If I were to paint a picture symbolic of spring fishing in Maine, I’d begin with sketches of Jim Carter’s Munsungan Hunting and Fishing Club. Situated north of Baxter State Park and at the outlet of conjoined lakes, Big Munsungan and Little Munsungan, the main camp overlooks a foam-flecked pool darkened by shadows and reflections of spruce and fir. I’m told that when conditions are right the “Club Pool” is brightened by the swirls of silvery landlocked salmon and coppery brook trout rising for flies.

That wasn’t the case, however, when I arrived there in late May, usually prime time, according to Jim. Owing to the cold wind-chilled rains lashing the state at the time, the outlet was running high and swift, which meant the fish weren’t holding in the Club Pool. That didn’t cause any slack in my angler optimism, though, because, to me, trolling streamers for landlocks is the essence of spring fishing. And so it went for three days.

In spite of water temperatures ranging between 46 and 50 degrees, our beaded Gray Ghosts and Nine-Threes brought hard, hit-and-run strikes from salmon that leaped and arced like lightning. But before my reel runs too far into the backing on that subject, let me cast one of my favorite lines: There’s more to fishing than catching fish. Accordingly, on arriving at the club in late afternoon and seeing the classic log camp and snug cabins, I realized again what a blessing it was to have my birth certificate stamped with the State of Maine seal.

Directly, I was greeted by Jim and Martha, whose conformation, liver-and-white coloration and long tail led me to think she was an English pointer. That is until Jim told me she was a German shorthair wagging an undocked tail.

“Any trouble coming in?” he asked as we shook hands.

“None,” I answered. “I had to share Route 11 and the Pinkham Road with a few yearling moose, but other than that it was clear sailing.”

“They’re a little lost,” Jim replied. “Sent off to fend for themselves by cows getting ready to calf.” Wasting no more words, he pointed to a cabin and said, “Drop your gear in there, then we’ll have a beer and get ready to go fishing.”

Walking into the main camp minutes later was like stepping into a time warp. Silently, I appreciated the woodsy ambiance and comfortable clutter that only time and tradition furnish to sporting camps. My silence, however, may have prompted Jim to say somewhat apologetically, “I’ve got some work to do here, inside and out.”

“Jim,” I said quickly, “don’t change a thing. This is vintage Maine.”

As if to affirm that, seconds later a moose slogged out of an alder swale above the camp and swam across the outlet. Shortly thereafter we shoved off in a square-stern canoe saddled with a four-stroke, 15-horse Honda outboard. Built by Scott Canoe Co. in Liskeard, Ontario, the fiberglass 20-footer was wide and deep with a high bow, rugged spruce rails, gunnels and splash strips. In other words, as stable as a sidewalk.

The wind was sighing wearily as we began the evening fishing, but it soon regained its gusty breath. Nevertheless, while the canoe pitched and spanked in churning whitecaps, our rods danced jigs to the music of the reels. Spring fishing in full bloom. It wilted quickly, though, when the fog-like drizzle changed to chilling rain.

As usual, the first night in camp continued into the next morning. And typically, the verbal casting raised the names of people we had hunted and fished with at camps near and far. Yet, Jim and I didn’t meet until last March at the Sportsman’s Show in Orono. So it was that while lighting his companion corncob pipe, he squinted through a swirl of smoke and said, “It’s about time we got together. We’ve been following each others tracks for years.” As can be imagined, the camp was knee deep in fur, feathers, and fish scales when, after a late supper of fried chicken, potato salad, and freshly picked asparagus, I followed the path to my cabin and bed.

The way I see it, Jim Carter would be a worthy subject for one of those Most Unforgettable Character stories. He earned a degree in agronomy at UMaine, where he also studied science and art. That disclosure explained his impressive knowledge of art and artists, particularly with regard to sporting paintings and prints. But being a native of The County, it isn’t surprising that he became a potato farmer and subsequently served on agricultural boards and commissions. Hence, he knows his way around the political woods.

In 1996, however, Jim decided to slow down and operate the Munsungan Hunting and Fishing Club, which he inherited, as a commercial camp. He makes it clear, though, that he practices selective cutting regarding clients. “I look for experienced sportsmen,” he said. “I don’t want a bunch of wannabes wearing shiny fishing vests and swigging water from plastic bottles showing up here.” Amen to that.

The next morning, after tucking away a breakfast of bacon and eggs, hot blueberry muffins, and coffee blacker than bear hair – calories and cholesterol soar in sporting camps – we went searching for salmon and found them. Great sport it was until, just as I hooked a fish, the motor quit. After coaxing it to no avail, Jim reached for the 6-gallon gas can and picked it up – empty. Slack-jawed, we sat looking at each other. Four-stroke outboards are known to run for days on a full tank and Jim had filled it only minutes before I arrived.

“Well,” I said, “we’ve got the wind at our backs and two paddles and a pole to take us back to camp. What more can we ask for?” Standing, then, using our bodies as sails, we paddled and poled along the shoreline and covered the distance of about 2 miles in surprisingly short time. As it turned out, a carburetor malfunction resulted in the outboard guzzling gas. A couple of turns with a screwdriver took care of it.

After lunch, Jim cobbled together a beef stew to have for supper. Simply put, the man’s as good a cook as he is a guide. That evening, a salmon swatted Jim’s fly before we had fished 50 yards. Likewise, my rod suffered a severe case of the bends within minutes after we were fishing again. Half an hour later, though, our streamers hadn’t got so much as a second look from a salmon. Figuring we might find some at the head of the lake, Jim set a course in that direction. As soon as we got into the rake of the raw northwest wind, though, we had second thoughts: the upper lake was boiling black and white. With his chin tucked onto his chest, Jim squinted from under his hood and said, “Whatta y’think?”

“The same as you’re thinking,” I answered. That said, and with steaming bowlfuls of beef stew in mind, we towed a wake back to camp. Supper and sleep came earlier that night.

The greening hills glowed with sunlight the next morning and Jim’s smoke signal from the camp was rising straight up. Allowing that my prayers had been answered I washed and dressed quickly. Breakfast was being served when Todd Weeks, a state forest ranger, dropped in. He passed on pancakes, though, and settled for a cup of coffee and a wedge of lemon meringue pie. It was then that I demonstrated how distracting spring fishing can be. Without looking right or left, I reached straight in front of me for a clear-glass cruet containing what I assumed was maple syrup. However, in pouring it on my pancakes I realized it was vinegar.

Afterward, Todd said he was watching me but didn’t say anything because he thought he might be learning something new. Actually, when the pancakes were lacquered with syrup – the jug was sitting hard to my right – I could hardly taste the vinegar. What the heck, every camp needs a clown.

Truth be told, my faith wavered when we left the camp and saw that the wind was stretching and yawning and the sun was squinting from behind sodden clouds. Our spirits lifted, though, when Jim caught a salmon within minutes after our flies were tracking the canoe. But, as the saying goes, that was all she wrote, even though we fished, rocking and rolling, all the way to the head of the lake. There, sheltered from the wind, we watched a pair of whistlers that circled us repeatedly. “That hen’s got a nest nearby,” I thought aloud.

“Where would it be, in the brush along the shore?” Jim asked.

“Not likely,” I answered. Then, pointing toward a big pine into which pileated woodpeckers had drilled two large holes, I said, “Whistlers usually nest in tree cavities, like the ones in that pine.” And as if on cue the hen whistler banked toward the tree and fluttered into one of the holes. Grinning, Jim said, “Well, I’ll be … y’know, when my clients see something like that, it makes their whole trip.” Again, there’s more to fishing than catching fish.

I can’t say we burned the drags out of our reels during those three days of fishing, but I can say we caught fish and several were honest 3-pounders. You can take it from there. For the record, the only fish kept was the one I took home to have poached and served with melted butter and chives.

Obviously, a lot of adjectives could be used to color a painting of spring fishing at Jim Carter’s Munsungan Hunting and Fishing Club; but to paint it accurately and most appealingly I’d use a single noun: Maine.

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 is: www.tomhennessey.com.