A drum roll of rain on the cab of my pickup announced our arrival as Lamar Underwood and I drove into Millbrook Farm camp on New Brunswick’s Upsalquitch River. Our showery six-hour drive began in Bangor at 10 a.m., when we followed the wake of Millbrook’s owner, BDN publisher Rick Warren, and his traveling companions, a reel maker by the name of Stan Bogdan and a sporting art dealer named Drew Holl.

“This rain’s a blessing,” I said to Drew and Lamar as we began stowing our gear in our assigned rooms.”We’ve got a new moon, too; that means heavy tides that’ll bring a spate of salmon into the river.”

“That’s what we want to hear,” Drew replied. “Lamar and I have been praying ever since we left New Jersey.” Drew’s main lodge is in Long Valley, Lamar, former editor of Sports Afield magazine and now editor of Harris Publications in New York City, makes camp in Pennington. No sooner were we situated, when Joe Wells of Markham, Ontario, arrived to fill the last space in Millbrook’s six-angler rod rack. After greetings and good-natured disparagements were exchanged, we purchased our licenses, rigged our rods, and with angler optimism, prepared for the evening fishing.

When Millbrook’s head guide, Bill Murray, sauntered in, he was immediately hooked by the question, “How’s the fishing?” Compared to the veiled responses common to many of his colleagues, “Well, now, there’s fish in the river,” Bill’s answer was refreshing and encouraging: “It’s been slow but we’ve had a rise in water, the nets have been up for two days and we’re seeing more fish.” ‘Nuff said.

Within the hour, Bill deposited Lamar and I, via canoe, on the shore of a salmon stronghold called “The Crib.” While my fishing partner began casting at the head of the long, rippling run shadowed by spruce-steepled hills, I started about 50 yards below him. Although Lamar and I had discussed the salmon-seducing abilities of my favorite salmon fly, the Lady Amherst, I saved the best for last and began probing the dark, rocky lies with a No. 6 Green Highlander. On the third cast, a lightning-like flash of silver appeared in a bulging swirl as a fish took the fly

Judging from the strength of the fish during its first run, I thought it was a salmon. It turned out, however, to be a fresh-run, 5-pound grilse speckled with sea lice. Here I’ll say that if there are prettier or sportier grilse than those ascending the Upsalquitch, I’ve yet to have them run my reel. To top the evening off, an hour or so later Lamar’s reel cheered when his rod did an abrupt backbend. When the acrobatic grilse was landed, tagged and laid alongside the one I caught, the consensus was the fish were twins. In New Brunswick, salmon anglers are allowed to keep two grilse a day, eight per season. All adult salmon caught must be released.

Dusk was drawing the curtains of night as we left the river. On a trail edged with trillium, Lamar sidled up to me and said, “If I’m dreaming don’t wake me up.” Joe Wells and Drew Holl also wrote their names in the camp record that evening after catching a grilse apiece. Rick Warren lost a fish and Stan Bogdan raised an anti-social salmon that repeatedly snubbed his feathered invitations. Not surprisingly, it was late when the snores of satisfied anglers mingled with the trilling of toads and the sleepy murmur of the Upsalquitch.

“No prisoners this morning,” I said to Lamar while showing him the No. 6 Lady Amherst tied to my 8-pound test tippet. Directly, Sonny Murray, our guide for the day, anchored the canoe in Church Run. The pool hadn’t been producing well, but as I began casting, two fish showed in the swift, foaming rips. Shortly afterward, a grilse gave the Lady Amherst a heart-warming hug that ripped line from the reel. Amazingly, the fish let go of the fly when I raised the rod tip. Don’t ask me how they do it, but they do.

On the next drop, Lamar’s No. 4 Green Highlander failed to arrest two hit-and-run grilse. “That fly’s too big. Try a smaller one,” Sonny advised. Grilse were showing steadily, but by the time Lamar changed to a No. 6 Lady Amherst, not a sign of a fish could be seen. Enter superstition: “Damn,” said Lamar as he finished casting, “I better put my jacket back on. I was wearing it when the fish were showing.” Hardly had he shrugged into the jacket when the sweeping charms of my Lady Amherst captivated another grilse.

That evening, fishing the same fly, Lamar hooked and lost a fish in Mooer’s Run. Six more fish were entered in Millbrook’s record that night, including an estimated 16-pounder released by Stan Bogdan. Other fish that rose to our flies but refused to take kept our interest as high as a backcast.

As a keepsake of the trip, each angler received a limited-edition print of a painting of Millbrook’s “Home Pool.” On the last morning’s fishing, Drew Holl and I were assigned to that picturesque water. Before departing with our guide Bill Murray, Drew asked me to do a drawing (remarque) of a Lady Amherst on the margin of his print. “I’m going to fish that fly this morning,” he said as I fetched a pencil. “Maybe that remarque will bring me luck.” To shorten this cast, Drew’s grilse was the only fish caught that day. Lady Luck or Lady Amherst, take your pick. Either way, Drew’s superstition paid off.

The tally for our three-day trip was 15 fish. Not bad considering the reports of slow fishing flowing from North America’s salmon rivers this year. As usual, though, we landed a limit of memories. As Lamar Underwood put it: “I won’t worry about going to heaven anymore, I’ve just been there.”