Although the temperature hovered at 30 degrees, a steady drizzle, constant breeze along the river, and dark, overcast skies made me feel much colder. It was the third week of April and I was hunkered down amidships of a 30-foot Sharps canoe anchored on the Restigouche River, and my three layers of clothes and two sets of gloves were barely stemming the elements. Mike Wallace was standing behind me in the bow, casting to the right side of the boat, while our longtime friend and guide for the day, Pete Dube, sat in the stern laying out line to the left with his 14-foot spey rod.

Pete had dropped the 35- pound lead anchor from the bow pulley a little past 8 a.m. and our long, stable hand-built canoe lazily swung on its tether just above the old green railroad trestle. He and I fished the first drop, then Mike and I, then Pete and Mike, changing partners and casting sides with each hopscotch downstream. While fishing had been steady for the previous two days, when the sun had been out with temperature in the 50s, the night’s cold snap had turned things around. After the first hour we had not seen a single salmon move and every fly presented had been ignored.

Considering the conditions and lack of action, I was in no rush for my turn to come around again, when I’d have to stop huddling, remove my gloves, and stand face to face with Mother Nature. It’s tough enough casting a full sinking line and leader with a heavy 5/0 fly attached when arms aren’t stiff with cold, fingers still have some feeling, and there’s no wind. But foul, frequently changing spring weather is all part of black salmon fishing, and just hooking and fighting a couple of good-size fish in the high, fast water makes the suffering all worth while.

Finally a fish

Well into our second hour of morning casting and shivering, a few creases of blue sky were actually sneaking between the cloud cover, promises of a better afternoon. My enthusiasm was quickly dampened, however, when the intermittent mist turned to sleet as the mercury took a dive while I was taking a turn laying out line, deep dredging for our first strike.

My express sinking line had made its drift and was hanging in an eddy well below the canoe, and I was twitching my rod tip while colorfully and boisterously berating the snow flurries. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, I felt a light but steady pressure on the fly line that could only be a very lethargic salmon taking my fly. I raised the rod tip slowly until the line tightened, then gave a solid wrist set.

Lazy though the strike might have been, feeling the hook, my salmon found new life and proceeded to head for the ocean at a brisk clip, my reel clicking like a card in bicycle spokes. Even a 10-pound fish fights twice its size in the fast flowing freshet, and this salmon was larger than that. Finally I got the run stopped, but couldn’t gain line as the silver leaper bulldogged in the fast midriver current. Pete started the motor and moved us downstream and toward the shore. I gained line, and as we came even with the spot where the salmon was holding, I was able to exert some side pressure and draw the fight closer, into slower and shallower water.

Another shorter run, some more tug of war, and I led the salmon closer once again. Then we fought a give-and-take stalemate for a couple of minutes, the line so taut it hummed in the wind. Suddenly with no warning the fish rose, breeched the surface, and switched ends to start another run – and the fly came zinging back to whack against the side of the canoe. From the quick exposure, Pete guessed it was about a 15-pound black salmon. Now I had something besides the weather to mumble under my breath about!

Pete reanchored just below the railroad bridge above a gravel bar that offered a perfect shallow, slow holding lie and enough current for a leisurely, low running fly drift. He and Mike had at it. About half a dozen casts later, Pete put a big bow in his long spey rod as a fish sucked in his fly, but only seconds later the hook pulled free. We all agreed that strikes were so slow and sluggish, we had to make ourselves wait even longer to set the hook to assure we were getting more than a lip.

Mike was struggling for one more long cast with his 9-foot rod, fighting a crosswind and the weighted line. After Pete’s short strike there had been no more action, and we were all a bit surprised since this was a likely run. I was actually watching Mike’s line swing and straighten far behind the canoe when it suddenly stretched rigid. This was no timid take as the strike actually pulled a foot or so of line from the reel. Mike’s reel gargled and sputtered as the salmon made a strong first run, and Pete pulled anchor to follow and angle toward the shoreline.

Much to everyone’s pleasure the sturdy salmon executed a water-clearing somersault about 10 minutes into the fight, and another smaller jump a few minutes later as Mike fought it closer to the river bank. Pete manned the camera as I knelt in shallow water, waiting to tail the fish when Mike maneuvered it within reach. Disregarding the rain blowing inside my hood and down my neck, I connected on the first pass and hefted a pretty 37-inch fish in the 18-pound class from the river for a quick photo.

After removing the fly and releasing the fish, I voted for an early lunch, reasoning it would be at least half an hour before I’d be able to hold silverware in my frigid fingers. As we motored upriver toward the warm and welcoming Restigouche Hotel, the rain let up and more blue sky appeared as we moored the canoe and unloaded rods and gear. It was going to be a much better afternoon, which wouldn’t be difficult considering how the morning had gone for me. But that’s every devout fisherman’s logic; the next day, the next pool, the next fly, or even the next cast is bound to be better!

One more fly

Warmth never felt so good, I thought, as Mike and I jockeyed for position over the heat ducts in our room. We hung our dripping rain gear and wet shirts over the heat vents and headed for the dining room where a bowl of steaming soup and piping hot tea helped stabilize our declining body temperatures. In fact, after a leisurely lunch and homemade pie, I felt almost human again. Add a set of dry clothes and I’d be primed for the afternoon venture. I was just finishing dessert, enjoying a bit of sunshine that had broken through the clouds and was streaming in the restaurant window when Pete stopped by. Yves Dufour, one of the best-known local guides, had the afternoon free, so I would fish with him and Pete would take Mike so we could spread out and cover more pools.

I’d known Yves for years, though we seldom got to fish together, so regardless of how the salmon cooperated, it would be an enjoyable outing. In the back of my mind however, I was thinking that if anyone could find fish and knew a few tricks to entice them, this was the guide. We met in the hotel lobby at 2 p.m., chatted for a few minutes, then headed for his boat to load up our equipment and head downriver. Yves motored the big canoe at least a mile farther than we had fished in the morning and anchored us below an island where an eddy formed in the otherwise fast, coffee-colored river.

Tying on a 3/0 concoction of color named a Rainbow, I began lashing the water once again, but this time with no rain or sleet and only a mild breeze. Unfortunately, my luck hadn’t changed any and our first two drops were fruitless, but on the plus side I could still feel my fingers. That worked out well because midway through the third drop, I was able to sense a fairly solid strike. Much to my amazement the salmon made a short lateral run and executed a high, tumbling leap, the first of three jumps and just part of a heavy-duty, down-and-dirty fight.

Yves tried going to shore and moving us even with the fish to gain line, but the salmon got into the heaviest current and streaked across the river. I was so far into my backing that we had to follow and take up a station on the opposite riverbank. This salmon was only 16 or 18 pounds but apparently thought he was much larger and fought accordingly. After about 15 minutes of steady work, Yves was able to slide a net under the feisty male and pose for a quick picture. I allowed that if I didn’t catch another fish all afternoon, this one was worth the wait. Two and a half hours later I began to regret that sentiment.

Unlike bright Atlantic salmon fishing it’s not unusual to catch and release a half-dozen black salmon a day, often more on an outstanding spring outing, but this was a tough day. Almost three hours, four different runs, six fly patterns, and a foot of leader were used up with nary a nudge and I was a bit frustrated. Yves had one more spot to try, even farther downriver, where he felt no other boats had ventured, so we headed for our last pool of the day. As we motored along I dug out a long 5/0 silver Rider, a black, white, and silver pattern that imitates a baitfish or smelt, a big change from the bright flies I’d been using.

Our first drop was uneventful, but during our second drop, on the fourth cast to the shoreline side of the canoe, my line stopped and straightened in mid drift and a weighty surge that could only be a salmon pulled away. Strangely this fish didn’t turn and make a run, it just settled back to the riverbed and even when I applied pressure, putting a good bend in the rod, the salmon remained immobile. Using an old trick, I brought the rod sideways 90 degrees, parallel to the water, putting heavy side pressure on the fish, and that quickly brought a reaction.

In a heartbeat the salmon was in the heavy current heading downriver. Thirty seconds later the fish was still going, my reel was well into the backing and I was starting to regret agitating my quarry. I tightened the drag to no avail and seeing another 100 yards of backing evaporate, Yves pulled anchor and we followed the salmon, trying to gain some line back. Fifteen minutes into the battle we had yet to see the fish and still half my backing was out. Yves wondered if the salmon was foul hooked and I questioned if I might not have hooked one of the rare bright fish that enter the river early.

After 25 minutes of a heated tug of war, I had finally retrieved my backing and some of my fly line, but still the fish had not breeched the surface. I’d gain a few feet and the salmon would take it back. I’d try to steer the battle to shallower water and the fish would bull its way back to the current and take some more line. At the half- hour mark we finally saw the tail clear the water about 20 feet from the canoe, and that’s when I really got nervous. The hair on my neck and arms stood up and Yves said in a hushed tone, “Go easy, big boy, that’s a 25-pound fish.”

A lot of fish are lost right beside the boat, and it’s a tough chore to manhandle a salmon and still try to be gentle and make no mistakes at the same time. Tension was palpable over the next five minutes, and we both sighed then cheered when the net surrounded the huge hookbill salmon. It was the largest black salmon I’ve ever caught, 471/2 inches and 30 pounds, and worth every ignored cast and each and every minute of wet, shivering misery that day. When that fish entered the river in the fall it probably weighed between 40 and 45 pounds. Yves held the fish for a couple of photos and released it to fight again, maybe this year, it will return bigger and stronger ready to make memories for another spring salmon angler – perhaps you.

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