The declines in the runs have made some wistful for years past. But Gaines and Child shun the nostalgia. “Every week up here, and every day on the river, grants you a new chance,” Child said.

That optimism is a necessary trait for Atlantic salmon anglers. Its adherents are practiced in the art of rejection. The enigmatic species has been called “the fish of 1,000 casts” for good reason. (Atlantic salmon do not feed when they enter freshwater; many believe they strike flies out of some instinct developed as a juvenile in rivers.) Some anglers endure long stretches without catching a fish — I’d gone a full two weeks on the Margaree over the summer without even a strike.

It’s certainly not a sport for everyone, especially those with a steady iPhone habit. For others, though, the patient, repetitive process — and the ability to simultaneously daydream and pay close attention to your fly — is the entire point. Yvon Chouinard, the founder of Patagonia and an avid Atlantic salmon fisherman, has likened salmon fishing to being stoned.

I’m firmly in Chouinard’s camp: The process is more important than the result. Still, on the last evening of my October trip, I was going on three weeks without a fish. What I wanted more than anything was to feel the pull of an Atlantic salmon — a jolt, always unexpected, like shaking hands with an overeager Texan.

I walked down to the lower river, tied on one of Breckenridge’s red-and-yellow marabou flies and began to cast. On my third swing, my fly suddenly stopped. The water frothed as the salmon leapt twice, completely clearing the surface of the river. Eventually, I tailed her and held her steady in the current, up to my elbows in the water. Her back was lightly bronzed, her flanks silvery. It was getting dark quickly and the air had chilled. My ritual of the fall was at its end. The salmon, with a flick of her strong tail, shot upstream, continuing on with hers.