I don't fish anymore. I became bored with it when we lived on the shore of Swan Lake in Swanville. I had a canoe and a lake and fished all the time. But one time it was boring, and I haven't fished since.

Except when I took my then-seventh-grade son fishing in Norway Lake and caught that grand old tire. I haven't fished since.

I understand and appreciate Dennis Smith's continuous love for fishing and his continuing efforts to fight with -- as in, cooperate with -- the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife to make happier, healthier, and huger (I'll do anything to use words starting with the same letter.) fish available in Maine's lakes, ponds, and streams.

I also recall and understand that thrill -- 'thrill' is the only word that captivates the moment for me -- of that tug on the line, and you know you've got one. Anticipation of that is what made fishing fun -- at times endurable -- for me, until those tugs on the line became fewer and much farther between.

The closest I've come to fishing in recent years was taking newspaper photos of the 12-year-old who caught the biggest one in the annual contest. Seeing that grin on the 12-year-old's face is the second biggest thrill in fishing.

As a kid, I loved heading off with my big brother to Valley Creek¹ to line up along the bank, crowded in among the other first-day-of-the-seasoners to catch a tiny trout I had to throw back or one just barely enough to keep. Or catch nothing at all on my worm dug from the garden.

Due to pollution in the watershed of suburban Philadelphia's Valley Creek, the visitor to that stream's edge now sees crystal clear water with nothing swimming or even scooting along the bottom.

When I moved to Maine, Lewis took me fishing. He was a wily oldster, who knew where those trout were and how to catch them. He was fishing within the law, no doubt, but it didn't strike me as much of a sport. We crawled along the bank of a tiny brook, where the poor trout had no chance to escape. We could likely have reached in and grabbed them. But we caught our handful legally with worm and hook.

The late Clarence Remington and I had a noisy fishing adventure along Bear River in what is now Grafton Notch State Park. We had separated to ply our skills about 50 yards apart on the banks of that winding stream.

"Help, help!" I heard him suddenly scream.

Clarence was an old-time Maineiac with a solid knowledge of the outdoors -- probably born with it -- so I figured something awful was happening, momma bear and little one, mountain lion, and I hot footed it through those alders, nearly breaking my leg when one of them caught my foot. When I found him, he was just standing there.

"What is it?" I asked, looking around for momma bear.

"I saw a garter snake," Clarence explained.

Nothing in the Maine woods ever frightened Clarence, not bear, nor moose, not even mosquitoes. Just snakes.

My next fishing companion, borrowing the term 'companion' Thoreau used a lot in his descriptions of his treks through yonder Maine forest, was Richard. Richard had a small rowboat with an outboard motor, and we plied Hermon Pond and the brooks and boggy brooks surrounding it. Trout weren't the catch of the day, sunnies were. Sunnies, sunnies, and more sunnies, which became kind of boring. I don't remember why we stopped fishing together. Maybe we both were sick of sunnies.

For awhile we lived on Swan Lake. Well, not actually on it but on its shore. I canoed and fished and fished and canoed and canoed and fished. But nothing ever disturbed my tranquility. I became bored and just went canoeing.

One evening we were in the canoe on Harmon Pond, enjoying one of those really beautiful and peaceful sunsets. We were paddling slowly, three of us, the good wife, daughter, and myself, watching the rippling waves catch the last of the sun's rays on our starboard side. The fourth, our son was looking to port, enjoying whatever little boys enjoy when they look to port.

Suddenly a large fish, and I can't remember what and I don't believe it was labeled, came literally bouncing along the surface of the water from starboard right toward the canoe. That fish was at least a foot long.

"Look, Stephen, look at this big fish!" we all shouted to him at once.

He looked, right after it went under and probably crossed our path beneath the canoe. We didn't see it again.

The big ones always get away.

Sometimes when I'm walking along the shore of Long Pond or Upper Hadlock Pond, or driving past Echo Lake in my Island Explorer bus, I observe a fisherman out on the water in his canoe or boat. That scene looks so quiet and peaceful, and for a moment I feel that old pull way down deep inside to put our canoe in and head out there with my gear. Maybe one of these days I will.

Maybe I'll even buy one of those bumper stickers that read, "Gone fishing."

Maybe Dennis will go with me.

¹When I was a kid in Pennsylvania, we had lots of creeks. They were everywhere. When I moved to Maine in 1965, I discovered there were very few creeks in the Pine Tree State. They had become brooks. I first made this astounding discovery while I was teaching the farmers' kids in the fifth and sixth grade, a combination-grade class. During one lesson, I was discussing creeks, and a student finally raised his hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Gross," he said, "but we don't know what you're talking about?" They had thought I was saying 'creak,' and it was then that the fifth- and sixth-graders taught their teacher that Maine has brooks. But on Mount Desert Island, home of Acadia National Park and the residence of a lot of 'from awayers,' is a prominent stream called Northeast Creek. And just off the Island in Lamoine is another stream, Mud Creek, with a road running parallel to it called Mud Creek Road. And, of course, there is the village which is Dennis Smith's home, Otter Creek.

Milt Gross can be reached for corrections, harassment, or other purposes at lesstraveledway@midmaine.com.