a
billowing plume of dark silt. There was now sputtering
from other fishermen in the alder area along the brook.
They had been waiting in the dark for the run to start;
smoking, talking quietly, and apparently imbibing in the
brew. The next thing I knew a beer bottle passed through
the lantern light and splashed into the pond. One fella’
in the woods yelled for the guys in the pond to let the
smelts run up the brook, so they all could get a chance.
A rebuffing salvo, that included plenty of expletives,
followed from one of the lucky pair. The ensuing
skirmish was like a pair of bulls separated by a fence,
in this case a net, bluffing and jousting about trying
to force the other to leave. It worked for us, because I
grabbed Jack’s coat collar and half dragged him into the
woods. He wanted to protest, but thought better of it as
I was somewhat larger than he. We could hear the
occasional yell and shout as we were getting into the
Studebaker.
We drove through Locke Mills, Maine to round South Pond.
It was as quiet this Monday night, as a funeral home
between funerals. There were a couple of street lights
as we passed the corner store and garage, but quite dark
otherwise. We had met only a couple of cars this late
coming up the main road from Bryant Pond Village. Jack
was now more than willing to let me be leader for the
rest of the night, for he was rapidly losing his common
sense—he couldn’t even get the last Black Label opened.
Jack was a quiet fellow, and even more so when he was
under this weather. He had told me he had his best rest
and sleep after a good drinking night, right up until
just before he opened his eyes the next morning! I
headed down the west side of South Pond with Jack just a
snoring along. I didn’t see anybody near the brook
passing under the road, so I just stopped over the
culvert and shined my light into the moving waters. Not
a thing showing itself here.
I drove south toward Twitchell Pond. Sometimes there
were smelts running in the brook on the west side of the
pond just south of the Daniel Cole place. I would check
this out before heading home with Jack. Sure enough,
there was some goings on here! There were nearly a dozen
cars and trucks parked along the road and in the edge of
the field. Muddy footprints along the camp road attested
to this night’s activity. I tucked in Jack, and trod
along the beaten way through the alders. I walked back
away from the brook, so as not to interfere with the
smelters quietly dipping their nets in the running water
of the pools. Everyone here seemed to be quite polite.
No jeering or complaints, only cajoling and teasing—down
right fun. Everyone was busy netting smelts, and no
bottles being passed about. Well, it didn’t take me long
to see what could be the cause of this civility—the
“Warden” was visiting.
Elmer Russell is the new local Game Warden, and he had
stopped by the farm a number of times last deer season,
so I had gotten to know him quite well. I walked up to
Elmer to get the take on things tonight. He told me
things here were much the same now as when he had
arrived a short time ago. I told him about the fracas at
Bryant Pond, with the verbal head butting and
skirmishing. He chuckled, for he had been by there
earlier and talked to the fellows, from down country, at
the mouth of the brook. They assured him that they would
let the run start before they started dipping. Well,
apparently they couldn’t wait and run afoul with the
locals.
Elmer told me about a crew of smelters from Portland
that had arrived up here late one night after driving up
from Sebago Lake. They swarmed into one of the brooks
someplace in Waterford, and commenced to have a good old
time of it. Apparently the smelts weren’t running very
well, but the brown trout were up the brook checking
things out. These yahoos started chasing the trout up
and down the brook, until a couple nice two to three
pound beauties were landed in smelt nets. Elmer and his
partner just happened by when they saw the string of
moving flashlights along the brook. They waited and
listened to see what would happen, and ended their night
writing up a half dozen summonses and hauling two
belligerent guys to the county jail in Paris, Maine.
Elmer had followed the smelters north with the season,
and he told me another story about this pair of smelters
down country that were smelting quite far from the road
on this quiet out of the way place. They had taken
overnight provisions and plenty of beer. During the
night one of the fellows passed out right in the peak of
a hellish run. His partner dragged him up onto the bank
out of the way and laid him down on a bedding canvas
they had brought with them. He didn’t check him over
very well to see if he was all right, but rather
continued on smelting and filled their pails with the
limit. The next morning the first fellow woke up from
his reverie and climbed up from the canvas. He found the
two pails filled with glistening smelts, but no sign of
his friend. He searched nearby, but to no avail. He
walked to their car and still no sign. A frantic call
went out to Elmer to help find the missing smelter.
Elmer found the missing friend later that morning near
where they had been smelting. The friend had passed out
and died from an apparent heart attack during the night.
This smelting can be a tough business!
I said my goodbyes to Elmer on the way out to the truck.
We checked on Jack, who couldn’t be any happier at this
moment. Elmer headed back to Bryant’s Pond, and I bumped
down past Shadagee Rock and the Hick’s Cemetery toward
Greenwood City. This stretch of dirt road was rather
lonely on a dark spring night with only a snoring buddy
and the last few sips of my Moxie to keep me company. I
would miss out on the happenings on at Indian Pond and
elsewhere tonight, but I’d had enough for the season. I
took Jack home with me and carried him in onto the
couch. This yearly ritual would end in the morning after
a full breakfast of Margie’s fixin’s, a trip to deliver
a refreshed Jack home and pick up Molly at Leo’s.
I get my fill of smelting in one short night. If I
really get hard up for smelts to eat, I can go down to
Hutchinson Pond. The two little brooks on the back side
of the pond have small, thriving populations of smelts
that not many know. Other fella’s need to go out every
night carousing, carrying on, and “Just Smelting
Away”…………….
Temperately Yours;
Eleazer Peabody
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