Rocky Bay Part II: The River

Our arrival at the Old Fort River was a homecoming for me. I had fished the exclusive upper waters as a guest at Morgaine's Salmon Camps the previous summer, but this was Steve's first trip to the Old Fort. From the camp, it was 5 minutes to the river by boat - a massive wooden craft, painted white with red trim, and powered by a 40 HP Yamaha outboard. We moored it close to shore with anchors, bow and stern, then picked our way across the slippery beach rocks and around the rapids to the foot of a lake. Here, we found another boat on a slip made from spruce poles, and a rough picnic table nearby.

The water was very high and fast. Steve ventured out almost to the middle and cast unsuccessfully for the first half hour while I watched from the picnic table. After he came ashore, I fought my way out as far as I could, and raised a salmon with a long cast. I got so excited, I stepped in a hole and went over my waders, but was able to back up and make shore safely. I didn't mind the ducking. I was just thankful that the new camera in my shirt pocket didn't get soaked.

Sometimes, I wish I was taller. There comes a point, in wading deep water, when you lose the ability to keep your footing. Your buoyancy overcomes your weight and you lose traction. Although your boots touch bottom, there is no grip in them, and the current sweeps you away. That's exactly what happened to me the next time out. Steve stared in awe as I went tumbling downstream and over the rapids, rod in one hand and wading staff in the other.

He told me later he thought I was a goner, as I swept out of view. He had visions of dragging my soggy body back to the camp and keeping it in the big insulated fish box, filled with snow, that served as our refrigerator. As for me, once I got out of the deep trough I had stepped into, I gained my feet and managed to stumble ashore before I hit the salt water.

As I pulled the camera from my shirt pocket, the water dripped out of it. It was toast, but I was OK - just a little bruised around the ego. We returned to Rocky Bay for dry clothes and waders, then headed back to try the other pools. The boat at First Pool had a 20 HP Johnson outboard and it was hard to start. After 8 or 10 tries, the starter rope pulled out and wouldn't recoil.

There were two massive oars, but no oarlocks in the boat. We decided to paddle up to Second Pool - a long way, but not too difficult with the wind at our backs. When we finally reached the pool, we were disappointed to find that the water here was even deeper and stronger than at First Pool. It was impossible to wade, but we tried to fish from shore without success.

The boat on Second Pool had no motor. The previous group had broken the starter cord and left the 9.9 Evinrude up on the bank. We decided to head back to the camp at Rocky Bay and spent what seemed like an eternity, paddling, poling, walking the boat along the shoreline with the wind in our teeth. When we finally reached First Pool, we were dead-tired - the arms wore right off us. Too tired to even fish, we started the 40 HP Yamaha, the only motor that worked, and made it back to camp about 5 PM.

Steve cooked supper - a godawful mess of hamburger, canned tomatoes and elbow macaroni that our mom used to call Chop Suey. I groan inwardly every time I think of the hundreds of times we ate it as kids, but I was so hungry, it tasted pretty good. About 8 PM, Reiss Bilodeau arrived with a spare motor and tools. I went with him back to the river, carrying the toolbox and 5 gallons of gas, while Reiss lugged the 40 HP Mariner on his back. In jig time, he got the two motors running and left the Mariner on the bank at First Pool, for a spare.

When we got back to Rocky Bay, Reiss tried to fix the radio without success. He had to make Napetipi before dark, so he left, saying that he would radio his brother, Dwight, to bring us a new battery. Thus ended our first day in Rocky Bay. We were optimistic that tomorrow would bring new adventures and better fishing.

More to come...

Good Luck and Good Fishin'

RP

Photo by Random Phrump: Steve at the Tiller, Rocky Bay