I’d spent several hours the previous afternoon getting my 21-foot Scott canoe rigged and ready for my first spring outing, trolling for trout on the Aroostook River. Many of the regional lakes still wore their winter coat of ice, but like all old coats, they were wearing thin, showing a few holes, and ready to fall apart any day now. The river, however, albeit a bit high and tea-colored, was due to start producing some steady brook trout action. I’d been visiting the river daily for more than a week, waiting and watching for the water to clear and recede. When the alarm sounded I clambered out of bed wide-awake and eager. A tremendous day of trout trolling was about to begin.

Thirty seconds and a dozen steps later, my cheery outlook and hopes for a day on the water were dashed as I stared in disbelief from the bathroom window. Just across the yard in my driveway, my trailered canoe sat hitched to my truck, and both were adorned with a disgustingly brilliant white coat of snow. In fact, the entire countryside was veiled in more than 2 inches of fresh snow, and since the thermometer hovered at 30 degrees and a stiff breeze was blowing, it was obvious that both the snow and I were just going to be sitting around for awhile.

By late afternoon there was one of those vexing, life-shortening good news-bad news situations: the good news was that almost all of the white winter wonderland frosting had disappeared, the bad news was it hadn’t melted but had been washed away by a cold, steady rain. As I lay in bed that night fuming about having a mid-May snowstorm cancel my spring trolling premiere, a steady deluge of raindrops drumming on the roof and splattering steadily against the window panes was neither soothing nor comforting. As the sun came up, the rain still beat down, and long-range weather forecasts predicted five of the next seven days would be wet and windy.

Tom Wolters, a cast-and-blast buddy who I share a lot of outdoor adventures with, was supposed to drive from Michigan to his camp on Little Madawaska Lake that upcoming weekend. Checking the Aroostook River, I found it to be getting higher and muddier by the minute, with debris of every shape and size being swept downstream in the rushing current. Back at the house I hung up my raincoat and picked up the phone to advise Tom to push his spring fishing foray back a week. At the rate it was pouring, I informed Tom, there’d be a pond in my back yard by the time he arrived.

Having spent most of my life in Maine, I understand that spring is a nebulous concept, especially throughout Aroostook County, but enough is enough. Even when the tedious showers diminished for a few hours, a chilly wind blew, and night after night temperatures plunged into the mid- to low 30s. Now I’ll wrestle my way into multiple layers of clothes and fish in some pretty nasty and numbing low temperatures as long as it’s dry. I’ll even fish in the pouring rain as long as it’s fairly warm out, but only a fool desperate from months of abstinence would be crazy enough to fish in a steady, bone-chilling rain.

OK, so I’m a little bit crazy, but at least I wasn’t the only one. Six days after my call to Tom, we stood together on the shoreline of the Aroostook River decked out in multiple layers of clothes and rain gear launching my canoe amidst a steady, cold drizzle. Only two days of the previous week had been dry, yet the river had cleared to a tannic tea tint despite remaining fairly high. With the next two days’ weather promising heavy rain, Tom and I figured a sprinkle was better than a downpour and a few hours of uncomfortable fishing beat no fishing at all.

Terrific trolling

We launched above the Caribou dam and motored upstream for about a mile to reach shallower water with a definitive current flow, and just below Prestile Brook we each deployed a line. Tom used monofilament line on a bait-casting reel and a small green-and-silver DB Smelt lure while I used a spinning reel and a No. 8 bronze Sutton spoon. I would have much preferred to drag a streamer fly, but after dipping my hand into the numbing cold water for a few seconds, I wasn’t sure fish would even chase a lure, let alone a fly.

Rather than troll directly upstream when the current is swift and the stream off-color, we had learned from trial and error that slowly traversing the river from one shoreline to the other while barely making forward momentum yields more strikes. Not only are we able to cover more water, but the baits stay in front of the trout longer, giving them a better look in the dingy conditions. Also, they don’t need to chase after a lure to strike, which most fish just won’t do when the river temperature is in the low 40s. After three side-to-side passes below the brook inlet without a strike and with rain dripping from our hat brims and noses, Tom and I were shaking our heads – and not just to shake off the water.

I had just motored even with the mouth of the creek when Tom’s rod bucked downward with a hard strike that even pulled a bit of line from the reel. Using the current to every advantage, the brookie made three hard runs and then dove to bottom and held steady right beside the canoe. Slowly but steadily exerting pressure, Tom worked a brightly spotted, orange-flanked 14-inch trout to the net where we measured, admired, and released the fish to fight another day. Less than five minutes later as we trolled laterally across from the brook, Tom had another strike, but this trout came thrashing to the surface immediately and seconds later threw the lure.

Just as we reached the far side of the river, Tom had his third strike. Since we were in slack water, the 10-inch trout was quickly reeled to boatside and released. I allowed that perhaps a change of lures was in order for me, and Tom shoved his hands in his pockets bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t feel his fingers and said I was welcome to the next fish. Ten minutes later I understood his misery. My first fish was a feisty foot-long football and had two hooks of the treble in its jaw, so it took me a bit longer to work the lure loose and let the fish go. My hands actually burned and were numb at the same time after the prolonged dip in the icy river water.

Neither of us regretted that it was about 20 minutes before our next strike. We had worked our way upriver to Spring Brook and along the way had spotted several people wandering the riverbank with bags and buckets. It soon became obvious that they were all picking fiddleheads and suddenly I didn’t feel so foolish fishing in the rain – at least Tom and I were enjoying (and I use the term loosely) some sport. Tom and I both had planned on keeping one trout, and I was looking forward to preparing a trout almandine recipe with an asparagus side dish for my wife and me. As I watched a guy climb off a four-wheeler, pick around a patch of fiddleheads, then drive up the shore to another path, I began to reconsider a menu change for supper.

My next strike was a hit-and-run artist, giving the rod a quick snap, and when I tried to snap back, no one was home. I was still bellyaching about rude fish when Tom’s rod tip took a dive and another tug-of-war was in progress. When he took hold of the line just above the lure to guide the foot-long fish close enough to release, the hook pulled free and with a flip the trout was gone. Tom had dry hands and a big smile. Once again, just as we got above the brook inlet, I got another hit. This turned into a battle royale with several hard runs and two bottom-hugging dives with vigorous head shaking. Finally, Tom slipped the net under a fine 15-inch brookie that would be the main course later that evening.

Worse weather

Two facts became quite obvious after my fish was in the canoe. All of our action was occurring near brook mouths, particularly in the slow eddies just above and out from the inlets. More importantly, regardless of cold hands and rivulets of rain sneaking down my neckline and up under my sleeve cuffs, the discomfort waned when the fish were biting. Without further ado, we skipped the next stretch of open water and motored to the next brook mouth before resuming trolling.

Unfortunately it was about then that the weatherman and Mother Nature caught up with us. Clouds moved in, the breeze picked up, and the drizzle began working its way into a downpour. Tom boated two more trout, one was a perfect twin to the 15-incher I’d kept, and the other was more than a foot long. I had another swing and a miss on a short strike and fought and released an 11-inch fish that did stay for the whole show. By that time more than an inch of water was sloshing around our feet in the canoe and pelting our rain hoods hard enough we had to yell to hear each other.

Our trip back downstream to the boat launch was wet but fast, and little time or motion was wasted trailering the canoe and unloading our equipment. Tom headed for his camp and I headed for home in the opposite direction. I still had one stop to make, and as I turned down a farm road toward a deserted stretch of riverbank near Maysville, the rain actually eased up a bit. Having no bag or bucket, I cruised a tree-shrouded stretch of shoreline and hand-picked large, firm curly-headed ferns into my fishing hat. In less than 10 minutes I had plenty for two people to enjoy as a tasty side dish to fresh trout. Fish and fiddleheads, now that’s a real northern Maine taste-treat tradition.

Just as I arrived back at the truck the rain began to pick up its intensity and continued through the night and all of the next day, raising water levels back in to the bushes. Tom ended up heading back to Michigan early, and while my fishing was curtailed for a few more days, I consoled myself with delicious fish and ferns.

When the weather is miserable, if the trout are biting, even foolish fishermen can have fun.

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