They were here, but now are mostly gone: that delicious entrée or side to a meal: fiddleheads. Actually premature ostrich ferns, I had plans to harvest them when they were in “full bloom” with a friend of mine, but we were unable to work around each other’s schedules. A last-minute spring forage was in order.
I traveled to a fairly well-known spot in Franklin County along the Sandy River. It was a mild day with a steady breeze, but T-shirt weather nonetheless. I hiked down to the bank of the Sandy with my backpack and trout rod, and then slowly progressed upstream until I met up with a tributary that joined the river.
The land here was an overall low-point of the terrain, and as I approached closer to the corner of this confluence, mounds of fiddleheads appeared into view dotting the land. I quickly noticed that they had been harvested only a few days earlier, stalks from already-plucked fiddleheads poked fruitlessly into the air. As I worked my way around, however, I came across a few patches of the good-eating morsels. These patches only lasted so long, and provided a measly three or four cups of fiddleheads, so I did a reappraisal of the clumps that had already been harvested by others. A lot of these clumps actually had secondary heads popping out from lower down, just hidden out of view due to the headless stocks that jutted out around it. It was slow picking, but I went around anyway and gathered the fiddleheads that barely protruded from their dense clusters.
Half-way through picking, I spotted the trout pole I had neglected since reaching the river. Hooking on a worm, I headed over to a dam I noticed earlier while combing the bank for fiddleheads. The dam extended only three-quarters of the way across the tributary, but you could tell there was some serious water to work with on the downstream side of the mud/stick structure. You’ve got to be careful reeling in around beaver dams; not hooking on to a stubborn stick requires you pay attention to where your bait is, and you keep the rod-tip high when approaching something buoyant in the water. It can be tricky though, sometimes that big trout is deep down along the dam, laying in wait, surrounded by a shroud of sticks; to maneuver your worm in to one of these spots takes patience, and often times, spare hooks and sinkers.
Due to mischievous winds my worm refused to fly straight, despite over-correcting, but eventually I was able to land the bait just off the far point of the dam. Reeling-in fairly slowly, but quickly enough to make my spinner work effectively, I brought the bait across the surface, parallel with the dam. The fish didn’t strike immediately, but instead took its time and hit my bait in the last seconds of retrieval. I saw a golden body, approximately 11 inches long, roll across the surface of the water, narrowly missing my worm. “Awh!” I quickly flung out another cast, and then another, and then a few more after that, but didn’t hear from the fish again. Brook trout, I thought, probably a brook trout.
I took a couple casts closer to the river, but packed up after feeling no further tugs at the end of my line. I got back to fiddle heading. The mild weather and pleasant breeze was enough to keep me cool as I shuffled back and forth, faltering around. From a distance I probably looked like Quasimodo down in the valley, bent-over and foraging from place to place.
It was late morning by the time I figured I had collected enough fiddleheads to call it a day. I had done remarkably poor considering how productive I had felt the entire time; I accumulated a volume of no more than 10 cups in my plastic grocery bag. Regardless, I was successful in terms of actually finding fiddleheads at all, and I came home with enough to share with family and friends.
Growing up just north of Bangor, my family and I used to boat around on the Penobscot and pick fiddleheads on select islands and portions of the shoreline. In that area you have to mind Penobscot Indian territory, which is off limits to anyone outside the tribe. Now that I’m in Franklin County, it’s almost like I have another world to explore—and as far as fiddle heading goes, I’ve only just started.
To everyone here in western Maine: make a goal of getting outside next year for that new batch of fiddleheads; they’re easy to find along rivers and seem especially prevalent at lower points in the terrain. Not only are they fun to forage for, but with a pinch of salt and generous slab of butter, they’ll reward you for your efforts. I’ll see you out there folks, happy pickin’!
I had some good luck picking this year. I hit it early and often and took plenty. My favorite way to serve them is pickled.
That’s nice to hear you bagged a healthy amount this year. I think next spring I may try pickling my first batch, I’ve heard good things.