Most salmon rivers have names for their
fishing pools. While fishing at Mistaken point on the Humber
in Newfoundland I look along the river over sections I have
named myself. There’s Despondency hole just up from
Fruitless pool next to Hopeless cast.
The crazy thing is that the Newfoundlanders turn up and
fish these places anyway. On the picturesque Main River
there is Paradise Pool. If your idea of Paradise is fighting
off formation raids mounted by mosquitoes and black gnats
then this is the place for you.
I rolled down the sleeve of my woollen vest for protection
but it didn’t put off the herd of mosquitoes I found
grazing my elbow, a diversionary raid, paving the way for
gnats that attacked like dive bombers, favouring the ears
and neck. The only alternative was to wear a mosquito net
like a veil, mourning the missing fish. Salmon runs have
been late this year across much of the Northern hemisphere.
John Blake, one of the Main river guides was too tough
for the mosquitoes. “They don’t seem to bother
me,” he said. I was not surprised. When he’s
not fishing Blake likes to shoot black bears with a bow
and arrow. He often hunts alone. A bear tried to shake him
out of a tree once before he shot it.
A helicopter had brought us in to the wilderness, miles
from any road. Surely this would ensure some privacy on
an otherwise public river. I had just pulled on my waders
when what looked like a couple of bush commandos, weighed
down by heavy packs, headed down the trail to the river.
“Looks like they’re going to nab the pool,”
says Blake, “They must have hiked three hours from
the nearest road.”
I’m thinking they deserve it. After all, I arrived
the easy way. Heli-fishing is an experimental programme
introduced by Newfound, a resort development company, to
make salmon fishing more exclusive for visitors.
Newfoundland rivers are accessible to anyone who buys a
salmon-fishing licence. This leads to a free-for-all in
the most popular places. Looking out over Big Falls on the
Humber we had counted about fifty fishermen - or what the
car park sign called “fisher-persons” lining
the margins and sitting in boats.
For those of us used to a beat system - where rivers are
sectioned among a limited number of anglers - it seems a
bizarre way to fish. It doesn’t look very productive
either as fish become shy under a constant hail of artificial
flies.
This is the same spot where the late Lee Wulff once hooked
75 fish in a day. There are days now when 75 anglers would
be lucky to land a single fish between them. But they turn
up all the same, finding a slot before covering the same
spot repetitively for hours on end. A one-legged man is
fishing on crutches, water up to his thighs. Nothing stops
these people.
But it’s not my kind of fishing. Much as I enjoy
the company of guides, I prefer to fish alone where I can.
As a non-resident, however, the law says there must be at
least one guide between two visiting anglers.
I suppose if you can afford a helicopter, it’s fair
to assume that you will be able to afford the guiding fees.
But that’s missing the point. The helicopter schedule
omits two vital parts of the day for summer salmon fishing
– dawn and dusk.
Then there’s the weather. On sunny days, when the
fish are less likely to attack your fly, the helicopter
works just fine. But when the weather breaks and cloud descends,
providing better fishing conditions, the helicopter is grounded
by poor visibility. It’s an angling version of Catch-22.
There are fish to be caught and you hear plenty stories
about big ones, as you do on most salmon rivers. The reality
in July, however, is that many of the fish that we’re
covering are grilse – the smaller one-sea-winter fish.
Paradise pool does indeed produce fish. I catch and return
a four pound grilse that barely puts a bend in my 15-foot
Sage salmon rod. It’s like hauling out a stickleback
on the park lake. It rose spectacularly to a dry “bomber”
fly fished upstream on a dead drift. That was the best bit.
The rest was abject surrender.
My companion lands a similar fish which she kills. The
guides grill it with bacon and strips of caribou meat in
the time we have left before the helicopter arrives. Never
mind fancy recipes, it’s hard to match such simple
cooking out in the open.
Some guides, such as Joe Hiscock, live out on the river
for most of the season. He has a cabin alongside Grandy’s
River, one of the prettiest stretches of water you are likely
to find anywhere. He loves the river, knows every inch of
it and it’s a privilege to learn alongside him. But
the weather is hot and no amount of wizardry is going to
shift those fish from their lies without some rainfall.
He knows that too.
This is why I’m so sceptical about this kind of arrangement.
Technology and tightly drawn schedules cannot overcome the
limitations imposed by dry weather or a late start to the
season. You need to live with a river to experience the
best it can offer and, for most of us, that remains a dream.
Heli-fishing in Newfoundland is an experiment which may
need some refinement, such as more prolonged stays in the
wilderness, for any real success. There is novelty value
but why should Europeans travel so far when there is excellent
fishing on their doorstep?
In the longer term, if the authorities are realistic about
attracting anglers from abroad they must amend their licensing
system to allow greater freedom of movement without guides.
People will still use guides but the option to hire should
be discretionary.
