Time is running out. The days are getting shorter, the nights growing colder and the crisp autumn air carries a quiet sense of urgency. Yes, you guessed it — the fishing season in Maine is winding down.
Most waters close at the end of September, with only a few rivers staying open year-round under fly-fishing-only, catch-and-release regulations. For the hardcore angler, those places are a lifeline.
For me, the guiding season usually winds down in late September, though we often squeeze in one last October trip — typically chasing musky.
This year, however, that tradition slipped away when a client’s bad back forced a cancellation — and musky fishing is no place for a weak back. At the end of every retrieve, you bend deep into a figure eight with your fly.
If you’ve never witnessed a boat-side strike during that move, you owe it to yourself to try it — it’s electrifying. Our short film The Newbie Stage was filmed in northern Maine, and will definitely give you a taste for it.
Now with shorter days and colder nights, fishing activity changes. In early September, I noticed mornings slowing down. Fish were still there, but less willing. By mid-day, as the water warmed, they grew more active — bass, trout and salmon alike.
I don’t guide for trout and salmon in August. The water is too warm, and once it pushes 70 degrees — or even 68, as some now argue — the fish are stressed. It’s best to not target them, and instead focus on bass.
My first West Branch trip each year usually comes the first weekend in September, when night temperatures dip into the 40s and water runs cool again.
This year I returned with my client, Michael.
We pulled into the launch around 7 a.m., readying the boat outside the ramp to avoid holding up other anglers. Fog hung low over the water. The river murmured, carrying that cool, damp scent that only anglers know.
The fishing started out slow. Spots that almost always hold fish — big fish — came up empty. We cycled through streamers, nymphs and dries. Even without a hatch, I can often coax a rise to a dry simply because fish remember feeding at dusk.
But not this morning. For the first time guiding the West Branch, I worried about being skunked.
By late morning the fishing picked up and we were catching small salmon — six to ten inches — and even a few chubs. A light rain began to fall, and suddenly the river came alive.
Tiny Blue-Winged Olives (BWOs) hatched in the drizzle, their pale green bodies and gray wings drifting downstream.
I rigged Michael with a big stimulator and dropped a BWO nymph behind it. Brook trout and salmon rose eagerly. Most were small, but action is action. Finally, a decent salmon hammered the stimulator. At 13 inches, it wasn’t huge, but after a long morning of dinks, it was a welcome sight.
With time running short, we switched to streamers. My strategy is simple: cast a few times, and then, if nothing moves, change the pattern. That day, however, I only needed to switch once — from my go-to “chicken fly” to an olive bugger.
The author’s client Michael with a landlocked salmon caught on the West Branch.
#8 stone flies
The change produced instant results. Michael hooked a fish we thought was a fat brook trout, only to discover it was a native chub. I couldn’t help but smile. Chubs are under-appreciated — one of Maine’s native fish and an important food source for trout and salmon.
After this catch, Michael connected with a 16-inch salmon, then a bigger, heavier one that taped at 18 inches after several jumps.
There was just one problem: I had forgotten my boat net. The only net I could borrow was a tiny stream net, barely big enough to cradle those fish. But somehow, it worked. We slid each salmon in, snapped quick photos and let them go, each swimming away strongly.
As we floated out, Michael and I talked about the day’s rhythm. Early frustration, mid-day hatches, streamer redemption and the reminder that in fishing, conditions change constantly.
If we had hooked those salmon on delicate dry flies, we might not have landed them at all. Bigger hooks — and a borrowed net — saved the day.
That’s fall fishing in Maine — unpredictable, humbling and deeply rewarding. You adapt, keep casting, and eventually, the river gives back.
I always tell my clients, “If you really want to understand fish, fish in all-weather, every condition, every mood of the river. That’s how you learn.”
