When the guide lowered the anchor, the angler seated in the 24-foot canoe would have bet they were too far from the ledge alongside which a salmon had shown. But when the anchor line tightened, the canoe swung across the current like a great green pendulum and stopped at precisely the right casting distance and angle.

Immediately, the angler stood and began stripping line from his reel. Sensing his “sport’s” excitement, the guide said, “Start short, now, and fish down. Y’never know, there might be another one between us and that feller that showed.” Owing to the dismally low returns of salmon this year, the angler and two fishing partners had caught only one salmon in three days of fishing on Canada’s Restigouche River.

“It’s been a hard pull this year,” the guide allowed, his eyes tracking each cast. “I’ve been on the water every day since the season opened and I’ve only a dozen fish to my credit. That’s worse than wet kindlin’.

“And this was supposed to be a good year,” said the angler while mending a cast. “The Greenland netting quotas have been reduced – the Atlantic Salmon Federation has been working hard to abolish that fishery – and fisheries scientists say ocean temperatures have warmed and marine survival of salmon should improve.”

“Ahhh,” the guide replied with a wave of his hand. “Them fellers don’t know any more what’s goin’ on out in the ocean than you and I do. They’re just makin’ excuses, that’s all. And I’d say the Atlantic Salmon Federation’s got a helluva nerve tellin’ them Greenlanders to stop nettin’ when the same thing’s goin’ on in Labrador. Talk about foul-hookin’ yourself.”

“Well, I can’t disagree with you,” said the angler. “But the ASF’s also working to reduce the Labrador fishery and….”

“Reduce, hell,” the guide interrupted. “They should tighten their drags and demand a stop to it.” Turning to face the angler, he continued: “For the luvva God, man, the message couldn’t be written any clearer. In 1971 the Greenland quota was 2,689 metric tons. Every cut in quotas since then has been self-incriminatin’ – an admission that the stocks are bein’ depleted – but it hasn’t stopped them. This year the Greenland quota’s been cut to 57 metric tons. Word from Quebec’s North Shore is the netters up there can’t make half their quota, and it’s down to 37 metric tons. And they’re wonderin’ why there’s no fish in the rivers.”

“I’ve heard a lot of rivers in Nova Scotia have been closed to fishing, and some in Newfoundland,” said the angler. “In Maine, where I live, all the salmon rivers were closed at the end of June. They’ll reopen on the first of September for fall fishing, but that’s nothing but eyewash. I expect there’ll be more closures here in Canada, to give the fish a free swim to the spawning grounds.” With a slow shake of his head the guide grumbled, “They’re fishin’ with frayed leader.”

“Well, they’re doing what they can,” the angler responded while making a cast. “I should be getting close to where that fish showed.”

“Listen,” the guide said with obvious irritation. “They’ve watched these runs decline for decades and they kept right on nettin’ and now they’ve got ’em scraped down clean. They did the same thing on the Grand Banks – fished ‘er out, plain and simple. Now they’re all askin’ each other what happened. What happened is all this electronic trackin’ gear and satellites whirlin’ around readin’ ocean temperatures and pointin’ to pods of fish.

“So what chance’ve these salmon got? None, as long as this nettin’ continues. Nothin’s changed for the fish. They’re swimmin’ the same migration routes to the same feedin’ grounds they’ve been usin’ since the good Lord put ’em here and now those places are all marked like road maps. A sin and a shame, it is. The only chance these fish’ve got is if the governments stop false castin’ and put a stop to nettin’. Sure, there’s jobs and tradition and culture involved, but so’s the survival of these fish.”

Weighing the guide’s words, the angler watched the sweep of the fly. “You’re right,” he said. “These fish are so symbolic. You don’t think there’s a possibility that this might be just an off year?”.

Shaking his head, the guide answered. “I’ve seen off years come and go. The difference was they resulted from natural occurrences. Then somethin’ else natural would happen to smooth things out. But this, uh-uh, this’s another example of…Aha!” he exclaimed when the slick alongside the ledge bulged into a blossoming swirl. But no sooner did the angler’s rod bow to the king of freshwater gamefish when the line fell to the water in accusingly long loops. Let’s just say the angler’s shouted reaction wasn’t “Oh, shucks” when he realized he had pulled the fly away from the fish. “I don’t believe I did that,” he admonished himself. “I snubbed him…didn’t let him….”

The guide, however, hooked his sport solidly: “If I didn’t know better I’d say you’d never done this before.” Then, diplomatically: “But what the hell, you got him to take, that’s 90 percent of it. You couldn’t have kept him anyway, so call it a “conservation release.” That salmon’s stronger now than if you’d landed and released him. And there’s always the chance you might’ve hooked him in the gills and got him bleeding. Then there’d be one less fish on the spawning grounds, and we can’t afford that.”

“You really think it’s that bad?” the angler asked.

“I’ll put it this way,” the guide answered while hoisting the anchor. “Maybe there is somethin’ wrong in the ocean. But how long’s it gonna take to figure it out? In the meantime, if they keep on nettin’ you’d better start thinkin’ about sellin’ that Bogdan reel and buyin’ yourself a set of golf clubs. Otherwise, you’ll be payin’ to come in here and fish over rocks.”

It’s that bad. Tom Hennessey’s column can be accessed on the BDN internet at: www.bangornews.com.