Introduction
My father, now 92, started fishing for Atlantic salmon in Maine in 1951. He taught me how to cast a fly rod when I was 15. I fished exclusively for Atlantic salmon for many years and never really became a good trout fisherman. The reason? I was spoiled – to this day I have found nothing that compares to sight fishing for, hooking, fighting, and finally landing a 10 to 20 pound bright, strong, fresh, sea run Atlantic salmon while wading in a relatively small river. There are bigger and stronger fish in the ocean – take tarpon for example. It is possible to hook, fight, and land a 100 pound plus tarpon on a fly rod. But you are fishing from a boat that can chase the fish over a very large area. When you have waded out on a sandbar and are standing in waist deep water in a pool that is only 30 feet across and 50 feet long you have nowhere to go except back to the heavily wooded impenetrable shoreline. You must stand and fight the fish with all the skill and finesse that you can muster. You do this knowing that this one fish might be the only fish that you will get a chance to land all week. In the early years, when the fishing was good, if you caught one Atlantic salmon in a week of fishing you had done well. Only the really good Atlantic salmon fishermen accomplished this feat year after year. In our party, which consisted of four average to very good fishermen, we would normally bring one or two fish home after a week of hard fishing. Some years we did better and some years we got skunked. The old rule of thumb is that it takes one thousand casts to hook an Atlantic salmon. So if you made 200 casts a day it would take you 5 days on average to hook a fish. I know people who have fished hard year after year for several years to catch one fish. At that rate it takes a long time to learn exactly what makes a salmon “take” a fly and how to fight him so that he can be tired out quickly, landed and released. I put the word “take” in quotation marks because there is a particular set of words that traditional salmon anglers use. And tradition in this sport runs deep – so deep that it has slowed down the development of new techniques. I will cover the topic of tradition as it applies to fishing techniques and to the Atlantic salmon angler’s unique language in greater detail later.
I will begin by providing some context. I will describe the rivers, towns, and culture of Maine and eastern Canada. You will need this information in order to fully understand the reasons why certain techniques were used at various times over the span of 50 years. I will then take you with me as I hook and land 50 Atlantic salmon. I’ll tell you where I was, what the water conditions were, and what technique was used to accomplish hooking and landing each fish. Just like I did, you will learn something new from each fish. And since tackle has changed tremendously through the years and new techniques are constantly being developed and used to catch Atlantic salmon, this will also be a little bit of fishing history.
Although the primary focus will be fishing for Atlantic salmon in Maine the story will expand naturally into Eastern Canada due to the fact that Atlantic salmon were put on the endangered species list in 1999 and all fishing for them was outlawed in Maine.
Chapter I – The Early History of Recreational Atlantic Salmon Fishing in Maine.
Chapter II – The Rivers, Towns, People, and Culture of Down East Maine
Chapter III – The Dennys River
Chapter IV – The Boys from Worcester
Chapter V – The Traditional Atlantic Salmon Fishing Method
Chapter VI – Book Knowledge and Lessons Learned From the Best
Chapter VII – 50 Fish and the Lesson Learned From Each
Chapter I -The Early History of Recreational 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 Europens 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.
To be continued ….
Chapter II - The Rivers, Towns, People, and Culture of Down East Maine
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), the 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 didn’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 returning 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.
To be continued ….
Chapter III - 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 time 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.
To be continued …
Chapter IV – The Boys from Worcester
The Dennys River Salmon Club was established in 1936 and consisted of mostly local Maine residents right up until it faded out of existence in the early two thousands. The corporate entity was dissolved in 2004 but the club lingered on until at least 2006. In that last annual report that I could find there were 58 members listed. 33 resided in Maine, 1 in Connecticut, 1 in New Hampshire, 1 in New York, and 7 from Massachusetts. The 7 of us from Massachusetts were all friends from the Worcester Area. The annual meetings, which were held during the 3rd week of June would normally have about 12 - 15 members in attendance and 7 of them became known as, “the Boys from Worcester.”
Back in the fifties when “the boys” first started going up to fish for Atlantics they stayed in the Lincoln House built in 1787 by Revolutionary War General Benjamin Lincoln (1733-1810), a native of Hingham, Massachusetts. Later they rented a number of cabins from Ray Robinson. Near the end of the more than 35 year run my parents ended up staying in what used to be the summer home of Ken Sears. It was one of Robbinson’s cottages but it was fortuitously built overlooking one of the best pools on the river – “Sear’s Pool. We took many fish from that pool through the years. And spent hours and hours watching the fish react to different flies and various presentations from the roof of the cabin. This is how we invented the Scott Drift presentation that works very well even on very stubborn fish. Here I am at Sear’s Pool as a teenager with a nice 10 - 12 lb bright fish taken on a big bomber. This fish is a great example of how sometimes a new technique is discovered accidentally. I will describe in detail exactly how this fish was enticed into smashing the fly after many casts were drifted over it.
To be continued…
Chapter V – The Traditional Atlantic Salmon Fishing Method
There are more wives tales, outdated traditions, and total misinformation about fishing techniques, types of flies, appropriateness of gear, weather and water conditions and even how one should dress when it comes to Atlantic salmon fishing than any other kind of fishing on the planet. Why is this the case?
I believe that the main reason that new fishing techniques have taken so long to evolve is that the Atlantic salmon is very difficult to catch. So even in rivers that have great numbers of fish it could take days of hard fishing to hook just one fish. But the fight is so spectacular and the prize so valuable that it is worth the effort! To catch just one is a fantastic achievement- an event of a lifetime for some. And in Europe where it all began it was a sport of kings. The rivers and pools or “beats” were owned by the wealthy ruling class. The flies were very elaborate and colorful — perfectly tied with great precision — created by very skilled artisans, they were intentionally too expensive for the average person. Tweed jackets, neckties and personal assistants to tie on flies and land the fish.
In America, the working class took to fishing along with the wealthy, and they improvised out of necessity, replacing matched feathers with animal hair wings. It is said that the riffling hitch was created by guides who got the discarded broken gut eyed flies and tied them to the tippet with a couple of half hitches behind the varnished head. It skittered across the pool making a wake as it bounced along and the fish came to it. A new method was discovered because of an accidental occurrence. No science was involved, no great mind thought it up, it was not an intentional attempt to attract the fish. It was simply the case that a fly tied on crooked skittered on the surface and that action, for whatever reason, stimulated the salmon to rise and take it. No experienced salmon angler would have ever tried this method — in fact under normal conditions if a proper Atlantic salmon fly came to the surface and skittered that way it would immediately be reeled in and retied to get it to swim correctly just below the surface .
To Be Continued …
VI - Book Knowledge
There are really only two ways to learn how to catch Atlantic salmon. You either learn how to use some particular technique on your own by trial and error or you learn it from someone else. You can learn a thing or two on your own but it would be next to impossible to learn everything about catching Atlantic salmon without some help. Even if we are only talking about techniques and not requiring you to invent the fly rod, fly reel, line and leader you still have a difficult road ahead. Even if someone taught you how to fly cast and which flies to use and what pools to fish in, you still have much to learn. You watch others, you ask questions and you read books. But remember that the people you watch and ask questions also learned from others. The authors of salmon fishing books either learned something on their own or they learned from others. The great fisherman and authors, in my opinion, are those who experimented and developed new techniques or improved upon existing methods. They are the inventors and creators. They are the ones who have given us the most. I’m thinking of Hewitt and LeBranch who fished together on the Upsalquitch and watched the salmon react to various techniques and methods. They spent many hours filming how a fly looked from beneath the water. They tested leaders and various materials and were fortunate enough to have many salmon to experiment on. Their books are well worth reading. Lee Wulff flew his little single engine plane to Newfoundland and Labrador and spent many hours on rivers that contained many hundreds of fish that had never seen a fly. He filmed his adventures and wrote about the successful techniques he discovered. There are many other writers who contributed to the learning process but the knowledge took many years to develop because of the traditions that were brought to North America from Europe in the eighteenth century were held onto dearly.
Let’s trace salmon fishing back to the beginning.
To be continued….
Chapter VII – 50 Fish and the Lesson Learned From Each
Fish #1: Meathunters
Location: The Dennys River, Meathunters Pool.
Date: Third week in June, 1972.
Water conditions: Perfect (we didn’t take water the temperature of the water back then — we just fished.)
Method: I’m in the front of the canoe, my father is in the back. I’m fishing, he’s guiding. He knows the pool and the lies within the pool. I’m doing what I’m told. The canoe is anchored so that I can carefully swing the big 4/0 streamer called the Sam Ward Special (a very large Cossaboom) across to where the salmon will sometimes be. We had already fished the upper part of the pool and had dropped down. We were now at the tail. As soon as the canoe became steady I stood and began to cast. We were anchored left of center in relatively smooth water, far enough from the tree lined bank that I could make a back cast. The river flowed from right to left so my back casts sailed between my father in the back and me in the front. As I write this I can only imagine what was going through my father’s mind as I swung that big Sam Ward Special back and forth in front of his face. The fly is not available commercially — it’s basically a heavy pickerel hook with some squirrel tail tied behind the head. It could have easily served as some kind of medieval weapon designed to extract the eyeballs from charging enemies.
After working out longer lengths of line with each cast the fly got close to the overhanging alder branches on the other side of the river. We could see the fly swinging just a few inches under the water. It had only swung a few feet when the fish charged out from under the alders and grabbed the fly. I didn’t have to set the hook. The line was tight and the fish turned on the fly and hooked himself. If this happens now I would immediately know what I had hooked and what to expect but this was my first Atlantic salmon. A ten pound Atlantic salmon is in a completely different league than a 10 inch brookie! A ten inch brookie shakes his head, a ten pound salmon shakes you. It shakes you, it shakes the canoe, and it shakes the guy trying to keep the canoe steady.
This fish did not act like a normal Atlantic salmon. It felt heavy and pulled hard but it didn’t make the normal high speed run, it jumped only once, and stayed below us in the pool. We still had our hands full and had to make some quick decisions. We had the anchor rope to deal with. If we decided to try to land it from the canoe the fish could easily go around the rope and break off. We could go to shore and get out of the canoe — which in most cases is the smartest choice — but this fish didn’t seem to resist my reeling and he came to the boat pretty quickly. Dad grabbed the net and scooped him up and all of a sudden there on the bottom of the boat was my first Atlantic salmon! We paddled to shore, got out, and celebrated with a cigar. The mosquitoes prevented us from staying very long. Besides, Dad wanted to tell everyone back at the camp about the fish. I, on the other hand, made light of the whole thing. Teenagers will be teenagers — I think I made off like it was no big deal for a great fisherman like myself. I think I even had on a brimmed hat like that of Edward Hewitt.
The reason the fish hadn’t fought like a typical salmon was that he was hooked through his tongue. That big two ought hook had penetrated it completely and the fish must have felt like his tongue was being extracted.
Lessons learned: Local fly patterns can be effective. You don’t need to be an experienced/knowledgeable salmon angler to catch an Atlantic salmon.
#4/0 Sam Ward Special with #6 Green Machine for comparison
Fish #2 The Rockpile
The Rockpile is a place on the Dennys where the water mounds up as it passes over a pile of rocks. The water is rough and covered with white caps in an area about 10 feet wide and 20 feet long. It is not really a pool – its a formation within a pool or stretch of water below the Denny River Club House. It rarely gets fished – in fact in 15 years of fishing the Dennys I never saw anyone fishing that stretch of water. So there must have been a reason that my Uncle Robert asked me if I wanted to go there and fish the pool with him. He probably heard that someone saw a fish jump there or something. In those days, one of the primary strategies we used was to collect intelligence about where the fish or where a fish had been seen. If you saw one yourself, you marked the location and then keep that location a secret – telling only members of your own fishing party. And then only after you had tried for the fish enough times to be satisfied that it was time to let others in on the opportunity. Some individual fish were located or seen by someone who couldn’t keep their mouth shut so basically everyone knew about the fish and everyone tried for the fish when they got a chance.
Anyway Robert asked me to join him and we drove from Robbinson’s Cottages to the Club in his car. I had my 8 foot for an 8 weight Fenwick fiberglass rod. It was my only rod and I used it from the first day I ever fish for Atlantics until many years later when I could afford a graphite salmon rod. By this time I had begun experimenting with tying different flies and had been spending a week or two on the West Branch of the Penobscot fishing for landlocked salmon – which are pretty much the same genetically as an Atlantic salmon. The only difference being that they were “landlocked” by some physical obstruction during the ice age that prevented them from being able to run back out into the ocean. One fly that worked very well on landlocks was the elk hair caddis so I decided to make a variation of it to be used on Atlantics. My variation consisted of a big deer hair bomber with a deer hair wing laying down over the body. It was 2’ long and ⅝” in diameter. The body had a dark brown hackle palmered over it. The fly was big, bulky and a boring dull brown.
Robert started down through the pool first with a wet fly, swinging it across every inch of the pool. He supposedly didn’t know where the fish was in the pool but I noticed that he spent a lot of time casting directly over the rockpile and once he moved past that area he picked up his pace. Robert was a very experienced and knowledgeable fisherman – one of those guys who no matter what he is fishing for always catches fish when no one else can. Fishing is his thing, so I figured he spent extra time swinging flies over the rockpile for a reason.
I started at the top of the pool, above the rockpile. The water where I started is technically part of the next pool up from the rockpile. We called it, “The Slick” and that’s what it was, a wide smooth slick of water coming around the corner near the clubhouse. If there was a fish in the slick everyone knew about it because you could easily see into it from the clubhouse which sat high up on the bank above the pool. The slick water is very nice dry fly water and my new invention looked great as it floated down past me. I was casting what LaBranch called “the loop.” It’s basically a mend cast that puts the leader upstream of the floating dry fly. Ken Sears had taught it to my father and the other Wocester boys years earlier. Most of “the boys,” however, frowned on it and refused to accept that it worked any better than just casting a dry fly the same way they had been for years on trout streams.
The easiest way to throw the loop is to use a long piece of level leader – maybe 10 to 12 feet attached directly to the fly line. Then you make a big slow sweeping sidearm cast without any snap at the end of the forward cast. The big fluffy air resistant fly would drag behind the leader and not turn over the way you’d normally want a good fly cast to. If executed properly the fly would land straight down stream of the long leader and drift drag free over the salmon. The salmon then looking upstream would see just the fly and no leader.
I threw cast after cast like that just above the rock pile and slowly worked my way down the river. When my fly started to bob up and down in the waves formed by the rushing water being pushed up by the submerged rock pile I changed my tactics slightly. Instead of letting it drift freely until the end of the drift, then picking it up for another cast, I let the fly free drift until the line became tight then let it swing across in an arc on the tight line. During the swing it skittered on the surface. As I tried to cover all of the water one cast landed the fly right on top of the rockpile. The fast water quickly pulled the line tight and just as the fly popped and just as it would normally start to swing a salmon took the fly. It’s amazing how fast the fish had to be to take that fly in the rushing white water. But he did it with very little commotion—I didn’t even see the take, the fly just disappeared. Again I did not need to set the hook. I just felt the sudden hard tug and he was on. This fish was strong and quick and he was in fast water so I had my nyophite hands full. Line ripped off the Fluegger Medalist as he ran straight down stream. There was nothing I could do but let him run. He jumped twice during that first run. Then just after I saw backing starting to peel off the reel he fortuitously turned back upstream and stopped dead in the water as if he had found a quiet lie to rest in.
This was my third year into Atalntic salmon fishing, so even though I had only landed one fish up to this point I had read several books on the subject and knew that one of Lee Wulff’s tricks was to get alongside the fish – don’t try to fight him from upriver, he’ll just use the flow to his advantage. So I walked down the grassy club path and reeled in line to get closer to the fish. When I was beside the fish I just put a little pressure on him which pulled his head to the side so that he couldn’t maintain his position in the river. This forced him to work harder which ultimately tired him out and made him easier to land. While I was working my way down to the fish, Robert had gone back to his car for the net so he didn’t see what happened next. The fish apparently didn’t like having his jaw pulled on like I was doing so he made a sudden rush upstream and out of the water in another high leap. “Bow to the queen” I told myself and I did and he didn’t break off. After a while he came to rest again and again I pulled sideways on his jaw. He moved off irritatedly but slower this time. I moved up and continued to apply side pressure. This tired him and he began to come closer to shore in an attempt to reduce the continuous pressure he felt. I tried to tail him a couple of times but each time I reached down he saw me and moved away. Then he came really close and with one leg in the water I grabbed his tail and threw him on the bank. When Robert got down to where I was, I had killed it… the fight over. Robert is in his nineties now and still recalls how surprised he was that I had already landed the fish by the time he had walked to the car and back.
Lesson learned: Atlantic salmon react to flies in a similar manner as do landlocked salmon and trout. The old traditional patterns may work on Atlantic salmon but there are lots of other patterns and techniques that also work. Many have yet to be developed.
Top to bottom: Rockpile Caddis, Green Machine, Sam Ward Special
(#6 Green Machine shown for comparison)
Fish # 3 — The Machias River
One of the best Atlantic salmon fishermen that fished the Dennys and the Machias was Doc Payson. My Uncle Robert Scott and Massachusetts Fish and Wildlife Photographer, Jack Swedberg met Doc shortly after they had started fishing the Dennys with their fathers in the 50’s. They met him by accident when they came upon him with a fish on, at his secret pool. Doc had snuck in on foot and had carefully tied back some of the alder branches so that he could fish the pool. Robert and Jack had paddled up from Robbinson’s Cottages just to explore the river. When they came around the corner they saw Doc standing out in the pool fighting a 15 pound salmon. Doc was not happy about being discovered but got to know Robert and Jack and felt he could trust them. A life long friendship developed.
Doc had built a cabin on the Machias River which was not easy to get to. You couldn’t drive to it. You either had to hike in or take a canoe up the river. Since we wanted to fish a few pools on the way to Doc’s we decided to canoe. There was no electricity or phone so if you wanted to visit Doc you just showed up. Which is what my father and I did one gorgeous June day in 1980. We put in just above Whitneyville and began paddling upstream. As was the normal routine, I’m in the front seat and “The Captain” as we now refer to my father, took command from the rear seat.
The crisp early morning air and bright blue sky made the job of paddling up river enjoyable. We tried a couple of likely looking spots from the canoe but didn’t move a fish until the very last riffle before getting to Doc’s cabin. We maneuvered the canoe into position just upstream of the run. Captain held the canoe in position while I started to cast. Again I’m using my one and only fly rod and reel — 8 x 8 Fenwick with a Pflueger 1494 ½ reel. The line was probably a cheap double taper whatever and had been flipped end for end at least once. I’m sure it was cracked and dirty from use and the backing was a greyish white and inadequate at best. The leader was a ten pound test Berkeley 7.5’ tapered leader with a couple of feet of Maxima 8 pound tippet material tied on with a five twist blood knot. The fly was a hand tied very plain size 6 muddled minnow. It was either the second or third week of June, the water was at a very nice fishing height. It was basically a picture perfect scene — one that would make a very nice watercolor painting. Big boulders with water swirling around them. Dark blue water surrounded by sparkling splashes and white highlights. Bright blue skies filled with large cumulus clouds and the ever present sound of moving water that you feel more than hear. I knew enough to start with a very short line — just the leader. Still sitting I dappled the fly in the current next to the canoe then with each subsequent cast extended the line a foot at a time and covered more water, watching the fly intently, looking for any indication of a fish. A flash, a movement, a bulge in the water’s surface, anything out of the ordinary. Even if you just intuitively think you saw something you put another cast over that same exact spot, maybe also altering the way the fly crosses over the lie. When the line was too long to cast while sitting I stood and continued to swing the fly in every likely eddy and the little tailing runs that form downstream of every exposed boulder. Every submerged rock was covered by a cast, every dark spot, every inch … searching, watching, trying to see beneath the surface and then it happened. A flash of silver and a little bit of flesh appeared on the surface as the big fish took the fly. His nose has to break the surface in order to get his mouth around the fly. You can’t set the hook like you would on a trout. You must wait and let him take it fully into his mouth and let him turn as he attempts to get back to his lie. I knew nothing about strip sets back then, which would definitely work better than lifting the rod but that is what I knew so that is what I did. Set hard though, pull that sharp point through his jaw and make sure the barb has sunk deeply into his flesh.
I didn’t need to learn the hard way about setting hard. I had heard the story many times about my father losing six salmon in a row from not setting hard enough with his Orvis Battenkill. I always set hard — eight pound Maxima tied with good knots will take a lot of pulling before it breaks. Probably more than I could apply with a bent rod set. I knew the salmon was hooked very well and there wasn’t a chance in hell that the fly was pulling out. I fought the fish, the Captain netted it, we dispatched with a Swiss Army knife, covered it with wet grass, and continued on to Doc’s. That’s when things got interesting, that’s when I learned a very valuable lesson. One that I use on a regular basis.
To Be Continued …
Fish #4 - 6 Sear’s Pool:
#4 – Because we stayed in a cabin on Sear’s Pool and the fish could be seen either from the porch or the roof we learned a lot about what motivates a salmon to take a fly.We caught a lot of fish there but there are three that were taken by using different and non-traditional techniques.
Before I get into the specifics I want to discuss some Atlantic salmon fishing basics. As you probably know, Atlantic salmon, unlike trout and other freshwater species, do not eat food–like insects and small fish, etc., while they are on their spawning run upriver. It’s theorized that they don’t eat because if they did they would end up consuming the young salmon that spend their early lives in the river. So why do they take a fly? There are many theories about this but I believe they take a fly because seeing it triggers a reflex. The same reflex that helped to survive up until now. The change that occurs in them that drives them to migrate from the northern seas back to their birth river and then to run up that river and spawn also suppresses their ability to eat but it doesn’t totally eliminate the reflex to try to catch something to eat.
The other factor to consider is that even though they are “running” upriver to spawn, they don’t make one continuous run from the mouth of the river all the way to their spawning beds. There could be a small percentage of fish that do, but for the most part the fish will stop and rest in pools along the way. And when they do stop, they stop in one specific place, call a lie. Once they are comfortable in that lie, they tend to stay there – at least for a while. We have seen the same fish in the same place for several days. This allows the fisherman to try different techniques on that one fish over multiple fishing sessions. Lee Wulff believed that if he could get a fish to react to a fly in some manner, even if it was just a slight movement, he could eventually get that fish to take. (I use “take” not “eat” to describe the act of the fish opening its mouth, taking the fly, and closing it.) When I hear someone say that the fish ate their fly I cringe!
Getting back to Sear’s Pool and the different techniques we used to catch fish there. I won’t describe the standard accepted ways like swinging a wet fly or drifting a dry or even fishing the hitch. I will focus on 3 fish and the specific ways they were enticed to take a fly.
The first one is very interesting because it’s one of those methods that you might have heard of and maybe even tried but if you did try you probably gave up way before you should have. I had seen a fish rise in the lower part of pool. I marked its exact location and started to fish for it. I could not use the most effective dry fly technique that requires you to be beside or below the fish. I had to fish from upstream. I started with a wet fly and made several good casts over the lie then switched to another wet, and another–three different wet flies, resting the pool for 15-20 minutes between each fly. I didn’t discern any movement during this entire time. I the decided to use a big grey and brown bomber. It was a 2” long size 4 hook tied onto an 8 pound test tapered leader. The trick to dry fly fishing for Atlantic salmon is to get the fly to land just upriver directly in front of the fish and then have it float over the fish before the leader does. So you cast the fly with more power than needed to reach the fish then stop the line quickly so that the fly bounces back a little and falls. The shock of stopping the fly causes the leader to have waves in it that allow the fly to drift without any drag. The cast has to be very accurate – maybe 2 feet upriver from the fish so he doesn’t have any time to examine it – the fly lands and drifts quickly over him so he must react quickly, reflexively, if he’s going to take it. I think he sees the fly land and that is what triggers the reflex. If it comes down the river on the surface out of his sight he will see it coming for a long time and won’t be motivated by the reflex to take it (that’s my theory anyway).
So I start throwing the bomber in this way. It lands where I want it to, drifts over him and he doesn’t move. I let the fly continue to drift well past the fish before picking it up carefully for the next attempt. That way the fish doesn’t get spooked by me loudly popping the fly from the water. I make this same cast many times. I just keep dropping it as closely as possible to the spot I believe is 2 feet in front of the fish. I did this for maybe half an hour before taking a break. The cabin is right there so it’s easy to rest the pool and then return. I have marked the spot by visually memorizing it position relative to branches and rocks on the shore. It’s like a visual triangulation. I decided not to try wet flies any more. Instead I wanted to see what would happen if I just kept casting the same dry fly and landing it right where he can see it over and over again. I did this pretty much all afternoon – for 4 or 5 hours I fished for 30 mins then rested him for 30 minutes. You’ve probably guessed by now that he did finally come up and take the fly. And that’s exactly what happened. It he took the fly, I set the hook, played him, landed him and released him.
#5 — This fish is similar to #4 in that all of the casting was with a big brown bomber to one particular fish. This time however I was using “the loop” as we called it. My father learned it from Ken Sear’s, who as previously mentioned lived on the river and is the namesake of this pool. Before I describe the cast, let me say that George LaBranche describes., “casting the curve” in his book “The Salmon and the Dry Fly.” He also says, “It is known on our streams and rivers as the ‘loop’ cast.” But when you read his description of how the cast is made it is very different from the way it was taught to me by my father. I never got to meet Mr. Sears, but according to The Captain this is exactly how Sear’s taught him. LaBranche’s loop is made by casting a wide horizontal loop and then checking the line so the fly kicks around and falls below the leader. He does not mention anything specific about the leader itself. The Sear’s Loop calls for a long length of level leader in order that the fly does NOT kick around to form the loop. Instead the fly is cast with just enough power so that it reaches the fish but does not straighten. It’s like a drag cast at the shorter distances but with practice it is possible to shoot the line and maintain the loop for quite a distance - fifty to sixty feet without much trouble.
I suppose Sear’s knew about the effectiveness of the loop from reading LaBranche then modified the technique to suit the pool that he was fishing most of the time. The dragging side arm technique works especially well when the water is flowing from left to right for a right handed caster. For if it came the other way the right hander would have to make a backhanded drag cast which would be difficult. Anyway, back to fish #4
(Note: maybe instead of numbering these as Fish I should name them as techniques?)
There were 3 very well established lies in Sear’s Pool. This fish was in one of the more difficult to reach lies. It was all the way across the pool – right up against the opposite bank. We never waded in this pool – it just wasn’t done for whatever reason. Occasionally we did make use of a canoe, but for the most part we just cast from the grassy bank which had been trimmed to allow for easy walking. The big pines had also been cut to open a slot for your backcast. – it was in line with the cast needed to reach this uppermost lie.
Just like fish #3 I just kept casting to the fish repeatedly. This time I didn’t even stop to rest the fish – I just kept dropping cast after cast just upstream of the fish. Every so often – like 15 to 20 minutes or sometimes a little longer, he would reward my efforts by coming up to the fly and knocking it around with his nose. This went on for a couple of hours until it got dark enough that it was time to call it quits. On my last cast, instead of throwing the loop I fired a cast straight over the fish right to the bank. When the fly hit the water on a tight line I immediately started reeling it in as fast as I could with that old Pflueger. The big bomber hit with a splash and started waking its way across the lie. The fish charged at it, grabbed it furiously in a huge swirl and took off down stream leaping out of water as it went. It was a magnificent 12 pound bright male fish with sea lice still attached.
#6 – The Scott Drift
One bright, sunny, and calm afternoon, we decided to climb up on the roof to watch the salmon. There were six fish together in the main lie which was a kind of underwater sandbar. I’m not sure what it was but there was something about that spot that was favorable to the salmon. Maybe it was the way the water flowed up and over the bar creating an underwater wave that enabled them to remain almost motionless in that spot. It was very enjoyable just sitting up there watching the fish through polarized glasses. The sun was directly overhead so the view into the pool was spectacular. You could see the slightest movement of fin, tail, or mouth. After watching for some time we decided it would be fun for one of us to stay on the roof and watch while the other went down and fished. Dad went down and fished while I watched and reported back to him where his fly was in relation to the fish and if I saw any indication of interest.
I wanted to stay up on the roof and watch so Carl climbed down, got his rod and headed to the pool. He started by casting down and across with a Sam Ward Special. The fly was easily visible as it swung across the pool, in front of the little pod of fish. It got absolutely no reaction from the fish. He tried a smaller fly and it also drifted by the noses of the fish without getting even a sideways glance. He tried several different wet flies and two dry flies, a fish flashed by turning on its side. “You got a reaction that time!” I said just loud enough so that he could hear me. Try that again.”
The next drift and the next got similar reactions from the fish. They moved at it and near it but would not take.Or in one case it looked like a fish took the fly but then spit it out – Carl never felt a thing. “Next time I’ll tell you when it is right in front of them. Stop the fly and pull it back towards you, like it’s trying to get away.” I was thinking about how you can tease a kitten into chasing a piece of yarn. As soon as he began retrieving the fly, a fish moved forward and took it and was hooked. Carl played the fish and released him. It was a great learning experience watching from the roof.
#7 – Bartlett’s Fish at the Narrows
I bring this particular fish up now because it is in a way similar to the previous fish in that I was watching someone else fish and again learned a very important lesson about fishing for Atlantic salmon.
The Narrows is a pool just upriver from Sear’s Pool. It was one of my favorite pools because I enjoyed canoeing up there and having it to myself. It wasn’t known to be the most productive pool and therefore didn’t get fished much. It would be more accurate to say it wasn’t known to be a productive pool because it didn’t get fished much – but that is not the way most of the fishermen thought about it.
One day I paddled up to The Narrows after breakfast. Beams of sunlight were just starting to strike the ledge on the west side of the pool. The pool itself was still in the shade of the high pines that blocked the morning light. I anchored the canoe on the east side in a good position to start fishing a wet at the top of the pool. Once I had enough line out so that I was almost at the limit of my reach, I’d move the canoe down and start again swinging the wet across the pool. It was very peaceful. The only sounds were birds and the water lapping against the canoe. To be successful at salmon fishing you have to be very focused on the fly or where you think the fly is as it swings. You basically stare at it intently and by doing so with the moving water as the only background it becomes hypnotic. The sound of water, a gentle breeze caressing the back of your neck, and the watery flow around the fly all combine and engulf you. You are literally in another world. I think that is why it is possible to fish for many hours and not be bored by the fact that you haven’t seen a fish. It’s actually very enjoyable.
After fishing the entire pool I decided to sit on the ledge in the sun and rest the pool. My intention was to rest the pool for a half hour and then fish it from shore which would have given me a chance to fish it and have the fly swing in the opposite direction. Needless to say I was more than a little disappointed when I heard a car coming down the old woods road. Then it stopped, its engine went silent and I heard three doors slam shut and talking. It was Lippy, his brother Don Cushing, and Ed Bartlett. These guys were undoubtedly the three deadliest fishermen on the river. Together they killed half of all the fish taken in those years. If the total fish killed was 100 in a given year they accounted for 50. (Note to self: check out what the bag limits were back then)
The three men knew me. I was either a teenager or in my early twenties, they were old enough to be my father. I had great respect for them because I knew they were considered to be among the best fishermen on the river. Ed spoke first, “Good morning Ron, how are you?”
“Good thanks, how are you guys doing?” I replied. We continued exchanging pleasantries for a few minutes, then Ed asked,”Have you seen anything?”
“No, nothing. I only fished down through once though.” I said. Thinking back about this now, I think they should have turned around and left me have the pool to myself. But they didn’t. Instead they asked if I minded if they fish. I told them it would be fine. It really wasn’t fine but I was intimidated and decided that I’d use the experience as a way to learn something.
These three guys fished together, a lot. Not only did they fish the Dennys together but they also traveled to New Brunswick and fished the Miramichi together, so they must have had a rotation to whom would go through the pool first. This time it was Lippy’s turn and he started to fish at the head of the pool. I watch his small green fly swing across the pool. There were no wasted movements on his part. Dead straight pick up and lay down casts one after another. No false casting and every cast landed delicately on the water. He covered the pool very thoroughly but didn’t move a fish. Donald went next and used a big Sam Ward Special.with equal dexterity. I noted that he covered a few areas that Lippy had missed on the far side of the run, but otherwise he fished the pool in the same manner as Lippy had. Third to fish the pool was Ed who chose to use a small black bear hair on the hitch. Again he started at the very top of the pool with a short line and gradually increased its length until he was covering every inch of the pool. He did one thing a little differently than the other two – he fished the pool farther down past the fast water into the dead water beyond the tail of the pool. And when he did I saw a small disturbance near his fly. He looked back at us three observers and said, “did you see that?” We all had. He made the exact same cast again and as the fly came over that same spot a fish took his fly. The fight was on. Not only did they take my fish but they used my canoe to land the fish! All three of those guys have passed now so I probably should speak too harshly about them.
I have no idea if I would have hooked that fish. I might not have even put a fy over it … but it bothers me now that they took advantage of a kid to get a fish.
Lessons learned: 1) stand up for yourself – don’t get pushed around. If you are fishing or resting a pool don’t let someone else elbo their way in… unless you’ve fished it enough to be satisfied or if you are just in a very generous mood. 2) It’s worth trying several different flies and methods when fishing a pool. Go through the pool three or four times with different size and color flies. Fish it in the traditional down and across with a wet fly but also tru the hitch, try something big and something small.
#8 – That’s Not a Salmon Pool
By the mid 1980’s the salmon fishing had all but ended on the Denny’s so we went in search of better water. 1984 was a particular poor year for fish in the Denny’s. Ray Robbinson told us that Bartlett, Lippy and Don were up in Canada on the Renous River. Dad and I decided to take a ride up and see if we could find them or if we couldn’t find them we thought we might at least be able to obtain some information about fishing the Miramichi system.
Back then crossing the border into Canada wasn’t a big deal. We didn’t need passports or covid tests or much of anything. The border patrol agents just asked us where we were going and how long we would be staying. From the border it took less than 3 hours to get to the Renous which flows into the SouthWest Miramichi river in Quarryville, which is a very popular public salmon pool. The dirt road that runs above and alongside the pool is a spectacular place to watch fishermen. In those days there would normally be 15 - 20 people fishing both from the shore and from boats. From the elevated road the view up the main river is absolutely beautiful.
After watching the fishermen and seeing many fish leaping and a couple caught at Quarryville we drove up to the second bridge that crosses the Renous. It’s a Bailey bridge – a prefabricated single lane metal truss bridge that crosses just above Simon’s Pool and just below Bell Pool. We stopped and pulled over before the bridge and walked out on it to see if we could spot any salmon in the river. There was virtually no traffic in those days so we took our time, enjoying the sunshine and nice weather as we shaded out polaroid glasses with cupped hands while gazing into every likely spot.
Just as we were about to walk back off the bridge a rattling old pickup truck pulled slowly onto the bridge. We both stood back against the metal side to allow it to pass. The driver stopped and asked if we could see any fish. We told him that we hadn’t and he proceeded to tell us about a really big fish that had been lying just under the bridge for several days. Then we asked him if he knew of any local guides that might be available to guide us for a couple of days. He said there was a guy that lived just down the road. He would lead us there. Just follow me, he said. And we were off to meet the guide who we would employ for the next 30 years. His name was Leonard Munn. We met him about a mile from the Bailey bridge – he was coming the other way. The man in front of us stopped him and told him that we needed a guide. The next thing we knew he was in the back seat and we couldn’t understand a thing he was saying because of his heavy Scottish accent.
Leonard Munn was his name. Son of a very successful salmon guide. Now in his 50’s and very overweight he did not look like a guide – more like a local shop worker with his blue shirt and pants and long leather belt hanging down half way to his knees. That was in June of 1985 and it was the beginning of a 30 year long friendship. In addition to guiding for us, he also found us the camp we now own on the Dungarvon River. Although Leonard knew the river very well, I don’t think he understood Atlantic Salmon. One example of his lack of understanding was the day we went to the camp for the first time after we bought it. Cappy, Leonard and I were standing on the elevated bank overlooking what we now call Camp Pool. He flat out said it wasn’t a pool. He knew all of the pools – all 50 miles of them – but he didn’t recognize the water that flowed past the camp as a pool (probably because it didn’t have a name.) The cool thing about most salmon rivers is that all of the pools have names – and the names show on the maps of the river. To Leonard that meant no name, no pool.
It looked like a damn nice pool to me and I just so happened to have my fly rod in the car. So I left Dad and Leonard to talk and headed down to the river. I don’t remember how long I fished for – it wasn’t long because I stood on the rocks in one spot. I hadn’t bothered to put on waders because we weren’t there to fish – just look at the camps.Anyway a beautiful 16 pound salmon took my wet fly as it crossed the main channel and took off down stream leaping a throwing shiny water droplets into the sun filled air. I fought the fish for 15 minutes, got him into shore and released him back into the river.
Lesson Learned: Know what kind of water salmon like to lie in. Through the years I’ve caught many salmon in places that were not pools (they were pools they just didn’t have a name).
The Bailey Bridge, looking down river towards Simon’s Pool
The Dungarvon Camp – Circa 2019. Bought in 1987
Leonard on the left, me on the right
Leonards Headstone with the picture that Carl Scott took of him holding a monster fish.
