I smell the forest, the rain, the damp pine needles.

I search stillwater for insects, for the distinctive rings of rising salmon. I can actually feel them sharpening: echoing loon calls, mosquitoes needling my ankles, wind in the branches overhead. When I’m in dead zones like this one now, I still feel a subtle but present anxiety in the first 24 hours: I’m missing out on something - some vital text message from a loved one, or world-changing event that everyone else is responding to.īut after a day or so, that same anxiety begins to dissipate. I remember the tangible feeling, a kind of angst, that someone was trying to reach me, that I was needed somewhere else. When I was younger, I’d search this same island for a high spot, for some secret location where I’d snag at least a bar of cell service. Then I remember that it’s safe in my tent, and that even though I’ve likely missed calls, texts, and emails, I can’t access them until I’m back in civilization. I typically keep my cellphone on my person, and even now, tying a small Elk Hair Caddis to 4X tippet, I find myself occasionally stopping to pat my pockets, searching for my phone, growing frantic when I don’t find it. I haven’t used mine except to record audio of loon calls at night and a video of a thunderstorm that rumbled through yesterday. Pierce Pond - like many of Maine’s remote waterways - exists in a dead zone where cellphones are useful only as cameras and clocks. There’s no cell service here, no Wi-Fi network to join. There are few distractions, few unnatural sounds, save for the occasional outboard fixed to a square-stern canoe - guides and anglers from Cobb’s Camps, puttering around, trolling deep for trout or salmon. This is one of the longest days of the year, and it’s amazing how slowly it unfolds as we wait for evening. Black Swallowtail butterflies gather on the gunwales, flitting their wings and absorbing sunlight. My Old Town canoe, a 17-footer, forest green and with a newly busted back seat - rotted from overuse - rests on the island’s small sand strip. I hope he’s right, but it’s not looking good. Parker, on the other hand, is optimistic that the pond will calm off before dark. I’m barefoot with pine needles between my toes, a bit worried the evening hatch might not happen in this gale. We’re standing at the picnic table, tying new leaders onto our 5-weight fly lines.

Shush photos