I've dug for a clam.

I was a curious soul upon my second arrival in Maine. It was me and Betty Ford, my 1967 Twin I-beam Ford pick up. We were ready and I was determined to blend in. After all, Maine wasn't so different. Just more water.

One of the first observations I made after landing here happened without notice. As I would soon find out, notice was often not given for events in my new home. Pretty much figure things out on the fly. I was good with that and proceeded to shoot myself in the foot as often as possible – sometimes with a good outcome, often with less positive results.

I noticed a fellow digging in the mud one day and figured he must be looking for something. Come to find out this chap, with a raking device and a small basket, was digging for clams. I could do that, thought I, and maybe gather in a meal or two. Just like I had done gathering eggs, once upon a time. And I was familiar with the digging process having spent many years of my youth in search of coal in my home state of Pennsylvania. A pick and shovel were my best friends, and I could move some dirt.

This is where my newly enlightened self began a long process of misinformation. But, never one to back away from a challenge, I proceeded to the nearest mudflat and within 10 steps out from the shore, walked right out of my boots. Nothing a few rough cut hemlock planks wouldn't fix. One must be innovative when endeavoring to embark upon new adventures. Undeterred, I returned with my planks, my pick and a short-handled shovel. My bright red plastic laundry basket completed what I felt were necessary tools. Now to begin my dig.

At the end of the third plank, I ripped into the mud like an oversexed tapeworm. Within minutes I had managed to dig a hole about two feet deep but was not turning up much in the way of edibles. Clams must live deeper than I had anticipated, so further down I went. But I had dug about as much with my shovel as I could. I had a post hole digger in the truck and felt renewed confidence in my quest. When I got back to my hole, it had filled in with water.

I hadn't realized, in my enthusiasm, that some people along the shores, back then, straight piped their sewerage overboard. And, at low tide, “a good flush was better than a full house,” to quote a veteran plumbing entrepreneur friend of mine.

I gave up. But not without gaining great respect for those who dig the flats successfully with a rake and a clam hod, and boots that don't come off. Welcome to Maine!