Lake Champlain 10/1/11 - I cannot make this stuff up...

[Lard Almighty]

Gather round, children. It’s story time.

Several months ago I booked a trip to fish for bass on Lake Champlain with a local guide, Roger Brown. I had fished with Roger several times before, as recently as last June (which was a banner trip). My dad and I were looking forward to see if we could outdo our previous efforts. So, we set out on Friday afternoon with excitement and high hopes.

At about 6:00 we pulled into a rest area. Eager to hash out our plan for tomorrow morning, I decided to take the time to call Roger. After dialing his number I was not greeted by the man himself, but instead a tinny automated message emotionlessly declaring that the number was not working. The message was troubling; I had contacted Roger at that number several times before from various locations, so to discover that it was no longer in service was a mystery. Still, I attributed it to possible horrible phone service at the rest area, and we continued up the Thruway to Ticonderoga.

We pulled in to our hotel at about 8:30. After checking in, I decided to try Roger’s number again. For the second time, the disinterested mechanical lady on the other end of the phone declared the number was not working. Had he changed his number and neglected to tell his clients? Did he unplug his phone to avoid talking to a particular person? Through dinner the speculation began, and I decided to put the ball in Roger’s court; he had my number, and he would call me to tell us where to meet him in the morning. However, by the time we went to bed at 10:00, there was no phone call. We decided to focus on getting a decent night’s rest and worry about it in the morning.

After a somewhat fitful sleep on both our counts, and greeted by a steady rain and angry winds, we grabbed some coffee from the hotel lobby and drove over to the launch ramp at which we usually meet up with Roger. We saw no one there, but decided to wait a while as it was just barely becoming light. After half an hour, and with no other way of contacting him, we moved to a second boat launch in the area in the hopes that he was there. Plenty of fishermen were in the lot lamenting the rain and wind of the morning, but no sign of Roger. We asked among them to see if they had heard from him lately, and finally were referred to a local who knew Roger personally. According to him, he had not seen Roger in several weeks.

This development was even more disturbing than the disconnected phone. Roger was a well-respected guide who was booked nearly every day from May to October. For a local who frequented Champlain to not have seen him for weeks spoke volumes as to our slim chances of getting in touch with him. The ultimate fate of Roger was growing bleaker by the minute. Was his house swept away by flood waters from the recent rain squalls? Did he get involved in a domestic dispute with his wife that ultimately led to his dismissal from his home, and possibly a ticket to prison? Was he hospitalized due to his chronic back problems? Did he somehow meet an untimely death? Puzzled and disturbed, and with bad feelings swirling about our speculations, Dad and I returned to the hotel to plan our next move.

I was toying in my head with the idea that Roger had, for whatever reason, changed his phone number. So, I asked the woman at the hotel front desk if I could borrow her computer to check Roger’s web site for updated contact information. She said she couldn’t do that, but she did check the phone book for me. Unfortunately, Roger’s number was unlisted.

That left only one other way we could possibly find out where he was. After sending so many deposit checks to him, I had involuntarily memorized his street address. The woman at the desk was nice enough to print directions to his house, and Dad and I hopped back in the car to make a house call.

After a short drive we turned onto Roger’s home street. We found the house number, which belonged to a weathered-looking blue structure, complete with peeling paint and lopsided siding. However, across the street we noticed a bass boat parked under a canopy. Upon closer inspection we recognized it as Roger’s boat. However, Roger’s truck, and Roger himself, were nowhere to be seen. Keeping our fingers crossed that we wouldn’t have a shotgun shoved into our faces, we knocked on the neighbor’s door.

After a few moments a pajama-clad woman who appeared to be in her 30s answered the door with as much of a smile as she could muster that early in the morning. We politely introduced ourselves and asked her the whereabouts of Roger. At the sound of his name her intent expression softened and the corners of her mouth curled into a slight smirk. It was then I knew we were going to have our Citizen Kane moment. Rosebud would finally be revealed to its captive audience!

Roger had moved to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, two days before we went to his (former) house.

I watched Dad’s jaw drop. It was a few moments before I realized that mine was open as well. What we thought was an answer only raised more questions. Why would Roger move to South Carolina? Why would he not notify local anglers or clients that had scheduled trips with him? Why would he leave his boat? Why didn’t he return the deposit check I had sent him for the trip? Dad and I had learned what happened to Roger, but the reason why it happened became the biggest mystery of all.

We thanked the neighbor profusely for her assistance, and spent the drive back to the hotel, the check out, breakfast, and much of the drive back home to New Jersey in silent disbelief. In my dealings with Roger he had always seemed like a stand-up individual who treated people with respect. The fact that he would suddenly leave without tying up loose ends and leave his clients in the lurch seemed very out of character for him. I can only speculate what it was that necessitated his unexpected departure from the lake he seemingly knew like the back of his hand. Perhaps Dad and I will never really know what happened to Roger Brown, but one thing is certain: we won’t take our frustrations out on the best bass fishing lake in the Northeast. We will find a reason to return to Lake Champlain again.

Does anyone know of any good bass fishing guides in that area?