Even as December chills the air, Maine anglers can’t stop thinking about landlocked salmon. Though the fish may be deep in the lake, their presence drives dreams of the next season and the thrill of trolling a streamer across a glassy surface.
Most years, ice-out on Aziscohos Lake doesn’t happen until early May. My wife, Trish, and I head to our cabin soon after word spreads that the lake is clear.
Weather conditions vary drastically. Sometimes we arrive under bright blue skies, with temperatures climbing into the fifties. More often, overcast skies, rain squalls, or even a stray snowflake greet us — the type of harsh conditions favored by landlocked salmon and brook trout.
After a long winter of inactivity, these fish are ravenous, often chasing schools of smelt across the lake.
Preparing the boat and gear
Shivering under layers, we sweep mouse droppings and spider webs from our Grumman canoe and haul it to the shoreline. After clamping the four-horsepower outboard to the square stern, we prepare our lines to troll traditional streamers that imitate the smelt swimming through western Maine’s waters.
I favor the Black Ghost, first tied by Herbert Welch in the 1920s, and the Gray Ghost, created by Carrie Stevens around the same time. There are countless patterns to choose from today.
Selene Frohmberg, owner of Selene’s Fly Shop in Gardiner is renowned for her meticulous reproductions of Carrie Stevens’ streamers, alongside her own innovative creations.
Brett Damm, a well-known guide in the region, works with accomplished tyers supplying the Rangeley Region Fly Shop, the store he and his wife, Susan, own on the main street of Rangeley.
Then there is Scott Biron, an angling educator and historian, known for his skills at tying patterns thought lost through the years as well as his own. Across the border in New Hampshire, Bill Thompson, former owner of North Country Angler Fly Shop in North Conway, is another master of tying streamers that consistently take fish in Maine and beyond.
Modern patterns also have their place. Fern Bosse, who has a cabin on our lake, ties the Sneeka and other flies that never seem to fail. The Soft-Hackle Streamer, first tied by Jack Gartside, relies on a single marabou feather. I stick to Jack’s original method of winding the material around the hook shank.
Choosing a pattern is always a matter of opinion. In early spring, a white wing or shoulder often triggers strikes, which is why the Black Ghost and Soft-Hackle Streamer with white marabou remain favorites.
Playing tag with landlocked salmon
Trolling a streamer is one of the most satisfying ways to fish. Brook trout dive and wag their heads, while salmon surge upward, sometimes breaking the surface in a flash of silver and black. I swear I’ve heard a salmon’s jubilant cry as it falls back into the lake, my streamer suspended mid-air.
When we first moved to our cabin, I bought two fiberglass fly rods from L.L. Cote in Errol, New Hampshire. Each cost no more than a breakfast for two at McDonald’s. Nearly 40 years later, we still troll with those rods, which hang across spruce notches above our porch screens when not in use.
Each reel holds 75 feet of floating line — long past its usefulness for dry-fly casting but perfect for trolling. I attach a 35-foot, 5-pound-test monofilament leader and another 10 to 12 feet of tippet. A swivel prevents the streamer from spinning unnaturally in the boat’s wake.
Before gasoline engines, anglers rowed or paddled while trolling. That method still produces lifelike streamer action. At the start of the season, we set our four-horsepower engine to its lowest speed and cruise the cove, varying direction to give life to the streamer.
Trolling techniques that work
It’s important to vary both the speed of the engine and the direction of the boat. Some anglers troll parallel to shore, weaving left and right to bring life to their streamers. Others head out into the lake and back, turning sharply near the shoreline. Either method can be effective.
The boat’s motion directly affects how the streamer moves below the surface. Often, a salmon will strike as the boat turns — sometimes because the streamer has sunk deeper or passes over a ledge or stump where a fish is waiting. Occasionally, pumping the rod makes the streamer appear injured, triggering a salmon’s instinct to strike. Trish swears by this technique, which is why we don’t use rod holders on our little boat.
Seasonal changes in salmon fishing
Just after ice-out, salmon follow smelt toward the surface. We let out 30 or more feet of floating fly line, allowing the leader and tippet to sink while keeping the streamer just below the surface.
As May turns into June, surface waters warm and smelt disperse. Salmon follow, and anglers often use small sonar units to locate them. Some add weight to streamers or switch to metal lures and spoons — Mooselook Wobblers in various colors are especially popular. For years, I relied on a Sutton 44 spoon, buying an entire box before eBay existed.
By August, both prey and predator move to cooler depths. Larger boats use downriggers, while smaller craft, like our sixteen-foot Grumman, rely on lead-core fly lines that change color every ten feet to gauge depth. When two boats pass, one often calls out, “How many colors?”
Lead-core lines can deaden action once a fish is hooked, so I prefer a sinking line from the Cortland Company — lighter than lead-core and better at transmitting fish movement, even if it sinks more slowly.
By fall, cooling surface waters bring smelt and salmon back near the top, making floating lines effective again. I keep four spools: two sinking and two floating. When unsure of depth, I let out a floating line while Trish trolls with a sinking line. If one of us hooks a fish, the other can switch spools quickly, keeping the streamer at the proper depth.
Family memories on the lake
Although Trish’s parents are gone, for many years they joined us at camp. I remember August mornings when her father and I motored onto the lake while our young daughter, Charlie, still slept. Trish and her mother sipped coffee, holding breakfast until we returned.
I’d be in the Grumman’s stern, guiding the little Johnson outboard, while Charlie stared into the morning fog, as thick as my mother-in-law’s corn chowder.
As we cut through the stillness, the lake slowly awakened. Wisps of fog swirled across the surface like tumbleweed through a western ghost town. A gentle breeze created what Charlie called a “salmon ripple.”
Wavelets lapped against the hull as sunlight danced across the water. A northern harrier glided low along the marsh while an eagle soared high above.
The faint scent of balsam drifted from the opposite shore, where shadows shifted with passing clouds. With the outboard’s drone beneath us, muscles relaxed, tensions faded, and words became unnecessary.
Trolling at dusk
Slowing the boat, we lowered sinking lines until our streamers bumped along the lake bottom. I favored a fly of my own design, Summer Smelt — purple-and-black bucktail tied above silver tinsel. During the morning, we might switch to a Mickey Finn, Black-nosed Dace or one of Fern Bosse’s many streamers.
As the hours passed, seconds merged into minutes, minutes into hours. Eventually, Charlie would stretch her legs, and we’d head back to camp. By then, Trish would be picking blueberries for her mother to sprinkle into pancake batter as we walked up the trail to the cabin.
