Canceling the School Dance on the Medway

Yesterday, I read in the local weekly newspaper that the Medway River is closed to all angling from the Greenfield Bridge to the Hwy 103 bridge from July 11 to August 15, 2011. This is in response to complaints about people catching and releasing salmon under the guise of trout angling, the article explains.

Oops! Yesterday was July 19 and I have fished almost everyday - sometimes twice a day - in the Medway River in front of my house for months now. I take our two dogs with me in the canoe and troll a fly behind us as we paddle along. Sometimes I catch a White Perch, but usually it's a Smallmouth Bass that grabs the fly. I catch Gaspereau too, when they are traveling through, but I haven't caught a trout since the end of June.

I don't mind. Actually, I enjoy the daily ritual. I like the scenery and the wildlife on the river, I like my canine companions, I like the physical challenge of handling the canoe despite my advancing years. I've learned it's the fishing, not the fish that matters - so everything gets released back into the river.

According to the article, I have been violating the law without knowing it for 8 days now. Now that I am informed, however, I am obliged to lay down my rod. This doesn't sit well with me and here is why...

Having been a teacher for many years, I have seen some "knee jerk" reactions from administrators in response to student behavior. The classic "rookie" mistake is to cancel the school dance because a few students misbehaved. This is exactly what has happened on the Medway River.

A few anglers, evidently, have been blatantly ignoring a moratorium on salmon fishing that has been in place on the Medway for fifteen years. I don't mean that they sneak up to a salmon pool with a net in the darkness. No, these fishermen cast in broad daylight at a known salmon pool and do their best to hook a salmon, then release it. When confronted, they claim that their trout license gives them every right to be there.

So, are they poachers? Not by the traditional definition (doesn't there have to be a dead salmon in someone's possession?). No, what they are is opportunists - fellow anglers who can't resist the temptation to have a few flicks over the king of all sport fish. I'd do it myself, except for one simple thing...

I fish for enjoyment, and to relax. I couldn't enjoy myself, nor would I be very relaxed if I was worried that, at any moment, a fisheries officer might step up and relieve me of my rod and reel and the hundreds of flies I tote with me, not to mention confiscating my vehicle and leaving me to hitchhike or swim home. No, thanks, I think I'll save my salmon fishing for a river where it can be lawfully enjoyed.

That doesn't mean I agree with the river closure. Some of my neighbors are Smallmouth Bass enthusiasts. Finally, they are beginning to enjoy some exciting flyfishing action in their own front yards. It had to happen. Once the bass were illegally introduced into the lakes it took less than ten years for them to become a force to be reckoned with in the Medway River.

I wish I had been able to capture a video of what I have seen happening in front of my house this summer. The schools of newly-hatched Gaspereaux descending from the brooks met a cruel surprise in the Medway as the bass gorged on them. It was unlike anything I have ever seen except in the movies. Actually, it reminded me of piranhas in a feeding frenzy, except that the water didn't turn blood red. I didn't know that Gaspereaux could fly until I saw them leaping several feet clear of the water trying to escape their fates.

I love Atlantic Salmon as much as any man, but it is becoming clear what will happen on the Medway. Despite the efforts of special interest groups to restore the river to her former glory as an Atlantic Salmon sport fishery, the momentum of forces that are bent on eradicating these noble fish is reaching the point of no return.

Acid rain, Nova Scotia's dependence on coal-fired power plants, the expansion of caged aquaculture operations, and now, an unstoppable predatory threat to parr and smolts from invasive species like Smallmouth Bass and, soon-to-arrive, Chain Pickerel spell doom for the king of fish.

In the face of this, to see prominent members of these special interest groups lined up on the bank, hoping to catch one of the few remaining salmon is pathetic. And to see the federal Department of Fisheries and the provincial Department of Natural Resources close the Medway to all angling, instead of prosecuting these "poachers" is inexcusable.

Good Luck and Good Fishin' (but not on the Medway)

RP

An Ill Wind?

I had a chat with my dad this morning and, as usual, it wasn't long before the discussion turned to Atlantic Salmon fishing. He reminded me of the time he had some fun with the boys at Banting Lake Lodge near Gander, Newfoundland.

One breezy evening, he and my brother, Dave, went with their guide, Rocky, for a bit of fishing after supper. It's a quick boat ride and a few steps to the Bench Pool where Dad likes to fish, but another half-mile hike over rough terrain to reach Surveyor's Pool. 

"D'ere's always more fish at Surveyor's. What d'ya t'ink, Harold? D'ya mind if I takes Dave up to Surveyor's fer a few flicks?" Rocky asked.  

"Go ahead, boys. I'll be fine here. I can sit on the bench and rest if I get tired. Don't worry about me," Harold replied. 

They had just disappeared around the bend when Harold raised a salmon, and a few casts later, had the fish on his line. Landing it was a bit of a problem, though - the net was leaning against the bench, forty feet from shore. Harold thought to himself,"If I try to run up there to get that net, the fish will get off." He decided his best option was to try to beach the grilse. And that's just what he did - no mean feat on that rocky shore! Harold tagged the fish and hung it on an alder branch near the bench.

By and by, Dave and Rocky returned from the "Honey Hole", empty-handed, to check on Harold. "Any luck?" they inquired. 

"Well it was so windy, it was hard to cast," Harold complained. "But I did have a bit of luck! A grilse leaped clear of the water, just when a big gust of wind came along. It blew him right up into the alders, there," Harold pointed to the fish.

 "Jeezus wept!" Rocky said. "Here we was feeling' sorry for ya. Come back to check on ya, and find you wit' a fish!" he grinned. "Poor Dave didn't get more'n a few casts. Now dat we knows y' kin handle yerself, we'll dodge back and give 'er another flick, if yer okay wit dat, skipper?"

 "I'm fine," Dad laughed. "Go ahead. I'll be here when you get back. I might even go out and try for another one!"

Once more, they weren't gone but a few minutes when Harold hooked a grilse and, having remembered to take the net down to the shore, soon had two fish hanging in the alders. When the boys returned, empty-handed again, Harold was sitting on the bench waiting.

"Had enuff, Harold?" Rocky asked.

"Yes," he replied. "I got tired of fighting that wind on every cast. I thought I'd just sit here awhile and wait for a big gust to blow another one up in the trees," he gestured toward the alders.

"Lard thunderin', Jeezus!" Rocky cried. "Two fish!

"Well, you know what they say," Dave grinned, "It's an ill wind that blows no good."

Good Luck and Good Fishin"

RP

Photo by Dave Dobson

Jackwhacker

It was summertime - late summer, in fact, and the fishing was anything but easy. Earlier that morning, I lay sleepless in bed, determined to start this fourth day of our Atlantic Salmon adventure in Labrador with a new positive attitude. As guests at Chute Pool Lodge on the Pinware River, my brother, Steve, and I had cast from dawn to dusk, without as much as a raise, for the first three days. The high-spirited anticipation of our arrival had faded to become the grim desperation we were beginning to taste - a taste not unlike skunk, or so I'm told. 

In the chilly pre-dawn stillness, I reached for another blanket and grappled with our lack of success - warm water was certainly a problem, and we had missed the main run of grilse in mid-July. But was there something else, some intangible factor that stymied us? Like a big-league slugger in a batting slump, I sought some talisman to change our luck.

In a corner of my room at the lodge stood a pretty little trout rod, custom-made for me by rod-builder, Wayne Crouse. I had finally come to accept the dismal reality of my trout angling results - rarely did I catch anything over ten, maybe eleven inches, and I wanted a rod that would make catching fish of that size more exciting. When Wayne showed me the rod he had built, he commented, "Can you imagine hooking a grilse with this?" 

That remark planted a seed that I longed to see flower in Labrador. In my dreams, I had hooked that grilse, and sweated through every moment of the battle, wondering if the slender rod could handle a feisty four-to-five-pound Atlantic Salmon. I wanted that experience to be real; indeed, I craved the heart-pounding excitement it would bring. Before my feet hit the floor, I had decided to leave my 9# wt. salmon rod behind that day, and take the little 5# wt. along instead.

After breakfast, we wriggled into our waders and trudged to where the vehicles were parked. Our Dad, Harold, rooting through his knapsack, exclaimed, "Here's that box of flies I was looking for!" We gathered around the tailgate of his pickup, the way my dog cozies up to the table every time she hears the clatter of dinnerware. He ties beautiful flies and we had good reason to be interested in them - Harold had bagged a bright grilse and an Arctic Char on our first day. 

The box was crammed with deer-hair bugs in a variety of sizes and colors. While Steve eyed a couple of high-floaters, I picked a handsome pair for my vest. I also gave each angler a fly I had tied the previous night - Ches' Black Fly was supposed to be just what the doctor ordered for stagnant late-season fish.

We piled into the lodge van and, a few miles down the road, began a long hike up the mountainous west side of the river. The path, though well-trodden, was steep and rambled up hill and down through a stunted evergreen forest. At The Forks, Harold and his guide left us and continued on to the Chute Pool. 

After days of blistering hot weather, it had been a cold night. The sun, beginning its climb in the early morning sky, warmed our faces as we tramped down the wooded hillside to the foot of the Western Chute. The Pinware, here, was narrow and extremely deep - the pool, ringed with massive boulders and monstrous slanting fingers of bedrock. Their brown-stained bases and bleached tops showed the water level to be several feet below normal. With a small thermometer, I checked the water at 55 F (12 C), the perfect temperature, according to our guide, Dougie Lee.

He and Steve headed downstream to where the river widened, while from the high rocks below the falls, I surveyed the pool. 

Three grilse hugged the opposite shore, tight to the face of the rock, only a few feet below the surface. I made a mental note of where the fish lay and climbed down to a wide ledge from which to cast. Carefully assembling the rod, I chose Ches' Black Fly and delivered it to within a foot of the far side, maybe ten times when, suddenly, the fly dragged. Instead of sweeping freely downstream on the current, it seemed to be snagged on something, and a belly had begun to form in the line. The puzzled look of irritation on my face changed to one of astonishment when a silver bullet pierced the water's surface, trailing a slim tether of green line. The grilse somersaulted once through the air, and back came the fly!

It was over in an instant: I had missed the take, and failed to set the hook. My dream had come true and evaporated in little more than a second. Reeling in, I considered hiking downstream to tell my story, but when I thought of the look that would come creeping over the guide's face, I scaled the rock and peered into the pool once more. Two grilse still lay there, so I returned to the ledge and put the fly over them again, taking plenty of time between casts. A swirl? This time I was ready - a flick of the wrist set the hook, and the dream came surging to life.

Sunlight glinted along the arc of the rod and the foaming waterfall thundered in the still morning air. I whistled for the guide as the reel began to sing - the power of the fish enhanced by the delicacy of the rod. My senses were on red alert, and I relished the throbbing tension in the line that linked our destinies. When Dougie arrived, out of breath, the grilse had made several showy leaps but I was gaining ground at last. The little rod showed no sign of weakness as we battled - the fish taking line, then losing it, time and again. Soon the grilse was almost within Dougie's reach; moments later, it lay still and gleaming in the net.

Awash with triumph and relief, I clambered over the boulders to tell Steve to try Ches' Black Fly, and saw him far below, at the bend in the river, casting intently from a rock in midstream. As I approached, I heard a splash, and lifted my eyes to see a spunky grilse cartwheel across the pool, a white bug lodged firmly in its jaw.

Later, with his prize safely in the net, Steve grinned from ear to ear and held up the fly, "This is the Glitterbug I got from Dad this morning." Leaning closer, he confided, "You know, boys, there's another taker out there. He rolled on the corner just as I hooked this one in front of the sunken rock."

Back into the river Steve waded, while I retraced my steps to the foot of the falls. As I searched the pool, a war cry echoed off the green hillsides and, sure enough, Steve was into another fish. I reached his side in time to see Dougie net Steve's second grilse, and remove the very same fly from its jaw. They were giddy with excitement at having filled his tags by midmorning.

"You've gotta' try this fly," Steve crowed, "It's a killer! You can have my spot, too - I've already got my limit!" I hesitated for a moment, remembering that my fly had also hooked two fish, but I accepted his generosity and tied on the Glitterbug. 

Steve waded out with me and pointed to the sunken rock where a pod of grilse had lain. The hole was now vacant - the fish had moved on. I climbed up on a boulder for a better vantage point, and soon became aware of a torpedo-like form a few feet beyond the sunken rock. It might possibly be a fish, but it was big - two or three times the size of the grilse we had caught this morning. More likely, it was just another rock or a sunken log. 

A giant dragonfly circled about my head, picking off the blackflies that swarmed there, while I waited and watched for fish to move into the pool.

But my eyes kept coming back to that grey shape behind the rock. I'd already dismissed it as just some natural feature of the streambed, but I decided to give it a few flicks. It was an easy reach - about thirty feet below, and slightly toward midstream from my position. I kept my eye on the submerged form as the white deer-hair bug drifted closer and closer. When the fly was almost upon it, that shape sprang to life, surged forward, then, instantly, turned back. My heart went into overdrive. I had seen the broad silver flank wink at me as it wheeled away and knew it had to be a large salmon. On the next cast, he came again and, once more, turned away. On the third cast, a massive snout and hooked jaw engulfed the fly. Mindful of my earlier lapse, I moved to set the hook, and jerked the fly away!

With cold sweat beading on my brow, I mentally replayed the last cast. Had I pricked him? No, the hook had not touched the fish; I was almost sure of that! Twenty, thirty times I cast the same fly and got no response. With trembling fingers I tied on Ches' Black Fly - no reaction; then several more patterns, all without success. I returned to Steve's Glitterbug, hoping that the salmon would strike again, but the fly had lost its magic. I was beginning to think that it was a good thing the salmon had missed the fly - I might have broken my lovely trout rod!

With flybox open for the umpteenth time, my gaze fell on a small brown deer-hair bug, with green head and butt, that I had picked up that morning. It was one of Harold's patterns - but not one of the pair I had chosen. I remembered spying it on the ground near the tailgate of his truck, and tucking it away in my vest. Knotting it to the tippet, I made two casts - the first drift was right over the salmon's lie; the second, was wide of the mark. What happened next has become a benchmark of fly-fishing excitement for me.

Up, up, up he rose, in slow motion, and sucked in the fly. With a lazy toss of his tail, the great fish circled back to his lie. The line tightened, but the salmon didn't seem to realize his dilemma. I raised the rod tip. Slowly, slowly he turned toward the deeper water. Gradually the reel began to sing as the powerful fish streaked downriver at torpedo speed.

"Git ashore!" Dougie called, "Git ashore!". At that moment, the last of my fly line disappeared through the line guides as the fish made a shallow leap and a splash that had both my companions gasping in awe. I hopped down off the boulder, slipped and fell sprawling on the rocks. I lay on my left side in the shallow water, pain rocketing up my leg, but my right arm and rod, miraculously, were still high in the air.

"You okay?" Steve asked. "I wouldn't mind playing him for you," he offered.

"Not a chance!" I replied. "Not unless I have a heart attack, in which case, get your priorities straight. Forget the CPR - land this fish!" I scrambled to my feet, slipping once more in my haste, and made the shore. Turning my attention to the fish, I saw that the reel had stopped spinning - the turns of backing left on the spool, perilously few. I cranked furiously, hobbling downstream along the stony beach, and managed to regain all of the backing and some of the fly line.

The salmon jumped again - this time, well clear of the surface. His size was intimidating. A grilse was one thing, but how could I handle a giant like this with such a dainty rod? Suddenly, he made a long run. My drag useless, I tried to palm the reel and got my thumb whacked by the whirling handle. He leaped once more, then headed back toward me and parked at the base of a great rock. The line was going slack and I reeled frantically to keep it tight.

"Git yer line off the rock!" Dougie yelled. "He'll fray it off!" I realized immediately the predicament: I could feel the fish dodging back and forth at the base of the rock, the leader chafing where it passed over the rough granite boulder.

"This is it," I groaned to myself, "this is where I lose the fish of a lifetime." I limped downstream, holding the rod high overhead and, somehow, managed to prevent the monofilament from giving out. 

Then the standoff began - I kept as much strain on him as the rod and the frayed leader could stand, and made him toil for every inch of line. After what seemed like an eternity, a flash of silver beckoned from the depths, then another, and another. He was tiring, losing equilibrium, and I gave no quarter. Suddenly, the fish was at the surface, on his side, one great steely eye staring skyward. I staggered backwards, the rod bent nearly double, and towed him toward Dougie's waiting net. A smooth lift, at the right moment, and the battle was won.

"That's what I likes t' see," Dougie beamed, as he hoisted the gleaming fish, "a nice big Jack!"

"A Jack?" I repeated.

"It's what we calls a male fish," he answered. "Look at 'is battle scars!" A long-healed gash on the top of his head had once laid it bare almost to the bone, and the top portion of his tail fin was missing.

"Seals," Dougie ventured, "or the nets, maybe."

"What a brute!" Steve said, his camera at the ready, "I have to step back to get him all in the frame!"

In 1995, the government of Labrador allowed anglers to retain one large fish per season. He was just over fifteen pounds and a little under three feet long. As I tagged him, I was overcome with a mixture of pride and remorse: pride in landing a trophy fish with a mere wisp of a rod, and remorse at ending the life of so valiant a warrior. It was the first large salmon I had ever killed and I vowed it would be the last. The thrill is in the catching - not the killing.

Back at the lodge, I thanked Dougie for timely advice on playing the fish and for his deft work with the net. We toasted the fabulous salmon of Labrador. We toasted the skills of the fly-tier, the angler, and the guide. Then raising my glass, I made a final tribute to the little rod that had served so well, "I christen thee, Jackwhacker!"

I found the pattern for Ches' Black Fly while thumbing through Flies For Atlantic Salmon by Dick Stewart and Farrow Allen. It was originated by Ches Travers. Jackwhacker was tied by Harold Dobson, and Glitterbug by Danny Bird.

Wayne Crouse lives in Liverpool, Nova Scotia, where he is enjoying his retirement from the Nova Scotia Department of the Environment. Over the last fifteen years, he has built more than 150 rods for anglers in Canada, the United States and Europe. "Jackwhacker", an 8 foot # 5 weight rod, was crafted from Sage RPL Graphite blanks. You can contact him by mail at R.R. #1, Liverpool, N.S. B0T 1K0 Phone: 902-354-5998.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'

RP

Photos by Dougie Lee, Steve Dobson, Random Phrump.

Priorities

It seems I've spent my whole life establishing priorities, consciously or unconsciously, and making decisions based on them. Much of it has involved putting off what I really want to do for some real, or imagined, future benefit.

I've been sitting here reminiscing the last ten days or so. What sparked it was a phone call from my friend, Parker Suley. Parker called from Labrador to give a fishing report, and inquire when I would be coming to visit. I had to tell him that I wouldn't be coming this year - priorities.

He mentioned that he started fishing the 4th of June and as of July 13th, he had released over 60 Atlantic Salmon. He said the water has been perfect this season, lots of fish in every pool. Two friends from St. John's were there when he called, and they had caught five that day, and eight the day before.

I was overcome with a form of nostalgia - regret, perhaps - maybe grief, I don't know. I felt so conflicted over my decision not to go this summer that I had to do something about it. That something ended up being the 10-part series of posts on Rocky Bay. Now that's done, and I still feel much the same...

I'm beginning to think what I should have done was pull out all the stops, and high-tail it for Labrador - priorities be damned!

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Random Phrump: Drew and Parker at The Falls.

Rocky Bay Part X: The Final Tally

Well, I've written more Rocky Bay posts than Sylvester Stallone made Rocky movies. I guess I've milked it for all it's worth. Just a few final thoughts on the experience...

When I look back on the salmon fishing trips I've had over the last 20 years, Rocky Bay has to be one of the most memorable - not so much in terms of numbers of fish caught, but more for the intangible qualities that stay with you for a lifetime.

I'm talking about the obstacles we faced and overcame. We pushed ourselves to the limit every day, and got great satisfaction from knowing that it was our efforts and our attitudes that influenced the outcome more than the circumstances we faced.

All told, we tagged seven grilse, released eight, and lost another four, in our week on the Old Fort. That's a pretty good success rate on any river. I enjoyed not having a guide, and I enjoyed sharing the experience with my brother, Steve.

The Bilodeau Brothers have made some improvements to the camp at Rocky Bay in the years since we were there. They offer a number of packages for salmon and trout anglers. Check them out at Napetipi River Outfitters.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Random Phrump: Steve at Third Pool, Old Fort River, Quebec.

Rocky Bay Part IX: The Truth Comes Out

After a coffee, a sandwich, and a nap, Steve and I returned to First Pool for a couple of hours in the afternoon. His losing streak behind him, Steve made up for lost time by catching and releasing two more grilse in a matter of minutes!

The #6 White Phentex Bug was deadly on the Old Fort River. It was the same fly pattern that our brother, Al, had success with last summer, actually landing a fish on a broken fly! Fished wet or dry, the salmon took it readily. I released one more grilse before the rain settled in.

Having forgotten my rain jacket, I was more than glad to get back to camp, fire up the stove, and warm my bones. After supper, I broke out the Glenfiddich Special Reserve and the half-liter of bottled water I had stashed in my duffel bag.

"So that's what happened to that bottle of water, " Steve exclaimed. " I saw it on the kitchen table when we first arrived, then it vanished!"

"Guilty, as charged, Steve. I just couldn't stomach the thought of mixing 12 year old scotch with that brown water dripping out of the hillside, so I put it aside," I admitted, as I poured our drinks.

"I knew you took it," he said. "Every time I brushed my teeth with that foul swill, I cursed you for keeping it all to yourself. I guess I owe you an apology."

"Cheers, mate!" we clinked glasses. "It was a sneaky trick," I admitted, "But I hope you'll agree it was worth it."

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: Fish On!

Rocky Bay Part VIII: The Floater

It was a blustery day, windy and cold, with a big chop in the harbour. As we were leaving First Pool, I saw something that chilled me even more than the weather. On the far side of the river, two glossy gray-brown shapes surfaced for a moment, then disappeared. I got the distinct impression of something substantial lurking beneath the water.

"Oh, no! Was that what I think it is?" I cried. "Was that a floater?"

"Where?" asked Steve.

I pointed with my rod. "It looked like a pair of waders with boots just like yours," I added. "It could have been a drowned angler, possibly a guest from upriver, at Morgaine's camp." Just then, we both saw one boot break the surface, then another boot, ten feet away.

"Those aren't boots," Steve exclaimed, "They're seals!"

Steve was right. They were seals, and they were in the river for one reason. With all the rain we'd had lately, fish were coming up from the salt on every tide. These two had ventured out of their element in pursuit of a favorite meal - Atlantic Salmon.

While we were relieved that we didn't have to launch a recovery operation, it was still disturbing to see these sea wolves in a salmon pool. It was probably a good thing that we had decided to return to camp for a few hours. There would be no chance for anglers in First Pool until the seals were gone.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: The Old Fort River at Rocky Bay

Rocky Bay Part VII: Success

Today, we took time to cook breakfast before heading out to the river at 5 AM - our clothes somewhat soggy after two days of rain. At First Pool, I caught a grilse on a #6 White Phentex Bug. Then Steve waded out and promptly hooked one. His whoop of joy was still echoing off the hills when the salmon leapt clear of the water and his line fell slack. In disgust, he stomped ashore and tossed his wading staff on the ground. "What do I have to do to catch a salmon on this #@%% river?" he said to no one in particular.

I didn't know how to respond, but we talked it over, replaying the scene in our minds. There were salmon in the pool - of that, there was no doubt. They were in the mood to take a fly, as well, and Steven knew exactly where to cast, and what the 'fly du jour' was. One thing occurred to me. "Did you set the hook on that fish?" I probed.

"Come on," he gestured at the pool, "In water like this a salmon hooks itself."

"I always set the hook, though," I said. "What harm does it do to make sure the hook is set?"

"Can't argue with that," he replied.

"Go back out, right now," I insisted "and remember to give the rod tip a flick as soon as you feel the weight."

Steve waded out again and fished for almost an hour, then returned to shore, empty-handed, and even more discouraged, if that was possible. Back in the river, I waded to a familiar rock. Using landmarks on the opposite shore to triangulate my target, I made about six casts to get the right amount of line out, and Bango! - I hooked another grilse, which Steve netted with his usual expertise. "I'm getting good at landing them," he grimaced. "Haven't lost one yet! What's that - five, now?"

"I dunno, who's counting?" I lied. "Here, Steve, try this fly," I offered, as I clipped it from my line.

Steve tied on the Phentex Bug, returned to the pool, and in a very few casts, was into another fish. I watched him set the hook on an aerobatic grilse that flipped and flopped all over the pool. Then Steve turned and headed for shore. This time, it was my job to man the net, and I worried that if I screwed this up, I would never hear the end of it. But it was "No worries, mate!" a few moments later, when I hoisted his gleaming prize.

Steve had snapped his losing streak, and a look of relief was spreading over his face. He plunked himself down at the picnic table and pulled a cylinder from his vest, "Now it's time to enjoy this fine cigar my buddy, Brad, brought back from Cuba."

As he slipped the Cohiba from its airtight container, I pulled the "flask" from my vest. Not really a flask, it was a small mouthwash bottle filled with single malt scotch. I poured some into the cap and offered it to Steve. He looked at me with a frown, then tipped it back and started to gargle. "What the hell?" he said with his eyes, and then slowly it dawned on him that the amber liquid was not Listerine - not by a long shot.

"You've been holding out on me," he accused. "Where did that come from?"

"There's a bottle in my duffel bag," I replied. "I've been saving it for something worth celebrating."

"Jeez," he laughed, "Here I was thinking how bad my breath must be, for you to pour me a shot of mouthwash!"

It was a good moment. We laughed, toasted our success, and with the warmth spreading in our bellies, the tension melted away until it was suddenly all good again. We decided to take our three fish back to the camp, put them on ice, and take a short siesta.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Random Phrump: Steve's Streak Snaps (Try saying that quickly, three times.)

Rocky Bay Part VI: Frustration

On the table in my room was a travel-size bottle of mouthwash, left by a previous guest at the camp in Rocky Bay. What struck me about it was the size - perfect for a pocket flask! What's more, the screw-on cap doubled as a shot glass. I rinsed it out thoroughly, filled it with single malt scotch, and tucked it in my fishing vest. This would be just the thing to pull out on the river, after Steve landed his first salmon.

We rose at 4 AM, brewed coffee, skipped breakfast, and headed for the river. Blessing of all blessings - there was no trouble with the motors today! We saw salmon at First Pool and fished there for an hour, but the water was still very high, and we were anxious to get on our way to Third Pool. By 7 AM we were fishing Third Pool, and by 10 AM, I had bagged another grilse in the pouring rain, on a #8 LaPoile Bug.

That was all the salmon action for the day, but we caught quite a few trout at the run into Second Lake and brought two home for supper. Steve was frustrated at not catching a salmon, but his day would come, I assured him, maybe tomorrow...

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: First Pool on the Old Fort River, Quebec

Rocky Bay Part V: Resolve

We were spending the morning at the camp in Rocky Bay. Steve cooked pork chops and rice, and minestrone soup. I boiled potatoes, kept the stove going, split and stacked wood. All the while, we kept one ear cocked for the sound of an outboard motor. Surely one of the Bilodeau boys would soon arrive with a battery for the CB radio.

I went to my room to lie down, and slept like a stone. When I awoke, the rain had let up, and it was mid-afternoon. No one had come to fix the radio or the outboards, but with a good meal and a few hours rest under my belt, our situation didn't seem so bad. Staring at the ceiling, I thought, "We're on our own here. This is what we signed up for. We're not going to spend the week in camp. We came here to fish, not to whine about our problems!"

It was time to have a go at fixing the motors. In the late afternoon, we took the boat to the mouth of the river, moored it, and carried a set of wrenches up to First Pool. We decided to concentrate on the 20 HP Johnson with its starter cord that would not rewind. Taking off the starter assembly, we found that the coil spring had come off the peg that holds it. Working together, Steve and I were able to get it securely back in place. A few pulls later, she roared to life. We let it idle for a while, stopped and started it a few times. It seemed to work perfectly. We were truly happy to have solved a huge problem! Tomorrow, we should be able to reach Third Pool and do some serious salmon fishing. Steve might even catch one!

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: The Camp at Rocky Bay

Rocky Bay Part IV: Despair

I woke at 2 AM, tossing and turning - too hot in my sleeping bag, and too cold without it. It was raining, and the roof of the camp was leaking. I got some buckets to catch the drips, started a fire in the kitchen stove, and made some coffee. Then I carried an armload of wet firewood inside and stacked it in the oven to dry.

For some reason, I started thinking about the bad things in this place - the outboard motors that wouldn't start, the radio that didn't work, the realization that there was no way to contact anyone, or summon help in case of emergency. I was covered with insect bites, bruised and sore all over from my fall in the river, from carrying the 40 HP motor through the woods, from criss-crossing the lake with those heavy oars in a massive wooden boat with no oarlocks, on an empty stomach.

I was thinking... I'm not used to this. I've done my share of boating. And one thing I've learned from it is that I do not like having to spend my precious fishing time wrestling with outboards. I like a motor that starts every time. If it doesn't, I take it in for service before I'll use it again. I don't know how to repair an outboard motor, but there are people who do - I'm just not one of them, and neither is my brother, Steve.

When Steve got up, we talked it over. With the rain drumming on the roof and a cozy fire in the woodstove, we decided to stay in camp that morning. We hoped that one of the Bilodeau brothers would arrive with a battery for the radio, and would fix the outboards for us.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: First Pool, Old Fort River, Quebec

Rocky Bay Part III: Third Pool At Last

Steve and I got up at 4 AM, brewed coffee, skipped breakfast, and hit the trail. At the river mouth, we tied the boat way up the shore, in case it was low tide when we returned. Our plan was to head for Third Pool and fish our way back.

The 20 HP Johnson was fussy, but eventually cooperated and so we made our way across the lake to Second Pool. Here, the 9.9 HP Johnson would not start. We tried everything, including taking out and cleaning the plug, but could not get it to run. So, back across the lake we went to First Pool, picked up the 40 HP Mariner that Reiss had left for a spare, threw it in the boat and, lo and behold, now the 20 HP Johnson wouldn't start. Finally, it coughed and sputtered into action.

Back up the lake we went, then lugged the heavy outboard through the woods and around the rapids. We put the motor on the boat, crossed our fingers, pulled the starter cord and it roared to life! At the head of the lake, after beaching the boat, we trudged up a wooded path, took a leaky canoe ride across a back channel, and reached Third Pool at last.

Half the day was now gone, but here, we could fish. Although the water was still high and fast, Steve managed to wade out to a rock that he could cast from. Because there was room for only one person to cast, we took turns fishing. About mid-afternoon, after a number of raises, I hooked a grilse on a #8 Black Bear Green Butt. A few showy leaps later, it made a long run downstream to the fast water, where I was sure I would lose it. Steve raced below and "herded" the fish back upstream, then netted it expertly for me. To top it off, he took the great photo above.

On my next turn, I landed another grilse on the same fly. I stopped fishing now and let Steve have the pool to himself - he rose a few, but didn't connect. About 6 PM, we headed back. At Second Pool the 20 HP Johnson would not start. We tried everything, pulled until our arms were half-dead, then finally, the starter cord pulled out and would not retract. We tried the 9.9 HP again, but no go! We could not budge the bolts that held the starter coil on, so we put both motors in the boat and paddled, poled, and dragged her down the lake to First Pool.

We lugged the two fish and our gear through the woods to the shore, then had to walk a quarter mile along the slippery water line to reach the boat. Happily, it started on the second pull, and we made it back to the camp at Rocky Bay just before dark, so exhausted, we hardly spoke. I went to bed hungry at 9:30 PM - too tired to eat.

More to come...

Good Luck and Good Fishin'

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson

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

Rocky Bay - Part I: The Camp

A half-liter of pure bottled water - that's what Steve was stewing about. Or was it the fact that I'd been having a successful Atlantic Salmon fishing trip, and my brother had yet to land a fish? Actually, I was pretty sure that was it - I didn't find out about the water until later...

We had signed up for some "roughing it" in North Shore, Quebec - a week of Atlantic Salmon fishing on the Old Fort River, without a guide. The Bilodeau brothers had acquired a lobster fisherman's summer camp on Rocky Bay and were offering reduced rates to anglers who didn't mind a little work mixed in with their fishing. They preferred to book parties of four, but because we were able to confirm at the last minute, Steve and I ended up with the whole place to ourselves.

There is no road to Rocky Bay. A 45-minute boat ride in the fog, brought us to the camp, where four anglers were packing to leave. They had not had much success with the salmon, and blamed it on the water being too high. Three days of steady rain had put the river up in the woods. They amused themselves by catching sea trout at the mouth of the river and drinking a bit of rum and whiskey - a lot of rum and whiskey, judging by the empties they left behind. They also left a liter of bottled water. It was only half-full, but I stashed it in my duffel bag next to a bottle of single malt scotch that I had brought to celebrate our angling prowess, or drown our sorrows, as time would tell.

Dwight and Jason Bilodeau had no time to show us the boats or the pools. They still had to pick up four anglers on the Napetipi River, and get them to the airport at Blanc-Sablon in time to catch their flight. Someone would stop in later that day to "show us the ropes", they assured us.

"Oh, by the way," one of the departing foursome mentioned, "there's no motor on the boat at Second Pool. We left it on the riverbank - we couldn't get it to go."
"Oh, yeah," said another, "that two-way radio in the camp doesn't work either - I think it's the battery."

The Camp

In Baie des Roches, where Jacques Cartier landed during his exploration of the "new world", were seven buildings - each one shimmed and blocked up on the granite boulders. They were clustered on the hillside with rocky, sometimes steep, passages between them, and planks laid down across the wet spots. The main building, plastered with brick-red asphalt roofing on the exterior, was a one-story dwelling with wood floors and walls. A small deck ran across the front. Through a low door, there was a kitchen, three small bedrooms, a sitting room and an indoor toilet. There was an old wood-fired kitchen range and a tabletop propane stove with two burners - only the left one worked. Outside, a water hose constantly dripped brown water from a spring somewhere in the rocky hills above the camp.

More of our Atlantic Salmon adventures in North Shore, Quebec to follow...

Good Luck and Good Fishin'

RP

Photo by Steve Dobson: "The Camp at Rocky Bay"

Medway Report 4 April 2008

I arrived at the river with oars and a life jacket, just in case I wanted to take the boat out. A steady stream of stoneflies was arriving at the Swirl and trout were lined up to feed. The Swirl is a great eddy. The force of the current and the contour of the bank causes the water to circulate in an oval path. Water actually flows upstream until it meets a jutting point of land and is sucked back to join the midstream rush to the Atlantic.

I didn't have any dry flies with me - just a box of streamers and wet flies. I tried the #8 Royal Coachman Streamer and got a soft strike, but no hook-up. Then a few casts later, got a heavy hit - but again, no hook-up. I got pretty excited about that one, because it really felt like an exceptional fish. I was thinking... 3-pound Rainbow?

I changed to a #10 Pink Mystery - tied by my good friend, Steven MacDonald - and damn, if a 10 inch Brook Trout didn't grab it near the surface. Later, I tried a #2 pink/orange/yellow Cardinell (looking for the one that got away), and took another trout - about 11". Both fish were released in good shape. I use barbless hooks - I may get a few LDR's (Long Distance Releases), but it is much less stressful to the fish.

I need to remember a few basic skills to be successful with barbless hooks. In general, I try to keep slack out of the line; set the hook with a flick of the rod tip; and maintain a tight line while playing the fish. It doesn't always work, but when I remember to use those skills, I usually get the job done. Trust me, if Brother Al can land a salmon on a broken fly, anyone can be successful with barbless flies. It adds an element of uncertainty to the sport, that I find enjoyable.

All of today's fishing was done from shore, or by wading a few feet out. The water was so cold (3 Celsius) I could not stay in it for more than 1/2 hour. I usually check the water temperature when fishing for trout. The magic number, by the way, is 10 Celsius. At 10 Celsius (50 Fahrenheit, for our American friends), insects start to become active and trout begin to get a lot more aggressive about their feeding. This increases until the water temperature reaches 15 Celsius - a Brook Trout's optimum temperature.

News Flash!

My brother, Steve, told me that a couple of Rainbow Trout were caught in the Sackville River this week. I think next time, I might have to take that boat out and have a good look around. We surely have some in our river if those aquaculture escapees made it all the way up the coast to Halifax.

News Flash! News Flash!

My son, David, told me that he heard there will be a Catch & Release season for Atlantic Salmon on the Medway River this year. That is, as yet, unconfirmed. I will be checking into this!

Good Luck and Good Fishin'
- Random Phrump

Gavin's Pocket

When we rolled into Forteau, my two sons, Drew and David, and I weren't long hearing about the Atlantic Salmon fishing action so far that summer.

"Gavin's been 'avin' a good season, Skipper!" said Doug. "'e's got a 'oney 'ole we calls 'Gavin's Pocket'. By Jeezus, 'e's 'auled a 'few outta dat, da year, eh Mona?"

"'e's not da only one - I say ye got yer share, if ya wants to know da truth" cried Mona.

We geared up and headed for the river, with Gavin as our guide. At one pool, we saw fish, but got ne'er a raise. A good walk downstream, Gavin showed us his 'pocket'.

"I was fishin' in da middle, dere, " he said. "I always gives dat a flick on me way d-d-d-down by. Dis one day, it was blowin' a gale. I'se just after tyin' on a bug when da wind takes it clean outta me 'and. She lands right in dat pocket dere, behind dat rock, and kinda d-d-d-dances across da surface. Outta da corner of me eye, I seen dis fish make a d-d-d-dodge fer it - fired back and B-B-B-B-Bango! I 'ad 'im!"

Gavin had indeed found a 'honey hole' in a place most people would walk past without wetting a line. Close to shore, it was hard to believe that a salmon would lie there, but Gavin's Pocket produced fish for us all week. There are lessons in this:

• There is no substitute for a good local guide, especially when you have a limited amount of time to fish. It takes much of the guesswork out of the equation. A good guide will put you on fish - it will be your job to catch them.

• Don't ignore shallow water, or water very close to shore - big fish will rest there if there is some cover. That cover could be a corrugated surface caused by wind, or current. It could be the cover of darkness, or an overhanging limb.
  

• For an added bonus, salmon lying in shallow water can be more likely to take a fly, particularly a dry fly, than if they were lying at the bottom of a deep hole.
  

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!

- Random Phrump

Photo by: Random Phrump

The Price of Salmon Fishing in Nova Scotia - Part 2

Acid rain is a by-product of our addiction to fossil fuels, particularly, coal and oil. Smokestack emissions combine with atmospheric moisture to create sulfuric and nitric acids. These ultimately fall to the earth as acid precipitation.

Nova Scotia is particularly affected because of our geography. We are directly in the path of prevailing winds and weather systems from the smog belt of North America. In addition, parts of our province have little or no naturally occurring limestone to buffer the effects of this toxic rain and snowfall.
I'm not implying that Nova Scotia is an innocent victim - there are four coal-fired electric power generation plants operating in this province - in Sydney, Point Aconi, Point Tupper and Trenton.
In addition to acid rain-causing emissions, these four coal-fired plants emit an estimated 150 kilograms of mercury annually, according to the Canadian Council of Ministers of the Environment, October, 2006.

"Mercury is a toxic, persistent, bioaccumulative substance. It converts in water to the highly toxic form, methylmercury, which accumulates in fish and other species, damaging the central nervous system and causing reproductive failure among loons and river otters.

Human exposure to mercury – primarily by eating contaminated fish – may cause neurological and developmental damage. Low exposure to mercury may cause problems, such as learning disabilities in children. Women of childbearing age, pregnant women, children, and populations who depend on fish as a traditional food source are most at risk."

Double whammy! To put this in perspective, worldwide emissions of mercury from human activity were estimated at 2400 tons in 2000, with Canada's contribution pegged at 8 tons.

So what is the price of salmon fishing in Nova Scotia? From where I stand the answer is: PRICELESS! It looks like the best hope for a return to the kind of productivity once enjoyed by Atlantic Salmon in Nova Scotia rivers is to 'kick' our addiction to fossil fuels!

As inconceivable as that sounds, ultimately, we will not have a choice in the matter. James Howard Kunstler believes we are on the brink of a collapse that he refers to as the "Long Emergency", a collapse brought about by dwindling oil resources. I heard him speak on CBC radio's show, Sunday Edition, February 17, 2008.

Kunstler is an articulate doom sayer - there's no denying it, but I have faith in our ability to survive as a species. At the same time, I don't believe in leaving the hen house door open. We need to examine the problems of fossil fuels, acid rain, and mercury emissions somewhat more seriously, perhaps... as if our lives depended on it.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

The Price of Salmon Fishing in Nova Scotia - Part 1

The history of salmon fishing in Nova Scotia for the last 5000 years looks broadly like this:

3000 BC - 1600 AD - Aboriginal Food Fishery - salmon in abundance
1600 AD - 1750 AD -First European contact - salmon in abundance
1750 AD - 1850 AD -Widespread Settlement - salmon in abundance
1850 AD - 1900 AD - Industrialization - logging, dams - salmon at risk
1900 AD - 1950 AD - Acid Rain, pollution - salmon in decline
1950 AD - 2000 AD - Commercial factory fleet ocean fishing - salmon in peril
2000 AD - Conservation efforts - salmon extinct in some rivers, remnant populations in others.

The scenario deserves a better analysis than I have sketched, but the trend is towards extinction. The cumulative effect of habitat degradation in rivers and oceans, and the pressures of commercial fishing, poaching, and angling have created a catastrophic decline of Atlantic Salmon in Nova Scotia rivers. Conservation efforts, including grilse-only retention for anglers, promotion of Catch and Release angling, and buy-outs of commercial salmon fishing licenses have only slowed the rate of decline.

Habitat improvement is the focus of conservation-minded anglers, but the cost of recovering acid rain-impacted rivers is beyond the scope of individuals. Expensive to build and to operate, lime-dosers such as those in use in Norway and on the West River Sheet Harbour are viewed with optimism. They have the ability to raise pH levels in river water by adding limestone to mitigate the acidity. It puts me in mind, however, of trying to save frogs from slowly boiling in a pot of water, by adding ice cubes, when the obvious solution is to turn down the heat.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

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

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