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.

Buckle's Point Revisited - Part 2

In Labrador, the local anglers favor spinning gear for sea trout. Eyes opened wide, seeing Steve and me on the rocky shore with our fly rods tucked under our ams, stripping line with both hands. They opened even wider at the sight of us releasing sea run Brookies. By noon on our second day, we started to draw a crowd.

The word was out that the sea trout were in at Buckle's Point. Two CFA's (Come From Aways) were forking them in with fly rods - and throwing them back! No one had ever heard of such foolishness. Local anglers arrived by the truckload to get in on the action.

They weren't long finding out there wasn't much action to be had on the spinning rod. Catches were few and far between, except for those alien fly fishers with their annoying habit of releasing trophy trout. When a kid came up to me and asked if he could have the 20" trout I was releasing, I probably should have said yes. Instead, I gave the boy a purple Cardinelle fly and invited him to catch his own.

About that time, Steve approached me and said, "I've been chatting with a fellow over there for the past half hour. He wants us to come up to his house for a cup of tea and some smoked trout. What do you think?"

And that's how we came to meet Uncle Parker, and his nephews, Gavin, and young Bobby. The three of them were licensed guides, and they were there out of pure curiosity. They wanted to see with their own eyes what all the fuss was about on Buckle's Point - two guys fishing in the bay with fly rods!

I'll make a long story short by saying that we spent the night tying flies, drinking 12 year-old scotch and smoking cigars at young Bobby's. The next morning, we were back at Buckle's Point with Parker. Steve told me later that, at one point, he looked up the shore and saw half a dozen local anglers with fly rods tucked under their arms, stripping like madmen.

Here are a few tips about fly fishing in salt water:

Use a full sinking line - it will be no fun to cast with, but absolutely essential for getting the fly to where the fish are.

Stand on a high rock near shore, if possible. There are three advantages to this - the first is better visibility into the water, the second is less risk of smashing your fly on the rocks behind you, the third is achieving maximum casting range.

Speaking of visibility, wear a broad-brimmed hat and polarized sunglasses. Position yourself so that there is an area of sandy bottom nearby, if possible. Sea trout can be very difficult to see in salt water, except when they cross a patch of light sandy bottom.

In general, cast as far as you can, and let the fly sink. Tuck your rod under your arm and strip hard and fast with both hands.

Use a stripping basket. I learned this in Long Beach, California, fishing for Corbina. A stripping basket attaches to your waist with a belt and allows for better line control. It's not absolutely necessary, but makes the whole business a lot safer and more enjoyable. If you don't use one, be prepared to spend a lot of time freeing the line from tangles with rocks and seaweed at your feet. You can spend from $20 to $100 for a stripping basket or you can make your own for less than $10.

A marabou fly, such as a Cardinelle, or Wooly Bugger has a seductive pulsating action that trout seem to go for. Tie them big - you want something at least three inches long. I like to tie them with two contrasting colors of marabou - purple and pink, pink and yelow, or red and white are good choices.

Always rinse your rod, your reel, and any flies you might want to use again in fresh water after a day in the salt.

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

Buckle's Point Revisited - Part 1

The truck rolled to a stop near the rocky shore on Buckle's Point. Steve and I assembled our rods, and prepared to engage the sea trout of Forteau Bay. We had heard that 3 and 4 pounders were sometimes caught here by locals using spinning gear. We had to give it a try with our fly rods.

Steve headed left along the shore, toward the river's mouth, and I turned right towards the open sea. Standing on a high rock, casting as far as I could, I observed the motion of the fly in the water. Occasionally, a fish would chase the fly into the shallows, then turn away. About that time Steve hollered, "Fish on!" and I watched him land a gorgeous 16" sea trout.

We compared notes that evening in the Basque Dining Room of the Northern Light Inn at L'Anse-au-Clair. Steve told me his rig had included a sinking line and a 'Lester, the Lobster' salmon fly. After dinner, we enjoyed a local treat - a glass of Cloudberry (Bakeapple) liqueur on the rocks - the rocks, in this case, being 5,000 year old ice, harvested from an iceberg in the Strait of Belle Isle.

The next morning we packed up the truck and went through the motions of heading for the ferry in Blanc Sablons, but our conversation kept returning to Buckle's Point. I hadn't solved the mystery yet of saltwater fly fishing for trout. We flipped a coin in the parking lot - heads, the trout - tails, the ferry. Two, or three times that loonie came up tails, but Steve finally cussed it into submission, and so we made for Forteau Bay.

There were two men and a boy fishing with spinning rods outside the DFO-posted boundary signs. Beyond the signs, on this scheduled Atlantic Salmon river, it was fly-fishing only - off-limits to non-residents like us, without a guide. We chose a spot near, but not too near the other fishermen, and geared up. Thinking of Steve's rig, I wasn't long changing to a full sinking line, but I opted for a big marabou fly, a Cardinelle. I really liked the way the fly worked in the water. It seemed the faster I stripped line, the more often I would get fish to follow it in, sometimes right to the rocks at my feet.

I remembered seeing some saltwater anglers on a TV show using a two-handed stripping retrieve, with their rods tucked under their arms. At first, it felt awkward, but I could strip line much faster with two hands. Furthermore, the motion of the fly changed subtly - it now had a rapid dart left/dart right pattern instead of a steady trajectory.

About that time, I noticed a small pod of fish approaching, They were cruising parallel to the shoreline, and I cast to intercept them. Letting the fly sink until the fish were almost on top of it, I tucked the rod under my arm and stripped, with both hands, as fast as I could. To my amazement, the whole school turned to give chase, and one of them nailed it! I had just hooked an 18" sea trout in salt water - a first for me.

I told Steve about my new technique and he gave me a look that said, "whatever floats your boat..." and went back to his fishing. But I had found a method that worked, and it worked well. In the next hour, I released two more trophy sea trout. That's when Steve got interested in what kind of fly I was using. I should have said "a Rusty Rat", but I gave him one of my #2 Cardinelles. Not too much later, I looked to my left and there was Steve - rod tucked under his arm, stripping line with both hands, and a monster sea trout closing in on his fly. "Got him!" he cried. I hurried with the net to help land a trout that looked to be 4, maybe 5 lbs. What a fish! Outdone again, I've learned that's what I get for sharing my secrets with Steve.

Next post, I will share with you what I have learned about fly fishing in saltwater, including some tips to make it more productive, safer, and more enjoyable. I'll also have a few words to say about the local anglers' response to our success.

Good Luck and Good Fishin',
-Random Phrump

Phot0 by Drew Dobson

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

HMS Raleigh - Point Amour Light

In 1922, HMS Raleigh, the flagship of the British fleet, ran aground while taking evasive maneuvers to avoid an iceberg near Point Amour, Labrador. She was bringing the officers across the Strait of Belle Isle for salmon and sea trout fishing at Forteau. They tried in vain to salvage her - in the end she was scuttled, blown to smithereens by explosives.

84 years later, Doug Trimm took my son, Drew, for a stroll on the beach and showed him the wreck, and how to find pieces of cordite among the beach stones and shards of rusted metal. While they combed the beach, I couldn't help thinking,

"How drunk was the man on watch?"

He must have 'spliced the mainbrace' a couple of hours too early. It's only about 20 miles across the Strait and they went aground within a mile of Point Amour Light, the tallest beacon east of Montreal.

Today, the lighthouse is a fascinating museum - climb to the top and enjoy a spectacular view of coastal Labrador. You will see whales and icebergs in the summer months, and there are world-class angling opportunities for Atlantic Salmon and sea-run Speckled Trout to be had - almost worth banging up a battleship for!

Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

Photo: Drew at Point Amour Light - Random Phrump

Buckle's Point

What I like about my brother, Steve, aside from his penchant for puns, is his ability to 'go with the flow'. Take for example, the time we were sitting in my truck in the parking lot of the Northern Light Inn in L'Anse Au Clair, Labrador...

We had just come from a week of salmon fishing in Quebec, but weren't quite ready to head home. We decided to spend a couple of days exploring coastal Labrador. As non-residents without a guide, we were restricted to fishing for trout within 800 meters of the highway. Steve and I blundered along, fishing every pond on the way to Red Bay and back again. By chance, we stopped at a convenience store and the girl at the counter remembered us.

"How was your fishin'?" she asked.
"Not bad - lots of trout, but no size, " I replied.
"Well, it couldn't have been any worse than my luck last night," she continued. "I heard a splash, looked down - the handle of my reel had dropped right in the drink."
"What were you fishing for?" I inquired.
"Sea trout," was her response.
"Any size?" I asked.
"I've caught 'em t'ree and four pounds," she replied. My eyes got real big!!
"Where do you fish?" I queried.
"Buckle's Point."

The picture above shows Steve with a nice sea trout - one of several we caught that day. And that brings me to the next morning and that parking lot. We flipped a coin - heads, we go back for more sea trout action at Buckle's Point - tails, we make for the ferry and begin our long trek home. The coin came up tails.

"Two out of three!" I called. The coin was flipped once more - tails again!
"@#$% it! Let's go fishin!", said Steve.

Gotta love that guy!

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.