Hanging high over the mantle of my large rock fireplace, in a spot for all to admire, is an original painting by Tom Hennessey. Tom composed this breathtaking piece of sporting art at my request a number of years ago, just after we had spent a week at Cold Springs salmon camp on the Matapedia River in Quebec. Seldom a day passes that I don’t gaze at the captivating riverscape and envision myself as the sport in the canoe with bent rod and salmon airborne in the morning haze.

In my humble opinion the Atlantic salmon pool captured on canvas so aptly by Hennessey is one of the top two runs on the entire Matapedia River. Jim’s Rock pool is the epitome of every salmon angler’s daydreams, offering solitude, serene ambience and, of course, salmon, lots of salmon – big, burly, brawling memory makers. Over the years I’ve been privileged to fish this private stretch of water no less than 50 times, and enjoyed some of the most amazing escapades there, good and bad. My long-term relationship with Jim’s Rock and its silver leapers is the very reason I coaxed Tom to replicate this exquisite piece of paradise for my daily personal pleasure.

Quebec calling

Quickly rolling over, I snatched the handset from the cradle before its second raucous, annoying ring sounded, and mumbled hello in a slumber-tempered voice. A female voice with a heavy French accent asked if she was speaking to “monsieur Grave, Mr. William Grave.” I assured her this was Mr. William Graves, with an “S,” and asked how I could help her. To my great pleasure, she was calling from the Quebec office that handles bookings on regional salmon rivers and was going to help me.

Pools on the Glenn Emma sector of the Matapedia River are assigned by way of a fall lottery, and only 20 percent are allocated to American anglers. Rarely are there any cancellations, especially during July and early August’s prime fishing, but each year I faithfully place my name on a cancellation list – just in case a small miracle occurs. My early morning French-accented angel was calling to answer a much-repeated prayer: There had been a cancellation and I was next on the call-up list. In truth, she had already called two other sportsmen, but the open date was the very next day and neither could juggle their schedule or travel to Canada on such short notice.

I could.

Overlooking the scheduling rearrangements and traveling to be done, I accepted the single day of salmon fishing for what it was – a wonderful, unexpected gift. What heightened my excitement and anticipation even further was the receptionist’s answer to which beat I’d be fishing. “Nombre 10, Monsieur Grave, Jim’s Rock.” With that response I was fully awake, and rolled out of bed to begin preparations to leave that very evening. Weather had been sweltering hot and muggy, the river would be warm and low, but the deep run along the craggy line of ledge that gives the pool its name always holds a number of big fish. Surely I could tempt one to take a fly.

As I wandered into the bathroom and grabbed my toothbrush, I glanced out the window and a huge smile crossed my face. It was a dreary, overcast morning with low hanging clouds, and raindrops were pattering on the windowsill already. From a salmon fisherman’s point of view my day was just getting better and better. A couple of hours of slow, steady rain that freshened and cooled the river without dirtying the water could really turn the fish on and perk up the action. I made a couple of quick phone calls and then began gathering fishing equipment like a man possessed. Salmon sickness is a terrible illness, never curable, but kept in remission by annual exposure to certain salmo salar waters.

And it kept raining

Gear was gathered and the truck packed by noon, and the steady rain still fell. If they were getting this liquid sunshine up north and the river should actually rise an inch or two, the salmon would be so rejuvenated a man would have to hide behind a tree before he dared tie on a fly. By the time I left for Quebec at 4 p.m., a constant, cool rain sheeted the windshield, puddles lay in the fields and I mumbled to myself that the storm could relent any time before it did more harm than good.

Wet weather shrouded me all the way to the Matapedia Valley; not a downpour, just a slow steady drizzle. At the registration office where I picked up my paperwork and paid, the clerk informed me it had been raining since before dawn and the river was up six inches already. She also gave me glad tidings that only five fish had been taken on Glen Emma’s 10 beats in the previous three days, but that evening five salmon had been hooked and three landed. One was a bragging-size 24-pound hookbill. Then she dropped the other shoe, telling me that guides were worried that much more rain would turn off the fishing completely.

My table by the window allowed me to watch the precipitation all through supper. I went to sleep with drops tinkling against the window and woke to the pitter-patter on the roof. The river was up more than a foot and still rising, my guide Jean Paul Gautier told me in broken English, which was still far better than my French, but I knew conversation was going to be limited this day, and hand signals a priority.

In full rain suits, hands full of gear, we slipped and slid our way downhill through the woods, over the railroad tracks and along the muddy trail to water’s edge. There would be no dry-fly fishing today as the rain kept peppering the river’s surface, and not much use in drifting a wet fly along the ledge in the rising river and much quickened current. Yesterday’s daydream had become a bit of a nightmare, but that’s salmon fishing – ya’ pays your money and ya’ take your chances!

At least two inches of water lay in the bottom of the 22-foot Sharp’s canoe, more than six inches in the stern. Jean Paul began dipping out water with a plastic bleach container and I sopped up and wrung out a large sponge to hurry things along. We both straightened up to rest our backs after five minutes of steady bailing and the guide pointed to the passing river and confirmed what I was already thinking. “Colorer, un peu colorer.” A definite tea color was notable in the passing water and it was likely to worsen, a condition not conducive to taking salmon. And then, just as my spirits started to sag a bit, a salmon of 12-15 pounds leaped clear of the river about 50 yards below us.

Jean Paul and I looked at each other awestruck and quickly went back to bailing. Five minutes later all the gear was on board, rods together and ready, and the guide was poling us to midstream above a long stretch where moderate current roiled around several large rocks. In the time it took me to make a dozen casts and line swings, two more salmon rolled farther down in the pool, at least three drops below us. That was a good sign, and my heart was going like a trip hammer as Jean Paul pointed and jabbered animatedly in French, as if I actually understood.

Less than a minute later a salmon swirled for my size 4 double, feather-wing Jock Scott, but never touched the fly. I put out a cast to the opposite side of the canoe to rest the fish that rose for a minute, and halfway through the drift a grilse snailed ole Jock and immediately did flip flops across the surface. Not wanting to relocate, I made Jean Paul understand that we would play and land the fish while anchored rather than go to shore and foul up a second change at the big salmon I’d raised.

Since a catch-and-release license only allows three fish to be taken per day, I did my best to lose the grilse before it got to the boat, but no luck. After a few minutes of give and take, and two more leaps, J.P. tailed the fish, removed the hook and with a splash it was gone. We sat and rested the pool for five minutes and saw another big fish roll up and splash on the very next drop. My worrying had been for nothing, the rain continued, the river rose and debris floated by, but the salmon were invigorated and aggressive.

I cast the same length line, and sure enough the salmon boiled again for the fly but never touched a feather. I fished out the drop with no further takers and when I tried one more cast over the interested fish, it was ignored. I picked up my second rod, this one sported a larger, more colorful pattern, a size No. 1 Butcher. As it turns out, that was just the tonic, for when the fly swung over the lie the salmon opened a socket in the river big enough to drop a wash tub into, and tried to rip the rod from my hand.

There was no need to set the hook, and as the salmon tore off down river, making the reel buzz like a rattlesnake, I simply lifted the tip and held on. We went to shore and I fought the fish from the beached canoe for nearly 25 minutes. Two high, tumbling jumps gave me some concerns but after each the salmon was still attached and on another line stretching dash. Finally, after a couple of false starts when the fish saw the net, Jean Paul deftly lifted the mesh as I led the silver bullet over the hoop. “How big?” I asked as JP held the fish in the current to rejuvenate. “Dix-huit, peut-etre vingt., belle saumon, eh.” So right, any 18- to 20-pound Atlantic salmon is a memory maker.

The big one

We re-anchored just below our first spot and on only my fourth cast a hit-and-run grilse nabbed the Butcher, made a short run, leaped and spit it right back at me. I was just making my last cast or two of that drop when another grilse picked a fight. I didn’t want my third and last fish to be a small one when the pool was full of salmon so I deliberately dropped my rod tip, pulled off some loose line and took pressure off the fish. Sure enough, when I raised the rod tip the grilse had worked the hook loose.

Our third drop put us over the large salmon that had shown twice so far, and when it rolled up for the third time my Jock Scott was firmly embedded in its jaw. After a short cross-current run the huge salmon twisted and thrashed on the surface trying to dislodge the hook. My eyes were as big as golf balls and I didn’t need to speak French to understand Jean Paul’s warning to be careful, that this was a “gros, gros saumon.” Twenty-five pounds I figured, and then it jumped high and jack-knifed, and my estimate rose to 30.

Fifteen minutes into the fight I hadn’t gained an inch of line back, when I reeled in 10 feet, the fish took back 20 and shook its head like a lassoed steer. I was working this brute from the slippery shoreline, putting heavy pressure on the fish when suddenly it stopped bulldogging and shot upstream like a lightning flash. That’s not what hooked fish are supposed to do, but they don’t get big by being stupid. All at once my line snubbed, and then the salmon jumped in an altogether different direction than where the line was pointing. I was snagged.

The salmon had looped my line around either a rock or one of the cement net catchers installed in some pools to discourage poaching. Every once in a while I could feel the fish tug, and I tried to explain to JP that we needed to get into the canoe, move across the river and try to free the line. About 30 seconds later Jean Paul got the idea, but before I could get into the boat my leader parted and my trophy departed. I was crestfallen and JP’s expression proved he felt the same.

Before 10 a.m. we hooked, landed and released my third fish, a 12- to 14-pound silver beauty. Salmon were still rolling and leaping all over the pool, and as I watched I kept hoping to see one with my fly and a length of leader in its mouth. To this day, every time I gaze at my painting of Jim’s Rock, I recollect that wet day and a rain-swollen pool that came alive with salmon one August morning. And I sigh, remembering the one that got away, and then I grin, remembering the ones that didn’t.

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