Let’s begin with a back cast: A few weeks ago, while salmon fishing at Millbrook Farm camp on New Brunswick’s Upsalquitch River, my longtime friend and fishing partner Lamar Underwood of Pennington, N.J., and I got to gabbing about the changing times. To say my verbal casting regarding the changes that are eroding the outdoors traditions and heritage of Mainers caught Lamar’s attention would be understatement.

Frankly, I despise the changes that are changing The Way Life Should Be. Some people call it progress. I call it travesty. On the other hand, though, no one knows better than sportsmen that changes, no matter how small or subtle, can make big differences in their days afield. Like the evening Lamar and I were fishing at Church Run: The swift, churning flow was silvered with sunlight as our guide Johnny Thomas anchored the 22-foot canoe. “Go to it, boys,” he said. “There should be a fish or two here tonight.” Suffice it to say, we fished diligently, but failed to raise a salmon. Nor did one show.

So it was that nearly two hours later Lamar sighed as he finished fishing a drop. “We’re wasting our time,” he said. “There isn’t a fish in this pool. We’ll have to hope for better luck tomorrow.”

“Keep fishing,” I replied. “The sun’s off the water now and that can change things in a hurry. It wouldn’t hurt to change to a dark fly either.” With that I unsnapped a No. 6 double from my fly box and handed it to my despairing partner saying, “Try that. It’s one of my concoctions. I call it the Osprey. I haven’t fished it yet, so maybe you can christen it.”

Two casts was all it took. Lamar didn’t have more than 30 feet of line out when the Osprey hooked its talons into a grilse. Although the fish came unstuck after two cartwheeling leaps, Lamar was exuberant. “Can you believe that?” he shouted. “We hadn’t seen a sign of a fish and as soon as the sun got off the water that grilse hit … and, man, don’t they hit hard in this fast water!”

“Things changed,” I reminded. “The light changed, the air temperature changed dramatically and you changed flies. If there’s one thing that can be said for sure about Atlantic salmon it’s that they respond to change. But you have to keep fishing … and thinking positive.”

Rain sprinkled the river as we fished at Moore’s pool the next morning. Moore’s is the first real holding water for salmon entering the Upsalquitch. After catching and releasing an 111/2-pound salmon on a Green Hornet, a pattern that has served me well since I wrapped it together a few years ago, I raised another fish. But when it refused to show its face on subsequent casts, I said to Lamar, who was still fishing the Osprey, “Put that dark fly over him, the change might make the difference … dark day, dark fly.”

Minutes later, Johnny Thomas removed the Osprey from the jaw of a grilse that was as fresh as the morning and bright as a star. Moreover, on his next drop, Lamar pulled the Osprey away from a taking fish. Then, as though to redeem himself, promptly caught and released a 14-pound salmon. After watching the fish swim off, I turned to my friend from away and kidded, “I’ll take that fly back now.”

“No way!” he exclaimed. “I’m not changing that fly. Keep fishing.”

At Home Pool that evening, Millbrook’s head guide, Bill Murray, eased the net under a grilse that got stung by my Green Hornet. Then the weather changed. When lightning began dancing a jig to thunderous ovations, we left the river and headed for camp wondering if host Rick Warren and the other guests in our group, Bill Bullock, Stan Bogdan and Pete Castagnetti, had any fish stories to tell. On the way, Lamar, who is editor of the sporting magazines division of Harris Publications Inc. of New York City – formerly he was editor of Sports Afield and Outdoor Life – said, “I’ve been thinking. How about writing a story for me about the little changes that make big differences in hunting and fishing.”

“Sure,” I said, “As long as you don’t need it next week.”

“No, I’d need it for the spring issue. And don’t forget, I want one on trout fishing in beaver flowages and one on bird hunting for fall. And do some paintings … ”

“Cripes, Lamar,” I interrupted, “I’m retired.” But once planted, the seed for a story germinates quickly. Directly I began making mental notes about tinkering with rods, reels, rifles, shotguns, decoys, canoes, paddles, pack baskets, boats, oars, outboard motors, ice-fishing traps, snowshoes, you name it.

Simply put, sportsmen have always been masters of making do, therefore they are also astute innovators. Call it a culture that hasn’t changed: Long before the development of sinking fly lines, Bangor Salmon Pool fishermen made sinking lines by splicing lengths of cod fish line filled with white lead to their braided-silk fly lines. Later, they used lengths of lead-core line. Either way, they got their flies down to salmon lying deep in the pool’s icy April waters, and that made a difference. Old-time anglers also camouflaged catgut leaders by coiling them in tea leaves and coffee grounds that stained and softened the white, wiry strands. Naturally, that changed when synthetic leader materials were developed and manufactured in a variety of colors.

In practicing what they preach regarding catch-and-release, bass fishermen make changes to plugs bristling with three sets of treble hooks. By removing the fore and middle sets, leaving the rear set in place, the chances of bass and other fish being released uninjured are greatly increased. Why plugs are produced with three sets of treble hooks is beyond me. When a bass is hooked, the flailing free hooks often become imbedded in the fish, inflicting injuries and making a quick release nearly impossible. Bassers who favor fly rods often trim the feathers, hair and rubber legs of popping bugs, thereby reducing their resistance to air when cast.

When trout begin tailing, taking nymphs, instead of sipping emerging flies from the surface, trout fishermen don’t hesitate to sacrifice, say, a Hendrickson dry fly by clipping its wings, hackles and tail until the fly resembles a nymph. And, if need be, streamer-fly devotees trim overdressed flies until the smelt simulators appear sickly, to human eyes, that is.

Owing to the diversity of tracks and trails hunters follow, they are more than clever in modifying equipment and tactics with an eye toward improving their luck. Here I’m reminded of when I bought a Merrymeeting Bay scull boat: Recalling a few tricks of the trade used by Merrymeeting guides, I followed suit by fastening lead – wheel weights acquired at a local garage – to the tip of the scull oar’s blade. That kept it from coming to the surface and making wakes that would alarm ducks. Leather tacked around the scull oar reduced its rattle when worked. An innovation of my own was to fasten chicken wire to the boat’s decks and cowling, thereby holding camouflages of mud, marsh grass, snow and ice in place. Each of those small changes made a big difference.

When peep sights were popular on deer rifles, hunters discovered that removing the tiny aperture from the sight’s housing facilitated faster aiming. That changed, though, with improvements in telescopic sights.

Changes in weather mean changes in plans: Beginner bird hunters eventually change their minds about casting dogs into covers that are fuzzy with frost. The reason being that birds normally don’t start moving, leaving scent, until frost is melting. Naturally, birds are reluctant to fly on rainy days, which is advantageous to pointing dogs and hunters who don’t mind being soaked to the skin.

In spite of changes that have made marked improvements in raingear, hunters who swamp through dripping fir thickets with the hope of pushing deer from their storm shelters still return to camp sodden and squishing. And from what I’ve seen of duck hunting in the rain, it usually doesn’t result in much more than a soggy sandwich and a boat that needs bailing. Never will I forget the day when the late Owen Osborne, a former BDN sports editor, and I hunted in sheets of rain that hung over Castine’s Bagaduce River. After three hours or so of seeing nothing but a stoic seagull, Owen cut his eyes at me and said, “Decoys look good, don’t they?” I often wondered if Owen was web-footed. Come to think of it, I haven’t had much luck fishing when pelting rain puckers the water.

Ask me who I think are the absolute masters at making changes that make a difference and, without hesitation, I’ll say trappers. Admittedly, my experience at trapping amounts to a few muskrats caught mostly by mistake when I was very young. But to this day, I enjoy tagging along with trappers like Dan McAllister of Hampden. In a word, their knowledge of the woods, waters, wildlife and the outdoors in general is extensive. It’s unfortunate that nowadays trapping, which is environmentally important in controlling fur-bearer populations – particularly beaver – is criticized and condemned as being cruel by people who set mouse traps that kill no differently than Conibear traps.

By the time Lamar and I reached camp I had enough mental notes to write a book about the changes sportsmen make so handily and effectively. Thoughts of writing were let off the hook, though, when our congenial group enjoyed soup and sandwiches flavored with recounts of salmon seen, raised, snubbed, hooked and lost and caught and released. The embers in the fireplace were sleepy eyed and rain was doing a drum roll on the roof when we retired to our rooms. Each of us expecting, of course, that a run of salmon would enter the Upsalquitch that night.

Some things were never meant to change.

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. Web site address: www.tomhennessey.com