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 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"

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.