For nearly 10 years now, Stan Bogdan, the mild-mannered octogenarian reel maker whose main lodge and shop are located in Nashua, N.H., has arrived at my house in early July. Accompanying him, to put it politely, are a couple of characters who Stan and I refer to as Laurel and Hardy. Otherwise known as Drew Holl and Lamar Underwood, they both have New Jersey ZIP codes. Suffice it to say, the ensuing soiree that uncorks our annual salmon-fishing trip isn’t as celebratory as it once was. So it was that, in good health and high spirits, on the morning of July 9 we set a course for Rick Warren’s Millbrook Farm Camp on New Brunswick’s Upsalquitch River. On arriving that afternoon, we were greeted by the BDN publisher, who recently was appointed U.S. director of the Atlantic Salmon Federation, and his fishing partner Bill Bullock, the head guide of Merrill-Merchants Bank.

It may be surprising, but it wasn’t until this year that I actually fished with Stan Bogdan; and without hesitation I’ll say the pleasure was all mine. Not because the man is an icon, but because he is a consummate salmon fisherman. That’s to say he knows his knots – ties on his flies, replaces his tippets and leaders – watches the water like an osprey, doesn’t rock the boat when casting, and fishes diligently, quietly, and patiently.

In spite of high water, which means moving fish that pay scant attention to fishermen’s flies, we all caught strong, fresh-run grilse freckled with sea lice. In accordance with Millbrook’s total live release rule, all of the fish were returned to the river unharmed and none the worse off for their folly.

In keeping with “the more the merrier,” that evening Stan and I persuaded a couple of grilse to join our piscatorial party. When guide Sonny Murray dropped anchor at the head of the Mouth Pool, the 22-foot canoe swung across the current like a great green pendulum. As it came to rest within casting distance of a dark rippling run, I said, “Go to it, Stan. Show me how it’s done.”

“Oh no, you go right ahead,” came the seemingly unselfish reply. There was, however, method to his madness. I haven’t been on as many salmon rivers as Stan Bogdan, but I’ve been on enough of them to know that the first fly over a salmon often serves only to arouse the fish’s interest. As often as not, it’s the second or third fly that does the trick. Allowing, then, that I was fishing with an old fox, I began courting carpal tunnel by casting repeatedly but to no avail. So it went as we alternately whipped the water without getting so much as a grunt from a fish.

Not until we reached the lower part of the pool did Stan hook a hit-and-run grilse that seemed scornful of his reel’s reputation. Simply put, among dedicated salmon fishermen, reels bearing the name S.E. Bogdan are as prized as salmon fishing paintings signed by Pleissner. After releasing the grilse, Sonny suggested we fish through the pool again. Having learned that salmon are predictably unpredictable and it’s always best to listen to the guide, we concurred.

Keeping in mind that it takes only one cast to catch a salmon, there was no second-round slack in our optimism. When it was my turn to fish, my partner changed flies while softly singing old classics such as “I’ll Be Seeing You” and “As Time Goes By.” I wouldn’t compare him with Sinatra or Nat “King” Cole by any means, but in all honesty I was impressed by his renditions of the lilting melodies and meaningful lyrics of songs written in an era when music made sense.

Handy to where Stan hooked his grilse, I raised a fish. On the next cast it – or, perhaps, another fish – took, bent the rod sickle-shaped, and came unstuck. “Taking short,” I muttered. “When they take like that, without making a swirl, they’re taking short.”

“Keep fishing,” said Stan. “There may be another one there.”

He was right twice. Two more fish rose to the No. 6 Osprey without touching it. A couple of casts later, though, there came a solid tap and weighty tug followed by a swirl blossoming on the surface. How sweet it is! As is often the case with Upsalquitch grilse, the bright and spirited fish could have been called a small salmon. Sonny figured it weighed 6 pounds easy. “Go ahead and try them, Stan,” I said after the grilse was released. “A pod of fresh fish might’ve just moved in here and nothing gives me more pleasure than watching my partner catch a fish – especially after I do.” What the heck, we’re only here for a short time so we might as well make it a good time. By then, however, dusk was drawing the curtains of night, so we counted our blessings and headed back to camp. There we learned that no one else had touched a fish.

During the night it rained so hard that to step outside would have meant holding your breath. Consequently, the river rose two inches and ran somewhat roily. Hard fishing. Fact is, the only fish caught that day was a sucker that Rick Warren winched from, of all places, the surging flows of Church Run. Moreover, the fish wasn’t foul-hooked, it actually took the fly. None of us, including the guides, had ever heard of a sucker taking a fly, let alone in swift water.

The next morning Stan and I got skunked at Home Pool, but Drew Holl and Lamar Underwood each caught a grilse at the Mouth. On hearing that, Stan clamped his hands on his head and said, “God help us, we’ll never hear the end of it.” After answering the usual questions as to where the fish were holding and what flies they took, Lamar shrugged and said nonchalantly, “It’s all in the presentation.” As can be imagined, the glances and laughter that followed were not furtive.

Truth be told, neither Stan nor I caught another fish on that trip. High water, however, wasn’t the only reason. For instance, on the evening we were to fish Crib Pool, lightning flashed across the hills like St. Elmo’s Fire and thunder rolled through the river’s graveled gulches. No time to be wading and waving graphite lightning rods. Yet, a couple of miles downriver, where the storm passed earlier, Bill Bullock caught two grilse at the Mouth.

The next morning, as if to put a cap on the trip, Drew Holl released a grilse at Moore’s. Among our group, it was the only fish caught at the usually productive pool. “Wouldn’t you know it?” said Stan. “Thank God I’m not riding back with him.” On leaving Millbrook, Stan would hie off to the Grand Cascapedia to fish with his longtime friend Joe Wells. As an aside, Stan was with Joe when he caught three leviathan salmon – each weighing more than 50 pounds – on Norway’s famed Alta River.

It has been said that if you want to get to know a man, go fishing with him. In accordance with that I can say Stan Bogdan is a kind, gentle, and extremely sensitive man. Additionally, at 87 years old, his spirit and enthusiasm are inspiring. Watching him stepping smartly in and out of canoes and wading swift rocky flows commanded my respect. So did I admire his independence when he refused my offers to carry his gear down steep and slippery paths. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, “I’ve done this before.” Especially refreshing was his frankness in answering my questions and expressing his views and opinions regarding Atlantic salmon conservation and restoration. In reference to salmon fishing, when I concluded, “All things considered I’m afraid we’ve seen the best of it,” he replied, “I’m afraid you’re right.”

An indication of Stan Bogdan’s unaffectedness is that, in the three days we fished together, the only mention he made of his reels was in answer to my questions about them. Otherwise we talked about salmon, salmon fishing, salmon rivers, and salmon fishermen whose names were as symbolic of the sport as those of Jock Scott and Lee Wulff. Accordingly, Stan said it was John Olin of the Olin-Winchester Co. and the exclusive Moisie Salmon Club, who convinced the management at Abercrombie & Fitch to sell Bogdan reels. “And he did it with a phone call,” Stan emphasized.

Not surprisingly, his reels have been copied down to the thread counts of the screws. However, although the replicated reels are highly functional and dependable, they don’t bear the name that set the standard. When asked if the less-expensive reels had reduced the demand for his products, Stan replied, “Not at all. We’re still back ordered.” Nowadays, the Bogdan business is operated primarily by Stan’s son, Steve. It’s worth noting that, although Bogdan reels are pricey, Stan’s fly-tattered fishing hat is priceless. It should be put on a pedestal in the Fishing Hall of Fame.

Come October, a long-overdue book about the man and his reels will be released. Written by Graydon R. Hilyard, the book’s title, “Bogdan,” reflects the clean, uncomplicated design of the reels. In praising Hilyard’s meticulous research, Stan quipped, “He knows more about me than I do.”

Typically, Stan was low-key in talking about the book. Nevertheless, Lamar Underwood, a former editor of Outdoor Life and Sports Afield magazines as well as the author of a novel titled, “On Dangerous Ground,” couldn’t resist casting a line of professional advice: “Stan,” he said during an after-dinner confab, “don’t give your book to your friends because they’re the only people who’ll buy it.” When the laughter subsided, our silver-haired friend slowly shook his head saying, “I don’t know why I love you guys … but I do.”

I first met Stan Bogdan at a mid-1970s Atlantic Salmon Association banquet held at the grand old Windsor Hotel in Montreal. Naturally, I had no idea that I would become a friend and fishing partner of the unassuming reel maker who became an icon throughout the international salmon-fishing community. With a little fisherman’s luck, though, and the good Lord willing, we’ll all fish with him again at Millbrook when the Upsalquitch is silvered with salmon fresh from the sea.

Tom Hennessey’s columns and artwork can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at www.bangornews.com. Tom’s e-mail address is: thennessey@bangordailynews.net; Web site address is: www.tomhennessey.com.