Pete Azzole's On-line Library

While reading a fishing magazine at Cape Chiniak, Alaska in 1962, I learned about the Narraguagus river in Maine. Its fame and promise for challenging Atlantic Salmon fishing was enough to get my blood boiling. I spent most of my childhood with a rod and reel in my hand, so it was natural for me to yearn to fish that river. I learned that the Narraguagus was within striking distance from our station at Winter Harbor, so the die was cast. Now I ask you, was I happy to get orders to Winter Harbor after Cape Chiniak?

Once a year, in early spring, Atlantic Salmon find their way to their birthplace upstream from the mouth of the Narraguagus. They valiantly fight their way up the cold, crystal clear, burbling water, foiling anglers all the way, then up the salmon ladders of a dam and on to their spawning areas. After laying eggs and fertilizing them, their bodies deteriorate and death comes within days.

Let me take you on a virtual trip to the Narraguagus. The image opens with you driving north on a crowned, hilly and winding road from Winter Harbor at oh-dark-thirty every morning during the short period of days when the salmon are 'running,'. You have to arrive streamside before daylight leaks into the dense blackness. The earlier you arrive, the better the chance of starting at a prime fishing spot. The scene streamside during darkness is a long string of dancing glints from red filtered flashlights and cigarettes as the anglers check their fly rods, reels, flies, streamers, leader knots, etc.. This is a nationally known fishing event and by the very first tinge of light, the banks along the mile or so of prime stream banks are filled with anglers from near and far. All are waiting anxiously for just enough light to make that first cast. All are wondering if they will be one of the half dozen anglers who will actually hook a salmon during the first hour or two of light; after that, the salmon just won't get curious about anything and fishing is over. All are praying they'll be one of the magical few who will actually land a fish that day. State fishing laws preclude anything but the use of fly rods. Anglers are also limited to 15 pound test leaders, and artificial flies and streamers with single, barbless hooks. If you have never fly fished, you can't appreciate the vast mismatch between that equipment list and a 15-25 pound Atlantic Salmon. Add the salmon's suspicious nature plus its lack of appetite upon arrival in fresh water during spawning season and you have some tall odds stacked against a fresh salmon dinner.

Northern Maine in early spring is not short sleeve weather. At oh-dark-thirty streamside, you are wearing long johns, flannel shirt, heavy pants, GI knit hat pulled down over your ears, double boot socks, a flask of brandy and GI foul weather coat. Gloves too, until you start fishing, of course. You dread taking off those gloves, because you know the pain coming when that ice cold water off the fly line will make your hands go numb.

Finally, as the earth's rotation brings a hint of sunlight to the Narraguagus River, the grande anglers ballet begins. Rods up and down the bank begin to whip rhythmically to and fro, extending line further and further out over the dark, frigid water then laying lures in just the right eddy pools. The angler's protocol, to give all equal chance at prime spots, allows for four casts then one must move four paces upstream. And so it goes, all of us casting, moving, hoping, praying, freezing.

In dim light, you can't see the fish. Your first clue that a great silvery salmon has gotten curious will be a monstrous swirl in the water that will kick your heart rate up to double speed, will dump a gallon of adrenaline into your bloodstream and will put a wide smile on your face. An actual strike by the fish will follow instantly. Suddenly you'll have fly line stripping off the reel at an alarming rate and you'll fight for your balance as your rod is nearly jerked from your grip. The smell of burning flesh you detect is the result of friction from the fly line as it pulls through your numb hand which is trying to slow down the fish's escape. Cheers burst out from those envious souls near you as they rapidly clear the bank ahead of your fish, knowing you'll be needing about a half mile of chasing room lest your reel be emptied and the leader broken. If you are lucky, you'll spend about an hour or so battling many powerful runs by a majestic fish. You'll be quivering from the cold and fearful of the fish getting free of that unbarbed hook. Just when you think you can breath a little easier because you are beginning to regain line, the fish demonstrates its determination and stamina and your reel is emptied again. Good fortune will truly have smiled upon you if you manage to bring a fish to within reach so you can grip the gills of the glistening bright silver monster and bring it wriggling to your car trunk and head home.