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.
No comments:
Post a Comment