Most Atlantic salmon anglers will readily admit that once you catch the silver leaper, the King of freshwater game fish, it pretty much ruins you for other types of fishing. Atlantic salmon fishing is about people, unique guides and distinctive casting companions, it’s about long stable handmade canoes, and uncommonly distinguished feather-winged flies from another century.

This captivating sport is about exceptional pools on spectacular woods-lined waterways and well-aged fishing camps with log books of fish and fishermen from long past and up to the current corps of casters. Salmon fishing is about memories, those past and the great ones yet to be made. But mostly it’s about the fish, that acrobatic, aerobatic, silver bolt of power and speed called salmo salar.

Every Atlantic salmon angler’s casting career is earmarked with certain milestones, the first salmon, the largest salmon, first one on a dry fly and the most fish in a day. Then there’s the one that got away (numerous editions), the greatest number of jumps, the premier salmon on a self- tied fly and of course the many odd and outstanding events that are meaningful and momentous to each individual sportsman. Here’s one of the many in my file of magnificent memories.

Cheuters Brook

A 20-minute canoe ride downstream from Two Brooks Landing, on a secluded stretch of the renown Restigouche River, are three sensational salmon pools and an old style traditional fishing lodge. The Restigouche is a boundary water with one side being in Quebec and the other in New Brunswick, but the heavy bodied, hard fighting fish that return to spawn each summer know no boundaries and take residence everywhere along the mile and a half of river in this trio of long, lovely pools. A small cold creek called Cheuters (pronounced cheaters) Brook inlets midway down Home Pool between the lodge and the guides cabins, and is the namesake for this century old salmon camp. Wooded hills rise sharply on each side of the river, offering anglers a secluded, picturesque haven from civilization that in itself is worth the initial visit, but it’s the salmon that keep sports coming back year after year.

Cheuters Brook is one of several salmon waters controlled by the Canadian government, and every decade this stretch of the Restigouche is put up for public bid on a 10-year lease program. During the 1980s, Tom Pinkham, a lumbering magnate from Ashland, and also an ardent salmon angler, put in the winning offer and became overseer, and temporary owner of the celebrated set of pools and its lodge. Up to that point, Cheuters Brook Lodge remained closed to fishing until mid-June, since that was around the time that the season’s largest run of fish began returning to spawn.

My dad, Phil Graves and his three brothers, Vince, Donald and Bob, all began Atlantic salmon fishing in the early 1940s when they were just into their 20s. Over the years the brothers fished dozens of Canadian rivers, the Restigouche, and several of its most eminent camps and outstanding pools becoming favorite and familiar haunts. The boys all knew Tom Pinkham from business dealings and crossing paths on various fishing trips, so when Dad and Vince ran into Tom a couple of weeks after he acquired the Cheuters Brook lease, they had an interesting chat.

During late May and early June, the first limited run of Atlantic salmon make their way up the Restigouche, and these are big fish, most surpassing the 20-pound mark, with a fair number of 30-pounders and a rare 40 finning upstream. Dad and Vincent suggested that if Pinkham opened the camp two weeks earlier than usual, on June 1st,, some excellent fishing might be enjoyed.

At some point during early June, big salmon would start showing up in the Cheuters Brook pools, and with proper timing and a little bit of luck, sports on hand would have extraordinary angling. Salmon fishing is always about timing and luck, but that one sudden, startling strike, the ensuing tug-of-war battle interspaced with spectacular leaps, and finally guiding the huge silver slab into the net, cancels out a week of fishless days. Since Cheuters camps and pools could accommodate only four fishermen at a time, the Graves brothers offered to book the entire second week of June for themselves and their sons if Tom would open up early. The deal was struck.

Home Pool

Winter came and went, and spring slowly entered the picture. With all the foolishness of youth I wished time away, yearning for the second week of June to arrive more quickly. Dad and I, and Uncle Bob and his son Greg drove from Presque Isle and arrived at the Two Brook landing at 7:30 p.m. Two guides with a pair of 24- foot hand-built Sharpe canoes waited on the rocky beach for us. Within 20 minutes, introductions were made, our fishing gear and dunnage was loaded and we were motoring down the most breathtaking river valley imaginable. High- wooded hills rose on either side of the undulating river that glistened in the twilight, and each breath of fresh, forest scented air seemed to vitalize and excite my soul. Despite the wilderness tranquility, a fine home-cooked supper laced with many salmon fishing tales, and my own cozy rustic cabin, my sleep was fitful. I hooked a lot fish in my dreams, but each turned into a nightmare as leaders broke, hooks pulled free or huge salmon swam off with all my line. Sunrise was a blessing.

After a hearty breakfast, anglers and guides met at the canoes for an 8 a.m. start. I had drawn head guide Dougie Sharp as my boatsman and guide, and our beat would be lower Home pool for the morning outing. Greg had upper Home pool, Bob would fish a run named Jardin Pordach and Dad would fish the long lower stretch named Silas Beach, and we would all rotate boats each half day. The river was fairly high, still cold, but crystal clear, and the guides had seen a few fish showing the previous day, although none had been taken.

Doug snubbed the sturdy double ender 50 yards from shore, midway down the pool, about 100 yards above Cheuters Brook inlet and the picturesque lodge set into the wooded slope. A 2/0 double rusty rat was already cinched to my leader so I stripped out a few feet of line and made my first cast. After fishing out both sides with no action, we made a drop and began the one side then the other casting litany again.

Although no salmon rose to my fly, a substantial fish rolled below us near the brook outflow. During our third drop a resounding splash behind us drew my attention to cousin Greg’s boat. He had a fish on and it had just jumped, but a few choice words floated downstream to me on the still morning air about three minutes later, and I knew the fish had thrown the fly. Fish are scarce in June, so hooking up is always an unexpected gift, and losing one a swift kick in the gut. Two more drops produced no ravenous salmon to add turmoil to my morning.

I had half my line out during the next drop when a washtub size pocket opened around the fly midway through the swing, but no pull, no tug, no tension. Proximity to the brook told us it had to be the fish we had seen roll earlier.

The next 30 minutes consisted of rest the fish, change the fly, and cast some more. A half hour that flew by while offering five patterns in three sizes, which did draw two more rises, but no takers. We gave up and moved on. By noon, Doug and I had finished the pool and refished a few hot spots with a different pattern, but we failed to move another salmon. Greg’s only morning thrill was the one he hooked and lost.

Bob arrived back at the landing just after Greg and I, and his guide proudly hefted a 24- pound salmon from a fish box in the bow of the canoe. Taken on a 1/0 half breed, the salmon grabbed the double hooks on its first rise, about 9:30, and gave three jumps and 35 minutes of thrills. Dad was almost half an hour late returning to camp, and when we went to meet the boat the reason was evident. There in the bow lay a huge salmon, later tipping the scales at 401/2 pounds, which took just more than an hour to subdue, including six breathtaking leaps and several runs deep into the backing. A 2/0 featherwing black dose had been just the ticket for that silver brute. Over lunch we all exchanged stories and celebrated, spirits buoyed, knowing the run was on and the evening held great promise.

The Pothole

My beat for the evening outing was to be Jardine Pordash, but between the heavy rips of Chamberlain shoals and the top of my pool lay a short, one drop run along a ledge, nicknamed the Pothole. Occasionally a salmon or two would rest there, Doug confided, and since no one had fished it that morning, perhaps it was worth a 30-minute lay over. As he jigged the canoe this way and that, into just the right spot and dropped the anchor, I tied on a double 2/0 Jock Scott.

I stripped out about six feet of line to go with my nine-foot leader and made a short cast to my right. As the fly swung and straightened, I took my eyes off the drift and leaned forward to snap the latch closed in my tackle box. An explosive strike, right on the surface no more than six feet in front of the bow, nearly jerked the rod from my grip, and got me upright and focused in a heartbeat. Doug was as astounded as myself at the vicious take so close to the boat, but no reaction was necessary as the salmon had hooked itself and was off on a wild first run in fast heavy current.

Doug moved the canoe to the rocky beach and anchored so I could stand during the fight, yet still be able to float after the fish if required. Once the fish stopped, I began to slowly work him back upstream and gain some line. That was short lived as the salmon sprinted off again, once more straightening my arm and dropping the rod toward the water. At the end of this run, a skyward double somersault made my heart sprint a bit. Before I could even think of regaining line, the fish was off again with another unusually hard pull and hesitation before the spool turned and the drag kicked in. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

When the salmon finally stopped I quickly turned the reel sideways and got a nasty shock. Instead of flowing directly off the spool to the guides, my line was around a reel pillar. The friction of the indirect line path was causing the hesitation and severe tension when the fish started a run. I loosened the drag a bit to compensate, but Doug was less than optimistic, fearing the leader would part or the fly pull free due to the excess pressure.

For nearly 50 minutes I fought that salmon, including three heart palpitating, water- clearing leaps and several more reel-wrenching, line-stretching runs. It was a “big fella,'” according to Doug, more than 25 pounds he estimated. Finally, with a lot of relief and not a little bit of surprise, the fish was in the shallows, and Doug, stationed 10 yards below me in water past his knees, slipped the net under and lifted. When the salmon was finally on the river bank, we actually both gave a yell, part relief and part joy and success.

When the camp scale settled, I had caught my largest Atlantic salmon, at just one small notch more than 30 pounds. I also took a 23-pound fish later that night on Jardin Pordash, Greg got a 25-pound fish on lower Home, and Bob took his second salmon of the day, a 24- pounder. Dad? Well, not one to sit on his laurels, he used a green highlander to raise a fish four times, finally taking what turned out to be a 29-pound hook bill.

All of our family trips to Cheuters Brook were special, even the ones when we caught no fish at all. In 32 years of salmon fishing I’ve caught only one other 30-pounder, but thankfully, for that fish my equipment wasn’t hindering me. Family, friends, special camps, extraordinary pools, and peculiar incidents – perhaps Atlantic salmon fishing isn’t just about the fish after all.

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