The counter's vocabulary has subtly changed in the last year or two. As always, he'll stop by our camper to ask how many fish we've caught and released. But Maine's landlocked salmon comprise a plentiful, indigenous population that has not been stocked for more than twenty years. They are robust fish that annually run upriver, leaping over a series of falls and navigating through frothing rapids against thousands of pounds of pressure. Sometimes we'll see a salmon burst from the river's surface and arc high in an acrobatic flash of silver light, apparently for the pure joy of it.
Indigenous fish are far smarter than stocked fish.
The landlocks that make it to legal size on the Penobscot are Darwinian survivors, wily about artificial flies. Catching one is an accomplishment. When I caught my first legal landlock two years ago, it was as thrilling as any graduation. The day before I landed my keeper salmon, I lost a two-pounder I'd had on the line for the better part of an hour. I'd neglected to bring a net.