Admitting to April foolishness Winter-chilled spirits are warmed by familiar spring rituals

Having reached the age where there’s a lot more trail behind me than there is ahead of me, I can attest to the adage, “There’s no fool like an old fool.” Especially when the old fool is an incorrigible April fool like me. In this context, however, the reference isn’t to opening-day fishing. It took decades, but I finally gave up on that foolishness.

Nevertheless, I readily admit to being incurably April foolish. There’s no other way to explain the excitement I feel in slogging across spongy, alder-cluttered fields where, in the deepening dusk, I’m entertained by the segued serenades and aerobatics of male woodcock seeking mates. But if for some reason – chilling rain, perhaps, or a cold wind working the night shift – the long-billed birds aren’t feeling amorous, I’ll listen contentedly to the musical trilling of toads and likely eavesdrop on the gossip of northbound geese.

Likewise, within a week or so my winter-chilled spirit will be warmed by the sight of shags swimming in the Penobscot River. The reason being that the presence of the fish-eating birds signals the arrival of smelts. And because I’m April foolish, I’ll venture forth in the frigid wee hours to sweep a smelt net through icy currents with the hope of dipping a mess of the flavorful fish that provide me with golden-fried meals seasoned with Maine tradition.

Simply put, I like being April foolish. I like frost heaves, pussy willows, poplar buds bursting into catkins that resemble caterpillars, and the first crop of fiddleheads. Accordingly, I welcome spreads of “poor man’s fertilizer” that, seemingly overnight, turn umber fields to festive greens, and I’m energized by thoughts of replacing the ice-fishing gear in my pack basket with open water tackle, getting my canoes out of the garage, my boats out of storage, putting new plugs and oil in my outboards, and greasing the boat trailer’s bearings. Those occupations, however, don’t keep me from pausing to appreciate the drumming of partridges, the whistling of woodchucks, the gobbling of wild turkeys, and the mellifluous chanting of mourning doves.

Call me foolish, but I like April nights redolent with eau de skunk, the smoky essence of grass fires, and the smell of rain on the wind. I enjoy watching lakes and ponds shedding shabby winter coats, flocks of robins playing hopscotch on the lawn, and I marvel at the instincts and abilities of birds building nests. Particularly, I admire the much-maligned crows that prune my backyard maples by breaking off dead twigs and branches. Long-lived and intelligent, crows display remarkable social order.

Obviously, April foolishness manifests itself in many ways. But if there’s a bigger fool than an April foolish fisherman, I’ve yet to cut his trail. For that reason, it wouldn’t surprise me if the adage, “A fool and his money are soon parted,” was first cast by a disciple of Izaak Walton. So it is that my recent visits to sports shops have resulted in purchases of fly lines, lead-core line, a variety of snap-swivels and chain swivels, rolls of leader material in assorted tests, and, of course, a few more fly-rod poppers for bass fishing – all of which I already have in good supply. Now I’m looking forward to buying more fly-tying material and paying the fees for registering my boats and trailer.

But what the heck, those are small prices to pay for the April-foolish pleasures and self-inflicted punishments of spring fishing. Whether you prefer to race streamers along ice-rimmed shores for landlocks or troll sewn-on smelts slow and deep for togue, you’ll get your money’s worth when your rod abruptly dances a jig to the music of the reel. And let’s not forget the satisfying tug of a trout in a snow-banked brook roily with runoff.

It would be more than foolish of me to write about April and the arrival of fishing season without mentioning the Bangor Salmon Pool and the Penobscot Salmon Club. After all, the once world-famous pool and this country’s oldest salmon club provided me with my most memorable and meaningful fishing experiences. Having written about casting flies for Atlantic salmon and trout on rivers ranging from the Arctic to Argentina and for bonefish in the Bahamas, tarpon in the Florida Keys, and marlin and sailfish on the sprawling pools of the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, I expect that statement will raise a few skeptical eyebrows.

I’ll explain by saying I was still suffering from growing pains when, on a spring evening in the early 1950s, I watched the late Carroll Soucie gaff a salmon hooked by his fishing partner Pug York, also deceased. It was the first Atlantic salmon that I saw caught on rod and reel, and it was then and there that I became afflicted with the virus identified as salmo salar.

Simply stated, there is no other fishing as infectious as Atlantic salmon fishing. Joe Floyd and I talked about that recently. Since retiring from teaching a few years ago, Joe, an avid salmon fisherman who served as the public member of Maine’s Atlantic Sea Run Salmon Commission, had lengthened his casts to reach storied western trout rivers and tarpon flats. While agreeing that those piscatorial pursuits are exciting, Joe and I allowed that they don’t have the aura of Atlantic salmon fishing. Confirming that are two adages familiar to salmon fishermen: “Salmon are predictably unpredictable,” and, “Never be in a hurry to catch a salmon because seldom is a salmon in a hurry to be caught.”

As for the memories that I hooked and landed at the Bangor Salmon Pool, the most meaningful, not surprisingly, was the morning of May 1, 1986, when I caught the presidential salmon. Landing the fish and adding my name to the list of old-time Penobscot Salmon Club stalwarts who caught the presidential prize was my finest hour. And I’m not saying that foolishly. The tradition of sending the first fresh-run salmon caught at the pool each spring began in 1912, when a salmon was shipped to President William Howard Taft.

Never will I forget the morning when the aforementioned Pug York and I were fishing from my double-ender boat while it rained so hard the drops could have driven nails. The downpour was somewhat of a blessing, though, in that we didn’t have to jockey for position with other anglers. Directly, the late Ray Perry drove in beside the clubhouse and hurried onto the porch overlooking the pool. “There’s two guys who don’t know enough to come in out of the rain,” he yelled to us. I swear the words weren’t out of his mouth when Pug’s rod did a backbend while the reel cheered. “There’s a guy who wishes he’d kept his mouth shut,” I yelled back while rowing ashore. No comment came from the clubhouse. Minutes later, Pug landed a 10-pounder freckled with sea lice.

Equally unforgettable was the June evening when Joe Floyd, after landing a salmon, set his rod aside and went about netting 25 fish hooked by other anglers. Suffice it to say that evening’s tide was silvered with salmon fresh from the sea. A lot of people would pay a lot of money for that kind of salmon fishing, and we had it for the price of a license.

Mention of gaffing a salmon reminds me that, to my knowledge, I hold the dubious distinction of being the last to gaff a salmon at the Bangor pool. Bill Seibert was fishing with me that evening. No sooner did I get the boat positioned at the Head of the Ledge when Bill hooked a salmon. It came unstuck, though, as we reached shore. No more than five minutes later, though, fishing the same stretch of water, Bill’s rod again bent sickle-shaped as another salmon smothered his Bear Hair fly. Shortly thereafter, I gaffed the fish; and shortly after that, in the interest of catch-and-release fishing, the Salmon Commission banned the use of gaffs.

Always memorable and meaningful were the Penobscot Salmon Club’s traditional April 1 opening-day breakfasts spiced with the presidential salmon competition. Now, however, owing to Maine’s Atlantic salmon being listed as endangered, salmon fishing is prohibited statewide. Therefore, the club’s Spring Breakfast is now held later in April, the 26th being the date of this year’s event. In spite of the no-fishing regulation, the club’s growing membership affirms that the spirit of Penobscot River salmon fishing remains as high as a full-moon tide. Testimony to that are the rods, reels, flies, boats, and photographs of times past displayed at the breakfast, which begins at 6 a.m. and is open to the public. Moreover, this year’s festivities will be enhanced by the inclusion of the Penobscot Fly Fishers’ annual daylong outing. By all means plan to attend. You won’t go home skunked, and certainly not hungry.

In concluding this column, I’ll say that I think the prohibition of Atlantic salmon fishing on the Penobscot River is nothing but political foolishness. I see no scientific or conservation reason for it. Furthermore, allowing that the Penobscot Salmon Club intends to pursue all possibilities of reopening the river to salmon fishing, I don’t think I’m being April foolish in expressing that opinion.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. E-mail: thennessey@bangordailynews.net. Web site: www.tomhennessey.com.