Written by: Philip Monahan
Photography: Charles Hildick-Smith
Libby Camps is woven into the fabric of the region’s storied sporting history.
We were about four hours into an all-day hike, fishing our way upstream on a gorgeous brook-trout and landlocked-salmon river in a remote corner of Maine’s Baxter State Park, when guide Jeff LaBree stopped next to a seemingly uninteresting stretch of water and motioned for me to start casting. I looked at the shallow, rocky bend and then back at Jeff. Before we’d left the lodge that morning, he had stressed that the key to our day would be time management: there’s so much good water that you have to force yourself to keep moving or you’ll never make it in time to meet the float plane home. So why the hell were we wasting time here?
Noting my skepticism, Jeff took the cigar from his mouth and said, “Humor an old man, would ya?”
If I’d learned one thing during my years as a fly-fishing guide in Alaska and Montana, it was Always trust your guide, so I hopped down from the bank and started stripping line off the reel. At water level, I could suddenly see what hadn’t been apparent from above—a wide, deeper bucket on the inside of the bend that would offer fish respite from the current and a steady supply of food. On my first cast with a smelt imitation, I felt a thump midway through the swing, and a nice brook trout rolled on the surface. After a short fight, Jeff netted the muscular, foot-long fish and quickly released it. “Go again.” The next three casts produced two more wild, native brook trout about the same size.
As we waded back to the bank, I said, “Good call.” Without missing a beat, Jeff replied, “No sh*t.”
Into the Woods
Northern Maine has a long history as a destination for adventure-seeking anglers and hunters, beginning in the late 1800s. But in the early days, simply getting to the region was a trial: travelers could take the train only as far as Bangor, where they would board a stagecoach for the 130-mile trip to Masardis. From there, it was another bumpy 10 miles in a buckboard to the village of Oxbow, where, in the late 1880s, C.C. Libby and his wife, Melissa, established a surprisingly well-appointed hotel offering the last comforts of home before one headed into the wilderness.
The arrival of the Bangor and Aroostook Railroad in 1895 turned the trickle of visitors into a flood, all of them eager to partake in the riches of the region’s waters and wildlife. Historian Paul Schullery has highlighted the role of the railroad in the expansion of American fly fishing, as new rail lines allowed city dwellers and suburbanites access to wilderness farther and farther afield:
By the 1850s, trains were hauling eastern anglers to the edges of favored fishing grounds on Cape Cod and Long Island, and even getting them close to the Catskills, the Poconos, and the Adirondacks of northern New York. But it was the accelerating railroad boom after the Civil War that took fishermen to so many regions that had been out of reach or even unheard of. (“Riding the Rails,” in American Angler)
C.C. Libby and his sons were more than happy to accommodate these travelers in search of a true wilderness experience, and over the next few decades, the Libbys built an empire of more than 50 sporting camps across three counties. (In Maine, a simple cabin, often overlooking water, is known as a “camp.”)
The crown jewel of their operation was a collection of 16 peeled-spruce log cabins on a picturesque island in Millinocket Lake, a two-day canoe trip up the Aroostook River from Oxbow. Like the hotel in town, these camps provided a level of comfort and service unmatched in the area, amid a landscape of astonishing natural beauty. In the mid 20th century, some of the cabins were moved to the mainland, along the lake’s northeastern shore, where Libby Camps is run today by Matt J. Libby, representing the fifth generation of his family to serve anglers and hunters in the region. (The J. distinguishes him from his dad, Matt P. Libby, who owned the lodge before him.) While fully modernized, the camps maintain the charm of a time gone by, with propane lamps, no television, and wifi in the main lodge only. The feeling of disconnection from the stress of the modern world is liberating.
The location is ideal, sitting right at the gateway to the 3.5 million-acre North Maine Woods (NMW), a vast region of commercial forest land that’s also managed as a sportsman’s paradise. A few miles to the south, the massive Baxter State Park offers even more options for remote fly-fishing experiences. The NMW is criss-crossed by a system of rough, gravel logging roads, which allow access to a wide array of rivers, lakes, and ponds that hold wild, native brook trout, landlocked salmon, and the last populations of arctic char in the Lower 48. Early and late in the season, you can drive for hours without passing a soul, and when you arrive at your fishing spot, there’s a good chance you’ll have the place to yourself. Although it’s hard to call the NMW true wilderness–most of the timber has been cut two or three times over the last century and a half–you can sense the remoteness in the quality of the air, the lack of the sounds of civilization, and the stunning views.
Breathing In
My first trip to Libby Camps was in September 2019, for a cast-and-blast combo in which we fished the last three days of the fishing season and chased grouse for the first two days of wingshooting season. It was a glorious time to be in the Maine woods, as the foliage was nearing peak and the weather was that wonderful combination of crisp, cold mornings and sunny, warm afternoons. Having experienced the tail end of the fishing season, I was curious about the springtime opportunities, and LaBree assured me that the fishing could be even better in May and June.
So on May 21, I made the nearly 10-hour drive from southwestern Vermont to Libby Camps, along with my young photographer friend, Charles Hildick-Smith. It’s only about 330 miles as the crow flies, but as we say in New England, You can’t get thayah from heeyah. It’s an easy trip to Oxbow, where there is a gate at the entrance to the NMW, but the final 18 miles on gravel roads takes nearly an hour, as you have to maneuver around large rocks, deep ruts, and the occasional muddy bog. As soon as we stepped out of the vehicle at Millinocket Lake, however, any road-weariness was immediately washed away by the fresh breeze off the lake and the anticipation of the days on the water ahead.
We were greeted by Darren, who brought a wagon to haul our gear to “Glover,” one of the original 1890 camps that had been moved to the mainland. The cabin has a stunning view of the lake, as well as of Matt J.’s Cessna 185 floatplane, which would be our ticket to remote waters. One of my favorite things about angling travel is getting all my tackle and flies prepared for the next day, which really builds anticipation and excitement. I always spread my open fly boxes out on the table, so I can assure myself that I haven’t left any secret weapons at home and make a mental catalog of my options. My hope was that we’d encounter some mayfly and caddisfly hatches that would bring fish to the surface, but I was also ready to go deeper with a variety of traditional Maine streamer patterns.
Charlie and I hoofed it up to the main lodge before dinner to see if there were any guides around, and sure enough, there was my old friend, Jeff LaBree, parked in a comfortable chair in front of the fireplace. LaBree is a bear of a man, with an open, ruddy face framed by a white beard, and he is at home in the wilderness. A native Mainer, he speaks with an r-dropping mid-coast accent of open vowels, and he loves some good on-the-water banter. But don’t let the happy-go-lucky attitude fool you; he’s a killer angler who has been guiding in the North Woods for more than twenty years. He may be smiling when he tells you to fish a certain way or hit a spot with your cast, but he’s not joking. Based on a hot tip from another guide, who had experienced a killer caddisfly hatch on a remote pond, Jeff suggested we start there the next morning.
Swings and Misses
After breakfast, we loaded our gear into Jeff’s truck, dubbed The Battle Wagon, for a short drive over logging roads. Our convoy also included guide Nate Wight, a.k.a. The New Guy, as well as fellow lodge guest Jerry Birchmore and his guide, Pete Koch. We parked at a nondescript spot and hiked a couple hundred yards to the pond, where the lodge has several canoes stashed. It was a gorgeous piece of water, ringed by conifers and featuring a shallow flat at the far end. We saw a rise or two as we geared up, but figured the anticipated hatch would occur later.
Narrator: it didn’t.
Over the next few hours, Nate paddled me all around the pond–in a canoe made just a couple hours south in Old Town–as we cast dry flies, nymphs, and streamers. Sporadic rises kept our hopes up that the rumored hatch was about to pop off, but the clouds of caddisflies never materialized. It was the classic “You should have been here yesterday” scenario familiar to all anglers. Luckily, a few fish were willing to eat streamers, so we got our first look at the wild, native brook trout that make this region famous. Born and raised in New England, I’ve always been a brookie man, and the gorgeous red-and-blue spots and white fin edges of these trout trigger something deep in my subconscious.
The first wild trout I ever saw was a three-inch brook trout that leaped out of the water after my Mepps Black Fury spinner on New Hampshire’s Saco River in the mid 1970s. I was about nine years old, and the vision of that bright, colorful apparition left me mesmerized, wondering if what I’d just experienced was real. Though at the time I didn’t really understand why, I knew that I’d glimpsed something special, and when I try to trace my lifelong love of trout and the rivers they inhabit, I always end up back at that magical, brief encounter. And though I’ve been lucky enough to catch big rainbows in Alaska, brown trout in New Zealand, and cutthroats in Yellowstone National Park, brook trout will always be my favorite.
After lunch back at the lodge, we loaded into two boats on the beach right in front of our cabin for a short ride to the end of the bay, where a rickety, old wooden dam is the start of a short stretch of gorgeous river. We hiked downstream a couple hundred yards to where a side channel came back to the main stem, creating a complex combination of currents, eddies, and seams. Jeff explained that for decades the spot had been known as Elsie’s Hole, named for Matt J.’s grandmother, who would often catch enough trout there to feed the entire lodge.
Although there was no need for a long cast, the presentation was difficult, so Jeff talked me through it. I had started with a Golden Retriever–a Woolly Bugger variant created in Virginia for smallmouth that has become a Maine staple–and immediately landed a small brookie. Jeff suggested that we add a smelt imitation as a second fly in a tandem streamer rig. I cast upstream into the side channel, high-sticked the flies around a deep eddy, stripped twice, and felt a powerful strike. After a short battle, Jeff netted a stunning brook trout, with broad shoulders and glorious spots on its sides. Although hardly a trophy fish, it dwarfed the wild mountain brookies I’m used to catching back home in Vermont.
Time Management
The next morning dawned clear and calm, perfect flying weather. I’ve loved float planes since my time in Alaska, and I was excited to get an aerial view of the vast woods and mountains around the camps. Once you’re in the air, you get a true sense of the expansive forest that spreads in every direction. To the south, Mount Katahdin rises high above the smaller peaks around it, and the landscape is veined by numerous streams and dotted with ponds of all sizes. Although there are no towns or settlements, the legacy of logging is apparent, in the way stands of forest are clearly of different sizes and ages.
Matt J. made a silky landing on a long, glassy lake, the headwaters of a stunning freestone stream that drained northward. Our flight had taken us from the MNW into Baxter State Park, another 210,000 acres of remote wilderness, which was set aside for recreation in 1931. After unloading all the gear and watching Matt J. take off, we began a single-file, mile-long march along a rugged trail that paralleled the river. The plan was to fish our way back to the lake, ideally just in time for pickup.
We finally stopped on a long gravel bar, and I set myself up to swing a smelt imitation through a deep run along the far bank. On my very first cast, a trout took a big swing at the fly but didn’t eat it, a phenomenon that would happen throughout the day. But a few casts later, the brookie smashed the fly with reckless abandon and then ran hard across the river, where Nate netted it. It was an auspicious start to a spectacular day.
For the next seven hours, our two fishing groups leap-frogged each other upriver, catching trout in almost every spot we stopped. Whereas I’m used to catching most fish as a streamer swings across the current, these trout were prone to hit as the fly came straight upstream, often requiring some creative mending to achieve just the right angle. The fish were large by my Vermont-mountain-stream standards–mostly 10 to 14 inches–but we didn’t hook any of the brutes that make this region famous. We did move a few much bigger trout, but like that first trout of the day they wouldn’t commit to the fly, perhaps because they felt unsafe in the bright, sunny conditions.
If we got too focused on a specific pool or run, Jeff would proclaim, “Time management!” and force us to resume our inexorable upstream march. By the time we reached the lake, we were heavy-legged but in high spirits. I had brought at least two dozen brook trout to hand, each as pristine and gorgeous as the last, the vast majority taken on Jeff’s top-secret smelt imitation. I almost fell asleep on the short flight back to the lodge.
Looking for Landlocks
For our final day at the lodge, we went in search of larger landlocked salmon, which required a longer fly-out to a river considerably farther to the west. While the rest of us enjoyed a leisurely breakfast, Jeff and Pete jumped in the Battle Wagon at the crack of dawn to make the three-hour drive on logging roads to meet the plane. After an eye-popping flight, Matt J. put the 185 down on yet another beautiful remote lake, and we taxied to a cove beside a dam, where the guides were waiting. Pete and Jerry stayed to fish the top pools, while Jeff, Charlie, and I headed downstream. We crossed the river once before ending up at large pool below a multi-tiered waterfall. Multiple currents came together and swirled around boulders and trees in the river, which made for some complicated presentations, but the fish were willing to strike my streamer when I’d made the proper casts and mends. I landed four or five landlocks in the 12- to 14-inch range and had about the same number of missed strikes.
We worked our way upstream, catching salmon from virtually every place we stopped, often hooking and landing quite a few more. As they had been the previous day, the fish seemed commitment-shy, often slashing at but not taking the fly. At one point, we watched a huge brook trout–the biggest fish of any kind that we had seen so far–charge out from behind a rock to chase my fly, but it just wouldn’t eat. When we finally made it up to the top of the stream, I swung streamers through the pools just below the dam, ending the session with another three or four salmon and trout.
We met Pete and Jerry under a lakeside shelter and began to stow our gear in the truck, since the plane was due any minute. But the thought of our trip ending without a truly big fish stuck in my craw, so I hatched a cunning plan that I proposed to Jeff. Although Charlie and I were scheduled to make the return flight with Jerry, we gave our seat to Pete. Then Charlie and I hopped into the Battle Wagon, so we could stop at one more spot before returning to the lodge. We were trading a scenic, 25-minute flight for almost four hours of driving and hiking, but the chance of catching more fish and experiencing a new piece of water made it seem like a great deal.
To ride with Jeff as he maneuvered through the potholes, mud puddles, and rocks that posed constant danger was to watch a master at work. The drive was an education and adventure in itself. Huge stacks of logs ready to be hauled out lined the roads, and at one point, a young moose trotted out in front of us before spooking and disappearing into the brush. We pulled down a spur road, parked, and descended a steep trail to the water.
A huge pool below a dam featured multiple seams created by five spillways and a central maelstrom covered in foam. Right at the base of the trail, I landed a nice brook trout, and then we crossed to the other side. Jeff had me drop my tandem-streamer rig into the eddy between spillways, and I felt an almost immediate strike. The sensation of strong headshakes let me know that this was a big fish, which was confirmed when a very large brook trout swam out from beneath the roiling current. I fought the fish right to alongside the bank, whereupon the hook pulled out and we watched the trophy swim away.
I spent the next half hour launching long backcasts into the confused currents in the center of the pool, landing three more trout, but nothing to match the size of the one that got away. Finally, Jeff had to drag me out of the water so we could get back to the lodge before dark. It had been a long, remarkable day, a fitting end to our Libby’s adventure.
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IF YOU GO
Travel: Getting to Libby Camps is not difficult, although the final 18 miles on gravel roads. You can drive the whole way, or you can fly into Portland (a five-hour drive), Bangor (3 hours), or Presque Isle (under 2 hours) and rent a car. If you want to avoid the rough part of the drive, you can charter a flight from Bangor right to the camps.
Seasons: Fishing season runs from late May through September 30. Each month offers different conditions, with the best hatch activity from June into July. The river action slows down a little during the dog days of August, but fishing on ponds at this time can be spectacular. As the weather cools in September, the river fishing can be lights-out.
Gear: Because you may be fishing a variety of waters, it makes sense to bring rods from 4- to 7-weight. (I brought 4,5,6.) A floating line will serve almost all your river-fishing needs, but you’ll need a sinking line for some of the deeper ponds.
Flies: The season dictates fly selection, so talk to the lodge about the best choices for your trip’s time frame. The lodge has a well-stocked fly shop on the premises. For subsurface action, take a selection of popular streamer patterns—Woolly Buggers, Golden Retrievers, Gray Ghosts, and so on—in a variety of sizes. Mayfly and caddisfly imitations are your best bets for dry flies and nymphs. The guides at the lodge have several “top secret” patterns that they are happy to share with guests, although you will be sworn to secrecy.
Contact: www.libbycamps.com; (207) 435-8274. Each year, there are two Orvis Week trips. Click here for more information and dates.
This story previously appeared in Gray’s Sporting Journal.