April is an aggravating month for anglers. Patience wears thin as we wait for local brooks and streams to shed their icy coat and clear up enough to dunk a worm or flail a fly. One corps of casters is even more vigilant each spring since their favorite season is short-lived. Being on hand within a week of ice-out assures steady action, often to the tune of a dozen or more 5- to 15-pound fish on a fly rod.

Black salmon fishing takes place on just a handful of Quebec and New Brunswick rivers and, depending on weather and water conditions, remains productive for about 30 days. An amazing number of Maine sportsmen make their annual late April or early May trek to Canada’s salmon rivers a ritual celebration of spring. Ice-out salmon angling is far less expensive and notably more productive than casting for summer’s bright fish.

Even privately owned waters and pools leased by outfitters can be fished by all comers between ice-out and June 1 as salmon make their way back to the sea in droves after spending the winter upriver. Prime dates are at a premium and camps fill up quickly, many spots booked a full year in advance to assure peak action. But a late thaw and freshet, heavy prolonged rain or unusually warm weather can speed up or postpone ice-out and render last year’s most productive weeks a waste of time this season. I’m putting all my hopes, dreams, and a tidy cash deposit on May 1, 2, and 3 as black-salmon bonanza time this spring. In the meantime I’m daydreaming about memorable past spring salmon ventures with cold weather and hot fishing to ease the anxiety of waiting for the call that heralds “Ice-out.” Allow me to regale you with one past venture.

Late thaw

Several years ago after a winter with only moderate snowcover but prolonged, bone-chilling cold, ice-out on the Miramichi occurred more than a week later than the previous spring. This unexpected deferment led to a couple of cancellations, a rearrangement of reserved days by some fishermen and a midweek two-day vacancy for three anglers at Tom and Virginia Pinkham’s Quarryville salmon camp. When Don Gardiner, the longtime booking agent for Pinkham’s Miramichi camp, called midmorning to offer me the next day’s unexpected openings, I jumped at the chance.

Since I live less than three hours from this world-famous salmon river, and will fish silver leapers at the drop of a hat, Don figured I was a likely candidate. Within 15 minutes I’d called my dad and then frequent cast-and-blast companion Joe Hedrich and got solid strikes from both. By 2 p.m. we had each gathered our gear, met at my house, packed my truck and headed for the long, lonesome backwoods road of potholes and frost heaves called the Renous Highway.

By 6 p.m. Atlantic Time, our trio was standing on the camp’s front porch which overhangs the river, each shaking his head and muttering about the high water and massive mounds of ice picketing both shorelines. Small chunks of ice were the size of a chest freezer while many chunks were larger than a pickup truck. Random pyramids of precariously balanced lumps piled each bank and every few minutes a grating, grinding sound occurred followed by a huge splash as a massive mound melted free and plunged into the river.

While savoring a roast turkey dinner with all the trimmings prepared by the camp cooks and fit for any royal Thanksgiving, we got the lowdown on recent fishing results. Head guide Danny Hallohan and the current fishing quartet of anglers visiting from Augusta, who were heading home right after the evening meal, filled us in on conditions, catch numbers and favorable flies. The camp had only been open four days. Over the weekend camp anglers had a tough time with the high, dirty water and plenty of debris snagging on flies. Only a dozen fish were taken and most were grilse.

Results had improved marginally each of the last two days for the Augusta anglers with four rods accounting for 13 salmon the day before and 15 that day. Among the catch were half a dozen or so larger salmon each day with three more than 36 inches in length. Still tea-colored, the water level was slowly dropping, more big fish were moving seaward and not a bit bashful about grabbing bright green, yellow and red flies. Patterns such as a Renous Special, red eagle and Mickey Finn on large 2/0 and 3/0 hooks provided regular strikes.

Constant caution was the byword. With mini icebergs consistently falling into the river and the occasional downed tree caught in the current, anglers and guides had to keep one eye on the fly and the other upriver. Should a partially submerged chunk of ice or heavy tree trunk snag an anchor line, our 14-foot aluminum boats would be swamped in seconds. Even wearing a flotation vest, making shore in the swift, frigid torrent would be unlikely. Not the line of conversation that goes well with fresh pumpkin pie and whipped cream, although I did manage to force down the entire slice.

Morning mist

Dawn revealed a heavy mist hovering over the water and ghosting along the steep riverbanks among the mounds of ice, all due to rising air temperatures during the night. Fog on the water is rarely beneficial to fly fishing, and with warmer air comes faster snowmelt, leading to rising water and more debris. Breakfast was extensive and probably very tasty, hard to tell as we bolted down our food to get on the river quickly before conditions deteriorated further.

Our trek down the precipitous embankment from camp to water edge over mud and snow patches was a cheap thrill. Wandering amongst towering ramparts of ice in the shoreline fog, wondering if a hunk was going to shift or break free and fall on one of us, was another adrenaline rush. Finally piling into our respective boats and motoring away from shore was a relief, regardless of the murky haze that blanketed the waterway.

My guide, Curtis Borden, motored us to the opposite bank, then about half a mile downstream, and my first fish was hooked about 20 minutes later on our second drop. The take was so soft I thought grass had snagged my fly. But when I lifted the rod tip, that notion was quickly dispelled as an annoyed salmon jockeyed into the heavy current for a long run. Ten minutes or so later, Borden hand-tailed what turned out to be a 35-inch slab of burnished chrome, snapped the hook free and allowed the feisty fish to fin away.

Throughout the morning the fog dissipated, the day got warmer and the Miramichi rose, colored and became more debris-laden. Not surprisingly, results were mediocre but satisfying, and every strike was a thrill. So when it was time to head in for lunch, having hooked nine and landed seven, with only two grilse, already made the trip rewarding. My next discovery not only greatly increased the fishing excitement of our outing but provided a unique, delightful and memorable angling encounter.

Silver slivers

Rather than heading directly back to camp, Borden piloted our craft through White Rapids and toward a small brook inlet by a quiet eddy. He was standing, slowly motoring us toward shore so, assuming he was watching for rocks in the shallows, I also stood and moved to the bow to watch. At first I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me, or perhaps it was a combination of the sun’s rays through the clouds that made the river bottom seem to shift and stir. It was like one of those puzzles that’s actually a picture in a picture in which you have to refocus your eyes to actually see it.

What I finally brought into focus were thousands and thousands of sea smelt swimming upstream in a 4-foot-wide parade not a foot from the riverbank. We had no dip net or storage cooler on board so all we could do was sit and watch as the seemingly never-ending line of spawning silver darters forged upstream. Borden assured me we could return later in the afternoon or even the next day since the run would last at least two or three days. Having stopped to check White Rapids on his way to camp that morning and spotting no smelt, it was safe to assume the spawn was just getting under way.

At lunch I learned that Dad and Joe had boated and released eight and six salmon, respectively. I recounted my black salmon results, and with a smirk told them I’d located a real hot spot, but they would need very small hooks. Then I explained in full, and after lunch we all returned to view the million-fish march. With one dip of the net I lifted more than 100 smelt from the river and upended them into a cooler for the guides and camp cooks. Then we headed back out for salmon.

Due to higher, faster and dirtier water, we had to seek out brook mouths and eddies where the influx of clean water made our flies more visible. Our trio accounted for 11 salmon between us in four hours and every one of us had to pull anchor and move at least once to avoid mini-icebergs or trees floating toward our boats. While fishing was only fair, the meals just got better and better; fresh salmon chowder and homemade Parker House rolls for supper and fried smelt and pancakes with new maple syrup for breakfast.

Water conditions continued to deteriorate overnight and we accounted for only four salmon all the next morning, and all of those were before 9 a m. At lunch we decided to forgo the afternoon salmon fishing but made a quick trip down to White Rapids once more for a final dip fest. Thanks to the clean water flowing into the Miramichi from the brook, the steady rank and file of smelt was easily spotted. In three dips we filled a large cooler with well more than 300 silver darters, all 8-12 inches long.

Arriving home by mid-afternoon, we divided up the smelt, and I cleaned and wrapped three packs of a dozen for my freezer. Then I called some friends and by 7 p.m. not a fresh smelt was left. Dad and Joe had no trouble finding neighbors and friends who couldn’t wait to drop by to grab a package of their tiny taste treats.

Sometimes it’s not the biggest fish that make a trip memorable; in this case it was the small ones, lots and lots of them. It’s been a half-dozen years and I’ve yet to match up my black salmon trip with another smelt run. I’m always too early or a day or two late. Perhaps this will be the spring for both smelt and salmon, with the recent improvement in weather, it won’t be long until ice-out on the Miramichi.

bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com