Nearing the end of December, the streams are shrouded in ice. The trout are there, but they are lethargic and in a state of semi-hibernation. From the middle of November, I spend my weekends cutting, splitting and stacking logs for the woodstove; that is, when I’m not plowing snow off the long dirt drive that snakes off the macadam like a woodland stream, winding through hardwoods and coming to rest beside our home.
I could pay Don from the auto shop to do the plowing and we can heat our home with oil, but the effort to clear the drive and keep the stove full is an excuse to spend time outdoors, which keeps me active and sane throughout the winter months and provides the illusion of self-sufficiency.
By the third week of February, the banks of snow have melted along the dirt drive and on either side of the walk leading into our house. Some hardpack remains under the dogwood tree or in the lee of the outbuildings scattered around the 12 acres surrounding our home.
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My jeans bear oil stains that Trish has been unable to remove. The strings from the frayed bottoms trail behind the rubber heels of my felt-packed Sorels like a dry fly reeled against the stream’s current. The fingers of my inexpensive work gloves are worn through in a few places, and I have wrapped them with duct tape to keep the lining from falling out.
This morning, I’m wearing a heavy shirt with a stiff canvas exterior over a long-sleeve T-shirt. The words “Oquossoc Marine” are stitched in black across the front of my cap, the letters rising upward through a grease stain like boulders in a lake around which smallmouth bass might school.
Neatly stacked hardwood inside the lean-to, ready to keep the home warm for months to come. Credit: Courtesy of Bob Romano
I walk the short distance across the yard to a small shed, the lawn crunching under my boots. The morning frost glistens like tiny diamonds sprinkled among the blades of matted grass as the sun edges over a line of spruce to reveal a flawless blue sky.
Lifting the latch, I open the door. The smell of grease and oil hangs in the cold stillness. I reach past the chainsaw and grab the maul from the corner of the shed, walking back outside, passing the near-empty lean-to that contains the remains of two cords of stovewood. By this time of year, the pieces that remain are stacked against the back wall, some littering the floor, a few wedged into the corners.
Throughout November and the early part of December, the sound of my chainsaw fills the air as I down trees, hauling them from the woodlot across the earthen dam of our little pond and cutting them into stove-sized pieces. By January, I’m spending my time splitting the 12-inch logs, allowing them to season in the open air throughout spring and summer until the following fall when I stack them, row upon row, under the eaves of the empty lean-to.
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When I was younger, I split wood from morning until three or four in the afternoon, breaking only for lunch, a mountain of billets rising quickly, leaving the remainder of the winter for feeding birds, exploring the woods, tying flies. These days, I wear a back brace and work for no more than three hours a day, taking an entire winter of weekends to raise my mountain of split wood.
I can rent a gas-powered log splitter and form the pile of logs in days instead of months, but where is the honor in that? No, I prefer this six-pound maul, the one I now cradle in my hands, the same maul I have used to create 40 winters’ worth of firewood. Once, I replaced the shaft when an errant blow splintered it against the side of a stump, only later learning a trick used by hockey players to protect their sticks — duct tape wrapped around the base of the blade.
This morning, I stopped at the three chopping blocks frozen to the ground in front of the rising summit of wood. Chinks and grooves cut into the edges of each stump wherever the maul’s sharp blade has powered through a log. The bark has fallen away, lying in shreds, mixed into sawdust with pieces of kindling, wood chips, shavings and twigs, creating a ligneous gazpacho.
On either side lies a pile of logs, mostly sugar maple, white oak, shagbark hickory and ash; the type of hardwood that splits easily and burns slowly, providing an efficient source of heat for the woodstove. There is a smaller amount of soft wood that is stringy, more difficult to split and faster burning like poplar and tulip.
I like the smell of the resin, the feeling of the sawdust, spongy under my boots, the maul, familiar in my hands, but it is the sight of the growing mountain that I most enjoy, with its base of split logs, ridges of sticks and crags of twisted branch.
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Feet spread apart, I grasp the maul, my left hand around the bottom of the shaft, my right around its base. I take pleasure in the power that spreads from my legs up through my shoulders and down through my arms, the motion of the heavy blade as it swings through the air, the crack of the log as it splits in two. After 20 minutes, I unbutton the canvas shirt, remove the baseball cap and run a hand through my thinning hair.
A few feet from the woodpile a chickadee flits among the branches of an ironwood tree. Landing on the metal rung of the tube feeder, the little bird cocks its head sideways, its black eye looking like a tiny plastic bead. As the bird flies off with a seed, a titmouse appears with its gray breast feathers puffed outward, a little dun-colored pompadour shooting up as it chirps a complaint.
I swing the maul down, the blade striking off center. A quarter of the log splits away while the remaining piece falls over on its side. While the titmouse plucks a seed from the feeder, two goldfinches and a nuthatch impatiently chatter from the branches of a nearby sugar maple.
Clouds have moved in from the west and without the sun there is a chill in the air. Even so, I’m sweating. I hang the outer shirt from a nail hammered into the side of the woodshed and roll up the long sleeves of my T-shirt.
The next swing of the maul fails to split the log. Aiming for a fracture, I try again, causing a chunk of wood to fly end over end across the frozen ground.
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I develop a rhythm — bend, pick up a log, split. Bend, pick up a log and split. There is ample time for reflection. Today, I fancy myself an aging samurai, past my prime, without a lord to follow or battle to fight, but still able to wield a weapon with grace and skill. After a while, I stoop down, tossing the scattered billets toward the top of the pile, the mountain growing high under the ashen clouds.
When snow begins to fall, I remove the canvas shirt from the nail and slip it back on. The flakes are light, dry. They settle on my shoulders, the chopping blocks, the woodpile, covering the branches of the ironwood tree and sticking to the ground.
The birds are now darting back and forth grabbing seeds without hesitation. In the stillness of the afternoon, I hear the flutter of their wings.
Steve Heinz of Cumberland is a member of the Maine Council of Trout Unlimited (Merrymeeting Bay chapter).
Man’s got to eat.
It’s a simple truth, and in Maine it carries a lot of weight. For generations, people here have hunted, fished and gathered food not just as a pastime, but as a practical part of life. That reality helps explain why Maine voters embraced a constitutional right to food — and why emotions run high when fishing regulations are challenged in court.
A recent lawsuit targeting Maine’s fly-fishing-only regulations has sparked exactly that reaction. The Maine Council of Trout Unlimited believes this moment calls for clarity and restraint. The management of Maine’s fisheries belongs with professional biologists and the public process they oversee, not in the courtroom.
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Trout Unlimited is not an anti-harvest organization, nor a club devoted to elevating one style of angling over another. We are a coldwater conservation organization focused on sustaining healthy, resilient fisheries.
Maine’s reputation as the last great stronghold of wild brook trout did not happen by accident; it is the product of decades of careful management by the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife (MDIFW), guided by science, field experience and public participation.
Fly-fishing-only waters are one of the tools MDIFW uses to protect vulnerable fisheries. They are not about exclusivity. In most cases, fly fishing involves a single hook, results in lower hooking mortality and lends itself to catch-and-release practices. The practical effect is straightforward: more fish survive and more people get a chance to fish.
Maine’s trout waters are fundamentally different from the fertile rivers of the Midwest and Mid-Atlantic states. Our freestone streams are cold, fast and naturally nutrient-poor. Thin soils, granite bedrock and dense forests limit aquatic productivity, meaning brook trout grow more slowly and reproduce in smaller numbers.
A single season of low flows, high water temperatures or habitat disturbance can set a population back for years. In Maine, conservation is not a luxury; it is a biological necessity.
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In more fertile southern waters, abundant insects and richer soils allow trout populations to rebound quickly from heavy harvest and environmental stress. Maine’s waters simply do not have that buffer.
Every wild brook trout here is the product of limited resources and fragile conditions. When fish are removed faster than they can be replaced, recovery is slow and uncertain. That reality is why management tools such as fly-fishing-only waters, reduced bag limits and seasonal protections matter so much.
These rules are not about denying access; they are about matching human use to ecological capacity so fisheries remain viable over time. Climate change only raises the stakes, as warmer summers and lower late-season flows increasingly push cold-water fisheries to their limits.
Healthy trout streams also safeguard drinking water, support wildlife and sustain rural economies through guiding and outdoor tourism. Conservation investments ripple far beyond the streambank.
Lawsuits short-circuit the management system that has served Maine well for decades. Courts are not designed to weigh fisheries science or balance competing uses of a complex public resource. That work is best done through open meetings, public input and adaptive management informed by professionals who spend their careers studying Maine’s waters.
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Man’s got to eat. But if we want Maine’s trout fisheries to endure, we also have to manage them wisely. That means trusting science, respecting process and recognizing that conservation — not confrontation — is what keeps food on the table and fish in the water.
TJ Biel scored 21 points and Newport native Ace Flagg added 10 points and seven rebounds as the University of Maine men’s basketball team held on for a 74-70 win over the New Jersey Institute of Technology on Saturday in Newark, New Jersey.
Logan Carey added 11 points and five assists for the Black Bears, who improve to 3-15 overall and 1-2 in the conference. Yanis Bamba chipped in 14 points.
Maine led by seven at the half, but NJIT went on a 13-0 run in the first four minutes to take a 43-37 lead. The Black Bears recovered and took the lead on a dunk by Keelan Steele with 7:53 left and held on for the win.
Sebastian Robinson scored 24 points and Ari Fulton grabbed 11 rebounds for NJIT (7-11, 2-1).
Clarissa Sabattis, Chief of the Houlton Band of Maliseets, foreground, and other leaders of Maine’s tribes are welcomed by lawmakers into the House Chamber in March, 2023 in Augusta. (Robert F. Bukaty, /Associated Press)
Maine’s gambling landscape is set to expand after Gov. Janet Mills decided Thursday to let tribes offer online casino games, but numerous questions remain over the launch of the new market and how much it will benefit the Wabanaki Nations.
Namely, there is no concrete timeline for when the new gambling options that make Maine the eighth “iGaming” state will become available. Maine’s current sports betting market that has been dominated by the Passamaquoddy Tribe through its partnership with DraftKings is evidence that not all tribes may reap equal rewards.
A national anti-online gaming group also vowed to ask Maine voters to overturn the law via a people’s veto effort and cited its own poll finding a majority of Mainers oppose online casino gaming.
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Here are the big remaining questions around iGaming.
1. When will iGaming go into effect?
The law takes effect 90 days after the Legislature adjourns this year. Adjournment is slated for mid-April, but Mills spokesperson Ben Goodman noted it is not yet known when lawmakers will actually finish their work.
2. Where will the iGaming revenue go?
The iGaming law gives the state 18% of the gross receipts, which will translate into millions of dollars annually for gambling addiction and opioid use treatment funds, Maine veterans, school renovation loans and emergency housing relief.
Leaders of the four federally recognized tribes in Maine highlighted the “life-changing revenue” that will come thanks to the decision from Mills, a Democrat who has clashed with the Wabanaki Nations over the years over more sweeping tribal sovereignty measures.
But one chief went so far Thursday as to call her the “greatest ever” governor for “Wabanaki economic progress.”
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3. What gaming companies will the tribes work with?
DraftKings has partnered with the Passamaquoddy to dominate Maine’s sports betting market, while the Penobscot Nation, the Houlton Band of Maliseet Indians and the Mi’kmaq Nation have partnered with Caesars Entertainment to garner a smaller share of the revenue.
Wall Street analysts predicted the two companies will likely remain the major players in Maine’s iGaming market.
The partnership between the Passamaquoddy and DraftKings has brought in more than $100 million in gross revenue since 2024, but the Press Herald reported last month that some members of the tribe’s Sipayik reservation have criticized Chief Amkuwiposohehs “Pos” Bassett, saying they haven’t reaped enough benefits from the gambling money.
4. Has Mills always supported gambling measures?
The iGaming measure from Rep. Ambureen Rana, D-Bangor, factored into a long-running debate in Maine over gambling. In 2022, lawmakers and Mills legalized online sports betting and gave tribes the exclusive rights to offer it beginning in 2023.
But allowing online casino games such as poker and roulette in Maine looked less likely to become reality under Mills. Her administration had previously testified against the bill by arguing the games are addictive.
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But Mills, who is in the final year of her tenure and is running in the high-profile U.S. Senate primary for the chance to unseat U.S. Sen. Susan Collins, R-Maine, said Thursday she would let the iGaming bill become law without her signature. She said she viewed iGaming as a way to “improve the lives and livelihoods of the Wabanaki Nations.”
5. Who is against iGaming?
Maine’s two casinos in Bangor and Oxford opposed the iGaming bill, as did Gambling Control Board Chair Steve Silver and the Maine Center for Disease Control and Prevention, among other opponents.
Silver noted Hollywood Casino Bangor and Oxford Casino employ nearly 1,000 Mainers, and he argued that giving tribes exclusive rights to iGaming will lead to job losses.
He also said in a Friday interview the new law will violate existing statutes by cutting out his board from iGaming oversight.
“I don’t think there’s anything the board can do at this point,” Silver said.
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The National Association Against iGaming has pledged to mount an effort to overturn the law via a popular referendum process known as the “people’s veto.” But such attempts have a mixed record of success.
