By 8 a.m. the temperature was already 82 degrees and the air was so dense each breath felt like inhaling from a warm mist vaporizer. Rays from the sun rebounded from the water’s surface as well as beating down from a cloudless sky overhead, making me feel as if I were slow-roasting in a reflector oven.

These were the dog days of mid-August and throughout the Northeast and Maritimes a series of oppressive 90-plus degree days were taking their toll. My shirt clung to my back, sweat dripped from my hairline down the nape of my neck as well as off my nose.

And in the split second when a flash of silver appeared and the water boiled and churned around my wet fly, all of my discomfort evaporated.

All anglers have a dream trip, a possible but unlikely venture that helps them during long days at work and hard, cold winters. Some sports hope to troll for huge blue marlin off Hawaii’s Kona coast, others lust to wade the Bahamas’ vast sandy flats casting to bonefish, while many more envision an eventual visit to a remote Alaskan waterway alive with mammoth king salmon and huge rainbow trout.

My driving desire was to one day lay out a fly line over one or two of the world renowned pools on what many famous fishermen and classic angling books refer to as the finest Atlantic salmon river in the world, the Grand Cascapedia in Quebec.

Most of the outstanding pools along this 45-mile stretch of salmon water are privately owned by three age-old fishing camps with exclusive memberships. Societe Cascapedia, an organization run by local government, controls a number of very good runs fishable by canoe and several mediocre wading pools where success depends largely on time of year and water levels.

Permits to fish Societe water are doled out through an annual lottery draw, but wading pools are assigned from a daily drawing from a pool of anglers who telephone a reservation line 48 hours prior. Horse Island Camp, privately owned by Herb Roth, owns six miles of river with 16 pools. Most are moderately productive.

I called, I wrote, I entered the lottery every year for almost a decade in the late 1980s and early 1990s, all to no avail. Every camp had a waiting list a mile long, and if a club member either died or gave up his spot, another member of the immediate family grabbed it. My luck on the yearly lottery ran about the same as my good fortune drawing a moose permit, all bad. Getting a foot in the door for even a day or two of salmon fishing on the captivating Cascapedia was like trying to slip daylight past a rooster, not likely. Nonetheless I kept the lines of communication open and my fingers crossed.

A few years ago the seemingly impossible finally happened and I got a phone call one evening during the first week of August. Two of the four anglers booked into Horse Island Camp had to cancel, and Mr. Roth, remembering my persistence and unbridled desire to one day float a fly over the Cascapedia, offered me the chance to fill the empty slots. At first I thought he might have chosen me out of pity, or perhaps to deter my annual calls and letters, or maybe living only three hours’ drive from his camp gave me an edge. Regardless of the reason, it didn’t matter, I was going to finally fish the Grand Cascapedia and Dad was going to be at my side.

During our visit to Horse Island the next week, I learned that my persistence and determination had impressed Mr. Roth and reminded him of his own youthful desire to fish the river many years previously. After only a couple of trips, a yearning blossomed to own a camp and some water and to spend the entire summer admiring and angling the most magnificent salmon river in Quebec, and that dream like my own, finally came to fruition.

Before saying goodbye on the phone, my benefactor warned me that the river was receding each day with the horrid heat and jokingly said the fishing was good, but the catching was tough. He buoyed my spirits a bit, however, when he said that a daily pool rotation among all the camps would bring a handful of deep runs and creek-fed stretches of water into play during our upcoming days at Horse Island.

Dad and I arrived midafternoon Monday at Horse Island Camp and since the owner and other guests were still fishing, the groundskeeper and the housekeeper got us settled into our rooms. The main camp and three outlying cabins perched on a wooded bluff overlooking a stretch of water where the Cascapedia made a wide turn with a salmon pool above and below the liquid elbow.

We all stood on the front porch watching a sport cast from an anchored canoe while his guide and partner looked on. Even on the shaded veranda we were perspiring heavily in the 94-degree heat, although I did get a cold chill when the hired hand related that only two fish had been caught in the last four days.

Beautifully rustic on the outside, the camps offered every modern convenience on the inside, and the wooded surroundings and scenic view were breathtaking. As it turned out the food was just as rewarding, just another premium of the Horse Island experience, but salmon cooperation remained the big question mark.

Besides owners Herb and Delores Roth, Frank Gross of Cherryfield and Eric Ferrar of Montreal were our camp mates. Pools were assigned after supper, and the canoe Dad and I would share was to fish Societe Cascapedia water the next morning. Thunder and rain pounding on the roof woke me just after midnight and knowing that a bit of rain couldn’t hurt, I rolled over and happily drifted back to sleep.

Big Jonathan was our first pool and I let Dad have first dibs. It was another clear, bright morning with promise of a scorcher of an afternoon, but perhaps the rain had stirred the salmon up a bit. Three fish made passes at the large brown and yellow bomber that Dad floated over the run for nearly half an hour, but no hookups resulted. Scouring the pool with a wet fly produced not a bit of interest for my effort, so guide Alonzo Arsenault floated us downstream to Spruce Tree pool.

I was first up this time and began working the run with a double-4 Jock Scott. Almost at the end of my drop with a long line out, I begin stripping back in for another cast when a fish grabbed the fly. The salmon showed no inclination to take a normal drift, but when the fly was making a wake as I quickly retrieved line, the silver leaper struck.

With the fish jumping at once and then making a long run, I finally got it stopped and Alonzo started poling us to shore. No more did I step onto the rocky riverbank and begin to apply rod pressure when the fish turned for another run and the fly pulled free. By noon the sun was brutal and not another salmon was seen, so we pulled anchor and headed for camp and lunch.

Our evening beat was Lower Joe Martin and we waited until 4 p.m. to venture back into the heat. Besides our morning action, Eric had landed a 22-pound beauty at 8 a.m. but no one else had prospered. Joe Martin Pool is a wading run and a long set of medium-depth riffles makes it a perfect holding lie in warm-weather, low-water conditions. Alonzo and Dad were sitting on a log under shade trees along the shoreline, chatting away as I methodically worked my way down the lengthy set of rips presenting a size 4 double green highlander.

Just past the halfway point a heavy strike put a severe bow in my rod and my reel began spitting out line like a stock ticker. Five minutes later my partners still don’t realize I have a fish on, but when I give a yell, they trundle down the beach in quick order. Forty minutes later, about 5 p.m., after three great tumbling leaps and half a dozen line-burning runs, Alonzo slides the net under a bright hen fish. A quick weigh-in tips the scales at 24 pounds, and 30 seconds after the hook was removed, the silver torpedo returned to its lie with a quick, wet tail thrash.

Dad fished through the pool four more times with a variety of wet flies. He rose two fish, but neither was excited enough to eat. Although a few clouds were building up and thunder rolled in the distance, it remained 87 degrees when we left the river. Frank got an 11-pound fish at 3:30 and Herb landed a 12-pounder at 6 p.m., so either the rainstorm or the new set of pools, or a combination of the two, had increased our good fortune. Tomorrow was another day in paradise and as any dedicated salmon angler will attest: hope springs eternal!

Day two placed my Dad and I on Horse Island water and our first run would be Lower Murdock. My dear old father showed no hesitation in telling me to “sit and watch the old man work, since I already have a fish to brag about,” as he moved to the head of the pool. It was another hot one, but there’s no shade along this stretch so I plunked down on a large rock at mid-pool and enjoy the beautiful secluded section of river.

Take a step, make a cast is the cadence Dad followed as he waded along the fishy-looking pool, and we were all surprised when he didn’t hook up in the top section. Then, as if it were planned, just as the fly was swinging in front of where I was perched, what turned out to be a 12-pound salmon grabbed his green highlander. A couple of somersaults, some headshaking and two good runs comprised a 10-minute battle to the net, and then it was my turn at the pool. Two passes, two flies and no takers were all the incentive our trio needed to jump into the canoe and move downstream to Charlie Valley Rock.

Charlie Valley Rock is a fairly short pool that deepens into 20 feet of water just as a huge ledge catches and deflects the river. I cast four flies through the pool with zero results, and every minute the clock crawled closer to noon the sun and temperature rose toward the mid-90s.

I’d tried a half-breed, Jock Scott, green highlander and a blue rat to no avail, so I tied on a bright fly for a bright day, a long-shank No. 4 silver Wilkerson. I asked Alonzo for another drop, but he allowed the water was too deep, although he partially accommodated me by letting out 6 or 8 more feet of anchor line.

I was within a cast or two of laying out all the fly line I could handle when, to everyone’s shock, particularly mine, a wide slab of silver rolled and smashed the fly. Less than 20 minutes later, at almost precisely noon, the 22-pound fish was captured and released. Other than being a hookbill, it was almost a twin of my first Cascapedia salmon, and although it made not a single jump, it fought memorably hard.

Dad landed his third salmon that evening at Porcupine Rapids, a 17-pound female that spent more time in the air than in the water with seven acrobatic leaps. No one else caught or even hooked a salmon that day, and the third day turned out to be the hottest yet. So bright and brutal that we were soaking bandanas in the river and draping them over our heads by late morning.

We called it quits at noon, packed and headed home after lunch. Not an August comes and goes, with its warm, muggy dog-day weather, that I don’t relive that first trip to the Grand Cascapedia, remember my Dad and our great luck, and a grand outing on a grand river with hot weather and hot fishing.

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