Any Atlantic salmon angler who has fished the Gaspe, read the Atlantic Salmon Journal or attended a regional Atlantic Salmon Federation dinner will recognize the name Richard Adams. Known to many as the dean of Atlantic salmon angling, Richard spent 75 years guiding young and old, rookie nimrods and world-famous professional fishermen, and shared his canoe with common men and women from every walk of life, including a U.S. president and first lady. Richard Adams was the consummate guide, a complete gentleman, a devout conservationist and a rakish boat companion with a never- ending supply of stories, tall tales and solid salmon fishing guidance.

About a year ago at the extraordinary age of 95, Adams poled his canoe from this mortal coil to a river in the great beyond where there are always fish in the pool and a classic Jock Scott will always entice a rise. Over the 35 or so seasons I trekked to the Matapedia River, Adams and I shared more than 250 outings together in pursuit of spring black salmon and high-leaping, hard-fighting, chrome-sided summer salmon. To Richard, every day on the river was a success and a privilege, whether or not salmo salar cooperated. I can vouch that with Richard at the helm, boredom never entered the equation and often some pretty exciting and memorable events took place. Let me relate one such adventure.

Glen Emma

Somewhere near the middle of the Matapedia Valley is a sector of water run by the Quebec government called Glen Emma. There are a minimum of 22 pools, upwards of 30 when water levels are high early in the season, and these runs are leased out to 10 anglers a day via an annual lottery. Six of these pools have either adjoining deep holes or cold brook inlets that attract and hold upwards of 200 salmon, and regardless of low, warm water conditions and hot, sunny weather, each beat produces daily action. Most Matapedia regulars would auction their car and sign their teenager into serfdom for a couple of days casting on Milnekeag, Jim’s Rock, Angus, Kennedy, Island Run or Glovers.

Up until 2002 Glen Emma’s annual booking took place each January during a one-day telethon which garnered more than 100,000 attempted phone calls from all over the U.S., Canada and a few foreign countries. Some years I got through in the first hour while other years I dialed six times a minute for five or six hours to find slim pickings for available fishing days when I finally got an answer. In 1993 I actually got through to reservation operators three times and booked several days on Glen Emma for myself, family and friends, and every summer in late July memories of one particular day shared with Richard Adams and a particular Salmo Salar come to mind.

June 1 is opening day of salmon season on the Matapedia and before the sports arrive all 10 guides gather to draw numbers from a bag. Each number designates a specific beat comprised of one to three specific pools, and that’s where each guide will start the season. Each morning all of the guides will rotate forward one beat, and this pool rotation will continue throughout the season, although as the river recedes and warms in July and August fishing becomes tougher and certain pools are greatly coveted. My theory differed from many anglers, I always put more emphasis on a good guide than a great pool, although having both is never a bad thing.

During mid-June and early July my dad and I made two trips to fish Glen Emma with moderate success but no bragging-size salmon. Richard guided my father during our two-day outing in June. During late July I had booked a single day for a single rod because that was the only opening, and as luck would have it Richard Adams was the guide on beat 8. Johnson and Wheelock were our pools, mediocre runs in midsummer, but each held a few fish and even poor salmon fishing is better than none at all.

Since it was a weekend, Mike Wallace, a close friend and frequent fishing buddy, decided to tag along for the ride. Despite not being able to fish, Mike loved the beauty of the Matapedia Valley, the solace of the forest-lined river and just the opportunity to photograph and videotape the experience. After a scenic three-hour drive I took care of my permit paperwork at the registration station just before suppertime. That’s when I learned Richard would be my guide the following morning, and also found out to my chagrin that 10 anglers had caught only four fish that day; 2 grilse, a 12-pounder and a decent 17-pound beauty. Nonetheless I knew the next day would be rewarding, as any day in the company of the dean of salmon angling always seemed to be.

Glovers

Mike and I arrived at the guide’s shanty about 7:45 the next morning, submitted my papers, exchanged pleasantries with all the guides and talked water conditions and current fly patterns and sizes that were working. We then trooped outside where Richard grabbed his small day pack and his humongous net. In his early years as a guide Richard watched and was part of a number of large salmon being lost right at the shoreline because commercial salmon nets were too small. He had a special net built with an eight-foot handle and a hoop large enough to capture small whales. This net became his trademark and despite how much room it took up in a vehicle or canoe, it was worth the effort because few salmon escaped when Richard yielded his giant net.

By a few minutes after 8 I was tying on a black dose, a size 6 double, as Richard poled the 22-foot Sharp’s canoe into position on Johnson’s pool and dropped anchor. Rain throughout the night had raised the river a bit and the water was a bit dingy colored. Mike watched us fish three drops with no action, then took the truck to check angling results on the pools below and above us.

Four drops and almost an hour later we had seen only one grilse roll and not a single salmon had investigated my fly, which had been changed to a long-shank size 4 green highlander at midpool. Richard allowed that since the local fish had either gone blind or contracted lockjaw, perhaps we should float downstream to Wheelock. It was a short pool, but with several rocks the size of your living room recliner creating holding eddies, there had to be a few grilse and perhaps a salmon or two in residence.

No action during the first drop, but on a short line at our second stop a fish boiled under my fly. Fifteen minutes and three fly patterns later Richard compared the salmon to a lady window shopper; lots of looking but not much buying, and we dropped downriver another couple of canoe lengths. I’d made less than a dozen casts when a whistle from shore drew our attention. Mike hollered to us that Glovers pool was now open and we were next in line. A woman had taken a 12-pound salmon on her very first drop high in the pool, then her husband had moved into Glovers from the pool below us and Mike watched him raise three fish and finally hook and land a 10-pounder on a dry fly.

Glovers pool is one of my favorite three Matapedia runs during low, warm-water conditions. A huge, deep hole, at least 20 feet in the center, provides a cool holding spot for dozens of salmon during midday, and the fish move up into the shallower water early in the morning and late in the afternoon when the sun drops below the high tree-lined hills bordering the river. An enormous junk of ledge juts out just above the deep hole, and upriver from the rocky point are at least 10 productive fishing drops.

Richard and I decided to fish out the remainder of Wheelock. Perhaps we’d take a fish, and at least Glovers pool would get a rest before we moved in. Four more drops provided nothing but casting practice and a weary arm, so we headed ashore, drove to Glovers and were in the canoe by 11:15 a.m. I whipped the water until 12:20 without a sign of a salmon, which was quite a surprise to all of us considering how much action the pool had provided earlier. Dropping Richard at the guide’s shanty we decided to meet again at 3 p.m., giving Mike and I plenty of time for lunch and a trip to the local fly shop.

Glovers is known as a “big fish” pool, often harboring a dozen or more 20- to 30- pound chrome-sided beauties. On average a competent salmon fisherman will need a minute a pound to land a large Atlantic salmon, more if the current is swift or a fish is particularly tough. But a lot of bad things can happen between the hook set and the net, and first and foremost a salmon has to take the fly!

Our trio slowly made our way down the steep switchback trail and Mike moved out on the ledge to set up his video camera while Richard and I stowed our gear, my rods and his immense net in the canoe. Rather than go to the top of the pool Richard chose to anchor five drops above the ledge, an area he considered the “hot spot”. We could always try the high end of the pool later if necessary. Because the water was still tea-colored, I rigged one rod with a wet fly and a second with a large bomber dry fly, and fished both on each drop. For an hour and a half I worked the water to no avail.

When we were two drops above the ledge the sun began to sink lower and just filter through the tree tops, and that’s when a small salmon rolled at my dry fly. A husband and wife angling team arrived about that time to watch me fish for awhile, but little did they realize the show they would see. Over the next hour I raised that same fish eight times, sometimes he would slowly elevate and study a new pattern, other times he would boil under the fly – but not once did he strike. At one point I turned and made a random cast upriver allowing the first salmon to rest, and a 10- or 12-pound fish came from nowhere to grab the fly, which quickly pulled free when he dove.

Still resting the first fish I made a long cast and float downstream and a large fish boiled and swung at the fly but never touched it. Changing dry flies I raised the first salmon again, then made a longer cast toward the ledge and another fish stuck, but it was a short hit and I only picked him. He wouldn’t return for a second course! It was then I tied on a large, brown-bodied, yellow-winged bomber, an old favorite of mine, but both Richard and Mike agreed if it didn’t catch a salmon it might scare one to death.

No interest from the small salmon but when I floated my fly over the big fish I’d boiled earlier it rolled up and engulfed my yellow monstrosity. Mike even got the take on video. Richard rose and grabbed the push pole to take us to shore, but the fish made a short run and dove deep, and I couldn’t budge him so Richard sat back down to see how things played out. Using an old trick I pointed the rod at the holding fish, tightened the line and them strummed the line like a guitar string sending vibrations to the salmon. One the third strum all hell broke loose!

Within the next minute a silver-sided missile leapt and somersaulted wildly three times, charging about the pool but never making a run or taking out much line. Then just as suddenly the salmon calmed down as if it weren’t even hooked and I steadily reeled in line. None of us could believe it as the big fish came toward the canoe like a dog on a leash, but Richard jumped up and grabbed his net – “Just in case.”

“Keep leading him right up beside the boat if you can”, Richard said, “but all at once he’s going to take off like a scalded cat.” I knew he was right; large salmon are seldom netted from a canoe, they are too wily. Then, all at once, the fish was right alongside. There was a quick flash as my old guide swept the net and snared the passing fish. That’s when the salmon really got wild, I thought it would beat a hole in the side of the canoe as I held the net overboard while Richard poled to shore.

The salmon was a hookbill that weighed just more than 27 pounds and, according to the video, it took 2 minutes, 56 seconds to land. Far from a normal scenario, but that’s salmon fishing, and that’s a day with Richard Adams. That’s the story of my first, last and only three-minute salmon.

bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com