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 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.)

Al's Amazing Catch

It was a perfect day, mid-August, 1999. We were fishing private water on the Old Fort River in Quebec, guests at Morgain's Salmon Camps. There were four of us on this trip: Dad, Alan, Dave and me. Dad had flown Al home from Alberta for his first taste of Atlantic Salmon fishing. Our daily routine was to travel in groups of three men - one guide with two sports. Dave and I went with Harvey Fequet, 8 miles by boat to fish Third Pool. A mile hike further on were Tag Pool and Fourth Pool. Dad and Al stayed closer to camp with Curry Fequet on First Pool and Second Pool.

At the foot of First Pool there is a wide sandbar where salmon congregate. Al had raised several fish there with a white Phentex bug, and even had hooked a couple briefly, but couldn't master the fine art of playing and landing a grilse. The air was thick with advice, "Keep your rod tip up!" "Keep the line tight - don't give him any slack!" "When he's taking line, let him go! When he tries to rest, reel like hell!"

It wasn't long before Al had another hookup on that Phentex bug. He followed Dad's and Curry's advice on playing a salmon and did his best to keep the rod tip up. The grilse cartwheeled through the air several times yet, in short order, the fish lay docile in the guide's net, whereupon the hook instantly fell out of its mouth!
When Curry examined the fly, he noticed there was no point on the hook - it had broken off! Alan, being a novice flyfisher, had experienced a close encounter of the rocky kind on a backcast. It had blunted his hook completely. He had been fishing the same fly for a couple of hours, had connected with several takers, but had been unable to achieve a solid hookup on any of the salmon. It was a minor miracle that he even hooked, let alone, landed that fish!

To illustrate today's post, I found a similar fly, put it in a vise, then snapped the business end off with a pair of pliers. The sketch in my journal, however, suggests that the remaining hook on Al's fly was, in fact, much shorter than my attempt to replicate it. (Click on the middle photo for a close-up view.) Landing that fish was quite an achievement for any angler, even more so for a newbie! So, here's to Al, the unsung angler, and his amazing catch!
Good Luck and Good Fishin'!
-Random Phrump

Photos by Random Phrump.