I began to see signs: “Welcome to the North Maine Woods.” I figured they were part of a marketing strategy designed to lure some of those lovely tourists dollars away from the coastal attractions of Camden, Bar Harbor, and Freeport. There clearly was a distinct effort afoot to declare the unique identity of the woods of northern Maine.

The towns up here are mostly unincorporated. Around 1783 they were laid out in six-mile squares – hundreds of them – and sold at public auction. They’re arranged in numbered horizontal lines by township, with each horizontal line divided into numbered “ranges.” At the moment, I’m in T15-R9, Township 15, Range 9. By the time Maine was separated from Massachusetts in 1820, about half the properties had been sold; the rest went during the next six decades. Most would-be buyers couldn’t afford a township, so they formed partnerships to bid at land auctions. The land they bought was usually held “in common,” or “undivided,” meaning that each partner, whatever his percentage of ownership, owned that percentage of everything on the land. Two people might own 50 % of every tree, but the townships remained intact.

During the last 100 years, two major developments occurred. On the one hand, owners of shares in townships divided their shares among their heirs, so that individual undivided shares became smaller and more numerous. At the same time, many heirs began selling their shares to forest products companies. Conflicts often arose between lumber companies that viewed the forest as an investment and individuals who sought peace and quiet in the wilderness.

As trucks became the principal vehicle for moving logs and lumber from the forest, the patchwork of ownership caused endless conflicts over access. In addition, recreational use of logging roads increased, along with the threat of fire, liability for accidents, and trashed campsites. Landowners began to restrict access to their land. Their locked gates were unmanned, causing great inconvenience to landowners who couldn’t reach their property.

The North Maine Woods is not an advertising slogan. It’s a corporation that owns and controls an area of more than 3 1/2 million acres of commercial forest land. Baxter State Park abuts on the southeast; the Allagash Wilderness Waterway is totally inside it. The many large companies that own and manage the land have set up manned control points all around its perimeter, and users, when they reach these gates, pay a fee for access. (The gatekeeper I encountered asked, “Are you over 70? If you are, there’s no charge.” Saved me 25 bucks. I was delighted.)

I entered at the Fish Check Point near Portage Lake, and wandered for an hour or so over increasingly rough and confusing roads to Red River Camps, about 30 miles into the bush. The map the checkpoint lady gave me was accurate, but the printing was so small that no 70-year-old could possibly read it. But the signs pointing to the camp at junctions were both accurate and large.

The camp was suitably old-fashioned (with hot showers and an uplink for communications) and the welcome was warm. I’d come, as I mentioned here a week ago, to try to catch a blueback trout, a relict char stranded here by the retreat of the last continental ice sheet. The guide and camp owner, Mike Brophy, had, in his e-mails, been pretty sanguine about our chances of catching one; but that first evening, with clear skies and peppy winds forecast for the next day, he was a little leery. For my part, if we were blown off, it would be the third time in a row.

Next morning, ten minutes in a big pickup, a wet crossing of a rocky ford, and 15 minutes of brisk walking over old logging roads took us to Black Pond, where Mike had stashed a canoe. The wind had moaned all night as a big cold front moved in, and it was still blowing. I dropped a sinking line down to the desired 30-foot depth, and Mike strove with might and main and paddle behind me, but we got nary a tap. We found a little spot in the trees ashore to eat our lunch sandwiches and split a thermos of coffee. The afternoon was a repeat of the morning.

This morning was clear again, not quite so cold, and almost flat calm. We took off right after breakfast, hiked the now-familiar trail, and went at it again. And again, nothing. We had to quit about ten. Just before that hour, as if to make up for disappointing us, the pond threw me a fish, as it were – a strong and beautiful brook trout in spawning colors. Mike netted him, held him gently in the water, and let him sink back down out of sight.

It’s noon now, and I’m headed out the 30 miles of dirt roads to Portage. After the first 30 the other day, the color of my truck is almost indiscernible. Back home, they’ll probably throw me out of the car wash. But first I’ve got to get out of the North Maine Woods. They say once you’ve been here and drunk the water, you’re bound to come back. I think they’re probably right.