Ice cleared from the Miramichi River extraordinarily early that April due to an unusual combination of rain, wind and then a stretch of unusually warm, sunny days. Most of the camps didn’t have their first groups of black salmon fishermen booked for at least a week, and suddenly guides and outfitters were scrambling to contact anglers. Fish were already moving downriver and back to the sea and only the locals were on hand to enjoy the fast fishing.

Don Gardner of Presque Isle coordinated bookings for Tom and Virginia Pinkham’s salmon camp that sat on a high bluff overlooking the Miramichi River near Blackville, New Brunswick. With lots of fish but no fishermen, Don made a call on Saturday afternoon to Dave Dickinson, a close friend and my co-director of our Ducks Unlimited Chapter, and Dave phoned me. We needed six anglers to warrant opening the camp and getting the guides, cooks, housekeepers and all the boats and gear ready to go by Monday morning.

When Dave and I talked an hour later we had the lucky number of seven fishermen, and it turned out to be a real family affair, all fathers and sons. Dave had convinced his father, Elwin and his son Scott to go along, and my Dad jumped at the chance for a couple of days on the Miramichi. Our third father-and-son team was Dave Smith and his 12-year-old son Steve. Dave is a dentist in Caribou and also a committee member of our Ducks Unlimited flock, and while he had heard plenty of fish tales about spring salmon angling, this would be a rookie outing for he and Steve. Dave allowed that some time off from drilling and filling human teeth to explore the bridge work of a few Canadian salmon jaws was a worthy work-exchange program.

To camp

By Saturday evening Dave Dickinson had called Don Gardner to confirm that we were ready and willing, Don had called head guide and camp steward Danny Hallihan, and he in turn had notified all the camp staff. This was all simpler than might be expected since all the guides, cooks and housekeepers were Hallihans-related by birth or marriage. Dad and I were packed and on the road by early Sunday afternoon, and it was a bright, balmy day for the 21/2-hour trip across the Renous Highway. The Renous is a desolate strip of pavement through dense woodlands with more curves than a boa constrictor and more ups and downs than a roller coaster, but it’s the quickest route from Presque Isle to Blackville, New Brunswick. Small villages and farmland bookend the Renous and the warm weather and new shoots of grass had the deer feeding in the roadside fields by the dozen. We stopped to take photos a couple of times and had spotted a total of 57 whitetails by the time we reached camp.

The Dickinson trio were just unpacking their truck as we arrived, and about 20 minutes later the Smiths pulled in. Like us, everyone was buzzing about all the deer they’d spotted. Pinkham’s camp was only a year old, well furnished and truly comfortable in every aspect. Danny arrived to welcome us and we all stepped out on the huge front porch that seemed to literally hang out over the river. Fifty yards down a steep bank lay the fast flowing Miramichi, and the shoreline was thick with ice chunks from the size of a man to the size of a bulldozer.

Danny explained that for some odd reason, this half of the river had freed of ice more than a week before, but the upper reaches of the waterway were still icebound. Danny’s mother Ruth and daughter-in-law Holly arrived just as we went back inside, and informed us that a supper of baked ham with all the trimmings, homemade rolls and two kinds of fresh pie would be on the table at 6:30. With our two spare hours we all decided to visit Doak’s Fly Shop, a short drive away in Doaktown.

Wally Doak was a world-renowned fly tier, and son Jerry learned at the knee of the master growing up and eventually opened his own shop. For ardent anglers, a visit to Jerry’s wonderfully stocked fishing shop is like turning a child loose in the candy store, the first few minutes you just stand and stare and wander around in awe. I’ve known Jerry for years, so we chatted while the others perused the aisles looking at flies, books, fly-tying materials, rods, reels and every size, shape, and style of outdoor clothing imaginable. An hour passed like five minutes and we all found several items we couldn’t live without. I purchased two sizes of a smelt pattern black salmon fly that Jerry described as the “best fly on the river right now,” and we headed back to camp and a meal fit for a king.

Sun and ice

At breakfast we all admitted to a restless night’s sleep, eager for the first cast, but it didn’t seem to interfere with anyone’s appetite. By 7:45 we had been assigned guides, slipped and slid down the steep, ice-strewn bank to the waiting boats and motored to a likely fishing run. Three of us anchored within 500 yards of camp on one side of the river or the other, and by 8 a.m. w e had all hooked our first salmon. Clear skies, a bright sun, and the fish were hungry – another day in paradise!

Four hours later when we seven salmon men gathered around the lunch table over ham sandwiches and a mouth-watering salmon chowder all talk, between bites, centered on fast fishing, sore shoulders, and short-sleeve, 70-degree weather on April 15. Three of us had caught and released a dozen salmon that morning, and even young Steve had accounted for a half dozen on his premier outing. Many of the spring salmon were grilse and quite a few others in the 8- to 10-pound range, but both Dave Dickinson and my Dad had boated big fish that measured 38 and 39 inches. Little did we know how dearly we would pay for those first few hours of fun in the sun.

By 1:30 we were all back on the river and fishing remained just as rewarding as the morning session. Jerry Doak’s smelt fly pattern remained a winner as I actually hooked five salmon and landed four while anchored in one spot. Between casts I watched Elwin and his grandson Scott, in boats on opposite sides of the river below me, each play and land a hefty black salmon. Ice chunks first appeared about 2 o’clock, some the size of a toaster, others the size of a refrigerator that could catch on the anchor rope and quickly flip or sink a boat. Since they were sparse, the guides kept an eye upstream for approaching ice and we all kept casting and catching fish.

When 2:30 rolled around stumps, logs and full-length trees had joined the ever increasing chunks of ice. It was obvious that the unusually hot weather had freed the river’s upper end of its coat of ice. Not good news, but it didn’t seem to faze the fish, so we anchored closer to the shoreline, watched carefully and hooked a few more salmon. At 3 p.m. we were all standing on the deck watching a near solid flow of ice chunks pack the river from bank to bank and our fishing was over for the day, perhaps for the trip. Our only solace was having caught and released more than 100 salmon among us on this sun and ice shortened day.

About dusk Mother Nature in her own fickle way, saved our salmon outing. Clouds came in, winds picked up and temperatures plummeted. By the time we had headed off to bed the thermometer on the porch was already in the high 30s and still dropping. With morning came a discovery of pleasure and pain; the mercury was hovering at a frigid 29 degrees, which had ceased the melt and seized the up-river ice, but the severe chill and mild wind put foolish fishermen and any nearby brass monkeys in severe discomfort.

Each of us donned several layers of clothes, ski hats and gloves to stave of the cold. Not one man made mention of waiting for it to warm up a bit. It would have been a long wait! Dressed as heavily as we were, it might have been simpler to just roll down to the boats, rather than suffer the strenuous tree to tree, ice-impeded descent. Any doubts we had about how the previous day’s ice freshet and debris onslaught, in combination with the sudden temperature change, might affect fishing were quickly assuaged. Despite the river being tea-tinged, salmon continued to cooperate at a remarkable rate with the only downside being numb fingers and frozen rod eyelets.

As the morning wore on, the brittle breeze and ice cold water began to take its toll on anglers and guides alike. It’s nearly impossible to play a fish and properly handle a rod and reel with gloves on, so every time one of us hooked up, off came the mitts for the duration of the fight. Each guide had to either tail or net every salmon, then hold the fish, often still in the water, to free the fly. So after every salmon was fought and released we both sat huddled over in the boat with our hands inside warm pockets for awhile.

Despite the fast fishing, Dad threw in the towel at 11 a.m., Dave Smith and Erwin arrived about 10 minutes later, and by 11:30 we were all back at the camp. We crowed about the great fishing in one sentence and cursed the cold in the next. Our afternoon excursion started late and ended early, but the Miramichi silver leapers kept us busy and once again our party totaled more than 100 salmon for another weather-shortened day.

For better or worse

Day three was incredibly memorable in that the weather got notably worse and the fishing got markedly better. By mid-morning, as if the sub freezing temperatures and biting wind weren’t enough, it began to sleet. Ice would layer on the lines almost to the thickness of a drinking straw and all of us had to dunk our rod tip into the river every dozen casts to melt the ice forming in the line guides. Through it all, salmon kept striking the flies and most of them were good size fish rather than the normal high percentage of grilse.

In spite of the cruel elements we all toughed out the day, and were rewarded with the highest catch and largest fish of the trip. Elwin Dickinson boated 27 fish that miserable day and his son Dave landed a 42-inch brute. Our seven anglers accounted for 133 salmon the third day and a three-day trip total of more than 350 black salmon caught and released. It’s the best spring salmon trip I’ve ever been a part of regardless of the mean weather and ice conditions.

Some of our fishing family who shared that outing have passed on, but the rest of us still have the photos and great memories of it and them. Even Mother Nature couldn’t put a damper on an extraordinary father-and-son spring salmon trip for seven Aroostook sportsmen who just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

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