Praise for Maine’s dead zones

This story was originally published in July 2023.

It’s three in the afternoon, and my friend Parker and I are waiting for the wind to die down. We’re camping on a remote island in Upper Pierce Pond in Somerset County, trying to beat the wet summer weather and catch some of the pond’s famous landlocked salmon. The shoreline around us is undeveloped, and the other islands are empty—we’re the only people here.

It is one of the rare dry days of recent times. A front has passed through, the morning mist has blown away and made way for blue skies and cooler, drier air. The island’s pines sway and rustle in the wind, a hypnotic sound I know from having camped here almost every summer since I was a teenager.

Waves are forming in the east and whitecaps are creating white streaks. From the west comes the call of a loon, but the wind drowns out its call.

We stand at the picnic table, tying new leaders to our 5-weight fly lines. I’m barefoot and have pine needles between my toes. I’m a little worried that this evening storm won’t produce a hatch. Parker, on the other hand, is optimistic that the pond will calm down before nightfall. I hope he’s right, but it’s not looking good. My Old Town canoe, a 17-foot forest green canoe with a freshly broken back seat – rotted from overuse – sits on the island’s small strip of sand. Waves lap at its sides. Black swallowtail butterflies gather on the gunwales, flapping their wings and absorbing the sunlight.

This is one of the longest days of the year, and it’s amazing how slowly it moves along as we wait for evening. There are few distractions, few unnatural sounds, except for the occasional outboard motor attached to a square-sterned canoe – guides and anglers from Cobb’s Camps loitering, fishing the deep for trout or salmon.

There’s no cell reception here, no Wi-Fi network. Pierce Pond, like many of Maine’s remote waterways, is in a dead zone where cell phones are useful only as cameras and watches. I’ve only used mine to record the calls of loons at night and a video of a thunderstorm that blew through yesterday. I usually carry my phone with me at all times, and even now, tying a small moose hair caddis fly to a 4X leader, I find myself stopping every now and then to pat my pockets and look for my phone. When I can’t find it, I get desperate. Then I remember that it’s safe in my tent and that, although I’ve probably missed calls, texts, and emails, I won’t be able to access it until I get back to civilization.

When I was younger, I would search for a high place on this island, a secret place where I could get at least some cell reception. I never found one. I remember the palpable feeling, a kind of fear, that someone was trying to reach me, that I was needed somewhere else. Now, when I find myself in dead zones like this, I still feel a subtle but present fear for the first 24 hours: I’ll miss something – an important text from a loved one, or a world-changing event that everyone else is reacting to.

But after a day or so, that fear begins to fade. My senses awaken. I can actually feel them heightening: echoes of loons, mosquitoes biting my ankles, wind in the branches overhead. I search for insects in stagnant waters, for the distinctive rings of rising salmon. I smell the forest, the rain, the damp pine needles. Time slows down. My blood pressure drops, and I’m not thinking about the next thing I need to do.

When I mention my cell phone rule to my students at the beginning of the semester—put away cell phones except in emergencies—I can almost see their eyes glaze over. They’ve heard this request hundreds of times. And yet, even after I’ve spoken, every time there’s a break, a few spare seconds, the students pull their phones out of their pockets.

I fear for my students and for myself that our over-attachment to phones and media platforms creates the illusion that there is life outside of the present. I don’t want to preach—I’m just as guilty. I often remind myself to put my phone away in social situations. I get lured into scrolling and keeping an eye on the lives of others and cultivating my own social media image, just like my students do. The danger, I think, is not just the distraction, but a kind of distortion that takes us out of the only life we are allowed to live, which is now, here, in this moment.

By five the wind has died down, but it’s still dangerous for fly fishing. Parker is warming pasta with mushrooms and garlic in a skillet on a Coleman stove. When she’s ready, we eat out of flimsy cardboard bowls and use the only two plastic forks I packed. Parker wonders what’s going on in the real world. I tell him it’s probably better if we don’t know. We eat quickly, then put firewood in the fire pit for when we get back from fishing. Soon we’re pushing the Old Town off the sandy flat and paddling into the breeze.

Over the next few hours, the breeze doesn’t let up. We look for sheltered coves, quiet spots where mayflies might hatch, but the wind swirls. It seems to come from all directions. The light fades in tiny increments until the horizon turns a dark purple over the western mountains. More calls from loons. Mosquitoes. We try the west shore, near a creek that flows in. We try another cove, but the wind follows us everywhere.

Parker can call it a day, he says, but I have one more spot to check. In the lee of our island, an area not much wider than a couple of picnic tables, we find a handful of floating mayflies. It’s almost dark. The mayflies are brown and newly hatched, resting on the water’s surface, their wings spread over them. I slow the canoe. Parker grabs his fly rod.

A fish rises and bites at a mayfly. Parker casts a few times but misses a bite. He casts again at a weakening ring. This time, as he sets the hook, a fat little salmon football leaps into the dusk. I catch the fish in the net, but it’s too dark for photos, and besides, my phone is back in the tent. We consider keeping it, but we’re both full from dinner and have to leave first thing in the morning. Parker takes the fly out and releases the salmon.

Back at camp, we light a match and watch the embers rise and float away. There are no other sources of light, just the fire igniting and the faint stars visible between the trees. The loons are talking again. Parker and I yawn, and it’s not even 9:30 p.m. I notice that we’re in sync with the daily routine, with no screens to distract us.

In the morning we take down camp, fold up the tarpaulin and pack our luggage into the canoe. It is only a short paddle to the exit point. Luckily we have a tailwind.

Just past North New Portland, on Route 16 south, there’s a spot where cell reception starts working again. It’s a straight stretch just past a campground. I know the spot well. My phone is charging in its cradle on the dashboard, still set to airplane mode. I know that as soon as I plug it back in, the screen will light up and notifications and voicemails will appear. The road is bumpy, and my truck needs new shocks. I open the driver’s side window, letting in the cooler morning air. The fog is lifting, and there are patches of blue in the sky above me. I’m looking forward to the feeling of a hot shower, and to sleeping on a real mattress after two nights on a thin mat.

At least for a while, I ignore my phone completely.

Correction: An earlier version of this report incorrectly stated the continuation route through North New Portland.

Related Posts

Missing person report issued for 14-year-old girl from Prentiss

One person dead after shooting in southeast Portland

The Israeli army claims it is conducting self-investigations. What is the status of these investigations?