More Medway History

It will soon be February. Years ago, it marked the opening of Atlantic Salmon season on the Medway River. Dennis McKinnon told it like this:

"The old people used to start fishin' in February," he began. "They'd take a saw out on the ice above McLeod's Falls, and they'd cut down both sides. Then, they'd go to work, saw across the top, and let this sheet of ice go down over the falls," he continued. "They'd stand out there on the ice, castin' them great big Hardy flies - #6-0 Silver McAllisters - with them three-piece greenheart poles. They'd catch 'em, too. Great big salmon! But they didn't want nothin' to do with a grilse. In June," he said, "when the grilse came in the river, they'd hang up their rods. They were all done fishin'!"

The picture shows Luke McGinty, as a boy, with his grandfather, John Jones, and a large salmon caught on the Medway River, circa 1933. For many years, a pulp mill was in operation at Charleston, and the river was dammed just below Salter's Brook. This trapped salmon in the lower part of the river and they would congregate in the deep water above MacLeod's Falls. Here the river is 12-14 feet deep even in mid-August. Periodically, what came to be known as the "Baker Gate" was opened to allow passage of water and fish around the dam.

Judging by the expression on young Luke's face, he'd seen plenty of salmon that size before. We really have almost no idea today how big, or how numerous the Medway salmon once were.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

- Random Phrump

Medway Heyday / Mersey Misstep

One of the many large salmon that were caught on the Medway River was captured on film, and the photo was published in the Liverpool Advance in the mid-1970's. The angler, Oscar Anthony Sr., said that this fish, at 34 lbs., was the second largest he had caught. Twenty years previously, he had landed his 'fish of a lifetime'.

Dennis McKinnon gave me this photo, and added a few details to the story. He said that Oscar told him he would never have landed the fish except that a kid on a bicycle was passing by. When Oscar hollered for help, the boy dropped his bike and ran down to the river. Oscar was disappointed to see such a young lad - according to Dennis, he was about 10 and not much bigger around than a toothpick. Oscar didn't have much choice - he gave the boy his gaff and instructed him to stand at the riverbank and brace his feet well. "When I lead him ashore, you strike smartly with the gaff, and don't let go!" Together, they managed it, the boy and the angler. It put me in mind of something that happened when I was a boy...

It was five minutes to six on a foggy morning in June when I skidded my bike to a stop on the Mersey River bridge. A fisherman was standing near the concrete abutment on a treacherous-looking pile of boulders, getting ready to cast. I couldn't help noticing his gear - the first bait-casting reel I'd ever seen - as he effortlessly flipped a red-and-white surface lure halfway across the river.

I didn't stay long - a couple of casts - I had to pick up my newspapers at the pool hall, behind Wharton's Barber Shop, and deliver them to my customers in Liverpool. About an hour later, crossing the bridge on my way home, I wondered if the fisherman was still there. He was, and he was wrestling with the mightiest fish I had ever seen - a huge Striped Bass!

He looked up, then beckoned me to come. I sped to the end of the bridge, wheeled into Lane's Motel parking lot, dropped my bike, and sprinted for the river. When I got there, the man had the fish near shore. Holding out his car keys, he said,

"Kid, take these and open the trunk of my car - it's the one with New York plates.Get my landing net, and hurry!"

I had to clamber down over the rock pile to reach him, but before I did, he drew back his hand and put the keys in his pocket.

"On second thought, I think I can get him if you'll just hold the rod." He passed me the rod. "Just hold on tight - don't let go!" he said as he took the line in his hand and stepped towards the fish.

The tide was falling, and the boulders at the waters edge were slippery and covered in rockweed and periwinkles. The man reached for his trophy, lost his footing and jerked the bait out of the fish's lip. I watched in stunned silence as the great fish wriggled out of the man's grasp and returned to the deeps.

To this day, I can't help thinking that the outcome would have been different if he had let me get the net. But, what do I know about it? The man was from New York - he was surely thinking... what if the kid steals my camera? or even worse, my car? How could he explain to his wife, who was probably still asleep in the motel room, that he gave his keys to a complete stranger?

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

- Random Phrump

Presentation, Presentation, Presentation...

The advantage of having kept a log is the perspective you can achieve by looking back over seemingly random events. One thing led more quickly to angling success with trout than any other: a 5-weight rod.

I'm guessing that most readers will interpret FFLog, the subtitle of RANDOM CASTS, as Fly Fishing Log. Many years ago, I created a habit. I disciplined myself to keep a fishing log, mainly because of my unreliable memory. I have friends who have a good memory - my brother, Dave, has a phenomenal memory, but when they ask me if I remember a person or event from our shared past, too often they are greeted with a blank stare - I just don't remember. Ergo, the FFlog!

One thing I do remember is singing in a community choir with a man named Wayne Crouse. We struck up a friendship through our shared interests in music and flyfishing. Wayne built custom flyrods, and my hobby was woodcarving and building 'crooked knives'. We also struck a deal - my project during the winter was going to be a mounted fish for Wayne's cottage wall, and his project was to be an 8 foot # 5 weight rod, crafted from Sage RPL Graphite blanks.

It was a long wait for fishing season to arrive, but when it did, Wayne had delivered my new fly rod. I went from a 'best ever' record of 50 trout a year, to catching and releasing 150 that season. My success steadily improved to 300 a year - and I was not a fishing pro - I worked a 5-day week like you.

What does that say about catching trout? It tells me there are 3 keys to success:

• Presentation
• Presentation
• Presentation
  

I had always used my #9-wt. salmon rod for trout fishing. It's all I knew - that, and the fact that I rarely caught a trout over 10 or 11 inches. The new #5-weight rod and matching, lighter-weight line allowed me, with only average casting skills, to present flies without spooking fish. This contributed to catching more trout, and also, bigger trout. I'm not saying you need a custom rod - today's production graphite rods are great, compared with the old bamboo and fiberglass rods I started with - but, if you haven't already done it, consider getting yourself a decent #5wt. If I were buying one, I'd get a 9 foot rod for better line control. Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
- Random Phrump

Rumsey Lake Minnow

Rumsey Lake, spring-fed and shaped like a figure-eight, is nestled on the top of North Mountain in Nova Scotia's Annapolis Valley. It is stocked with 12 to 13-inch yearling Rainbows annually and receives a fair bit of angling pressure during late spring and early summer. What makes this such a challenging spot is the unusual water clarity. I had fished it about 6 times, since my first visit in '95, but only in the months of August or September.

In October, 1997, following a long drought, rivers were low and my annual pilgrimage to Nova Scotia's North Shore rivers for Atlantic Salmon kept getting postponed until conditions improved. Every weekday at work, I prayed for rain that never came, dreamed of the 20+ lb. salmon that would fill the rivers, and each weekend I blunted my disappointment by spending one day on Rumsey Lake. Nor could I find a friend to go with me - despite repeated invitations, my fishing partners were either too busy or not interested.

The first Saturday I caught one 13" trout; the next weekend - none, although I hooked and lost two larger fish. The following weekend, however, things got interesting... I left home at 4:30 am in pitch darkness and arrived at the lake about 6:30 am just as the sun was streaking the horizon. It was cold, bright and calm. The colorful foliage of the hillsides was reflected in the perfect mirror of the lake.

I was using "Jackwhacker", a custom-built Sage (8ft-5wt) rod, in a 14-foot square-back canoe. I trolled a Muddler for a while and saw signs of fish - rises, finning, subtle vees on the surface, but always out-of-reach. Had one strike, but no hook-up. I tried slow-drifting with a weighted Chironomid with no success.

In the early afternoon, cloud drifted in on a NE wind and I moved to the SW end of the lake. My experience had told me that these Rainbows were cruisers, constantly on the look-out for dragonfly nymphs, surface flies and small minnows. The lake has two species of topminnows - the two or three-inch Banded Killifish, and the smaller one-inch Stickleback. I wanted a fly to represent the Stickleback and as I scanned the flybox, my eyes fell upon an unfamiliar pattern.

I remembered, suddenly, that it was actually a remnant of a fly that had been given to me years ago by a German fisherman I once met on the Medway River. We had exchanged Salmon and Trout patterns and this was all that was left of one of his favorite trout flies after being chewed by several enthusiastic Brook trout. The details of the original fly remain dim, but it once had a pair of yellowish duck flank feathers tied in as cheeks on each side at the head embracing a chenille body. After the side feathers had been chewed off, I had tossed it in the box, intending to retie it someday.

I tied it on my 2 lb tippet wondering if it would be about the right size, shape and color, and in a few casts, I had a 15-inch reply in the net. A few minutes later, I felt a heavy strike that almost stalled the 2HP Evinrude. I quickly shut it off and dropped anchor against the brisk wind, then noticed I was perilously close to a bed of lily pads. As I hauled anchor with one hand, the fish headed straight for the canoe. I had to snug the rope quickly in the cleat, then reel furiously to keep the line tight. The fish passed directly under the canoe and I followed with the rod from left-to-right across the bow. Horrors! The rod wouldn't come across the bow - it was hung up on something.

The reel was singing, the fish streaking for the middle of the lake, and the rod bent nearly double before I realized what was up. My anchor drops from a pulley in a hardwood board that extends beyond the bow of the canoe. I hadn't got the anchor all the way up and my rod tip was now trapped between the bow and the taut anchor rope. I started to sweat. The rod was about to break. God, no! Not "Jackwhacker", my favorite rod that had earned its name on Labrador's Pinware River (another story).

Putting the rod between my knees, I hauled anchor with both hands, secured the rope in the cleat, then freed the rod in time to see the last of the flyline pass through the guides. I started the motor and followed the fish, reeling in backing as we headed for the center of the lake. When the canoe was safely away from the weeds, I killed the motor, anchored and rose to do battle.

The 2 lb tippet was holding under the strain and soon I got a glimpse of the fish - BIG! a beautifully-colored male - hookbill, gold belly and scarlet flanks. When he was a rod-length away, I slipped the net in the water and drew him near, but he took off like a wet cat from a bathtub - no way would he come near that net! Two minutes more ticked by and I knew I would have to net him or lose him - too much could go wrong. There were several anxious moments when he was just out of reach, but oh, so close. Every time I put the net in the water, he would find some reserve of strength and turn away.

Finally, I got his head up, towed him over the net, lifted, and the battle was won! Four lbs, 22 inches qualified this Rainbow as my favorite fish of '97.

RUMSEY LAKE MINNOW

Hook: Mustad 79580 size 8 (or similar 3x streamer hook)

Tail: 2 light Badger Hackle tips extending 2/3 length of shank past the bend

Rib: Oval silver tinsel

Body: Light grey chenille

Tying Instructions:

• Tie in tail over barb.

• Tie in rib material and chenille.

• Take thread to head.

• Wrap chenille forward and secure with thread.

• Follow with tinsel rib and tie off.

• Whip finish and cement.

Fishing Tips:

The fly is very quick to tie and durable to boot. Although the pattern was discovered by accident, it has become one of my favorite trout flies. I've used it for ten years with success in lakes, brooks, meadow stillwaters and big rivers. A good technique is to use an Intermediate (I) Uniform Sink line and retrieve with slow short strips. Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

- Random Phrump

The Bear Facts - Somethin's 'Bruin' at Chute Pool Lodge!

As the sun slipped behind the columns of stunted fir and spruce trees flanking Labrador's Pinware River, we finished our meal and relaxed in the spacious living room of Chute Pool Lodge. My father, Harold, gathered scattered items of angling paraphernalia for our morning departure; my brother, Steve, browsed through a book on Atlantic Salmon fly patterns, while I jotted notes in my journal. A mug of steaming tea, laced, in traditional Newfoundland style, with sugar and canned milk, helped to focus my thoughts as I sprawled on the comfortable sofa and recalled the day's events...

Treetops were waving wildly in a blustery wind at dawn as I stretched, then felt around in my duffel bag for a pair of clean socks and shorts. Some fishermen are superstitious about their hats - I'm that way about clothes in general, but especially socks and underwear. For fishing, I like a pair of grey 100% cotton work socks. In cold weather, I choose a colorful pair of flannel boxer shorts; on warm days, a pair of cotton briefs. Nine days into a fishing trip, I have a problem - I can't decide which socks and underwear might be lucky enough to charm a salmon to the fly. I mean, if ladies can have 'lucky bras', it's not such a stretch for an angler to have a secret arsenal of wearable talismans. The trouble is... all my lucky ones are in the laundry bag. I'm down to the ones I never wear, the ones I hate: the socks with a blend of polyester, the briefs just a bit too snug. At this point, the choice becomes painfully clear - either wear the clean ones I can't stand, or confront the prospect of sniffing through the laundry for a pair to resurrect.

It's not that I think the fish can tell what you're wearing - it has more to do with confidence and concentration. As the fly swings through the water, you must follow it with your eyes, noting any swirl or wake that might betray a salmon's arousal. You must have confidence that each cast might bring that blood-stirring tension to the line, or you will not be able to sustain your concentration. Like ambulance attendants and firefighters, you must endure hours of tedium, yet be able to respond capably during moments of white-knuckled intensity. A simple thing like socks that itch, or shorts that strangle can eat up a lot of concentration. It's important to know, as you dress for a day astream, that your socks will keep you warm and won't shimmy down around your ankles every few steps. And it doesn't hurt to remember, while you step into your shorts, that you were wearing the very same pair the day you released an eighteen-pound salmon on the Margaree. Strange as it sounds, my recipe for a successful outing starts with underwear and socks.

The grey clouds dropped their cargo just as Ruby, the lodge cook, called us to the table. Driven rain spattered against the glass panes, the staccato rhythms making weird music against the howling wind. Usually, we dogged our breakfasts down and hit the trail, but on this, our last day, we lingered over eggs, sausage, toast and tea. I recalled that we needed a second cup to stiffen our resolves on that soggy morning. A weathered deck of playing cards hit the table and the three of us became absorbed in a cutthroat round of Hearts while the guides smoked and yarned in a room off the kitchen.

The downpour had dwindled to a steady drizzle as we geared up to leave. Harold decided to go with his guide back to the Tidal Pool where he had struck it big on our first day, landing a grilse and an Arctic Char. But Steve and I and our guide, Dougie Lee, headed for the Chute Pool. The rain petered out as we reached the river and we found ourselves the only fishermen at the celebrated pool. Perched on the slippery rocks below the falls, we watched and counted forty-one salmon and grilse leap at the foaming fury in barely five minutes. Steve rose a large salmon two hundred feet below the cataract, where the water was tamer, and I saw several fish roll, but could not tempt them.

At noon, we climbed the rocky bank to have our lunch. Dougie had brought a knapsack laden with a Thermos of steaming tea, thick slabs of ham and cheese on homemade bread, and Ruby's peanut butter cookies. As we gathered eagerly around the guide, he sheepishly admitted that we'd been robbed. He had left the knapsack on a rock and a hungry squirrel had found it, torn up the sandwiches, and made off with the cookies! I wondered how many lunches that daring thief had plundered, but I had to give him credit for being resourceful. Poor Dougie was in for an awful ribbing, though, when the other guides got wind of it.

After devouring what remained of our lunch, we said goodbye to The Chute Pool and made our way downstream to the Western Chute. Here, Steve and I had caught our limits just two days before, and we harbored dreams of doing it again. But it was not to be. Early in the afternoon, dragging a bug across the pool, I got a rise; then spent two unproductive hours crouched on a ledge, casting over a grilse that I could see from the high rocks below the falls. When Dougie whistled that it was time to head back, I stood up, defiantly, and popped one last cast right on top of the fish. I couldn't believe my eyes when the grilse surged to the surface. Keeping his nose within inches of the fly, he followed it through its swing, a full six feet or more, then turned back to his lie. That event sparked a half hour of "Just one more cast, Dougie." But at last, we had to leave.

Trudging up the steep wooded slopes behind our guide, his empty net an emblem of our day's exploits, we were silent, each remembering the rugged beauty of the river and the splendor of her salmon. This was a trip not to be forgotten. I marveled at the guides who worked only a few short weeks for the lodge owner, but managed, somehow, to survive the long winter - they too, like the squirrel, were resourceful. I wondered at their strange tongue and what it could wreak on the English language. Before I was conscious of it, I was translating the 23rd Psalm into their homely dialect:

"Da Lard's me shepherd, b'y,

I knows I shall not want,

'E takes me upalong da still waters..."

Suddenly my writing was interrupted as the door burst open and Harold made an entrance into the lodge's big living room like Cosmo Kramer on the Seinfeld show. He had a peculiar excitement in his eyes and his thinning hair fairly stood on end as he blurted out, "You'll never guess what I just saw!"

Steve, always the rogue, inquired contemptuously, "What, ... a big spider?"

"A snake?" I guessed.

"No," Harold replied.

"A bear?" Steve ventured.

"Yes, a Black Bear, just outside the lodge! I opened the door, and there he was - right in my face!

"What did you do?" Steve asked.

"I just yelled." Harold answered. "I think he was more surprised than I was. At least, he wasn't long beating it over the bank and down through the woods."

"Do you believe that, Steve?" I baited.

"Honest to God, it's true!" he proclaimed. "You boys come with me. We should be able to see his tracks."

Outside the building, in the ground, still damp from the morning's downpour, there were impressions - deep, and as big as a man's hand. No doubt about it, a bear had walked right up to the lodge.

"Here's where he ran along the bank," Harold crouched as he walked, "And this is where he went down into the woods."

Steve whispered to me, "Pick up a rock and throw it into the bushes."

Without thinking, I stooped and heaved a baseball-sized stone over the bank where it crashed and tumbled down the steep incline.

"Jeez!" Harold jumped almost out of his skin, then turned and saw us, convulsed with laughter, and realized he'd been had.

An embarassed grin spread over his features as he saw the humor in the situation, and we all shared a good laugh.

"Mister Bear was probably looking for a free lunch," I remarked, "just like the squirrel this morning."

A little later, with all in readiness for our morning departure, Harold said, "I've still got time to beat you fellows at Hearts before bedtime," and soon, we were seated around the dining room table, cards in hand. When it was Harold's deal, I excused myself and found lodge owner, Al Rothwell, seated in his big armchair in the living room. Quickly, I explained to him about Dad's bear sighting and asked if we could borrow his bearskin rug from the wall for a practical joke. He helped me to get it down and we draped it over the clothes rack just inside Harold's room, its head and toothy grin only inches from the light switch. Dimming the light and closing the door, I went back to the card game.

It wasn't long before Harold went to the kitchen for a refill on his tea, and I let Steve in on the prank. From then on, it was almost impossible to keep a straight face each time I looked across the table at my brother, hiding his grin in his cards.

About an hour later, Harold got up and said, "My stomach's acting up - I'm going to get a couple of Rolaids from my room."

As he left, we crept from our seats and followed him, our eyes peeping round the corner of the long hall that led to the bedrooms. Harold opened his door, felt for the light switch, then leapt backwards into the hall like he'd been shot from a cannon.

"Yahhhh! You dirty buggers, you got me again!" he wailed. We laughed so hard that it hurt and though we tried, we couldn't stop - the tears streamed down our faces as we clutched our aching sides and leaned, helpless, against the walls for support. Somehow, we regained enough composure to finish our game, but Steve's witty shots kept making us giddy.

"Dad, I can bearly believe you fell for that!" he quipped. "Couldn't you tell something was bruin?"

Later, in bed, drifting off to sleep, I thought about how enjoyable this trip to Labrador had been, not so much in terms of numbers of fish caught, but more for the special moments of companionship we shared on the river and at the lodge. It had been years since we laughed together like we did this evening and the feeling of it was good. Only one thing troubled me about our shenanigans - what reprisal awaits us on our next fishing trip?

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
- Random Phrump

Photo by Random Phrump.

Seeing More Salmon

One of the things that really helped me become a salmon fisherman was having a friend who knew the sport. Dennis McKinnon was the embodiment of years of experience and generations of angling lore, all rolled into one awesome package, and he was my next-door neighbor for 15 years. Dennis could see salmon in our peat-stained water, partly because he knew where to look and partly because he knew what to look for. The first time I ever saw a salmon underwater, I was with Dennis.

"Let's take a run upriver," he said, "I've got an idea where you might get a hold o' one." In minutes, my rod, vest, and net were in the back of Dennis' Dodge Ram pickup, and we were bouncing over the dusty road on the east side of the river.

"Where are we headed?" I inquired.

"High Rock," came the reply. "This time o' year, nobody fishes it. You might just get lucky!" Dennis parked and led me through the woods to the river, across stepping stones to the very brink of a 'dump', where the water tumbled down. The morning sun stood well above the pines.

"There they are," he whispered. There's a salmon and three grilse layin' there." I peered into the dark water, adjusting my hat and polarized glasses, but could see nothing that looked like a fish, much less four of them.

"See 'em?" Dennis continued. "The salmon's got a mark on his back." I looked again. Below the surface, I could just make out the shapes of the large rocks that formed the riverbed.

"You've gotta' look hard," he encouraged. "Our river's not clear; it's kinda' brown, from the bogs. Look just behind the rock, here," he pointed.

"Which rock, Dennis?" I asked. "There's nothing but rocks here."

"The one we're standin' on!" he answered.

Then I saw... where the current swept around the rock, an eddy line creased the surface and, beneath that line, but a few feet away, I saw the fish! They were nearly invisible - only a faint, ghostly outline could be seen, so perfectly did they blend with the river bottom. Close enough to touch with a wading staff, yet, seemingly, unperturbed by our presence, occasionally, one would twitch his tail like a cat, or drop his jaw, displaying a milk-white mouth. Gingerly, we backed away and sat down on a rock.

Yes, there's more to the story, but it's too long for this blog. Anyone who's curious can find it in the sidebar item called "The Yarn Bin". Learning to see salmon is something I've worked on for many years since that day. Here's some of what I've learned:

• Assume that there are salmon in the pool - assume that they can see you.
• Be prepared to invest some time in looking for salmon, at least half an hour. You may get lucky and see one in the first minute - usually, and especially for beginners, your eyes need to adjust to the task.
  
• The best time to see into water is on a sunny day from 11AM to 1PM.
  
• Wear a pair of polarized sunglasses and a hat with a wide brim. Try different colored lenses - I like a slight brown tint, but grey or green can also be good.
  
• Approach the pool slowly, stay low - don't make any sudden moves.
• Get to the highest vantage point and slowly stand upright.
  
• Standing with your feet apart and level, if possible, shift your weight slowly from foot to foot.
• Mentally, place a grid on the river and divide the stream bottom into sectors - give each sector careful scrutiny. Look for landmarks - submerged logs, rocks, weed growth.
  
• Look for shadows on the streambed - this can be your best clue - the fish may be almost invisible, but if the sun is out, there will be a telltale shadow underneath.
  
• Watch for movement - salmon change positions slightly, adjust their fins, open their mouths, - sometimes they leave their lies, circle the pool and come right back into formation.
• Learn to look for windows into the streambed. By this, I mean the surface of the water may be braided with current and flecks of foam. If you stare at one spot, you will only get split-seconds of clarity. Instead, look for calm spots in the flow - patches that are relatively free of turbulence and use them as lenses. Lock your gaze on one of these moving windows and you may get a few seconds of clarity as it sweeps past you.

There's more to it than that, obviously, but these tips should get you started on the road to seeing more salmon.

"You should see what I saw!"

- sign in Lawrence Melanson's workshop.

Photo by W. R. MacAskill, "Medway River 1933" Nova Scotia Archives and Records Management.

Trout Artistry

A gentle breeze corrugated the surface of the small lake. A tumbling brook thrust itself, like the fingers of an outstretched hand, into the dark water. We stood in the late September sunlight, wafting #14 dry flies, and letting the current carry our offerings to the waiting trout. Dave and I were having one last cast on the Woodens River before the long winter arrived. A splash! Turning, I saw my brother's flyrod bow. Another splash - this time at my fly. I lifted too late.

There is something stirring about wild Brookies feeding en masse - the way they approach mealtime with total commitment. Like hogs, belly-to-belly at a trough, they line up, noses into the current, waiting for the next morsel to drift within reach. A full belly belongs to the swiftest. There is no nibbling, no tasting, only an all-out savage pounce that sends a tingle up the spine as your fly gets the chomp.

There is such variety in the ways a trout can attack the fly. Sometimes, a wake comes streaking across the surface to intercept and destroy; more often a flash of silver rises up from the depths to engulf your offering. Occasionally, the fish leaps clear of the surface and takes the fly on the way down. At other times, it will come smashing down on top of the fly, as if to stun it, then turn and gobble it underwater. The same manoeuvre is sometimes employed with a variation - instead of leaping, the trout merely rushes at the fly, then turns, and slaps it with his tail. Artistry is the only word to describe it. For some unknown reason, certain trout make a display out of catching their prey. Why? Perhaps, the simplest answer is... because they can.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
- Random Phrump

The Newfie Nickel - a Medway 'Secret Weapon'?

I'd like to take a metal-detector, and a snorkel and mask up to High Rock or Sunken Pool and prospect for Newfie Nickels. Years ago, there was a Cat-and-Mouse game played on the Medway River among anglers and the warden. Although the law said it was illegal to use a spinning device when fishing for Atlantic Salmon, many local anglers carried a little insurance in their pockets.

The Newfie Nickel was reputed to be the deadliest method for taking salmon on a rod and reel. It was a legitimate five-cent coin of the Dominion of Newfoundland, with one slight alteration - a small hole drilled near the rim. An angler could inconspicuously thread his leader through it so the coin acted as a spinner ahead of the fly. If, as often happened, the angler hooked a fish, he didn't worry about being caught by the warden. When the warden stepped out of the woods, a quick tug would break the leader, allowing the nickel to sink to the riverbed.

Here is a story told to me by Irving Hirtle, fish warden on the Medway for thirty years. Irving told me this in his room at Queens Manor when he was 95 years old.

"I had a fireplace up at McGinty's camp. I made the fireplace and I made a table too. Even the doctors would go in and have their lunch. It was at the Gravel Bar on the Flat. And Ezzie Shupe, he would've been Gene's uncle, he was fishin' the Gravel Bar and he hooked a salmon. He said to me,

"If you don't mind, get a boat and help me with the fish."

So, I got a boat and I went out and I gaffed the salmon for him.

"Now, I want to show you" he said, "the spinner I catch my salmon on."

It was a little fly, one of Stillman Shupe's, not more than an inch long. When the deer hair opened up on that fly, it looked as big as an orange. The sun would catch it and make it shine. Anyway, I went up the river and Lester Lockwood was fishin' Little Salmon. He could look right down on the Gravel Bar from where he was settin'. First thing, he told me, "Ezzie Shupe got a salmon on a spinner."

I said, "He didn't."

And Lester said, "By Jeezus, he did!"

"Well," I said "Did he catch more than one?"

"No, " he said "Just the one, but he caught it on a spinner. I could see it shine from here."

I said, " He caught that fish on the same kind of spinner you probably have in your box ... one of Stillman Shupe's flies. I know," I said, "'Cause I gaffed it for him."

Post Script

Luke McGinty had this to add to the story:

"I was there when Ezzie Shupe brought his salmon in to get weighed at Lee Anthony's store. I saw it on the scale - it went 45 lbs. He told everyone he caught it on a small fly at the Flats, but I heard he caught it at Sunken Pool. 'Course you couldn't believe a word he said about fishin' or deer-huntin' either. Anytime you asked if he'd seen any fish - 'No, not a thing, nothin' at all!'"

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

-Random Phrump

Good News for the Medway!

It's hard to grasp the richness of the Medway in bygone times. Early settlers journeyed on foot, by oxen, or by canoe. They traveled on paths made by native people who knew the land and the water, and where to find food. The first flyfishers found the river thick with life. During its heyday, the Medway was one of the finest Atlantic Salmon destinations in Nova Scotia, and one of the first of Canada's great rivers to be introduced to American flyfishers.

Nels Vaughan, Irving Hirtle, and Dave McKinnon were guides when Laurie Mack operated his salmon and moose-hunting camps on the Medway. They fished 'High Rock' and 'The Rolls', 'Sunken Pool' and 'The Gravel Bar' and knew every pool from Mill Village to Greenfield. Sultan of Swat - Babe Ruth, and American writer, Zane Grey, were among the well-heeled who came from south of the 49 to enjoy the sport.

"Salmon fishing - a despicable habit, afflicting those who are unencumbered by the necessity for work and burdened by the virtue of patience." - Random Phrump

The lore of salmon-fishing is a tradition that has been preserved through story-telling. Sadly, 1997 was the last year that flyfishing for salmon was permitted on the Medway River. I have been mourning the loss ever since - not so much the loss of angling opportunity as the virtual extinction of a vibrant local community and significant body of knowledge gained through human experience.

The Liverpool Advance (December 26, 2007) reported that 10,000 sea-run Speckled Trout, 7,000 Atlantic Salmon parr, and 270 sexually-mature gene bank salmon were recently released into the Medway River according to Medway River Salmon Association President, Darrell Tingley. The conservation group has reached agreements with the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, McGowan Lake Fish Hatchery, and the Coldbrook Biodiversity Facility that aim to restore and protect traditional fish populations in the Medway. Tingley says they plan to begin liming the Medway in 2008 to offset low pH conditions caused by acid rain. Local residents are quietly optimistic that some day a Catch & Release season for Atlantic Salmon will be the result. Here's to that, my friends!
Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

Photo by W. R. MacAskill, "Medway River 1933" Nova Scotia Archives and Records Management.

Row, Row, Row...

Row, Row, Row Your Boat is a round we sang in the car on family excursions when I was a boy. As a music educator, I taught the song to two generations of school children. I meant it as a lesson in musical independence - the ability to maintain your focus while other voices do their best to throw you off. I rarely thought of the deeper meaning that springs from the lyrics - guidance for the fly fisher as well.

"Row, row, row your boat" speaks of sustained effort, of persistence. Ches Harlow once told me about his technique for fishing meadows and stillwaters for Speckled Trout. He always fishes a good-looking hole for at least 1/2 an hour. "Big cruising trout have a territory," he said."It can take them half an hour or more to make their rounds. You can fish and fish a spot; swear there is nothing there; then suddenly, Bango! You're into a nice trout."

"Gently down the stream," suggests harmony with the flow of events. Outboard motor not working? You could wrestle with it all day and turn your fishing trip into a curse-filled, knuckle-busting exercise in frustration, or you could make the best of the situation and perhaps still manage to enjoy your day. "Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily," urges us to keep a cheerful and confident outlook in the face of obstacles.

"Life is but a dream?" I do know that on a good day of fishing, the job, the noise and clutter of the daily grind fade away until there is only water and the rhythm of the rod and, now and then, a fish.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump