Chronicle by Tom;

It was time again for the annual PhD Fall Classic Adventure.   Matt was given the honor and the awesome responsibility of planning the 2008 event.   After some prodding, he announced that in fact this year there would be no adventure, but instead we would be going fishing. 
The destination would be the Quabbin reservoir in central Massachusetts where we would pursue the noble landlocked salmon.  He outlined an itinerary in broad terms that included renting boats at a state boat launch site and camping or maybe staying in a yurt if we could find one or something along those lines.

Borb expressed a lack of enthusiasm for the proposed program and begged orf entirely.  Dave was busy with APICS stuff and family related events, which left Charlie and Tom to join Matt on his piscatorial quest.  Tim also agreed to come along, which was something of a surprise since he usually has several excuses at the ready as to why he can’t join us.  He is however an avid fly fisherman and Matt’s stories about a legendary trout pool we’d be visiting on the Swift River had caught his attention.

On the designated day in late September, we met up at Matt’s house and stuffed our gear and ourselves into Charlie’s Toyota Rav 4, departing through lingering rain showers.  After a stop for breakfast at a little restaurant in Wrentham, we headed for the Otter River State Forest in Baldwinville, Massachusetts.
As we traveled, a powerful aroma began to build in intensity within the tight quarters in the mini-SUV.  The source of the odor remained a mystery until Matt realized that the smell was emanating from the road race t-shirt he was wearing.  When we arrived at the campground he changed his shirt and the air quality improved as a result.

The campground was virtually empty with a couple of campers in residence and no park employees in sight.  A sign on the door said come back after 12:30, so with time on our hands and no real plan for the day, Charlie immediately launched into geocaching mode much to Matt’s annoyance.   Tim took on the role of GPS assistant which freed up Charlie to actually look at the road while driving. We found and scored several caches in the nearby area.
To stave off further geocaching, (this was Matt’s agenda after all), we decided it was time to get some bait and start fishing.  We stopped in downtown Baldwinville at an odd little place that was part florist part bait shop.   It turned out to be a mom and pop enterprise with flowers in the front and worms in the back.  The ancient proprietor slowly and painfully made his way from out from the back to attend to our angling needs.   He offered us very little reason for optimism concerning our fish-catching prospects.  Amidst the negativity, he muttered something about a place called Comet pond.  The PhDs took this to be sage advice from a local old timer so we purchased some worms and left in search of Comet Pond. 
With the aid of Charlie’s GPS we arrived in the little town of Hubbardston where we found Asnacomet Pond to a very pleasant spot where a few locals in lawn chairs were fishing from shore.  After a brief fly-casting lesson in the parking lot, the kayaks were launched and fishing commenced.  A loon paddled nearby and a bald eagle flew overhead, providing us with a scenic backdrop.  Matt caught one bait-sized fish that he released back into the wild.  Off and on rain showers turned into a soaking downpour.  Wet and fish-less, we decided to abandon Comet pond and move on.

Part of our dinner plan was to find something good to grill over an open campfire.  Tom had an idea that we would be passing through the Polish-American part of the state where we could get an authentic local kielbasa.  It seemed that we were in fact outside the Slavic sphere of influence so we settled on Italian sausage with peppers and onions instead.
Returning to Otter River State Forest, the group hoped to find someone who could book us into a night in one of the four yurts at the campground.  We found what turned out to be an utterly unempowered state employee sitting at her desk in the office.  We tried to persuade her to let us do a walk-in registration for a one-night stay at one of the obviously unoccupied yurts.  Delighting her customers was clearly not a priority for this lady.  “You need to book the yurts online for at least a two night stay.  I don’t usually work here.   The computer won’t let me do it.  Why don’t you go find the park supervisor and ask him?  He’s riding around here someplace in a blue truck”.  There was nothing for us to do but go find the truck and plead our case.  Tim began to show signs of concern that he might have to relive past rain soaked tenting experiences.  After a circling around the campground we found the truck parked near the rest room.   We explained our situation to state employee #2 who responded by restating many of the things we’d just heard from employee #1 back at the office, adding that he “really just does maintenance and stuff”.  Can’t anybody make a decision!  A third state employee emerged from the men’s room and we once again heard about booking on line, two night minimums, etc., etc.  We begin to think that a call to Deval Patrick would be required to get permission to spend the night in a yurt in a state campground.  Finally the third guy made a phone call to someone and, much to our delight, approval was granted!  We were instructed to pay cash so that we could apparently circumvent the on line booking system.  Sounded sketchy, but we agreed. We were redirected back to our old friend, state employee #1, who would be delighted to serve us.  She informed us that it would be better if we made our security deposit using a credit card and paid cash for the rental fee.  We somehow negotiated the details and got the secret password that opens the door.  The yurt is ours!

Camping stuff was unloaded and then it was off for more fishing from the shore at nearby Lake Dennison.  Tom got nibble on the first cast and actually saw a fish!  This was such a surprise that he botched the landing and came up empty.  Matt caught two minnows slightly larger than the one at Comet Pond.  The rest were skunked again.  Apparently persistence in the face of futility is what separates a committed angler from the dabbler, so we decided to give the Miller’s River a try. 
We arrived at a pleasant spot with the river flowing by and early fall foliage beginning to show.  The murkiness of the water did not bode well for fish catching but that didn’t stop us from trying.  We dunked some more worms in hopes our luck would improve.  Charlie preferred rubber worms since they are a lot more durable than real ones.   Tom tried a surface popper lure because it made a mildly entertaining wiggling motion and bubbling sound when retrieved.  Tim caught a fish of unknown genus that was about 8 inches long, which released with the ingested lure still attached.  Mosquitoes eventually chased us away, so we headed back to our yurt

Bundles of wood for our campfire were purchased at the local Cumberland Farms convenience store. This was turning into a true wilderness experience! We arrived at the yurt and set up camp. Conditions were pretty cushy by PhD standards. The yurt had electric lights, running water, landscaping, and a paved driveway. It was even handicap accessible with railings and a ramp. There were full bathroom facilities just down the road, complete with hot showers, running water and flush toilets. Some of the kitchen-related amenities that the PhDs have come to expect in a yurt were lacking, such as cook stoves, pots, and pans, etc. We decided that we prefer free market yurts run by enterprising individuals to the state-run publicly funded version.

Charlie built a roaring fire while Tim and Tom set up their camp stoves in preparation for dinner. Tim’s leaky stove injected an element of danger into the proceedings by nearly setting the campsite on fire as it leaked flaming fuel onto the table. Our supply of usable cooking equipment was now down to one stove and the campfire. Matt cooked up an excellent meal of pork curry stew and grilled sausages with peppers and onions. After dinner, the PhDs settled into a pleasant evening by the campfire, enjoying refreshments and conversation. Eventually we retired to our yurt and drifted off to sleep serenaded by the sounds of our snoring bunkmates and the traffic from nearby route 202.

On the second morning the anglers were up and going late by fishing standards.  A quick stop was made at the Dunkin’ Donuts in the town of Orange for breakfast.  We stopped into a second bait shop called Flagg’s where a much livelier old guy entertained us with fishing stories.  Matt’s hopes of hooking a landlocked salmon on this trip were dashed by Mr. Flagg.   “You’re not going to catch salmon this time of year unless you have a down rigger.  They’re way down deep in the cold water.  Now if you come back in a few weeks when it cools off….   You might as well fish for bass.  Go to this spot on the west shore and fish with rubber worms.   You’ll see lots of action”.
With our new rubber worms in hand we said goodbye to Mr. Flagg and headed for the Quabbin boat launch.  We arrived at yet another scenic location and rented two little aluminum boats with outboard motors.  Borb would have been in his element!  After a quick lesson on operating the engine, we set sail for the spot recommended by our new friend, Mr. Flagg.  Charlie proclaimed, “You’ll be glad we have a GPS” as we searched for the fishin’ hole.
We arrived at the designated place where we found more awesome scenery, beautiful early fall foliage, but no fish.   After several unproductive hours we decided that the only explanation for our lack of success was that the Quabbin must not in fact contain any fish.  We found a spot to have lunch where Charlie reenacted a biblical passage as he cast bread upon the waters.  Despite the lack of fish, we enjoyed the day and our surroundings.  Perhaps there really was something to Matt’s assertion that it’s not just about catching fish.  We returned the boats where the guys at the boat launch asked, “How many did you catch?’  Stupid question.

One last fishing destination remained. Our next stop was to be the legendary Y-pool on the Swift River at the south outlet of the reservoir where Matt planned to perform a memorial to a departed fishing buddy and where we could fly fish for trout.   We drove along the countryside east of the Quabbin, enjoying classic small town New England scenery. Wild turkeys seemed to be around every turn in the road.
As we approached, we drove by the Swift River and found that it did not live up to its name at this location. It was slow moving and murky brown, not looking like good trout water.
We arrived at the dam that holds back the Quabbin and spent some time touring the museum that chronicles the deportation of the people from four Swift River valley towns who had the misfortune to be in the way when the valley was flooded to create the reservoir. The easy access to the Y pool that Matt remembered was no longer available. The road had been closed as a post- 9/11 security measure because it passed close by dam that might be an inviting target for someone with bad intentions.

Perhaps Tim had become discouraged by our fishing failures up until now and the murky look of the river where it crossed the road. He explained that fly-fishing is not an activity that you enter into casually when you have a little spare time. He explained that by the time we geared up and started to fish, it would be just about be time to call it a day.
The decision was made just to walk down to the trout pool and have a look around while Matt performed a salute to his old fishing friend. The trail to the pool wound though the woods, emerging at a beautiful clear stream that was teaming with large trout. Two or three anglers plied the waters of the Y-pool further downstream. It was like a scene right out of Field & Stream.
Tom was not an expert angler and lacked much prior experience, but it seemed odd to him that once we finally found the place where the fish were, we chose not to go fishing. In any event, Matt performed his solemn ceremony while the rest of us watched the trout swim around. Now and then one of the guys in hip waders would catch a trout and release it back into the pool. After we’d had enough of this vicarious “fishing”, we returned to the car leaving the Y-pool for another day. As we drove toward the highway, we scouted the Swift River further downstream for future reference. We found our way back to Mass Pike thanks once again to the marvels of the GPS and returned home.

All told it was another in the ongoing series of fine PhD events. The key to enjoying oneself on a fishing trip is to enter into the experience with low expectations so as not to be disappointed when the fish refuse to participate. On that basis, all expectations were met.