In Atlantic salmon fishing, consistent success requires an abundance of one of two things: money -- to be whisked away to Russia or Iceland or some other far-flung place where fish still outnumber fishermen; or time -- to camp out on a salmon river and fish all season long.

Anglers with neither at their disposal should expect encounters with the "fish of kings" to come along about as frequently as a Subway Series or a solar eclipse.

For those who regularly fish the gentle Margaree River on Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, time seems to be the common asset, with many local anglers "taking a pass" through their favorite salmon pool as part of their daily routines.

Bob Carpenter is one of them. A former West Coast commercial fisherman, he retired 20 years ago at age 38, thanks to some smart real estate investments. Since then, he fishes for salmon about 100 days a year.

Bob was there when I caught my one and only Atlantic salmon in the Margaree's famous Seal Pool a few years back. He tailed the fish for me, a bright nine-pound male, then shook my hand, making me feel as if I had just been admitted into a secret society.

When he called recently, explaining that recent rains had set the stage for what may be the Margaree's best run in a decade, I planned a trip for later in the month, thinking I had locked into a sure thing.

But a lot can happen on a salmon river over the course of a few weeks. For example, it can stop raining and get unseasonably hot -- two things that shut down runs as matter-of-factly as turning off a faucet. Atlantic salmon use rivers like watery highways to reach their spawning grounds; not enough flow keeps them idling in estuaries for weeks.

When I met Bob at the airport he wore the ever-optimistic smile of the hard-core salmon angler. "We could use a little rain," was all he said.

The next morning we sat on an old bench that overlooks the Seal Pool, waiting for 6:00 a.m., the legal time to begin fishing. Humid, still air held the faint promise of rain. Joining us was Patrick Mahoney, who recently moved from Halifax to a house that he had built on the river, so he could fish every day. He sat with us and spoke of a nice salmon he lost just a few days ago.

"It came up right there," Mahoney said, pointing to a gentle eddy swirling behind a submerged boulder. "Took my fly and broke off when I set the hook. Helluva nice fish."

Bob quickly pointed out that more fish are caught on the Seal Pool bench than anywhere on the Margaree.

At precisely 6:01 we began making long casts to the prime lies against the far bank. Though low water and warm weather had clearly put the fish out of a "taking" mood, Bob and Patrick fished with the boundless patience fueled by faith that drives all seasoned salmon fishermen.

Admittedly, I became impatient. After several passes through the pool, I decided to cross the river to a high bank that might allow at least a glimpse of a fish or two.

When I reached the other side, I cautiously approached a deep drop-off, peering into the river with polarized glasses. A window of smooth current billowed past, giving a sudden clear view of four ten-pound Atlantic salmon swimming so close to each other they could touch.

I called out to Bob and Patrick that fish held just off the bank from where I stood. Then I watched as they each took turns putting perfectly timed casts over the lie. But if salmon could ever look indifferent, bordering on apathetic, these four fish had it mastered.

After another hour of casting we broke down our rods and took a long break for lunch. When we returned to the river in the late afternoon, I headed directly for the high bank to see if the four salmon remained in the lie. But to my shock, half a dozen four-to-six-pound shad held there instead. Shad range throughout Nova Scotia, but remain largely ignored -- especially by salmon fishermen. The fish swam nervously, periodically chasing each other into the shallows, unleashing pent-up bursts of speed.

"Shad," I excitedly called out, pointing to the lie. "They'll hit a bright fly if you put it in front of them," recalling my home waters of the Delaware River where shad are revered.

Patrick and Bob stared at me with nearly the same expression as the salmon from earlier that morning. I might as well have proposed using a gillnet to catch carp.

Eventually, Bob headed home, while Patrick agreed to take me upriver to another pool where a few fish had been spotted the day before. We drove through the broad Margaree valley glimpsing salmon pools empty of anglers, and presumably fish. Nevertheless, by early evening we were casting again, this time through a series of faster runs that Patrick proclaimed as "good taking pools."

I worked the upper run, while Patrick chose the lower pool eventually wading around the bend until I could no longer see him. Though I covered the water thoroughly with a battery of both wet and dry flies, no fish rose.

Another salmon fisherman -- one of the few seen that hot day -- came from upriver and took a leisurely pass at the pool. He methodically fished a wet fly down and across the current, letting it swim for a few seconds at the end of each cast, before picking it up with a sweep of his rod, and sending it a few feet farther downstream.

Beyond him the sun had dipped below a forested hill, and a few wispy clouds turned from gold, to orange, to pink. Two veeries sang from opposite sides of the river, their rolling, metallic calls echoing from bank to bank above the water's gentle hiss.

When he reached the bottom of the run, he reeled in his line, and headed up the bank, stopping in front of me. "Lovely spot, isn't it?" he said in his faint Cape Breton brogue. He wore a weathered cap that covered silver hair, and his vest, waders and tackle all had the well-worn, comfortable look of a broken-in baseball glove.

"Fish are like icing on the cake here," he said. "It's nice to have them, but it's just as nice to be here." Clearly he would be fishing the next day unlike me who had to fly home.

He surveyed the river and nearby woods for a short time before saying good-bye. Then I watched him proceed up the bank and eventually out of sight, walking with the contented gait that all Margaree fishermen seem to have.