— Until last weekend, I had never caught a northern pike or judged a barbecue contest.
Within 24 hours, I accomplished both, a surf-and-turf daily double that made the July 4th holiday one to remember. Weirdly, I couldn't have done one without the other.
And I had to eat about a gazillion pounds of chicken, ribs and steak over the course of seven hours to get to the fishing.
Oh, the sacrifices we make.
We'll take the fish first, even though chronologically it came second.
Last Sunday, my husband and I joined guide Steve Lucas at the ramp on Flower Lake, a picture-perfect spot that acts as the welcome mat to Saranac Lake, the village, not to be confused with Saranac, the town to the north.
Although Lucas is known in these parts for his light tackle and fly fishing expertise chasing bass and trout (he's fished with bass pros Woo Daves and Shaw Grigsby), he knew I was gunning for a northern pike. So he came armed to the teeth with a variety of spoons and spinnerbaits and ultra-light and medium-action rods.
Why pike? Lucas didn't ask, but I had an answer.
They have nasty teeth, like to lie in wait and ambush their prey, try to eat victims their own size and prefer working alone.
You know, like politicians. Or reporters. I figured I feel at home in the company of pike.
One more thing. They were the subject of a poem by Ted Hughes:
"Killers from the egg: the malevolent aged grin.
They dance on the surface among the flies."
Nice stuff.
Ringed by the Adirondack Mountains, Flower Lake is part of the Saranac River, which flows northeast and empties into Lake Champlain. Dams built in 1904 to generate electricity created a chain of lakes, each with a slight different look and personality.
We first set up shop just a few miles from the village, where tufts of vegetation waved just below the surface and tree trunks served as a reminder that this had once been dry land.
"We're looking for pike in the 24- to 28-inch range," Lucas said. "Thiry inches would be a treat."
Working from the bow and stern of Lucas's bass boat, we cast along a slight channel. The ultra-light tackle let us feel every little twitch as we retrieved our lures. After a few introductory bump and runs, a small pike made for one of the spinnerbaits.
The fight was short but hearty. After a quick, "howdjadoo," the 14-incher was unhooked and sent on its way.
It was the same story for littler pike No. 2.
Not satisfied, Lucas fired up the boat and soon had us within feet of the lock that helps boaters negotiate the grade difference along the river. Setting up at the spillway, where the water was about 19 feet deep, we cast toward the rocks and the trees close to water's edge.
"They're here to eat not hang out. There's a difference," Lucas counseled. "If you see a shadow, jerk the rod and reel as fast as you can."
Without warning, a rod pointed in the direction of the shallow water—exactly the opposite of what we anticipated--bent deeply. Fish on. The braided line twanged tight.
The pike tried to get under the boat, but the rod brought it back out in the open. It made a run for the weeds, but was denied that avenue of escape.
As I held the line tight, Lucas brought it to the deck. Twenty-four inches of olive-green fighter.
After a quick photo, it was back over the side for a little resuscitation. A big smack of the tail to let us know who was boss, and it darted away.
We made one more stop on the way back, in a stumped-filled place locals respectfully call, The Graveyard, for its ability to make a floating boat less so.
Lucas rigged up beefier rods and reels with Herb's Dilly, a weedless lure that sinks like a stone. The idea was to cast and close the bale before the lure hit the water and then reel in quickly across the tops of the weeds and lilypads.
"When they hit it, they hit it hard," Lucas said.
And within minutes, I knew what he meant. A pike broke the surface and hit my lure like Ray Lewis on a running back.
But the lure and fish got hung up on some vegetation for a brief second and the pike shook free.
Very cool.
That we were able to move at all was surprising after judging the meat coma known as the I Love Barbecue Junior World Championship. Good food for a good cause: The Thomas Shipman Youth Center.
Lucas is a neighbor of the contest organizer, who took pity on our bloated state and sent us off on the water to recover.
My only disappointment was the lack of Maryland entries in the junior or senior levels. Three years ago, Dave Welch, leader of the Freestate Smokers, was named reserve champion at the senior event and his barbecued chicken took top honors.
I know we have good barbecue chefs out there—especially in the bass community.
By this time next year, I'm sure I'll be recovered and ready to go back.