Dream river turns into river of mud Bad conditions on Matapedia make salmon fishing tough

Few phrases are more disheartening to arriving sportsmen than, “Man, you should have been here last week.” There’s no good response; you weren’t, you couldn’t be, and it’s too late to do anything about it except deal with the here and now. My first good look at the normally crystalline salmon river, now tainted like day-old coffee, was like a kick in the stomach. The guide’s words further took the wind out of my sails. Nonetheless, my fishing partner Tom Tardiff and I hadn’t driven to Quebec for the scenery. We were there to hook an Atlantic salmon. We had until morning to come up with a game plan to master the dingy water and achieve our goal of doing battle with the King of freshwater game fish.

Of the dozen or so Canadian salmon rivers I frequent, the Matapedia is nearest and dearest to my heart. Although the Grand Cascapedia, St. Jean, St. Anne, Restigouche and Miramichi have offered outstanding outings over the years, my most unforgettable escapades, memorable guides and most impressive angling all center on the Matapedia River. I have fished this picturesque, pristine ribbon of blue from top to bottom, canoeing and casting over most of the many public pools, as well as fishing the pools of the two private camps, Cold Spring and the Tobique Club, on many occasions. My favorite stretch of pools, and the most difficult portion of the Matapedia to book days on, is the government-controlled Glen Emma sector.

Composed of 26 primary pools, some holding upwards of 300 fish during July and August, Glen Emma is the most coveted run on the river. Thousands of anglers from all over the world enter the annual fall lottery, but only a handful are selected to fill the 10 daily slots, and fewer still draw the prime July openings. This year Lady Luck smiled on me, and my reward was two rods on July 16, 17 and 18, last weekend. The day dreams, hopes and prospects of primetime casting to huge Atlantic salmon buoyed Tom and I through a long, cold winter. Reality was far less appealing as we stood on the bank overlooking a tea-tinged torrent overflowing into the bank side bushes.

During a sumptuous supper of scallops at the Restigouche Hotel with owner and veteran salmon angler Pete Dube, we fished for ideas to beat the high, dirty river. Pete related stories of past successes on wicked water conditions, and a few tactics that might benefit our effort. On the downside, at least three times during the meal anglers straggled in from fishing Glen Emma all day with no fish and little encouragement. Back at the room we put rods together, changed regular long leaders for shorter sinking leaders, perused boxes of large, colorful high-water flies and attempted to remain hopeful. Sleep was fitful and the night was short.

Muddy Morning

If a sport had to select a superlative high-water pool from the Matapedia mix, Johnson would top the list. Guy Raymond was my guide for the trio of days, and having spent many days fishing together over the last 20 years, we were both pleased. His English and my French were of equal caliber – limited, but his knowledge of salmon fishing in general and Glen Emma pools in particular were diverse and invaluable. Tom and his guide Walter Gray boarded their 24-foot Sharp’s canoe at Johnson Pool as well, and floated downstream to their pools for the day, Upper and Lower Murdock.

Glen Emma guides use only paddle and pick poles to navigate their long, hand-built cedar canoes along the rocky, rapid runs on their sector, shunning modern motors and lightweight plastic-hulled boats. Their one concession to technology are the two-way radios that let them keep track of fish caught and when it’s possible to move downriver to another, perhaps better beat, one that has just produced a salmon and is now open to the next sport. Beginning about 8 a.m. I made cast after cast on drop after drop with not a sign of a fish. Radio chatter was minimal, which told us other anglers, too, were fruitlessly beating the dirty water.

Finally at 9:30 a fish was taken on Milnekeg, arguably the most dependable pool on the entire river. Milenkeg stream runs into the Matapedia at the top of the pool, emptying a constant supply of cold, clear water that attracts and holds hundreds of salmon, especially during hot weather. Today the influx of clear water allowed the fish a respite from the otherwise tea-colored river, and flies being fished could be seen far better, as this lucky angler proved. By 10 a.m., the duo at Angus pool reported in with a 12-pound salmon. Another case of clear water from a brook inlet, in this case Assemetaquagan Stream, diluting the murky river enough for salmon to spot and strike a fly.

By 11:30 no other salmon had been taken and I’d burned up a foot of leader tying various sizes and colors of flies. At the start of the next drag I spotted a small swirl and what might have been a fin right next to shore in the long grass covered by the rising water. Probably a trout, I figured, but noted the exact location. A few minutes later, when I had the right amount of line out and my single hook, 1/0 Mickey Finn landed within six inches of the bank, a weight pulled gently on my line. By the slow, light strike and lack of immediate response when I set the hook, my trout conclusion was confirmed.

Thirty seconds later, as a hefty small salmon took to the air, I had to re-evaluate. A couple of runs, another jump, a third shorter run and some tug-of-war antics in the heavy current and I finally had the grilse at boatside. Guy made a perfect sweep with the net and what turned out to be a 51/2-pound grilse, only the third fish of the morning, was mine. We quit for lunch, and would take to the river again at 4:30 for the evening outing. I picked up Tom downriver to return to the hotel, and learned a salmon had swirled at and bumped his fly on his last drop on Lower Murdock. Hope springs eternal!

Evening Events

After a quick lunch, Tom and I returned to the room to make some substantial equipment changes. Floating lines were swapped for sinking tips to get the flies deeper. Leaders were shortened for the same purpose, and larger, more colorful flies were sorted out for the evening. Tom even went so far as to buy a couple of size 2, double-hook iridescent yellow monstrosities at the hotel fly shop, figuring they might help since his strike and my grilse were on flies with some yellow coloration.

Upon arriving at the guides’ cabin late that afternoon, we found that Tom could fish Milnekeg pool which became available due to an evening downriver shift of anglers. Before anyone changed their mind, he turned on his heel and was gone in a flash to get his equipment and hustle to his dream pool. I would move down to Lower Murdock and Rocky pools, with the sole consolation that Tom had moved a salmon on that run. A couple of other sports had experienced pulls or short takes during the a.m., hesitant strikes, and only a rare solid hookup.

Midway through my second drop, a long, steady pull jarred me alert, but was gone just as quickly. Three pattern changes drew no further response, so we finished the drop and moved on. Two drops later, on a single 1/0 green highlander, I got another pull. This one was hooked and I played it for about two minutes, including a short run, and as I reeled the fish back toward the canoe the hook just pulled free. Guy said some bad words in French, a few of which I understood and agreed with wholeheartedly.

By 8 p.m. we had fished through Murdock twice and moved to Rocky, where we discovered to my chagrin that the river had continued to rise and no fishable pool remained. Radio reports from other guides were desolate. Few salmon seen rolling, fewer strikes, and no fish in the net. Dejected and arm-weary I decided to call it a day. As I parked at Milnekeg to pick up Tom, a family of four was watching the pool from the roadway. Tom’s guide was poling him to shore. In French, the man asked how the fishing was, and I responded in English that it was difficult. In broken English he asked if it was my friend in the canoe, and when I confirmed it was, he informed me that Tom had gotten a fish. Not knowing if it was a grilse or salmon, and not really caring, I hurried back to the truck for my camera.

I scrambled down a goat path to the river bank where the canoe was anchored. To my great delight, there stood Tom holding what turned out to be a 16-pound, thick-sided slab of silver, the only fish from Glen Emma that night. He had fished through the pool twice with varied flies and was on the last drop of his third trip through, only a dozen casts from ending his day, when the fish struck. Of all coincidences, the salmon took the bright yellow fly Tom had bought that very afternoon! Several long runs, one somersault leap and a 15-minute tussle lead to the net, and Tom had his largest ever Atlantic salmon. In the dim dusk, it was hard to tell which was brighter in the camera lens, Tom’s grin or his chrome-sided prize.

Bad to Worse

Just when you think things can’t get worse, they often do. Early evening thunderstorms at the head of the Matapedia Valley sent a deluge of water and top soil into the river. By the next morning the salmon pools were a foot higher and the color of coffee with three creams. It was a grim situation, and frustration and disappointment showed on the face of each angler and guide. Much to my amazement, on the second drop of the morning I caught another grilse, a feisty fighter of just five pounds. No other fish were taken that morning by the nine other flycasters.

By that night and all the next day, sinking tips had given way to full sinking lines and fly sizes had jumped to 3/0 singles for most anglers. No one threw in the towel, however, and for 8-to-9 hours a day we beat that muddy water to a froth. I actually hooked and lost two more salmon, picked one other, and had three pulls during the two final days. A few fish were hooked and landed, most on the third day when the upstream pools started clearing up and the stream inlets added their clear water to the muddy mix. One fortunate fisherman landed the trophy of a lifetime in a 32-pound Atlantic, which just goes to show that regardless of water conditions, perseverance pays.

During our three-day sojourn to Matapedia’s Glen Emma sector, daily takes dropped from 12-to-18 salmon per day, to between three and five. Our river of dreams turned to a river of mud. In the end it all comes down to one ingrained fly fishing philosophy: The worst day of fishing is still far better than the best day at work.

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