The Salmon of Newfoundland

by SIDNEY C. HAYWARD

1

NEWFOUNDLAND is a vast area of water and wilderness to the north, inviting and off the beaten track. Over a period of years I had wondered how we could travel there quickly, how much it would cost, what facilities for camping, or bed and board, might be available, what the fishing would be like.

Fly-fishing is always a gamble, especially for salmon. Chances are best when the beautiful silver fish move from the sea into the fresh water of rivers on the late spring run. From mid-June to mid-July is generally the height of the run, a period of high water when salmon aren’t so fussy about the size of flies and leaders as they become later. Our dates of late July and early August were late but we looked forward to working harder for our fish and to using dry flies.

Paul Sample, artist at Dartmouth College, and I left Boston Sunday morning, July 23, via the excellent Trans-Canada Airlines on a restful, rapid flight along the coast of Maine, crossing New Brunswick’s great wooded central plain, winging over Prince Edward Island and Cabot Strait to Newfoundland’s huge transatlantic base at Gander — more than 1000 air miles from breakfast at the Parker House. Dr. Erwin C. Miller and Robert W. Stoddard of Worcester arrived by air in the evening to complete our fishing party to the barren and still partly frozen north.

The next morning a rugged Norseman seaplane, chartered from Newfoundland Airways, took us and a pile of gear to the northwest coast village of Port Saunders. Now the scene below was one of chrome green coniferous forests and chains of lakes in deep ultramarine, the whole spotted with irregular dark patches scattered aimlessly across the vast canvas by cumulus between sun and earth.

At Port Saunders the seaplane taxied alongside our chartered boat, skippered by Alex H. Parsons of Bonne Bay, Newfoundland. The 50-foot craft accommodates four fishermen. As Sandy Parsons says, “My cruiser is equipped to take four sportsmen. There can be four men in a party, or two men and two women, or all women, but I will not have three men and one woman in a party — that is out.” We who were good friends to begin with became very close to each other in that 10 x 10 cabin where fishing equipment mixed freely with groceries, wet boots, and red flannels.

Our skipper has the only boat along hundreds of miles of coast. We had budgeted the two weeks’ trip at about $500 apiece, of which half went for air travel and half for the boat, crew, chow, and guides. Costs were about as expected. There’s no danger of doing any extensive shopping up in that desolate country.

Once aboard we could go anywhere, violent and unpredictable weather permitting. At least we could fish any river that we could reach, since Newfoundland streams are all “open,” in contrast to the limited salmon fishing available to the public in most other sections of eastern Canada. The newest province in the Dominion offers vast opportunities to American sportsmen. Retention of fishing rights for the local and visiting anglers requires strict warden control to prevent poaching, netting, jigging, and other crimes against the salmon. My license was checked by more wardens than I have ever seen in New Hampshire.

After lunch in our small cabin Captain Parsons churned his boat 10 miles up Hawkes Bay for the first chance to wet a line, in the East River. Standard procedure is to anchor off the river mouth and use the boat’s dory to the beach. A handsome falls pool is almost within sight of tidewater on the East River. Rods were rigged — all distinctly on the light side, about 7 ounces — for an evening’s fishing in the long stretch where small salmon (grilse) were jumping.

These vigorous and handsome young salmon are a joy to handle on light gear. They are especially active around a dry fly, often boiling fully out of water to hit the floating wisp of feathers, arching down upon the fly in a cascade of spray to pull a long length of line from the singing reel before leaping again and again to stand on their tails and engage in all manner of pyrotechnics. On a light rod they often provide more sport than their fullgrown brothers. Grilse, or “peals” as they are called in Labrador, start their run several weeks later than salmon; so in midsummer and near the sea, we caught many, a dozen or more, in some pools. Most of these beautiful fish we released, keeping only what were needed for Eli Ellsworth, the cheerful Newfoundlander who doubled as cook and sailor. The grilse in those icy waters weighed 4 to 5 pounds.

It is claimed by the natives around Port Saunders that salmon lose their teeth when they enter fresh water. The local folks say that Nature provides for losing one tooth per day: one the first day, another the second, and so on, with no apparent pain or loss of jet speed to the fish. The salmon that we caught near the ocean, some with sea lice on their sides, had a lot of teeth. We found others whose dental equipment was not complete. I would say that all of our fish had more teeth than the natives.

2

I AM reminded by my notes that Tuesday, July 25, was a great day on the Torrent River, well named from its precipitous descent into Hawkes Bay. The trek above the Torrent’s falls was a long one but worth every slipping, stumbling step through thick spruce forests and along boulder-strewn, buggy beaches. It might be recorded here that our whole journey was no Sunday-school picnic. Hiking on side trips up many miles of rough rivers, and being constantly on the move by sea and land, is arduous sport.

In common with other roaming anglers, we had caught many Canadian trout but up to this day had never seen squaretails of such size come to a fly in such numbers. I used a 9-foot leader tapered down to OX with a home-tied No. 10 bivisible to cast into a long, smooth slick — the outlet of one large pool into another. This particular run brought such a whirlwind of action that a cast would bring up not one but several handsome trout fighting for the fly. These 2-pound brook trout were of an orange and red hue, with bright speckles. It was an incredible experience.

My journal for July 26 reports: “We left Port Saunders at 4.30 A.M. and made a rough run 27 miles to River Castor settlement and a smooth enclosed anchorage. Then by John Plowman’s open fishing boat to the mouth of Castors River, landing in a half-dozen dooryards to walk through groups of sled dogs, cows, calves, and chickens to the First Pond, crossing by dory to beautiful Salmon Pool. With plenty of water for all four rods, this must be ranked among the fine pools of the continent. Water temperature 54°, air 56°, too cold for dries, but small salmon and grilse took well in midday on No. 8 and 10 wets with silver bodies such as Silver Grey, a favorite fly on this river. We encountered cold northeast wind and heavy rain. Filet of grilse was grilled over a fire sputtering in the storm. Total score, 16 fish — all released except a few for eating. Back to the boat at 10 for a late supper after evening fishing.”

Now this particular mess of fish, and many another on the journey, would have looked very good in the freezer at home. There was not only no chance of taking any of the catch home, there was nothing to do with them up there. We handled the fish carefully and let them go.

The weather at Castors was typical of the northwest coast. Early morning calm, and even weak sunshine setting off the rocky highlands, was deceptive. Underwear of the snug and long variety became a comforting foundation for dungarees, woolen shirts, sweaters, short raincoat, and boots or waders. Bob Stoddard gave a pair of the new plastic waders an exacting test by wearing this handy outfit throughout the trip, including strenuous marches through thick brush. The material stood up well, a few punctures being quickly repaired.

Thursday, July 27, was not the only day when we left a safe anchorage to venture into the stormy, windy Gulf of St. Lawrence to be turned back by heavy seas and gales. Seeking to make the openwater run to Flower’s Cove, we could not round tempestuous Freolle Point soon after dawn, and Sandy Parsons decided we might try “this evening” — meaning 5 to 6 P.M. Later in the day, when conditions were not so bad, we made the eastern passage to Flower’s Cove Light, arriving at dusk. At this point we were only 11 miles from Labrador, 1200 miles from home.

Flower’s Cove is a good sample of the coastal “outports.” Its sheltering peninsula, 200 yards wide, juls out into the sea. Paths run down the center of this strip leading off to each of the dwellings; fish shacks and wharves cluster on the cove side; codfish and lobsters provide a livelihood in the storm-swept, gale-blown, treeless, fogbound village. The general appearance of these northern settlements is reminiscent of Monhegan, Maine’s well-loved island.

The aroma of salt cod in the fish sheds, mixed with the tang of damp salt air, of seaweed on the rocks at low tide, and of tarred ropes, strongly pervades the harbor; while the rhythmic swish of oars and their regular beat against the dory’s wooden pins, waves lapping the piling of a wharf, the staccato putt-putt of single-cylinder boat engines, voices calling in the rapid high inflections of northern Newfoundland talk, and a distant deep-voiced foghorn are sounds of the coast.

Primed with dramamine against the turbulent crossing of the Strait of Belleisle, we set sail early the next morning from Flower’s Cove and made Point Amour Light, the Labrador, in an hour. This was good fortune as the weather can and does keep small boats bound to the coast for a week at a time. Sighting an iceberg, the Skipper altered his bearings to circle the huge floating menace. It was here that Captain Parsons earnestly gave me advice, as he circled closer for the benefit of clicking cameras: “I never trusts an hiceberg, the sons of bitches.” Drawing nearer in our tiny craft to the plunging emeraude waterline of the mass of polar ice, Sandy emphasized his opinion: “Don’t you never trusts an hiceberg, Mr. Haddams. ” (The “Mr. Haddams” was derived from an earlier fishing party of Frederick Adams of Boston, and under strained circumstances Sandy would thus address me.)

On another occasion, as we were rolling and tossing down a particularly rocky and forbidding section of the coast, the Skipper said, “Mr. Haddams, will you takes the wheel, please.”

“Where are we going?” I inquired.

Just keeps her off the rocks, my son,” said Sandy while he puttered for an hour with a motor,

3

THE summer days are long in northern latitudes. More than once we hit the deck at 5 to start cruising or fishing, and had enough daylight to fish until 10 in the evening. After inspecting the iceberg at close quarters we moved into Pinware Bay, anchoring off the mouth of that young giant of a stream, the Pinware River, seldom fished even in the lower stretches. We embarked upriver in two small boats, seeking pools unknown to the local folks and certainly to us. Each angler selected likely-looking pockets in the broad Pinware. The salmon were not fussy, as is evidenced by Paul Sample’s taking two on a Dusty Miller 10 while Bob Stoddard’s double Silver Grey 4 and my single No. 4 were both acceptable.

Northern Newfoundland and Labrador streams present no low-water problems. They were running bank high in early August when the nightly nip in the air boded the next major event to be a freeze. The Pinware River tested 52° and the air temperature was 56°. Spring-fed rivulets trickled into the river from ledges and rocky slopes leading to the 2000-foot barrens above. These little brooks tested as low as 40° and their effect could be measured 100 yards or more below the point where they joined the river, owing to the affinity that colder water has for the shore.

On Saturday we pushed farther up the river, with Stoddard and myself determined to reach the distant forks of the wild stream. We thought the obstacles of ledges, boulders, cliffs, and brush could be surmounted, so we made an early start. Not until 6 in the evening did we reach a handsome run of water at the forks. Then we had only time enough to establish the existence of rising salmon in those dream pools which have not been fished for many years. Pouring rain and hordes of black flies, accompanied by early darkness borne by a northeast wind full of fog, forced our departure for the return trip. There was not an easy or sure step made in the wet blackness as we struggled through unending and unbelievably thick spruce, mounted the high barrens to circle a cliff, then slipped along the treacherous rocks of the river. Exhausted, we were welcomed by the others on the boat with relief at 1 A.M.

Southern Labrador is infested with black flies. It may be because of the prevailing winds or the especially destitute nature of the country. There are also numerous, but bearable, insects in Newfoundland. When planning our trip we asked advice from the Dartmouth Museum’s archaeologist, Elmer Harp, who camped and excavated for artifacts on this coast a year earlier. “What kind of fly dope would be best?” we asked. “Not any,” he replied. This was a slight exaggeration but his advice to take head nets, canvas gloves, and long underwear was right. They are the only answer on jaunts into the interior buggy bush.

On Sunday, July 30, Sandy moved his boat west on the Labrador coast to Forteau Bay, anchoring at the mouth of the Forteau River, or Buckles Brook. After the usual lunch of soup, toast, and black tea all hands struck off by dory for the fishing on the Forteau. We were heartened to learn the sea trout were running. Squaretails returning from a healthful sojourn in the sea were caught almost at will and weighed up to 5 pounds.

It rained again that day. When questioned about the Labrador weather a native commented: “Sometimes we sees the sun three or four times in the summer.” He appeared to be serious.

The Forteau was well worth another day, and Monday was devoted to further fishing of the lower pools holding sea trout and grilse. Reports were highly favorable on the headwaters — large pools filled with salmon, never fished by anyone, falls the salmon could not leap, “not a bad trip at all, only 6 miles,” and so forth. By now we knew a Labrador mile when we heard it mentioned.

Dr. Miller admired the medical work done by the Grenfell Association at its Flower’s Cove and Forteau Missions, where we saw hospital facilities and visited with the British nurses in charge.

Late in the day we hauled anchor to a better mooring against the return crossing to Newfoundland. At the tiny settlement, of West St. Modesto, Labrador, its houses clinging to a seaside cliff, we witnessed an unforgettable scene. A funeral was in progress. The deceased was an Orangeman, and his men friends for miles up and down the coast had traveled in a flotilla of fishing boats that crowded the little harbor to pay their last respects. The procession formed at the wharf, somber men in Sunday best, all with rubber boots on, all wearing a bright orange sash, the straggling group led by orange flags. Every Protestant within many miles was there. The Orangemen marched up the cliff to a rocky cemetery, their loyal band disappearing through a great cleft in the huge rocks, and being swallowed by a swirling fog blown on a northerly wind from the tundra barrens beyond. The scene was sketched by Paul Sample, along with scores of other incidents, vistas, and people to fill three sketchbooks from which the artist has since worked out a number of striking water colors and oils.

4

THE Fisherman Not Only Fishes.” He also travels. We did on Tuesday, August 1, on the favorable combination of ebb tide and west wind. We recrossed the Strait of Belleisle to seek gas and finally located two 43-gallon drums of Esso at Black Duck Cove. There was still a day’s run ahead through heavy seas against a quartering strong west wind 60 miles south to Port Saunders. We were better sailors than we thought, but dramamine was a precaution and one effect of this drug is drowsiness. Artist Sample forsook all interest in art and fishing. He slept seven hours during the day. I personally observed him clutching the side of his bunk with both hands to avoid being thrown on the deck. Dramamine really works. At least we credited this new drug with keeping us well on several long and rough sea trips.

The journal for the next day records: “Rough run 10 miles to River of Ponds, leaving Port Saunders at 8 with Sandy doubtful about making it, Eli the cook confident, the rest of us hopeful.” This proved to be our best fishing river. All of the party took salmon and several ran up to 12 or 14 pounds. Earlier in the season bigger salmon are taken. We heard from the wardens about catches of 25and even 30-pound fish. But those would be heavy for northern rivers and our 14-pounders (which we not only guessed at but weighed) were highly satisfactory on light dry-fly gear.

The River of Ponds offers a succession of splendid pools from the sea to the first lake. It was here that we named the Paul Sample Dry, a fly perfected by the artist and one that produced in fine fashion on several occasions. I decided that such a lethal lure must have a name after it bobbed merrily down a fast-running rip and a fine 14pound salmon arched completely out of water to become firmly hooked and landed forty-five minutes later. I had tied this particular fly in the company of David McCord of Harvard earlier in the summer. The Paul Sample Dry includes a hair wing, generous hackle, and bit of cork around the hook.

Bob Stoddard and I were keen to see the more distant pools. This meant a journey of two days without much time to fish en route, but the exploring urge was strong and off we went with rods, head nets, and a pack basket which we later discovered contained a loaf of bread and a few cans of this and that, but nothing resembling cooking utensils, salt pork, or other supplies ordinarily considered essential for a camping trip. The local guides strictly observe Admiral King’s wartime injunction: “Do the Best You Can with What You Have.” If you don’t have anything to begin with, there is that much less to do about it. However, an old bedspring made a good grill for filet of trout, and the abandoned camp, bare of furnishings, put a roof over our heads.

At this point, the forks of the river, we were about 12 miles from the sea and there are excellent stretches of salmon water, especially for the dry fly, in the upper River of Ponds, as in the lower sections. It was a shame not to spend a week up there, instead of a few hours, fishing such handsome water as the Rock, Barras’, Island, Home, Infants, Falls, and Canyon Pools. Bob found especially good fishing in Barras’ Pool, where a Cosseboom brought him several salmon.

For almost the first time in nearly ten days, as our journey approached its end, we saw the sun. Quantities of blue iris covered the beaches of the river, sheep laurel was blossoming on higher ground, and we found a profusion of teaberries, elintonia, bunchberries, and meadow rue along the trails. There were occasional patches of a little white orchid and we ran into a large group of pitcher plants, some with the rare blossoms. It was here that Eli industriously gathered a basket of fresh fruit in the form of “bakeapple.” These berries grow on the high barrens and are prized in a land where anything fresh, except fish, is cordially welcomed.

The following day we had time to make a few final casts in northern waters before our noon departure on a tide high enough to catapult our craft out of its anchorage into the whitecapped sea. After an eight-hour run up the coast to the beautiful fjord of Bonne Bay, we took a bus to the railroad, and then our airplane journey home.

Conditions are never “just, right,” not even in unfished rivers teeming with fresh-run salmon. But we had learned before now, as all sportsmen do learn, that it is not the quantity of fish that’s fun, it’s the fishing. We had caught and released a barrel of trout and salmon on this trip. That didn’t matter. The deep, dark pools where huge fins rolled above the surface, and where our best efforts failed, will lure us back another day.