It was a weekend of outdoor firsts for my 2-year-old son -Piscataquis Observer

By Chris Sargent

We were just feet from shore, but to Bridger it might as well have been the middle of the Atlantic. We had just launched his grandfather’s Old Town pack canoe from the Moose River camp in Rockwood while his mother watched nervously from the dock.

I was nervous too as I paddled slowly and carefully upstream towards the armada of fishing boats moored at a nearby slipway. I was worried it might be too much for him at only 2 ½ years old and he was unusually quiet as he clung tightly to the rowing bench.

But when he spotted them, Bridger’s face lit up and he called out excitedly, “Dada! Big boats!” We looked at them for a while and then headed back, both of us grinning from ear to ear.

It was the Fourth of July weekend, but more importantly, a weekend of firsts for my little boy.

Bridger’s grandfather Rick bought the camp more than 25 years ago. The old boathouse, with its balloon-like structure and living area above a boat storage area, is just a few meters from the water.

Although there is electricity, running water, television, WiFi and a monitor heater, the camp has largely remained a time capsule. An old wooden floor creaks underfoot. In the entrance area, a pile of firewood is waiting to fuel the wood stove.

Old photos, warehouse signs, a paddle, oil lamps and a cluttered coat rack decorate the walls. The piston-operated glass door opens with difficulty and slams even harder when closed.

Time and the elements have shifted the building slightly out of alignment and towards the river. Two large, rustic wooden doors protect the opening of the lower part, where the previous owners stored their sailboat.

Surrounded by beautiful newly built and renovated modern “camps”, the old boathouse is one of the few real camps that looks like it really belongs here. It is perfect and became one of my favorite places from the moment I first walked in.

This was Bridger’s second trip to camp, but the first time he was only months old. It was our first trip as a complete family, with his little brother Emery in tow and of course our Labrador Winston.

With the canoe trip behind us, Bridger turned his attention to one of his most prized possessions: a bright green Ninja Turtle youth fishing rod. We had practiced casting the plastic pizza bait several times in the backyard and also from the shore to prepare him for his first attempt in the real world.

As I tied on his first size 6 bait hook, Bridger warned me, “Be careful, Dada. That hook is sharp.” We put a bobber a few feet above the hook, grabbed our crawlers, and headed to the end of the dock.

After threading the crawler, I tried to help Bridger cast, but was met with an angry “No, Dad! I’ll do it!” The whole rig made it about two feet, and soon Bridger was more interested in digging in the worm bin than fishing. Still, we were both grinning from ear to ear.

Next, we checked his first bait trap, which we had set for crawdads the night before. Bridger couldn’t understand why we had thrown chunks of raw meat into a strange-looking net container, then thrown it into the river and tied it to the dock.

But as he pulled on the line and drew the trap closer, he screamed and giggled when he realized there were creatures splashing around inside. He helped me open the trap and shrieked when he saw the dozen or so crawdads thrashing their tails and flailing their claws.

“Baby lobsters!” he called. “Let’s release them.” I hoped he might want to eat them, but the decision was his, so they went back into the water while he turned the trap over.

Canoeing, fishing and setting crawdad traps were the main attractions of his first “big” camping trip, but there were other notable firsts as well.

On the way to Rockwood, we took his first photo with the famous flying moose statue. He took his first tour of the Indian Hill sporting goods department, where he excitedly pointed at and talked to all of the taxidermy animals on display.

And of course, he fearlessly climbed the spiral staircase of the fire lookout tower at the visitor center in Greenville, holding my hand and repeating over and over, “Don’t be afraid, Dada.”

I’d like to think Bridger will remember all of these firsts, but it’s doubtful. I’ll cherish every single precious moment. I guess they were more important to me anyway.

I hope that something special will grow from the seeds planted early and that one day our boys will take their own children to camp to have some first Fourth of July experiences.