When Bouchard took a few moments to deal with a particularly ornery brook trout, it was a welcome chance to catch my breath and drink it all in. Loons cried from the far bank. I could see the dark bulk of a moose moving through the shallows. A lane of moonlight on the pond was so bright it made me squint. When Bouchard released the trout and my fly, he muttered a quick “good to go” almost as an apology for holding me up. I obliged with another cast toward the spring hole, just 20 feet from the boat. Twenty-five fish, now, from a single spot. One went better than 3 pounds, and still there were more, each one a wild trout, the heritage-strain brookies for which remote Maine ponds are famous, pure as the deep ice of a glacier.