One thing I won't do anymore is complain about the price of steamers. 3-5 dollars a pound seems like a totally fair price for something that is itself tedious, filthy, and backbreaking to do. For me anyway, there is this sort of "romantic" New England charm about going "clamming"--carrying a rake and a bucket down to the sands at low tide, digging up some big soft shelled clams, and steaming them up with some nice smoked sausage and corn. This romanticism exists in the same way that people from Mass (like myself) must think that dairy farming is such a great way to make a living.
Cobscook Bay State Park allows its campers to "rake" 1 peck (about two gallons) of clams per day, per person. As long as you are within the park boundaries, you don't need a license, and they are happy to lend you both the rake and the peck container. The best time to go, the ranger gregariously told me, was at roughly 2:47, when the tide was at its lowest. Then, she said excitedly, knowing I was a virgin clammer, you start raking about six inches in front of where you see little holes popping out of the sand. She wished me luck, and I was on my way.
I was like a little kid whose dad had just removed his training wheels. Amanda couldn't drive me fast enough to the particular flats we chose after looking at the map. I bounced up and down with excitement as she struggled to put sunscreen on my back. I trounced down the rocky ledges to get on the sand to get onto the flats of mud. "Come back and get your hat," she admonished. This is cutting into my clamming time, I thought. My watch said 2:38, and I knew the best time was coming up just minutes away.
And then, motionlessness.
I found myself up to mid thigh in mud. But it wasn't mud. I think it was fossil fuel. Or silt mixed with algae mixed with decomposed rockweed. This is where clams live. Underneath inches and inches of something that made me nostalgic for the stuff on a basement floor the morning after a fraternity party. I tried wearing my "crocs" as I walked along the flats, closer to the where the water met the sand (just like she's walking on a wire in a circus), but that proved futile, as the plastic clogs created a vacuum with the sludge, and I lost both shoes in about 8 inches of guck. I'll find them later, I thought, I've got clams to rake. Moving slowly, bringing my knees to my chest with calculated, barefooted steps to avoid broken crab and mussel shells, I made my way along the flats, ubiquitous with small, round air pockets that resembled ant hills--only they were like ant hills with little swirls of sludge on top from where something excreted as they burrowed their way down into the guck. I sliced my foot open about 21-26 seconds later on half of a clam shell a few inches down.
Persevering through the pain (upon later examination, I really should have gotten stitches) I dug and raked, just like Ranger Ramona instructed. Nothing. Actually I found a dead worm once. And a whole clam that was dead. And there was that human finger. But after that, nothing. This went on for about 30 minutes. Now, I mentioned before how clamming is backbreaking work, and it is, since the rake itself has a short handle and must be done in a bent over position. To add insult to injury, this is not like raking through fine sand--this sludge is heavy, wet, and stinky. You really need to use both hands (That's what she . . .). Enough is enough, I said aloud. My lower half absolutely covered in the muck, my foot bleeding and aching, and my peck crate absolutely void of clams, I began the 200 yard trek back to my wife, who smiled her perpetually supportive, at-least-you-tried sort of smile. I get that look a lot, actually, Hmm.
Fast forward 24 hours. We are in downtown Lubec on a raw and foggy afternoon talking to the proprietor of Bayside Chocolates--a charming little candy shop where the owner makes everything homemade, and is elated to give you samples of everything he has. The people in Lubec, from our brief observation, are probably as bright, resourceful, and savvy as people you will find anywhere. Ephram, the owner of the shop, has made a living like most people in Lubec, he tells us. Lobstering. Bluberrying. Commercial Fishing. And in his younger days, clamming. I tell him of my recent adventure, and he regrets not being there yesterday with me, as he could have "broken me in." He asks if I might go tomorrow, and I say no, referring to my bandaged foot. This is what people are like up there. Amazing. I tell him of my struggles in the mud flats, and being up to my thighs in muck. He looks at me concernedly. "Don't eat any clams you find out there anyway," he says, "they'll all taste crummy. The good steamer clams are in the sandy zone, farthest away from where the water meets the sand." Refreshing to know. As he speaks to me, he is gripping a Mead pencil, drawing something directly on the white counter by the cash register. "And one more thing," he says, motioning to the completed drawing on the counter, "see this rectangular looking hole I've drawn? That's where you know you've got clams. A nice clean rectangular hole. If you see the hundreds of round holes with the swirls of sand next to them, stay the heck away--you're in a flat infested with nothing but blood worms."
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