As expected, an application has been filed with the Maine Department of Environmental Protection to reconstruct a dam at Scribner's Mill, on the Crooked River between Harrison and Otisfield. I, and many other anglers and organizations, are against re-damming the river, which is a primary spawning river for the wild landlocked salmon of Sebago Lake. Scribner's Mill ceased to be a mill in the 1960s; the old milldam was partially removed in 1972 and a fishway was installed. Not even 150 years of frustration could alter the instincts of the salmon, many of which immediately raced upriver again to reach their habitual spawning beds.

We're especially vexed by the proposal because if built it would serve a frivolous purpose: to provide "historical authenticity" to a minor tourist attraction, the restored mill itself. Don't the landlocked salmon of Sebago have their own "historical authenticity," and doesn't that authenticity date back to the end of the last Ice Age, preceding the mill's history by a few millennia?

As we wrote in this space some months back, the proposal to rebuild the dam will certainly include a fish ladder or some other fish passage option, but any of the options would “intercept a significant proportion of the adult spawning salmon population,” according to Francis Brautigam of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. Brautigam, who finds the idea of rebuilding the dam “very disconcerting,” pointed out that “dam impacts can not be fully mitigated” by fish ladders or other passageways. Note the unqualified “can not.” No way. For this reason the MDIFW strenuously opposes the dam.

The Sebago salmon fishery, which has had its ups and downs through the past couple of centuries, is thriving again, thanks in large measure to the freer passage of spawning salmon up the Crooked. Now comes before us a proposal to do serious damage to that legendary, world-class fishery just so a reconstructed millwheel can be turned by water power to amuse a handful of tourists.

Scribner’s Mill and other water-powered sawmills may be quaint and well worth preserving as historical artifacts, but we don’t need to dam rivers to turn millwheels anymore. The Maine DEP official in charge of the application process is Dana Murch. Call him at (207) 287-7784 to obtain a copy of the Scribner's Mill application, and weigh in on the issue as an individual or a group during the public comment phase. Help stop this misbegotten proposal in its tracks.

An email from Dan Legere in Greenville tells me that the East Outlet will be open to catch-and-release flyfishing year-round starting in 2008, from the dam to the Beach Pool. As I look out the window today I don't foresee fishing the East Outlet in January, or February, or even March unless we get an unseasonable burst of warm weather. We got a foot of snow yesterday, on top of the few inches of the week before, and today the wind-chill index must be in the minuses. I could tie on the first fly in the comfort of my home, I suppose, but I think tying on the second fly, on the river, fingers icy and numb, would be a challenge. But I suppose there are those who will wade through the snowbanks to fish the river in winter. I doubt such an angler would have to compete for the good spots.

The East Outlet, from where the mighty Kennebec pours out of Moosehead down to Indian Pond, is a noble and often rewarding few miles of trout and salmon water. I have camped beside it many times and fished its pools, runs and riffles with varying degrees of success but always with a great deal of pleasure. The water is clear and cold, perfect for the brookies and landlocks that call it home. There's an abundance of insect life, and catching fish there is often a matter of matching the hatch, whether it's stones, caddis or Hendricksons. One day, in the river's first piece of fast water, between where the dam pool shoals out and the railroad bridge, I was getting skunked until I saw a flotilla of Hendricksons drifting by. I quickly tied one on and enjoyed a memorable hour of dryfly fishing. The river offers shallow riffles, turbulent pocket water, deep pools, and long glides, all of it fishy, and heavily forested banks unbroken by human habitation. Trout Boy and I floated the East Outlet with guide Chad Cray a couple of years ago on a crisp October day, and although in terms of fishing the river was, in the worlds of one guide, "in transition," the ride was spectacular.

During one trip some years ago I met an older gent who was camped in one of the choicest spots, the bluff above Beach Pool. He told me he was retired after a career in sales -- insurance, I seem to recall -- and ever since his wife passed away he spent his summers fishing. He came every year to the East Outlet, making camp and sleeping in the bed of his truck, and stayed for two weeks. When I came upon him he was cleaning his dinner, a 15-inch brook trout which he had caught in the run above the pool after working to him for an hour. "He kept rising in the same place," the man said, "showing me his dorsal fin. When you can see the dorsal fin you know he's taking emergers just under the surface." The man couldn't say how many times he cast to the fish, but persistence paid off. I think about that fellow when I revisit the East Outlet, and the lesson in patience he taught me, but I have not seen him in recent years.

One evening I went down to the wide flat water below Beach Pool. The main stem of the current hugs the south bank, and it's difficult to reach the prime fishing water without a drift boat unless the flow is low, which it was, allowing a half-dozen anglers to wade within casting range of the seam where the salmon liked to hang out. They were catching fish one after another. It was impossible for me to get a seat at that table, so I hung back and let my pheasant-tail drift slowly through the quiet water just behind the group. On the swing at the end of the drift the line went tight and a big salmon leaped out of the water. The anglers all turned to look as I fought and landed a bigger fish than I had seen any of them catch, and I felt pretty smug at having taken it right out of their back pockets.

My travels last summer caused me to miss three months of fishing (except for catching an asp in Baghdad) and I did not get to the East Outlet once. I can hardly wait to get back there -- but if you go in January, don't look for me.

Speaking of good books to give anglers for Christmas, I must mention Lou Ureneck’s Backcast: Fatherhood, Fly-fishing, and a River Journey Through the Heart of Alaska. Some Mainers may remember Lou from his years as editor of the Portland Press Herald. Although he left town for other challenges, and is now chairman of the journalism department at Boston University, he still remembers where the good fishing holes are in Maine and remembers what to do when he gets there.

And I’m not just saying this because Lou is my boss. Really.

Backcast is the true account of an Alaskan fishing trip he took with his teenage son to try to restore the father-son relationship after a difficult divorce. The son wasn’t too keen on the idea of the trip, or of restoring the relationship, which he apparently didn’t think was as badly damaged as Lou thought it was. The two of them were dropped off by a float plane in the Alaska wilderness and spent the next nine days in an inflatable raft floating down an icy river for which they didn’t even have a good map, encountering along the way menacing bears, countless salmon and char, and, of course, each other. It’s a tale very well told, and one that many fathers and sons who have bonded on fishing trips will relate to.

It was when we were fishing that I felt closest to the Old Man. [I’ve explained this before, I think: I never referred to Dad as “my old man.” “The Old Man” is an honorific bestowed on sea captains and military commanders. Dad was a sea captain.] We never had to talk about heavy stuff when we were fishing. We would just talk about the fishing, pleased to be sharing the same space, aiming for the same goal – how to be better anglers. Fishing was like booze – a social lubricant – though we always brought real booze for good measure. It wasn’t until many years after the Old Man’s death that I acquired the camp at Upper Dam. When I’m at camp, pouring a bourbon after a day on the water, I sometimes think how he would have really liked it there.