Leapers, not takers

So, I tell myself that “epiphany” is too strong a word for the incipient doubts Dad airs that morning in our provincial Best Western. Maybe part of him really does want to detach from the dream of catching another salmon. But he’s also just expressing more of the wistful reverence this fish inspires in him. He says nothing more about letting the salmon be. We pack up our gear, eat some rubbery hotel eggs, and get on with it.

Twenty-four hours later finds us, somewhat unbelievably, on an upper branch of the Cascapédia. This is coveted water, admission to which is extremely limited. Gaining entry to “the Grand” requires the kind of connections, money, advance planning, and patience for French-accented bureaucracy that is beyond Dad and me. We’re here thanks to my friend Ben, who has fished this storied river with his father for decades and who plots his annual Gaspé trips the way Tom Cruise choreographs stunts for action movies.

We’ll report back to Ben and the seven other fishermen in his party at day’s end. For now, we’re enjoying the rare feeling of getting a three-mile stretch of river to ourselves. As our young local guide, Dominik, prepares the canoe, Dad and I follow a footpath to a pool just below the put-in. Dad’s wobbliness on uneven ground requires me to hook his left arm in mine, a form of filial dependence that always gets him hunting for something — anything — else that we can talk about. Within seconds, he’s jabbing his walking stick at a chewed tree limb. “Beaver’s been there,” he says. “Just keep your eye on the trail, Dad,” I say.

Dad has loved being in canoes as long as I have known him. What he loves even more is what he’s lost — being in control of a canoe — and he compliments Dominik’s poling, an old-timey skill that Dad prides himself on once having, while paradoxically keeping an anxious grip on the gunwales. We stop at several known holding places that morning, during which Dad relaxes, and pass flies through them. No takes. We spot one or two fish that might have been enticed, but only after approaching them in the canoe, by which time they’ve spooked and the opportunity has vanished.

Apart from that, our success rate has been abysmal, a fact that bothers Dad less than me. This could be because he caught his share of salmon back in the day, when there were more of them and it was easier. But I think it comes down to mentality. Dad surrenders to the noble salmon. His attitude is that the spawning fish are the ones on a mission, not us. He obsesses over casting technique — including mine, for better or worse — but otherwise accepts his fate.

I can maintain this mindset for up to three fruitless days. After that, I start wondering what else we can fish for. As an old Quebecois fisherman once said to me, “You don’ ‘ave to be crazy to fish for salmon, but it ‘elp.” The sunk costs — of time, money, and hope — enhance the payoff, of course. They also sharpen the pain of losing a salmon, especially when you’re to blame. One year on the Bonaventure, I watched two salmon rise to my Bomber dry-fly in a single day, struck too early on both of them, and came no closer to hooking a fish all trip. Meanwhile, back home — a 15-hour drive away — the trout were feeding. Not for the first time, I seriously questioned what I was doing.

But that’s just me. There’s also Dad.

We get out of the canoe for lunch, and I gingerly walk Dad (“Look, some moose tracks there...”) over to the folding chair that has been set up for him. Out of the riffle in front of us spills a long, deep run that Dominik assures us contains a heap of salmon. Another leaper (“remember, not a taker”) almost immediately proves him right.

I finish my sandwich and, throwing superstition to the wind, take a glug of the whisky that was intended for celebration. (Then again, maybe holding Lagavulin in reserve for celebrating is the jinx. Typical salmon-fishing thoughts.) Dominik ties on a chartreuse-and-black fly that I’ve never heard of called a “Watch Out!”

Polite and soft-spoken, Dominik has proven to be an ideal audience for Dad’s tales, and I hear him begin to unspool an old one (“Have you heard of Richard Adams? He was guiding Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter on the Matapedia this one time....”) as I step into the river.

A few casts in, everything suddenly changes. There’s a distinct weight at the end of the line, which has now tightened. I raise the rod, and the weight races downriver. Dominik is within earshot now — “Keep the rod up!” — and Dad echoes him.

The salmon takes me into my backing and then eases off, allowing me to reclaim yardage while steering the fish away from some boulders. It’s about 100 feet away when it leaps for the first time. Five minutes later, the line springs loose and I see my fly lofting toward me. My salmon has come unhooked.

I feel despair creeping up — or is it just Dominik, who’s come to inspect the fly and leader? Both are in fine shape, and I realize that I did nothing bone-headed during this lost battle. Sometimes breaking off is just what fish do. I look back at Dad, hunched in his parka and looking neither too happy nor too sad. “Go catch another one!” he urges, trying to raise my spirits. I’m not quite ready to do that, but nor do I feel crushed. A lot of what I came up here to feel happened in those ten crazy minutes. Look on the bright side, I tell myself. You’ve got two and a half, maybe three days of guided fishing ahead of you.