Smallmouths and saying goodbye

The darkness was still sitting heavy as we drank our coffee on the front porch.  When the bottoms of the cups became visible the sun had started breaking through the horizon, warming the chilled air just enough to vanquish the clouds from our breath.  We were staying at a cabin on Big Lake, a Northern Maine treasure for Bass and beautiful landscapes.  Every morning my step dad and I would take the small motor equipped row boat about three quarters of a mile south to a nice Lily pad field, fed by two small streams bringing loads of bait fish.    The put-put rhythm of the motor pushed us through the early dawn as we watched bald eagles and herons feeding before the rest of the lake woke up.  This area would promise three hours of amazing fishing until the sun would chase the bass deeper into the pads and we would head back for breakfast.  The afternoons would be filled with fishing for large pickerel and white perch from the cabins dock or sometimes we would head out to the local tackle shop and try and find more fire tiger pattern lures which seemed to be the pattern of the week.  Other afternoons would find my mother and I walking through the woods sketching and talking until night crept upon us.  On this final afternoon I decided I needed to go solo and say my goodbyes to the lake.  The sunset was brilliant that night. The whole world turned orange and I decided to pull out the fly rod, it was always with me but since my dad had hung up his waders it rarely made an appearance.  I tied on an old cork popper I bought from an elderly fisherman at a yard sale the year before.  The heat had melted off the rubber legs and the marabou tail had seen better days but there was something about the red and white pattern that called to me.  I made a cast across the stream inlet about twenty five yards and with two twitches of the fly, it sank.  I brought in my first smallmouth bass ever.  I was so surprised by how different they were from their largemouth cousins.  Golds and browns replaced the greens of their bodies and the red eyes were just so striking.  I topped the evening off with a few more of these bronze treasures and headed back as the sun kissed the opposite shore.  By the time I got the motor started and headed to the other side of the lake I realized I had no idea where the cabin was.  Everything on the shore was shaded by trees and the shadows of the looming night.  I kept heading across the water into a black void hoping once I got closer I could find some kind of landmark.  As I began to settle into the idea that this was a true problem I saw, about 50 yards away two pinpoints of light waving back and forth.  As I approached I saw my mom holding two flashlights with a big smile of relief that I had found my way back.  So many amazing memories have been born from fishing, but my mom was always a part of these experiences in her own way.  It has become my role now to keep these memories fresh and share with the world.