After hooking my fifth Atlantic salmon of the day - a feat I had never before accomplished - I placed my fly rod just under the gunnels of the anchored aluminum boat and let the fly, leader and half a dozen feet of line fall over the side and skip with the slow-moving current.

“I’m gonna take a break; you wanna have a few casts?” I offered Sam, our guide.

“No thanks, Gord,” he said. “You go for it.”

Ten seconds later, while reaching for a soft drink in the cooler, I first heard, then quickly turned to see my rod and reel shoot towards the back of the boat. Three or four feet of the rod had disappeared beyond the motor by the time I managed to grab it just above the reel and raise it towards the sky, in the process creating an incredible arc in the rod.

Now THAT’S how plentiful salmon are on the Lower Eagle River.

Line continued to spin from the reel as Dwight and I laughed about the horseshoe that a previous Air Lab passenger must have left on my seat during the trip from St. John’s. Or perhaps it was during the short flight from Goose Bay that I unexpectantly acquired this good luck charm.

Wherever or whoever; it wasn’t being returned anytime soon. This was only our second day of fishing, after all, and regardless of the discomfort, it was staying where it was for the next four days.

We were guests of Millie and Jelle Terpstra of Goose Bay Outfitters on this, our very first trip to the world renowned Eagle River last summer. And when we refer to this place as “world renowned” or “world class,” it isn’t strictly our opinion or some sort of “plug.” This, folks, is fact. Unadulterated fact.

Everything we had been told about this river was accurate, particularly the number of fish so eager to take the fly.

“Once you fish the Eagle,” we were told on a number of occasions beforehand, “you’ll be spoiled; spoiled rotten.”

So true, so true.

Some 40 minutes after leaving Goose Bay aboard an Air Lab twin otter float plane on July 20, we landed on Sandwich Bay, where guides quickly got to work like soldier ants, lining up and maneuvering five or six boats to transfer gear and passengers from the aircraft, up through The Gorge and to the lodge, about two kilometres upstream.

Fortunately, water flowing through The Gorge wasn’t overly rough when we went up, but from stories we’ve heard and photos we’ve seen, it can be a pretty dangerous ride for those not familiar with the sudden dips, rises, turns and rocks; a “natural rollercoaster,” is how one friend described it.

We’d heard as well that from the deck of Goose Bay Outfitters’ main lodge, called the Lower Eagle Salmon Lodge, you can see most of the pools on that section of river. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, no doubt, we first thought.

It wasn’t. No lengthy boat rides to get to the salmon here, that’s for sure.

This operation, incidentally, features a main lodge and duplex-style guest cabins which rest on the south side of the riverbank and offer a spectacular view of Eagle Falls. The lodge has been completely rebuilt and is able to accommodate 20 rods per week. Most years, you can expect good fishing here from the beginning of July until early August. In particular - barring any catastrophe at sea - the second and third weeks of July are usually nothing short of spectacular. Sea-run brook trout can be caught in the bay this time of year as well, and by mid-August, the entire Lower Eagle is full of these tasty fish.

Approximately 120 miles long, the Eagle meanders on the back of the Mealy Mountains southeast of Goose Bay and empties in to Sandwich Bay.

While relaxing and getting acquainted with guides and guests upon our arrival - as the first of the week’s many mouth-watering meals was being prepared - I counted five fish being caught by three different anglers just a few stone-throws from the deck at Governor’s Pool.

Leaning over the rail, I turned slightly to my left and happened to catch a glimpse of Dwight salivating just a little; not from the aroma emitting from the kitchen, but from the hooked salmon that were leaping and twisting in attempts to shed the hooks.

“We gotta get out there, Gord, b’y,” he said. “This is driving me nuts.”

A couple of hours of “warmup” fishing that evening resulted in two hookups for Dwight - including an estimated 12-pounder - and a single for me. Judging by the strain on the 9 wt. Sportsman MT6 rod and the speed at which line shot from my reel, there was no doubt in my mind at the time that this fish was 10 pounds, minimum, even though we didn’t see it.

The fish broke free after three or four minutes, but I would later confirm for myself - on several occasions, in fact - something else we heard from anglers who have fished the Lower Eagle in the past; that even five-and-six-pound grilse can take you into the backing in a hurry. Apparently, very cool water temperatures and proximity to the sea give these fish strength and energy worthy of salmon much larger.

A fairly heavy drizzle awaited us the next morning, so we decided to fish without having the video camera nearby.

Our cameraman, John Dyke, quickly jumped in the boat with guide Austin Rumbolt and guest Bill Penney from Conception Bay South, as Dwight, Sam and I headed below the falls near Trapper’s Pool.

Johnny would return with the camera once the sky cleared just before lunch, but not before hooking four fish of his own at Pratt Falls, while Bill had five salmon snap his small green bug that morning. “A salmon fisherman’s dream,” Johnny said of his first few hours.

Meanwhile, through the light rain, Dwight hooked four fish before I was into my first of the day. His third - and feistiest - rose for the Black Silvertip twice before deciding to clamp down on the artificial offering.

Line shot from the reel at such speed that it actually burned the angler’s hand when he tried to “palm” it, as did another salmon, which we caught on film, the next morning. About 50 feet downstream the fish shot out of the water with twists and leaps that would make a gymnast dizzy.

The silver hen then turned to the south shore, jumped twice more and headed for the boat. Never had his 52-year-old hands reeled so fast before as Dwight tried to maintain a tight line.

Fifteen feet from the boat, she headed back down river, twice more displaying the beauty and agility that often causes Dwight to go weak at the knees.

A couple of minutes later she was tailed at the side of the boat and brought in for a quick measurement.

“Sixty-one centimetres, between five and six pounds,” Sam reported. “You want to tag it?”

“Yeah, that’s certainly worth tagging,” Dwight answered. “What’s wrong with you, Gord, b’y? our guide asked. “You haven’t hooked much this morning.”

“Don’t wanna waste my energy just yet; I’m waiting for the camera,” I managed with a straight face.

Sure enough, just as Johnny and his crew pushed off after returning to our cabin for the camera, my rod bent under the weight of a 62-cm, six-pound fish. “Hey, you got one on, Gordie boy!” John shouted as he neared our craft and focused the camera.

“Of course, Johnny; I have work to do.”

That afternoon, thanks to a couple of No. 8 or 10 thin-bodied Green Machine-type flies given to me by another camp guide, big Nelson Guy of Grand Falls-Windsor, my success rate began to soar while fishing a wide, slow-running holding area called “The Slick.”

At one point, I was casting as far as I could throw a line in hopes of reaching a fish that was porposing near the end of a small rip, when another salmon showed itself about half way between that one and the boat. I reeled in most of my line and began false-casting until I was a few feet in front of the fish, then let the fly drop.

“I’ll get that one first, then go back after the fish that’s further out,” I said, half joking.

“He just came up for a look at your fly!” Dwight noted. I hauled back and cast again. No movement. Another flick and BANG! The water opened up and my fly rod was practically pulled from my hand as I aimed the tip skyward and set the hook.

“This is no grilse, boys,” I said. “He hasn’t come up yet... and just look at the line go! I’m just about into the backing already!”

Once again, though, it was a grilse; 62.5 cms and weighing more than six pounds. Threatening skies that evening failed to keep us from fishing, but, knowing we already had plenty of good footage for our television show, we again decided to leave the camera in the cabin. And guess what happened...

We dropped anchor near Gene’s Pool at the end of a fairly rough flow of water, from where we each hooked, landed and released a fish; mine from the back of the boat where I was casting towards a large boulder, and Dwight’s from the bow, where he let his fly dance through a couple of rips.

“Wanna change sides for a while, Gord?” he asked, with about 30 minutes of fishing left in the day.

“Sure, b’y. Go for it.”

Casting a green caterpillar-type fly with a small white tail, tied on a No. 8 streamer hook, Dwight thought he’d caught a glimpse of a dorsal fin in pursuit as it made its swing.

“D’ya see that?” he asked.

“No, what? Did you rise one?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he was after it.”

The third or fourth cast over that same area provoked the response he was looking for as the line tightened and the fight was on. Down river the fish sped, refusing to show itself for more than a minute. And then...

“That’s a big fish!” Sam said as it made a single leap and thrashed at the surface. “I don’t mind hauling anchor and chasing that one if we have to. (Guides) don’t like doing that if it’s a grilse, especially with experienced fellers like yourselves.”

After three downstream runs and a couple of dashes towards faster water, the fish was brought near the stern of the boat.

“You gonna tag that one if we can get it?” Sam asked.

“Oh yeah,” came the quick response. “We’re allowed to keep one large fish here; I got my green tag.”

“Okay then, I’ll use the net.”

It was with more than a little enthusiasm that Dwight hollered as the 14-pound salmon was hoisted over the gunnels a few seconds later. It was one of his bitter-sweet angling moments.

“Just my luck,” he said with a grin. “No camera again.”

I was quite disappointed early the next morning after losing the last of my “special” bugs when my leader broke on a fish, but remembered while reluctantly starting to tie on a Blue Charm that I had a somewhat similar fly given to me a few weeks earlier by Jason Thistle, owner of Penney Toyota in Grand Falls-Windsor. Jason, an accomplished salmon angler, had been at the same camp the year previous and did remarkably well with this pattern.

I tied on his fly and was into a fish within five minutes. By the end of the day I had retained one and released four others, plus I hooked and lost three or four more.

If I were to give a play-by-play account of each fish that Dwight, John and I hooked - which totalled 100 over five-plus days, including 42 for yours truly, thank-you very much - we’d not fit another story in this issue of the magazine.

Pratt’s Falls, Airforce Pool, The Slick, Gene’s, Whale’s Back, Inside Governor’s, Outside Governor’s... wherever we cast a line, we hooked fish. We didn’t land all of them, mind you, and some battles were fairly brief, but they were hookups, nonetheless.

As a former guide once told me, “a bad day on the Eagle is a good day on most other rivers.”

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