Looking though my trout stream guidebook, my appetite for angling whetted by the morsels of success I'd enjoyed so far, was like looking through the window of a pastry shop on a Sunday morning. So many sweet, enticing possibilities, and I wanted them all, or at least a bite of them all. To leave open the possibility of sampling some other rivers, I only paid to stay at Muskellonge Lake through Wednesday.
I had planned one more run at the east branch Wednesday morning, and as I headed to the river I still wasn't sure what I'd do. Despite the temptations of other waters, I was enjoying myself, and because I had an old, unwieldly tent, I wasn't especially eager to break and remake camp within the space of a couple hours. At the river, though, I received some none too subtle suggestions to move on.
First there was the dog. As I rigged up beside my car at the bridge over the east branch, I heard rustling in the woods. A tan, setterish mutt was slowly padding toward me. No collar, fur grime smeared and bedraggled. Its tail wasn't wagging, and while it wasn't obviously threatening, it seemed suspicious of me. When it got about twenty feet from me it stopped and fixed me with steady yellow eyes. My eyes went to its mouth. No lathering of saliva there, and no teeth bared, but no release into a friendly panting, either. Then it growled quietly and advanced again. "HEEEEEY!" I shouted at it. Usually a good bellow is enough to dissuade a strange dog. This one only stopped. I yelled again at it again and it held its ground, so I picked up the largest stick within reach and flung it at the animal. It turned and loped back a few yards before stopping and turning to stare at me once again. To drive home the message, I grabbed an egg sized rock, ran toward the dog and threw my projectile at it as hard as I could. I missed (and hitting the dog, it occurs to me, could well have compounded my problems), but the mutt bolted out of sight. I stood still for a few minutes. Then, having seen no shadows peeking from behind the spruces and heard no stirring in the forest duff, I went back to my car, finished rigging, and waded into the river.
After only about an hour, I was wading out. When I began reeling in after a cast, the reel's bail hung for a moment when it should have closed, a muffled clink sounded from the reel, then the bail flapped freely. Short of dapping a worm from line tied to the rod tip, I was done fishing. Correcting the situation would require driving out of the Two Hearted country, and as I waded back to the bridge, I considered again whether I should return.
Once I heard the growling, my mind was made up. Still in waders, packing gear into the trunk of my Cutlass, I heard a rasping whuff from the woods, followed by a quiet, even growl, like someone's chainsaw idling in the distance. It trailed off, and though I'd heard more distrust than menace in that growl, I still believed the dog might rush me at any moment. It was less than forty feet away, and I was about to make myself extremely vulnerable by pulling off my waders. It's hard to run (or kick) while tugging on a wader boot that's hung up on your heel, or with one leg in the waders and one out. The dog took a step toward me, and stopped when I yelled at it, but didn't retreat. I wasn't going to make myself an easy target, so I opened the car door and hopped in still wearing waders. As I drove off, the dog didn't chase me, but in my rearview mirror I could see it standing in the middle of the road, watching me go.
In the mythology of the Anishinabe, who have inhabited that area for centuries, bodies of water are inhabited by spirits, manitous, which can threaten people who enter their domain. Crossing waters, on foot, by swimming, or by boat required propitiating these spirits. After encountering that dog at the bridge over the east branch of the Two Hearted, that is an idea I can appreciate. If I had known something of the old ways, I might have been able to reach an understanding with it, and wade in peace.
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