Traveling in Style : MAINE COURSE : In a State Veined With Free-Flowing Rivers, the Scenery Is Great--and the Fly-Fishing Is Sublime

IF AS JORGE LUIS BORGES ONCE WROTE, “EVERYTHING having to do with water is poetic,” then the state of Maine must stand as a major emotional, as well as hydraulic, watershed.

If a river ever ran through any place, it runs through Maine. It is called the Penobscot--350 miles of rushing water, draining nearly 9,000 square miles of down east landscape. And the Penobscot is hardly the state’s only river. There’s the St. Croix on the Canadian border, the Dennys, the Pleasant, the East Machias, the Machias, the Narraguagus, the Union, the Sheepscot and more.

Water, in fact--whether fresh, brackish or salt--is almost certainly the most seductive element of Maine’s many charms. The rivers range from crystal-clear to tea-colored, tinted with tannin from the northern woodlands in which they arise. They range from black glass slides to white-water rapids, down which rafters and kayakers hurtle through rocky chutes. Some rivers and ponds are close by major roadways; others are strictly fly-in spots, wild enough to engender the suspicion that no mortal soul has ever before set foot in their precincts (though plenty probably have). From the North Maine Woods to the state’s central highlands to its 3,000-plus miles of tortuous coastline, water defines and illuminates the place. It courses through the stunning scenery, veins the habitats of moose, bears, deer, hawks and eagles, offers endless opportunities for sailing and cruising and clambering along--and, above all, offers anglers some of the best fly-fishing in the world.

I say “above all” because I know Maine’s waters most of all as repositories of fish. It certainly isn’t necessary to fish to encounter the state’s aqueous wonders up close--boaters, hikers and even just casual strollers can enjoy its lakes and rivers readily--but fly-fishing ineluctably draws those of us who love it to the very origins of water, and thus into some of Maine’s most pristine wildernesses.

Fly-fishing in Maine falls into three technical, tactical, moral/metaphysical planes, known as brook trout, landlocked salmon and Atlantic salmon. The perfection with which these three Salmonidae complement and complete each other suggests, perhaps as much as anything, the hand of a Supreme Being at work. Brook trout feed the body and respond to logic; Atlantic salmon feed the spirit and confirm that human reason falls well short of solving the great mysteries of the universe; landlocked salmon are an intermediary step.

The normal progression for a fishing life in Maine is to begin with brook trout soon after one learns to walk, and to cast a fly and to end up on Atlantics after becoming old and philosophically resigned to the greater beauty and futility of all things. In between, the landlockeds guide the adventurous angler into some of the state’s most beautiful wilderness and waterways.

There is a particularly egalitarian, democratic quality to fly-fishing in Maine. In the first place, there is no private water in the state. All rivers, ponds and lakes are open to the public, their fish available to anyone with a fishing license. Secondly, the fish themselves are enthusiastic and aggressive fly-batterers--reckless creatures with a weakness for any fly that shines or sparkles or moves (unlike the more selective European brown trout, well-known as gourmets and holders of advanced degrees in entomology).

My earliest fishing-related memory--possibly my earliest memory at all--is of being whacked in the face by pine branches as my father carried me on his shoulders through the forests and swamplands of Hancock County on our way to distant streams or brooks. Brook trout were everywhere, and these miniature beauties were voracious feeders, happy to take nearly any fly we could get into the water. The farther away from civilization we’d get, the more abundant and cooperative were the trout. As the summer deepened and the temperature rose, they would make things even easier, collecting around the icy feeder streams that, to my father, were like private resources. These he managed parsimoniously, never over-plundering any one trove of trout, but harvesting one here, one there, releasing the larger seed fish, killing only selected pan-sized candidates. The landlocked salmon, Salmo sebago , was originally, a million years ago or so, a sea-run salmon cut off from the Atlantic. First identified in Maine’s Sebago Lake, they are among the state’s proudest inventions. At their best--in the late summer and early fall when they migrate up rivers and streams to spawn--landlocked salmon are plump and hard, silver-sided, spattered with dark freckles along their backs.

The West Branch of the Penobscot, especially the stretch below Ripogenus Dam, is fabled landlocked salmon water. The Rapid River at Middle Dam on Richardson Lake, the Roach River at Kokadjo near Greenville, the Kennebec River at its West Outlet from Moosehead Lake and the Grand Lake Stream in Washington County complete a royal flush of salmon streams. The Kennebago River near Lower Cupsuptic Township is another fine fishing ground for landlocked salmon (though there are also trout aplenty). Sebago Lake is famous not only as the birthplace of the landlocked salmon, but also as the site of the record landlocked catch, a 22 1/2-pounder taken in 1907--and there are landlockeds, too, in the Rangeley Lakes, Moosehead Lake (Maine’s largest) and West Grand Lake.

Pursuit of the landlocked salmon is a step away from the simple beauty and logical perfection of brook-trouting. Like the Atlantic salmon, the landlocked takes a fly for reasons other than sheer misguided hunger. Known to stop feeding during the spawning run, both species are believed to attack flies for similar primal motives--among them, habit or the memory of feeding practices, curiosity, playfulness, natural aggressiveness, territoriality and irritation, even some salmonoid form of erotic Angst .

I fell in love with the first landlocked salmon who was nice to me, a three-pound 20-incher who took my tiny 14 bivisible spider dry fly going up, and simply popped up into the air, spotlighted by the midmorning sun that had come over Mt. Katahdin. There he was, shining sleekly and wet and silver, a foot or two above the fast-flowing black glass surface of the West Branch of the Penobscot, the mountain looming in the background. And there I was, understandably, I think, dazzled.

FLY-FISHING FOR ATLANTIC SALMon is, in a sense, graduate school. The trout fisher arrives at this level having learned a number of skills that prove to be nearly useless in this new pursuit. Salmon lie in different spots in the river and take flies for almost none of the reasons trout do. Salmon fishing is humbling; logic goes out the window. Known as “the fish of a thousand casts,” the Atlantic salmon sometimes takes a fly of a certain size and pattern, moving in a certain manner, at a certain speed in water of a certain temperature--and sometimes doesn’t.

Maine presently offers the only Atlantic salmon fishing in the United States. The season opens on the first of May with a ritual event: Beginning at 4 in the morning, the Veazie Salmon Club serves a breakfast of bacon and eggs, sausages, baked beans, biscuits and all the coffee you can drink as insulation against what is often a bitterly cold dawn. By the time everyone is finished, bright new fish just back from gorging themselves on Greenland krill--tiny shrimplike crustaceans the salmon seek at sea--have usually entered the Penobscot. The legal Atlantic salmon limit is one per year per angler. By tradition, the first fish taken each season is sent to the President of the United States, while the lucky fisherman who caught it is permitted to snag a second one for personal use.

There were times when salmon fishing seemed to me like some elaborate hoax, or like some riddle that I was destined never to decipher. Did anyone really catch these things? I wondered. Then I found out.

It all started on the Narraguagus up in Cherryfield, when I helped David Livingstone land his 12-pound salmon. We were the only fishermen at the famous Cable Pool when David hooked up; I ran for the net in the back of his truck and nervously scooped his fish out of the water. He was so grateful that he snipped off the triumphant fly, a green and yellow and white creation known as a Cosseboom, and gave it to me for luck.

A few days later, after a fishless day on the Penobscot, I found myself, through some miscalculation, on an errand in the town of Ellsworth, where there was a minor salmon river, the Union, from which a fish or two were known to be taken annually. I decided to have a look.

As I arrived at the river, a fish splashed over a downstream ledge and into a pool. I couldn’t resist. Moments later, David Livingstone’s Cosseboom swung past the fish’s snout and he took it as if he had been waiting for it all his life. It was just after 7 in the evening in late June, and there would be light until nearly 10--plenty of time to bring it in. Using proper gear and correct salmon-fighting technique, it is supposed to take about a minute a pound to land an Atlantic salmon.

Unfortunately, my rod was on the light side, and I was not overly confident about my knots and the strength of my nylon leader. Besides, my soft-handed trout-fishing techniques (trout fishermen are used to light gear, which must be handled delicately) allowed the salmon to recover between rounds, and the battle seemed to drag on forever. I simply couldn’t land him. He took me out of one pool, downstream into the next pool and then decided to head for open ocean. Without the power to turn him, I had to let him run, following him nearly half a mile downstream to the bridge in downtown Ellsworth.

It was almost dark when a silver-haired gentleman fishing on the other side of the stream with his wife called out, “Hang on there. I’ll go see if I can get a net.” I endeavored to remain connected to my fish while the couple disappeared into the gloom. Twenty minutes later, they clambered down the bank on my side, like descending angels, equipped with flashlight and landing net.

It was over in seconds. I held my breath as the man’s hand felt its way down my leader and the net slid under the fish--a 12-pounder so bright, so fresh from the sea, that there was a pinkish glow through the nearly transparent white-silver skin on his gleaming sides. I thanked them both again and again, clipped off David Livingstone’s lucky Cosseboom and passed it along to them.

The next day, after years of trying, this longtime Union River angler landed his first Atlantic salmon using that very fly.

There have been other fish since that one, but none so bright, and none so lucky. I haven’t been to the Union many times since then, but when I go, I look for my white-haired savior at his spot along the narrowest part of the channel on the far bank. Sometimes he’s there, and he concedes me a small, understated downeast wave.

GUIDEBOOK

Abounding Maine

Prices: Hotel prices are for a double room for one night unless otherwise specified, and may vary seasonally. Restaurant prices are for dinner for two, food only.

Getting there: USAir, Delta Airlines, Northwest Airlines and Continental Airlines all offer daily connecting flights from Los Angeles to Bangor, the best jumping-off point for Maine’s fly-fishing country. From there, a rental car is a must.

Where to stay: Hampton Inn, 10 Bangor Mall Blvd., (207) 990-4400. New 119-room hotel near the interstate, with well-equipped standard accommodations. Rates: $51-$74. The Riverside Inn, 495 State St., Bangor, (207) 947-3800. A 56-room hostelry furnished in country inn style, overlooking the Penobscot River. Rates: $56-$79. The Blue Hill Inn, Union St. (Route 177), Blue Hill (southeast of Bangor), (207) 374-2844. A small inn dating from the 1830s, with rooms furnished in antiques; some fireplaces; candlelight dining in a well-regarded restaurant. Rates: Varies, from $92 for a basic room in low season, including breakfast and service charge, to $160 plus 15% service charge in high season (August), including breakfast, dinner and hors d’oeuvres.

Fish camps: The Bradford Camps, Lake Munsungan (mailing address: R.F.D. 2, Box 1822-19, Turner, Me. 04282), (207) 225-3057. Cabins plus a lodge where breakfast and dinner are served; fly-in services are available to remote fishing waters, some with overnight cabins adjacent. Rate: $125 per person per day. The Falcon Resorts on Spencer Pond (mailing address: P.O. Box 1899, Bangor, Me. 04402), (207) 990-4534 or (800) 825-8234. A multilevel facility, with luxurious accommodations in the main lodge ($475 per person per night, including all meals, drinks, guides and equipment, plus transportation from Bangor International Airport) and intermediate lodgings at the Hardscrabble Wilderness Cabins and Lodge (individual log cabins, $125 per person per night including meals and use of boats).

For more information: Maine Publicity Bureau, P.O. Box 2300, Hallowell, Me. 04347; (800) 533-9595 or (207) 623-0363.