According to the Bible the Lord’s best friends were fishermen. However, after flogging Quebec’s Matapedia River a couple of weeks ago without raising a salmon, I couldn’t help wondering if the aforementioned friendship stopped at the Sea of Galilee. For the record, after rigging our rods at Cold Spring Camp, the brothers Joe and Gerry Barnes of Veazie and Fort Fairfield, respectively, Dave Fenderson of Veazie, Dave Ledlie of Buckfield, Dr. Paul Hermann of Castine, Dr. Roger Sembrat, a veterinarian from Carnegie, Pa., and I fished and wished for three days – and registered only one salmon in the camp’s record book.

Hard fishing, that. Especially when conditions were close to perfect. That’s to say we weren’t foul-hooked by the river being proverbially too high or too low, too warm or too cold, too swift or too slow, or too clear or too roily. Simply put, the reason only one rod suffered a severe case of the bends was that salmon were scarce. Therefore, in offering a few anecdotes and asides from that trip, I’ll begin by casting the line that is my credo, especially after I’ve been skunked: There’s more to fishing than catching fish.

On June 21, the sun was on the downside of its stroll across the sky when Kevin Gauthier, assigned to guiding Paul Hermann and me for the evening’s fishing, anchored the 24-foot Sharpe canoe at the top of Mann Pool. Because Mann is one of the most productive of Cold Spring’s 23 pools, our angler optimism was higher than a back cast. But for the next three hours or so, while the anchor rope strummed to the steady rhythm of the river, we fished and filled the canoe with get-acquainted conversation and never saw a salmon. We did hear one, though, when it leaped upstream of the canoe and fell into the water with the thump of a “good fish.” Leaping salmon, however, usually are moving upriver, and moving salmon seldom take a fly.

It’s no secret that, in addition to being a medical doctor, Paul Hermann has established a practice in which he specializes in making salmon reels. Modeled after the smooth-running Walker reels symbolic of salmon fishing in the early 1900s, Paul’s products are as fine an example of the reel-maker’s art that I’ve seen. Dusk was drawing the curtains of night as we left the river, wondering, of course, if we’d hook onto a fresh fish story or two at the camp’s Bar Pool. As it turned out, no reels overran that night. But what the heck, none of us really wanted to catch a fish the first time out. Keep fishing.

On Sunday, the air temperature reached a humid 90 degrees, resulting in the river running a fever that topped 70 – which translates to salmon becoming lethargic. Consequently, all hands fished without feeling the heart-stopping tug and weighty pull that are the soul and spirit of salmon fishing. It doesn’t take much, though, to keep salmon fishermen thinking positive: Clouds as gray as a salmon’s back hung over the high-shouldered hills as we returned to camp that evening, meaning vespers were conducted with assurances that rain would sweeten the river during the night.

It turned out to be no more than a drizzle, but the drop in air temperature cooled the river enough so that Joe Barnes arrested a hit-and-run 161/2-pounder that sideswiped his No. 4 Black Dose at Jim’s Rock the next morning. Then came Gerry Barnes with his account of hooking a heavyweight salmon that smothered a No. 4 Silver Rat at Fraser Pool. “I had him coming along good,” said Gerry, “then he just turned around and went back to where he was laying. And I couldn’t move him.” For 40 minutes the veteran angler arm-wrestled with the patriarch of the pool before losing the contest when the leader parted.

“I couldn’t believe the size of that salmon,” said Gerry’s fishing partner Dave Fenderson. “It was a trophy fish, for sure.” It’s unfortunate that Gerry didn’t land that leviathan, but you can bet he landed a limit of memories that time will never tarnish.

So ended the fish stories landed on that trip, but not the fishing by any means. It’s no secret that all fishermen are superstitious to some extent, but none more so than those who cast flies for Atlantic salmon. Accordingly, in hoping to change our luck, we changed hats, rods, reels, lines, guides, seats in the canoes and fishing partners. Hence, on Monday and Tuesday, I fished with Dave Ledlie, who recently retired as a professor of chemistry at Bates College in Lewiston. I dare say we fished Mann and Fraser pools as well as anyone ever did, but hooked only a few parr.

Dave, however, didn’t miss any chances to bury verbal barbs in our guide, Jack Pollock. For example, when I remarked that the Matapedia’s June fishing was steadily declining, Dave responded with: “It’s not the fishing that’s declining, it’s the quality of the guides.” Good-natured gent that he is, Jack replied, “Now that’s not the case at all. The problem is that the fishermen aren’t as good as they used to be.” And so it went. While fishing Fraser on the eve of my Wednesday departure – the wind made casting a curse – Dave, who would fish the rest of the week, referred to the unbelievably slow fishing with, “You’re lucky you’re leaving tomorrow, I’ve got to put up with this for three more days.”

It would be less than circumspect to say Indian netting of salmon in the Restigouche River estuary was the sole reason for our slow fishing. But it would be less than realistic to say netting isn’t a factor in fewer salmon entering the Matapedia, which flows into the Restigouche. “It’s staring us straight in the face,” said Jack Lyons, manager and head guide of Cold Spring Camp: “The big salmon that run in May and early June go upriver with no problem because the Restigouche is running so high and swift then that the Indians can’t put their nets down. But as soon as the Restigouche settles, down go the nets and down go the numbers of salmon getting into the Matapedia. It’s as simple as that.” Considering the decline of Atlantic salmon stocks worldwide, netting salmon nowadays is sacrilegious.

Now don’t think several of the group didn’t rise to Jack’s cast regarding those 30- to 40-pound early run salmon. Thus, while enjoying a few barley pops, they got to talking about fishing Cold Spring’s pools in early June. Granted, they’d be fishing over moving salmon, but they figured their chances of finding a taking fish would be as good as they were in late June, if not better. With that in mind, I drove home thinking about 4/0 flies and sinking lines.

Here I’ll say the sports I fished with at Cold Spring Camp were as good a group as I’ve fished with in my travels. I enjoyed their recounts of salmon caught, lost and released on storied rivers, not to mention their recollections of chance encounters with wildlife. Such as the bear that visited Fraser Pool when Gerry Barnes and Dave Fenderson fished it and, likewise, when Dave Ledlie and I were there. To say our dinner discussions about rods, reels, flies, bird hunting, duck hunting, shotguns, new non-toxic shot loads, training dogs and the like were interesting would be an understatement.

Talking with Richard Adams, the godfather of Matapedia guides, was a bonus. Now 92 years old, Richard goes on the river practically every day, if only to hoist the killick. “A man has to be of some use,” he says. The old guide’s stories of scows loaded with fishermen and supplies being hauled up the Restigouche by horses were fascinating, as were his stories of working in the woods and on log drives. Typical of men of his time, Richard’s answers to questions were as sharp as a well-honed hook. When asked what he thought of the ever-changing rules and regulations attendant to salmon fishing, he said, “Change a horse’s name and he won’t work.”

Richard’s sense of humor, his taste for gin, and his appreciation of attractive women are also well-known: When someone recently asked him if he’d ever been married, the Old Man of the Matapedia smiled and said, “No, but there’s plenty of time left for that.” Another story goes that when an angler expressed his dislike for the pool they were fishing, Richard bet him a bottle of gin that he’d catch a salmon. After losing the bet, the angler asked Richard which brand of gin he preferred. To which he replied, “A 40-ounce bottle of Beefeaters would do nicely.”

“Cripes, Richard,” said the angler. “You drink expensive liquor.”

“Why not, when it’s free.” the guide answered.

As much as I appreciate the camaraderie common to salmon camps and enjoy the sport of casting flies to salmon fresh from the sea, I have to admit to being mesmerized by the magnificent scenery of rivers like the Matapedia. The beauty of the swift runs, whitewater gorges and sprawling pools that wind through cathedral-like hills crowned with spires of spruce and fir are awe-inspiring to say the least. So it was that on leaving Fraser Pool on my last evening of fishing, I paused to watch the dusk draping wraiths of mist over the graveled gulches of the Matapedia, and imagined I was seeing the breath of God.

There’s more to fishing than catching fish. Especially when Atlantic salmon fishing.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net