Atlantic Salmon Fishing in Maine

Atlantic Salmon Fishing in Maine

The focal point of Atlantic salmon fishing in Maine has always been the Penobscot River. It was and may

still be the most prolific river in the state. Before dams were built in the 1830s it was estimated that the

annual runs of wild Atlantic salmon was upwards of one hundred thousand fish. The Maine Department

of Marine Resources estimated the size of the run in 2020 to be one thousand four hundred and forty fish.

The first reported Atlantic salmon to be taken on a fly, according to Forest and Stream, was in the summer

of 1880. The news brought many sportsmen and anglers to the Penobscot Valley and interest in the sport

grew very rapidly. The nation's first salmon club, the Penobscot Salmon Club, was formed in 1884. All of

this activity was happening during what we now call America’s Gilded Age. A period of tremendous

economic development. Factories, railroads, and cities were being built… fortunes were being made.

Because wages were significantly higher in the US than they were across the Atlantic, millions of

Europeans immigrated to America during this period. As people began to earn more money they also

began to have more free time to go fishing and hunting. People traveled from Washington DC, New York

and Boston to Bangor and points farther north.

The public attention on Bangor got a big boost when President Ulysses S. Grant arrived there with his

entourage in 1871 to open the railroad that would connect Maine to Canada. Huge crowds greeted him

and a parade of the Maine regiments proceeded down Broadway. Bangor had become a very busy hub

for traveling sportsmen during the years leading into the 20th century. 

H.L. Leonard, a Bangor gunsmith, decided that he would take advantage of the increasing demand for

fishing tackle and started making bamboo fly rods. Today he is considered to be “the father of the modern

fly rod” because of his ability to make the very best six sided bamboo fly rods available at that time. If you

were a sportsman who had the money and free time to travel by train to Bangor to go Atlantic salmon

fishing you probably ended up owning at some point an H.L. Leonard Fly rod. But the salmon rods back

then were nothing like the rods that we use today. A very common modern salmon rod is likely to be

9 feet long and weigh about 3 ounces. The early Leonard salmon rods were in the 14 foot range and

weighed over 20 ounces. 

Perhaps because the Atlantic salmon is so difficult to catch and is such a great prize, salmon fishermen tend to stick with traditional methods. The old adage: “If it ain't broke, don’t fix it,” seems to be the predominant theme. People naturally want to be successful – they want to hook a salmon, fight it, and then (in those days at least) kill it. Not only did you get fame but you also got money for the fish you caught. Back then the first fish caught in the spring would be sold to the highest bidding local hotel. And the fisherman not only got cash but also got to see his name in print. Eventually that tradition evolved into giving that prized fish to the President of the United States. The first such “presidential fish” went to President Taft in 1912 – the last to President George H.W. Bush in 1992.

The Penobscot River was just the first stop for many northbound salmon fishermen during the 1870’s. The great salmon rivers of New Brunswick were easily reached by use of the ever expanding railway system that extended through Fredericton to Newcastle (now Miramichi City) where the vast Miramichi River system dumps its water into the Atlantic ocean. Grants were being issued during those years for fishing rights at a dollar an acre. Today a private, albeit rustic, salmon camp on a good pool on the Miramichi is worth several million dollars. In its heyday the river system produced over a million fish a year. This amazing abundance of fish, game, and wildness drew thousands of sportsmen from cities small and large along the east coast of the United States and Europe to the delicate spawning grounds of what many believe to be the king of gamefish.

The sensitive balance of nature is and has always been at odds with economic growth and development. There are only so many salmon in the ocean and every one of them must use cold clean fresh water rivers to reproduce. Lumber operations, power generation, roads, and human waste do not enhance the cleanliness of the rivers that enrich sportsmen’s lives. It’s ironic that the sportsmen who lust after the salmon and kill it for food and fame are the very people who fight the hardest to keep the rivers clean, the poachers at bay, and the commercial fishery in check. 

Downeast Maine consists of the most easterly parts of Maine – namely Washington and Hancock Counties

. From the south heading north on Route 1 you enter Down East Maine in Ellsworth and you exit at the US

Canada border crossing in Calais. Along the way you cross five rivers that continue to have remnant wild

Atlantic Salmon populations: the Narraguagus, Pleasant, Machias, East Machias, and finally the Dennys.

Like much of Maine, lumbering has been a very big part of the history of this area. It is not uncommon,

even today, when traveling along the rivers on backroads to have to pull over to allow a fast moving,

heavily laden tractor trailer over flowing with freshly cut logs to pass. They literally own the roads. The fact

that we

get to travel these private logging roads is lost on many people. These woods are not publicly owned and

we are very lucky that we are allowed to use them to explore and enjoy the wild areas upriver that would

otherwise only be accessible only by poling a canoe upriver. The woods are thick and in some places

covered with blowdowns and bogs that make the woods almost impossible to walk through. Add to that

the swarms of mosquitoes and black flies and you have an inhospitable natural barrier … except for the

fact that lumber companies have built logging roads throughout.

It’s a double edged sword – the lumber companies provide fishermen a means to access these amazing

areas but they also cut down the very trees that provide cool shade to the river system. Without shade the

rivers heat up in the summer and become too warm for salmon to survive. When that occurs, the salmon

seek cool water in spring holes and become a concentrated target for opportunistic poachers.

In the early days of statehood, Maine basically had three industries – lumber, fish and ship building. Large

quantities of lumber was needed to satisfy the ever increasing demand. Lumbermen took to the woods

with axes and saws and cut down trees morning till night 7 days a week all year round. Once the logs had

been skidded out of the woods they needed to be cut into boards. Saw mills needed power – flowing water

was dammed and waterwheels put in place to drive the milling machines. Little thought was given to the

effect these dams would have on the fish. Roads, houses, mills, stores and churches came first. Most

working people back then, if they fished at all, fished for food .. not for fun.

Maine has a rich history of lumber camps and fishing villages. The rocky coast of Maine is beautiful and

scenic. The towns are quaint, mostly crime free, and the residents are honest hard working people. That

historic backdrop bleeds through time and colors what you find in Maine today, especially along the

northern coast which is now called Down East Maine, which got its name, according to Down East

Magazine, thusly: “When ships sailed from Boston to ports in Maine (which were to the east of Boston),

he wind was at their backs, so they were sailing downwind, hence the term ‘Down East.’ And it follows

that when they returned to Boston they were sailing upwind; many Mainers still speak of going ‘up to

Boston,’ despite the fact that the city lies approximately 50 miles to the south of Maine’s southern border.”

Down East Maine to me has always meant Atlantic Salmon–to me it is the focal point, the hub from which

all the other parts of Maine extend. The people that I came to know were mostly blue collar men –

fishermen who fished with whatever rod they had. In the early years that meant big bamboo or smaller and

lighter fiberglass rods. The Flueger Medalist 1495 1/2 was the reel of choice. Most guys wore a simple

cotton fly vest with just four pockets or used their bird hunting vest to carry flies and leaders.  If any kind

of boot was worn, it was made of thick rubber – either hip boots or chest waders. There was no such thing

as lightweight breathable goretex stocking foot waders. The waders were big, heavy, bulky things with a

lug soled boot attached. A good reason not to wear them. And on Dennys River Salmon Club water you did

n’t need to. A groomed walking path along the river provided easy access. At Charlie's Rips a long wooden

bench provided a closeup view of the pool and a place to kabitz with friends. The guys that gathered there

were mostly locals – the Dennysville postmaster, a school teacher from Eastport, shop owners,

lumbermen, mechanics, carpenters, and the town drunk. He wasn’t a drunk when I knew him. The story is

that he met a woman and she cleaned him up – he was one of the best salmon fishermen on the river.

He mostly fished the Dam Pool at dawn. It was the first fresh water pool that the salmon rested in after r

eturning from sea. It’s the pool that is responsible for me becoming a salmon fisherman.

It was the later part of the 1940’s – after WWII that my great uncle stopped at the Route 1 bridge that

crosses the Dennys just below the Dam Pool. He was with his wife and another couple. They saw a guy

fishing and asked him how big the fish were in the river. He yelled back, “about 10.” Uncle Eric replied

that there were bigger back home. That they caught a lot of fish in the 12 to 15 inch range. The guy let a

minute or two pass before letting them know that he was talking about pounds not inches. From that day

on the Dennys River became an annual destination. The second and third week of June were crossed off

the calendar – there was no place else to be during those two weeks in June. 

The Dennys River 

The Dennys River begins life at the Meddybemps lake dam in Meddybemps Maine and runs 23 miles

through mostly thick pine forest until it enters the town of Dennysville where it passes the Dennys River

Salmon club before crossing under the old route 1 bridge and flowing into the ocean at Dennys Bay which

is adjacent to Cobscook Bay. The Dennys is not a big river. In most places you can easily cast a fly from

one shore to the other – 30 to 40 feet on average. And it isn’t a fast flowing river. There are nine rips

separated by long stretches of dead water and only two places that a canoer might hesitate before

running the rapids. One is called Little Falls which isn’t a falls at all. It just rapids that a skilled canoeist

would have no problem running. On the other hand Hell’s Vestibule looks mean and nasty and although I

am sure a good kayaker could run the rapids I wouldn’t want to try it in an open canoe with an expensive

fly rod lashed to the gunwales.

The calm, easy flowing slightly tinted but clear water is what made the Dennys such a great river to fish for Atlantic salmon in. Most of the pools were considered to be perfect dry fly water – moving but flat without

fly sinking waves. In most cases you could see the fish you were fishing for and because of its small size an

average caster could easily reach the fish with one of the commonly used big bushy dry flies.

Compare this kind of fishing to ocean fishing. There are great fighting fish in the ocean but the environment

is completely different. When you hook an ocean fish it can run in any direction and it can run for as long as

its endurance will allow it to. You might see the fish jumping a hundred or two hundred yards away. Take that

same fish and put it in a small pool up in the thick forest where spotting a moose or bear is a fairly common

occurrence. Instead of seagulls you hear chickadees as you step quietly into the river. The pool is maybe 50

feet long and 30 feet across. You know there are three salmon lying near the head of the pool because you

snuck up close to them earlier when you arrived and watched them while hiding behind thick cover.  They

have no idea that you are there. You see a flash now and then as they move playfully in their lie. They are

not going to swim away and you have the pool to yourself. You know that no one else even knows these fish

are there. There is no rush, you take your time despite being nervously excited by the thought of casting a fly

to where one of them might decide to deliberately  rise up and take the fly. You know you will have to fight the

urge to set the hook too quickly. You must wait for the fish to close its mouth and turn down before striking. It

will take nerves of steel but you have learned from experience and you know you can pull it off. On the first

cast a fish comes for the fly, bumps it with its nose but does not take it. You let the fly drift by and continue until

you know he will not see you pick it up off the water for the next cast. Or maybe you decide not to cast again

right away. Maybe it would be better to let them rest undisturbed for a while. It’s not a tennis match – it’s a chess

game. You know from experience that a fish that comes to the fly once can most likely be caught if you don’t

screw it up. Every cast must be perfect. The fly must drift freely without drag. The fish must see the fly and not

the leader. The loop cast is required and even though you know how to make the cast it’s an easy cast to mess

up. All it takes is a gust of wind to cause the fly to miss it’s intended touch down spot. You must land it just in

front of the fish – you can't let him look it over for too long. It lands and he reacts and takes it. You wait for the

big fish to turn down and disappear, you set the hook hard driving the sharp point though the side of his mouth.

He is on! You don’t yell, you don’t turn around and look at your fishing partner, you concentrate and you use all

of your senses to fight the fish. He runs up river in a very rapidly surging effort, then turns when the pool suddenly

ends and comes charging back towards you. You reel as fast as you can but you can’t keep the line tight – he is

way too fast. He comes right at you and leaps high into the air as high as your head and crashes into the water

inches away from your waders. The spray hits the side of your face as you turn around and face him as he

screams line off your reel down river. This time when he jumps you must bow and give him slack so that he can’t

snap your leader with his shaking head. The pool is small, the fish is big, and you are evenly matched. Losing the

fish now would not be disgraceful in any way. You have fought him with great skill and sometimes he will do

something that there is no effective response. If he swings around the big rock at the tail of the pool the leader

will break no matter what you do. You might try letting the line go slack. Sometimes that works. The fish feels the

pull of the line from downstream and heads back but if he swims around the rock he wins – it’s that simple. This

me you are lucky and doesn’t go around the rock, instead he leaps again and turns back to the pool from whence it

came. You keep pressure on him and he tires. You maneuver him into position beside you and you reach down and

grab his big tail and lift. He is yours, you won the fight alone and unassisted. It’s a deeply personal and private thing

– this feeling that swells up in you. In a way you are sad about killing this beautiful and majestic wild creature. You

look at him lying in the grass motionless and you are silent in thought and emotion. You sit there for a few minutes.

The sound of the river comes back into your consciousness, You hear the birds again. You hear and feel your

heartbeat return to normal. You take a deep breath and let out a long sigh.