This story begins well before I set off with my three friends from the boat launch at Castle Road in Forest City, Maine, for an overnight of roughing it on Spednic Lake’s Little Birch Island. It actually started with an old book I had been dipping into over the previous winter, reading and rereading passages that resonated.
“In wildness is the preservation of the world,” wrote Henry David Thoreau in his book The Maine Woods, his final work, published posthumously in 1864. Though not as well-known as some of his earlier books, it would be a seminal work just the same, influencing the conservation movement in Maine and beyond.
For those unfamiliar, it is a compelling journey for the reader through the wild Maine woods of 160 years ago, alongside a keen and eloquent observer in Thoreau. In it, he recounts his three trips to the Maine woods, the last in 1857 to explore the Allagash and East Branch of the Penobscot River—a route now called the Thoreau-Wabanaki Trail. Accompanied by his friend Ed Hoar, the two traveled by train from Concord, Massachusetts, to Bangor, where Hoar, a Harvard Law graduate who, after a brief legal career became a farmer and naturalist, coordinated a meet up with Joe Polis, a tribal leader of the Penobscot Nation and the men’s paid guide on the excursion.
Thoreau experienced more than a walk in the woods. Polis would affect Thoreau’s views on nature, instilling in him the necessity of preserving what was left of “uninterrupted” and “stern and savage” Maine “wildness.”
As a summer resident of northern Maine and longtime outdoorsman and fisherman, my appreciation of the state’s wilderness runs deep. I have had a fishing camp on East Grand Lake for the last eight years and have spent countless hours hiking and fishing the local waters and streams, though I hadn’t done an overnight in the wildness since I was a Boy Scout in the 1950s.
Thoreau’s book stirred up the golden memories of those days, and it wasn’t long before visions of falling asleep under the stars and surviving on what I could catch for food metamorphosed into a plan.
I made some phone calls and before long had friends on board for an overnight camping excursion last July. Aside from myself—in my day job I am a land-use attorney from New York—our group consisted of my longtime local fishing guide, Andy Brooks from Forest City, Greg Rollins, a third generation Mainer, Ted Stratigos, a second generation East Grand Laker, and Steve “Doc” Inglis, my physician friend from New York City. Having a good friend along who is also a doctor was a plus, and he brought along a first-class first aid kit, which would come in handy, it turns out.
With several possible destinations under discussion, Andy recommended we go to Little Birch Island on Spednic Lake, a 45-minute drive from my East Grand Lake camp. He and I had fished Spednic together many times, and he knew its waters well.
The 2-acre Little Birch Island and its larger, 23-acre companion Birch Island, are considered the crown jewels of the lake. They both feature pristine wilderness thick with spruce and hemlock, and are encircled by granite outcroppings. To spare them from development, both islands were purchased by the Woodie Wheaton Land Trust in 1996. Two years later, Birch Island was deeded to the state of Maine with restrictive covenants to ensure its preservation and the protection of prime smallmouth bass spawning areas and raptor habitat. Little Birch Island was retained by the land trust, which acts as steward.
Though I had fantasized about walking in Thoreau’s footsteps and experiencing the wilderness as he had, it was clear from the start that for the purposes of our overnight in the woods, “roughing it” would be a relative term. Forget a canvas tarp spread over a branch; our gear consisted of nylon tents with fiberglass poles, zippered doors, and mesh windows for ventilation. We also had pre-ordered from L.L. Bean single folding cots and roll-up mattress pads, lightweight goose down sleeping bags, camp pillows, and battery-operated lanterns. For provisions, we had a cooler chest just for ice, plus three cases of water. There was another iced cooler for perishable goods: two dozen eggs, two pounds of bacon, cheeses, butter, milk, hamburgers, hot dogs, and sirloin steaks. Multiple tote bags held the non-perishables: coffee, onions, potatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, buns, beef jerky, bananas, nuts, chips, pretzels, and pies for dessert.
We also planned to fish for a meal or two. “We are only going for one night!” someone uttered at some point during the packing phase. But no one pushed to leave any of it behind. We were, after all, headed into the wilderness!
On the morning of our departure, the weather gods were cooperating: bright blue sky with a few puffs of white on the horizon, and air that was pure, without any lingering smoke from Canadian fires. After a 45-minute drive from my camp, our crew arrived at Spednic Lake and spotted our guide, Andy, lounging against the rear fender of his truck, cigarette dangling from his mouth, ponytail holding back his long hair, and fishing shirt open. He waved and smiled his “welcome to paradise” smile. His Grand Lake canoe was already in the water, loosely tied to the short dock. He was ready to lead our flotilla.
Greg had trailered his own 16-foot Lund aluminum skiff packed with our camping gear and provisions, while Ted, Doc Inglis ,and I followed in my 1973 Defender, towing my Grand Laker canoe. After the unloading and organizing was behind us, we finally made our way into the boats. Ted captained my canoe, and I settled into the bow seat of Andy’s. The Lund would carry the rest of the guys and gear.
Spednic Lake, like East Grand Lake, is part of the Chiputneticook chain of five lakes carved out by melting glaciers at the end of the Ice Age. They dot the international boundary between Maine and New Brunswick, Canada, and form the headwaters of the St. Croix River, which leads to Passamaquoddy Bay. Their lake water levels fluctuate, with seasonal run off controlled by the Forest City Dam in New Brunswick, Canada.
Andy, from his stern seat, scanned the waters before him as he headed due west from the landing. The high water of July—the result of snow melt runoff—hides the massive glacial boulders that can make Spednic Lake a dangerous waterscape, particularly near shore. Our wooden canoes, propelled by 15-hp outboards, could not withstand an impact at full throttle with one of these hidden giants.
As we glided along the south shoreline, an osprey circled us, no doubt wondering whether we were friend or foe. Excited just to be on the water after months of planning the trip, I basked in the bright, July sun and relaxed in the bow while enjoying the gentle breeze.
After an hour traversing the lake, Little Birch Island came fully into view, the sun glistening off its fir treetops. On the side of the island facing Canada, we found its hidden landing site, a 20-foot wide natural stone platform. Beyond the opening was a small, cleared camp area, and beyond that dense forest.
Andy cut the engine and we floated into the landing. A small wooden sign welcomed us to what was to be our
private paradise for the next 36 hours.
The campsite itself was a cleared area, 20-by-20 feet, with a battered picnic table, a fire pit, and room to set up our tents and sleeping gear. The primitive outhouse deeper in the woods was not very attractive but served its purpose.
Andy marshalled everyone to bring the gear and foodstuffs ashore, and after the unloading and tent pitching, I felt free to roam. I made my way through the woods to the other side of the 2-acre spit of land and sat down on a felled log. The gentle lapping sound of the water on the shore as the sun streamed through the trees made for a serene symphony of light and sound. After wandering a bit farther, I sat down on the ground and laid back, spread-eagled on a soft patch of grassy earth. Looking up, shading my eyes from the sun, I spied a bald eagle circling overhead. Perhaps he was anticipating a castoff fish or two from us later in the day, and he was undoubtedly curious about the humans on his island.
My friends’ voices carried through the stillness of the trees and I headed back. I set up my bedding inside the tent and put The Maine Woods on my pillow for later. Outside, Andy was preparing a waterside lunch with burgers, onions, and boiled potatoes. The campfire heated a blackened pot with cowboy coffee, made with lake water and coffee grounds held down by eggshells.
After lunch, we spent the afternoon on the water. Doc Inglis, a novice to fly fishing, went with me and Andy, so we could help him with his casting and, hopefully, catching. I took the bow seat to also do some fishing, but mostly to partake in some daydreaming. Sitting in the bow of the canoe can feel very solitary, even with the others in the boat, just a few feet away. Taking the opportunity to think back on the many years’ worth of fishing trips I’ve taken, I realized the fish caught were never the objective. It was always the wilderness experience that I sought. It was in those solitary moments, deep in nature, when I felt free to truly reset and gained meaningful perspective. Where, as Thoreau describes it, “the earth seems truly vast, and man small.”
On the lake, amidst nearby boulders, we readied our 5-weight flyrods with poppers and struck out to find our prey. The weather held and after a short ride over quiet water, Andy cut the engine. As Andy guided Steve, I began casting away, eventually attracting a smallmouth bass. He got away, so I began casting again. As anyone who knows flyfishing realizes, it only takes a small gust of wind for a barbed hook to find some soft flesh on the back cast. And now it was my friend the doctor’s cheek that took my popper fly.
I turned to look over my shoulder, only to hear a quiet “oh s—t.” Steve had his hand over the side of his face. Andy threw out his anchor and swiftly grabbed a couple of ice cubes from the cooler chest, handing them to Steve to apply to the wound. Then he cut my line to free up the operating area. With pliers in hand, Andy cut the metal hook just below the barb so he could pull it through Steve’s cheek.
As fast as I had set the hook in Steve’s cheek, Andy had pulled it through. The ice temporarily anesthetized the pain, and Andy applied some antiseptic from his first aid kit, as Steve insisted he was ready to fish on.
Our fish haul for the day was six smallmouth bass, which were immediately released upon catching. They aren’t recommended for eating due to potential contaminants.
Though we didn’t add to our camp provisions on that outing, Andy had caught a salmon earlier in the day that was safe to consume and was earmarked for a surf-n-turf dinner. Meanwhile, Greg had set off on his own and found a stream teeming with brook trout, returning with a haul to keep on ice for freezing. Back on the island, Andy left us before sundown because he had a guiding job the next day. After he left, we began the task of making dinner: steak, salmon, potatoes and salad. Dinner prep was led by Ted, who brought out his old Bunsen burner stove, unearthed from his attic at his house on Long Island. I stoked the campfire and prepped the salmon and four prime steaks I had purchased from a butcher in Kennebunk. Greg brought fresh vegetables from his garden, along with twice-baked potatoes for hash browns. I had also gone to The Millyard on Route 1 in Danforth for a couple of homemade berry pies. Ted had ground enough coffee to last us through lunch the next day.
The evening sky on Little Birch Island was a moving kaleidoscope of gemstone colors, the brilliant hues shifting as the sun dipped lower. The light show was accompanied by the soft, mesmerizing murmurings of lake loons.
After dinner Greg stood on shore for some last casts, with a couple of smallmouth hookups that went right back into the water.
Before calling it a night, we sat around the dying flames in the firepit and reminisced with childhood camping stories. I recalled my first kiss while at sleepaway camp; Greg and Ted talked about their summer adventures as kids on East Grand Lake. Steve, originally from Westchester, New York, had plenty of stories from camping as a youngster with his family in the Adirondack Mountains. One time, he told us, it rained so much, they finally had to abandon camp and head home. On another occasion they awakened in the morning to find their entire food supply had been gutted by neighboring raccoons.
As the last ember died, we picked up our flashlights and headed to our tents. I turned on the battery-operated lantern and dipped into The Maine Woods for a few sentences before quickly dropping off into a deep sleep. The lantern was still on when I awoke the next day at 6 a.m.
When I got up and went to the lake for a splash of icy water, Steve was already in and swimming. As I headed back, I heard a muffled sound offshore and turned to see Steve swimming back with one hand over his face and the other stroking furiously. He stumbled out of the water with blood dripping from his chin. He had swum into one of the submerged boulders and scraped the entire side of his face on the rough surface—the same side that had the hook injury—as well as his forehead. He told us to retrieve his medical kit and directed Ted to stem the bleeding with bandage pressure followed by antiseptic salve and more bandages. The irony was not lost on him that as the only doctor among us, he was the only one in need of one.
Once bandaged, Steve rallied and took charge of breakfast, cooking up the best bacon, eggs, and hash browns, with bread toasted over the firepit flames. We even had ingredients left over for a lunch of BLTs and cowboy coffee.
That afternoon, we had one more try at fishing for smallmouth bass (without mishaps, this time). And all too soon, our experience in paradise came to a calm end. We packed up, and this time with Ted in the lead, headed back to the landing on Castle Road and back to my fishing camp on East Grand Lake.
Our brief excursion on Little Birch Island was like a moment out of time. Though I didn’t get as much reading of Thoreau done as I had hoped, overall the adventure was a successful test of our ability to plan and execute an overnight in the wild. This summer, our plans are to go for a week. We may need a cargo boat for the provisions, but otherwise we are set.
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Lenny Ackerman is a lawyer, a columnist for The Mountain Messenger newspaper, and the author of four books, most recently Leibishch’s Journey.
