The
good news, of course, was that we had nothing else to do but go
fishing! We quickly made arrangements and headed to the tackle shop.
Our guide for the to the tackle shop. Our guide for the day was Donnie
and we were fishing the Home Pool in front of the resort. This is a
beautiful, long pool, easy to fish, and salmon were showing from top to
bottom. Anticipation was high.
The previous evening, Richard Stieb from Saskatchewan
had cheered us on at Harris Brook pool and thought he might give it a
try today. Well, he wasn’t long in hooking, landing and releasing his
first salmon. I don’t know who was hooked better, Richard or the fish.
A heavy overnight frost lowered the morning water temperature and encouraged us to increase fly sizes. It worked for Richard, but I was starting to wonder if I would hook one! The previous night I had hit five fish and never landed one. This
morning I started off by losing a couple and raising a couple more. I
was couple and raising a couple more. I was wondering what I was doing
wrong, and questioning fly patterns and size and anything else one
could think of on which to lay blame. Sue Roche, who works for DFO in Ottawa,
came over to lend a shoulder to cry on; I opened my fly box and said to
her, “pick one!” She looked, considered, and said: “That’s a pretty
one”.
I
took her selection and tied it on and, a couple of casts later, I was
fighting a fish—and landed it. Shortly after I hooked and landed
another. So what was the pattern? A Rusty Rat with slight
modifications, which I will call from now on “Sue’s Choice.”
After the successful morning, people began to arrive from Toronto
and we left the river to address the business at hand. I must say that
although the meeting facilities were excellent and the meetings went
well, my mind never completely left the beckoning river. That’s what it
means to mix business and pleasure.
The
following day was taken up by meetings as well, but the agenda was duly
completed and we were off for an evening of fishing. Our guide Donnie
was taking us back to Harris Brook pool, and once again we walked the
trail by the old covered bridge and I stopped to take some images of
it. Over the entrance was an images of it. Over the entrance was an old
sign that said, ”$20 Fine for Driving on This Bridge Faster Than a
Walk”. It was now part of a walking trail so I would guess that fine
was seldom levied.
I
wondered how many wadered feet might have walked this trail to the
river through the years. It had to be generations of fishermen, and if
you took modern equipment out of the mental image—bearing in mind that
the river changes
very little, and the pools are the same—it occurred to me that you
could easily imagine the turn of the 20th century and a discussion
about fly selection and presentation much the same then as now. We
geared up and waded in, hoping to do battle with some of the fish that
were showing with encouraging regularity in the pool.
Donnie recommended a Silver Down Easter, and when Richard wanted to change flies I tied one on for him—and
yes, he hooked and landed another salmon. It was becoming old hat to
him now, and he was top rod, having nailed a now, and he was top rod,
having nailed a fish every time he stepped into the pool. Even
though he was a complete novice, he met my definition of an expert
salmon fisherman—that is, the last person to have landed one.
As shadows lengthened and evening approached, geese flying downstream—seemingly just skimming the water—grazed
over my head; I think I could have touched one with my rod. This
magical moment was rudely interrupted by a hard take—I lifted my rod
and set the hook. The fish shook its head and bolted downstream, and I
was well into my backing when a large salmon cartwheeled into the air
and plummeted back with a splash that might have come from a huge
boulder. Damn it felt good!
There was a spirited battle before I eventually brought a beautiful large male hookbill to the net. Donnie released the fish, and I hooked my fly on the rod, signalling I was content to end this fabulous day right then.
The trip was over. I sat with friends old and new on the porch and we shared a toast or two and compared flies and stories
into the night. The smell of wood smoke, wet waders drying, and the
tinkle of ice swirled in a glass of good single malt—all I would need
is the smell of a wet dog to make it a perfect evening. I retired to
bed, deferring packing until morning as if trying to stretch the
experience another day.
I think sometimes a great trip is like a great meal you prepare yourself. The outfitter provides the ingredients: accommodations, meals, guides; water to fish, guides to assist you and fellow fishers—but it’s up to you to combine these
ingredients and come up with the great trip. Ponds Resort had provided
all the ingredients on this occasion: the log cabin on the riverbank
with woodsmoke rising in the pines, or a room in the Old Lodge; meals
in the Fiddlehead restaurant, drinks at the Anglers Pub. Put it all
together, the ingredients that please you, and enjoy.
Like a great meal, a great trip also ends too soon. It had been a sheer delight to watch complete novices catching fish in a beautiful place. Does it get better? I’ll be back on the Miramichi for ice-out and the spring salmon fishery. Maybe I’ll check out that wilderness cabin in the watercolour.