In the run of a year, I make and answer hundreds of mundane phone calls. On a rare occasion, however, the jingling bell will bring news from a fellow outdoorsman that sets my adrenaline pumping and my blood surging. I recognized the voice immediately as Pete Dube, owner of the Restigouche Hotel, a renowned Atlantic salmon fishing establishment situated in the small village of Matapedia overlooking the confluence of the celebrated Restigouche and Matapedia rivers.

It was the third week in April, skies were overcast, the temperature hovered at 28, and a chilling wind racked the snow-spotted fields relentlessly. Despite the dreary weather, the news was uplifting; both rivers were ice-free and within two days should be at perfect level and clarity to begin black salmon fishing.

Pete and I gabbed for a bit, then made the necessary arrangements for a room and guide for Friday and Saturday. As it happened, Pete was free on the weekend and offered his canoe and guide services for the second day. The only stumbling block would be heavy rain that would melt snow in the woods and raise the rivers to freshet condition, ruining any angling opportunities. Pete promised to call if rain found the Matapedia valley, otherwise we would see each other in two days.

I immediately called Mike Wallace, a longtime salmon fishing partner and my cousin Cindy’s husband. Like myself, he had been impatiently waiting for news from the north, and was also very excited about the weekend road trip. He would make arrangements to take Friday off and we would discuss gear and travel plans that evening. We both agreed that a small prayer for warmer weather and a dry weekend wasn’t out of order.

As Mike and I crossed through customs from Van Buren to St. Leonard, New Brunswick, and got onto Route 17 late Thursday afternoon, we were abuzz with anticipation. Any outing in quest of the silver leaper, king of the fresh water game fish, has an exhilarating effect on devout Atlantic salmon anglers. Mike noted we were having a heat wave; it was 38 degrees, and the skies were clear, holding great promise for tomorrow. As familiar towns, small hamlets, and special landmarks faded past along this often-traveled fishing route, Mike and I reminisced about previous salmon trips.

Before long we were bumping along the Back River Road along the mighty Restigouche, past the old building where Sharp canoes are still carefully hand made, and over the international bridge into Quebec. Five minutes later we are greeting Pete, several old fishing friends and half a dozen local river guides we have known for years. A long supper earmarked with laughter, past adventures, and anticipation, followed by gear and equipment preparation in the room, led us to bed time and dreams of fighting sturdy fish in heavy water.

Solid rain

Upon awakening, I was puzzled that more light wasn’t coming through the curtains, but on the plus side, no rain was beating against the hotel window. Arising and pushing aside the curtains I found out why, it was actually snowing! Not an auspicious start. After a quick breakfast and 15 minutes of wrestling into as many layers of clothes as would fit, Mike and I made the short walk to the river with our rods, gear, and a bag of extra hats, gloves, and sweatshirts.

A steady, chilly breeze blew down the river (at least we wouldn’t be casting into it while it blew snow into our faces), and the precipitation alternated between snow and sleet. Both wet, both cold, but thankfully not heavy enough to damage water conditions. Morton Irving, our guide for the day, was ready and waiting beside the 24-foot Sharp’s canoe. We loaded up, hunkered down, and motored down river, dropping anchor just below the old, green, iron railroad bridge. A long slick was on the left and a slow-moving eddy on the right, each of which should hold salmon.

First up, I worked a Renous Special on a 6-foot leader and full sinking line over both sides from my middle seat in the canoe with no takes. Since Mike was casting from behind me, I could watch his rod tip as each cast of the second drop drifted down river. Everything in the boat was dripping wet already, as the wet snow melted on contact. I was thinking how thankful I was for the inventor of Gore-Tex when Mike’s line swing stopped, straightened, and he lifted the rod tip.

The salmon fought down and dirty, making several long runs into the fast current, but never showing. Only 12 minutes later did the fish swirl near the bow, giving a glimpse of its silver sides before another short run. Another minute and Morton plunged his bare hand into the frigid river and tailed the 14- or 15-pound salmon, holding it for me to snap a photo and remove the 3/0 red-eagle fly from its lower jaw before releasing it.

On the next drop I had a pull, but no hookup, and there was no action at all on the following three stops. My knit fingerless fishing gloves were soaked, so I changed for a set of neoprene gloves and stood to take my turn. Only two drops remained on this stretch and the run out on each side was a perfect speed with about 3 feet of water. On my fourth cast, a fish actually swirled on the surface and took the fly. I’d seen May fish do this, but seldom in April.

This particular kelt was full of surprises. Over the next 8-10 minutes the salmon jumped six times, leaping well clear of the surface and somersaulting on four of the jumps. Only a 10- or 12-pound fish, it thought it was larger and fought, ran, and thrashed about accordingly. After removing the hook, Morton held the fish in the current to help revive it after a hard fight until the salmon surged out of his grip. We tried another section of river, where Mike and I both hooked and lost moderate-size fish. By 11 the constant cold drizzle and wind took its toll and we opted for an early lunch.

Liquid sunshine

By noon the feeling in my fingers had returned enough to hold a fork, so we enjoyed a lunch. We lamented about the weather and compared results with other freezing fishermen and guides. One boat had landed six fish, another crew got four, and the rest caught from one to three salmon. Returning to the room to reposition clothes drying over the heater, Mike and I were amazed to see the sun break through the clouds.

By 1:30 we were rewarmed, redressed, and refortified for an afternoon of salmon fishing. By 2 o’clock we were revolted! The sun had come out and wind had died down, and it was raining hard enough to satisfy Noah. As unpleasant as the downpour was to our canoe crew, the salmon seemed invigorated by the change.

We fished 10 drops along the island below the center of the international bridge, and hooked or landed a salmon on more than half the drops. On two of the drops, Mike and I each caught a salmon. I had changed to a Herb Johnson Special and gave Mike a Magog smelt to tie on, and the black salmon were tearing them up. We got jumps from three fish and while most were in the 10- to 14-pound class, we each won a tug of war with a brute in the 17-pound class.

We finished the day out fishing more than a mile down river casting along the roadside shoreline. Rising water was obvious by the increase of floating logs, brush, and dead grass, but the salmon continued to strike. Unfortunately, the changing water conditions were causing the fish to strike short, and although we had about a dozen tugs, jerks, and pulls, only four salmon were hooked well enough to play, and three of them made it to the canoe to be released. There were no complaints at 5:30 when Morton started the motor and headed back through the chilly rain to a warm, dry room. Mike and I had 13 salmon for the day and lots to talk about at supper.

A bigger boat

Rain had dwindled to a drizzle by breakfast, but the damage had been done, as each arriving guide proclaimed long and loud. The Restigouche was up more than a foot and still rising. When Mike and I met Pete Dube a half-hour later, the water was clear back into the bushes, and logs, brush, and other debris floated steadily past on the brown flowage. Like the sheriff in the movie “Jaws,” my first thought was: We need a bigger boat!

Our entire morning was spent seeking out sheltered runs below islands, and shallow eddies along curves in the river. One man fished while the other kept an eye out for floating wood that might catch in the anchor line and lead to disaster. I caught a 10-pound fish on the second drop; Mike hooked a fish and played it for five minutes before the hook pulled out. The remainder of the morning was fruitless, but on the plus side, our 28-foot Sharp’s canoe remained afloat.

When we met at the canoe after lunch, Pete informed us the Restigouche was still rising, but the Matapedia River had leveled out. Because of the muddy water and flotsam, none of us were optimistic, and Mike and I mentioned packing it in. Pete coaxed us to try one spot before throwing in the towel. We motored up river about half an hour and anchored 10 feet from shore just above the St. Alexis bridge.

On the entire river system, if we were going to catch a fish under these horrible water conditions, Pete assured us this was the spot. There was only one short stretch, but on Mike’s sixth cast, a steady pull signaled a strike, and soon after a 10- or 11-pounder was tailed and released. I took over and was about finished the drop when I, too, hooked up and a twin to Mike’s salmon was landed. We did try two more small runs, but when the sprinkles turned to a steady rain, we called it a day.

As it turned out, the rivers rose more and salmon fishing was abysmal for three days after we left. Spring black salmon fishing is always and forever based on weather, and success depends on being on hand at the right time. Our trip was cold and wet, yet very exciting and satisfying with more than a dozen fish boated. Late April through mid-May is prime time for black salmon on Canadian rivers, and I can’t wait to suffer the pleasure of my next outing. Check into it; each trip is one you’re unlikely to forget.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com