The Lost Salmon Rod

Warren told me a good story the other night. He and his fishing partner were out on the Medway River early in the season. The water was high and very dark. As they lined the boat up with landmarks on the shore to pinpoint their position, Warren got ready to drop the anchor.

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Now most boats rigged for salmon fishing on the Medway have a special rig attached to the bow that the anchor rope is passed through and by lifting the rope you can lower the anchor, or raise it, or just adjust it a little.

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When the anchor is out of the water it hangs off the bow or can be lifted into the boat.

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As long as there is a forward pull on the rope, the line is held fast which makes handling the anchor a one hand job if you need to adjust position to chase a fish or get a better angle for a cast.

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That doesn't matter much because this boat didn't have one. The anchor was just tied-off to a thwart with the line in loose coils on the deck under their feet. Once the boat was positioned exactly where they wanted it in the pool Warren heaved the anchor overboard. The anchor line whipped away following the weight into the depths. One of the coils came tight around the tip of one of their salmon rods, flipping it over the gunwale and dragging it deep into the river.

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What a commotion as the boys first stared in disbelief at this catastrophe then frantically pulled the anchor back aboard hoping beyond hope that the rod was some how still attached. It wasn't.

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The Medway River in the full flow of early summer can be awesome. The water almost black and running free from dams or other human interference has incredible power. It can pull the bow of an anchored boat under if you get your anchor fouled when retrieving it. But that is another of Warren's stories for another time.

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The current had moved the boys a fair ways downstream from where the rod went over by the time they got their thoughts organized. Edging the boat back forward, making careful sightings and note of the landmarks, they anchored again at what they figured was the place of the disaster.

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Peering over the side into the black and roiling water it seemed hopeless, the rod was lost. The other fellow in the boat who happened to be the owner of the rod, tore a strip of cloth from his brightly coloured shirt and wrapping it around a wrench or some other sinkable from the boat, dropped it over the side. The fluttering strip of cloth faded from sight long before hitting the bottom and there it stayed.

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As fierce as the Medway River can be in full spate, come the hot days of summer the river settles more placidly into its banks becoming a beautiful, tea coloured stream. The current flows in a dignified, slow procession carrying tiny islands of foam kicked up from the progression of small falls, Bangs Falls, Bear Falls and so on down to Port Medway and ultimately the sea.

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It was August when the boys thought to head out on the river to search for the lost rod. They were optimistic but not hopeful. In short order they were lining the boat up with the aid of meticulously recorded landmarks and carefully this time, dropping the anchor at what they thought was the spot.

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They leaned out over the sides of the boat scanning the tannin coloured water. The bottom was clearly visible. There, a couple of feet away was the calmly waving strip of torn shirt. About three feet downstream from it was the lost rod.

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And so the salmon season on the Medway ended with a few new stories and a valuable lesson or two. I wonder if the boys caught any fish that year? I must ask Warren next time I see him.

Stewardship and Waterfront Development

There has been a lot of concern in the last few years about the disappearance of frogs and other amphibians from their normal territories. The specific reason for their loss is still elusive but intuition suggests environmental degradation of one sort or another as the likely cause.

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At my cottage on the Medway River, the fellow who owned it before me cut all of the bushes and trees from the waterline back to the cottage. He wanted to have a better view of the river. He got the view he wanted but at a price.

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For example, at certain times of the day Salmon used to hold in the shadow of the Button Bushes he cut down. There has not been one seen there since.

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When I started going to Bear Falls, it was pleasant but the Salmon were on the decline anyway from the scourge of acid rain. It was more a place to go and decompress rather than a fishing destination. It was quiet.

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Over the last ten years the bushes and shrubs along the river bank have grown back. With the re-growth came an explosion of life. As I sit here, the sound of birds is almost tropical. For the first time since I can remember the Red-winged Blackbirds are nesting along the river shore. Each bird with a carefully measured territory he will defend with song and action. Song Sparrows abound, Robins, Blue Jays, Canada Jays, Pine Siskin, the cheerful Chickadees, comical and friendly Juncos, Wrens and Finches I have not identified yet and more. Someday I’ll make a list. I bet it will amaze me.

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It is not just the birds, insects too are rebounding. The dragonflies, damselflies and all of their aquatic brethren, those whose nymphs climb from the water for the metamorphosis into ephemeral winged beauty are colonizing the new grown lushness along the river.

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The frogs started their comeback a couple of years ago. This year they are as thick as the birds. If I walk from my cottage to the river now I fully expect to see frogs, Leopard Frogs, Bull Frogs, and the common Green Frog. It used to be a treat to spot one.
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With the frogs came the turtles, Snapping and Painted as well as a funny shaped one that may have been a Blanding’s turtle but I did not want to scare it off by trying to catch it and see.

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At night the fireflies are like a miniature galaxy along the river bank. Bats weave through the dusk, picking off the unwary. All to a chorus of the deep organ tones of Bullfrogs punctuating the river’s descent of the falls.
I guess what constitutes a view is in the eye of the beholder.

Early Spring Trout Fishing

Early spring is a hard time to be a fly-fisherman. Everyone knows that a nice fresh minnow or a big gob of worms is going to catch some trout. A fly, well, it is a bit harder to have the same confidence.

I used to head out on opening day with a pocket full of big Muddlers and an eight-weight outfit. I was excited to be fishing again after the long winter but really, it was mostly casting practice.

I remember fishing opening days with Glenn Parlee when I lived in Queens County. He is the best canoe man I have ever had the pleasure of fishing with. He does have one annoying habit though. He catches big trout.

The worst example of this was one opening day on the Medway River.

He casually maneuvered the canoe through runs and rapids that left me white-knuckled in the bow.

At one point, I flicked my Muddler into a picture perfect little pocket just behind the dump of a small section of rapids. I was so sure I was about to connect that I started to give a play-by-play commentary.

“Dobson places a perfect cast into the pocket and braces for the strike. The crowd falls silent…” that sort of thing, only the strike never came. I tried again and still nothing.

Turning to Glenn, I gently expressed my disbelief that there was not a trout holding there.
He shrugged and picked up his rod then cast a God-awful rubber minnow thing into the spot I had just worked over with the fly.

Ka-boom! Instantly he was into a seriously substantial Brook Trout. I cannot remember the exact measurements of the brute. I mean the trout not Glenn, but it was the biggest Eastern Brook Trout I had ever seen.

The only one close to it I had ever seen Glenn caught opening day the year before.

Like I said, a nice guy with one annoying habit.

New fishing pictures

Some great new pictures added to the gallery.

Here are a few of them.

The Carters Bug Salmon Fly

One of the best all round but under-rated flies I’ve ever used is a little beauty called the Carters Bug. I had a couple given to me back in the early nineties by a gentleman from Greenfield while we were chatting on the bank of the Medway River.



I was doing a job in the Mill Village/Charleston area and used to drive to the nearest pool on the Medway River to watch the salmon fishermen while I ate my lunch. As a matter of fact, the first Atlantic Salmon I ever saw caught was at the pool just down from the satellite station. I can’t remember the name of it right now. It was just where an old ruined dam on the far side slows the current that a grilse rolled. Richard Anthony who was watching too saw the fish, poled his river boat into position and hooked the fish within minutes; an impressive display to say the least. It was as we were enjoying the spectacle that the fellow from Greenfield gave me two flies and encouraged me to try my hand at salmon fishing at first opportunity. The flies were Carters Bugs.
I gave them a try that weekend on a trouting trip to the Eel Weir in Kejimkujik National Park. The fly was magic. I lost the first one at some point and the second was so chewed up by the end of the day that it was almost unrecognizable.
That night I found out why the fly is so under-rated. It is a fish magnet without question but it is very difficult to tie a good one and almost impossible to find them in a fly shop. I’ve been trying off and on since then to tie a match to those original bugs. I sometimes come close but never quite get there.

The closest thing I’ve seen that compares to the Carters Bug for both trout and salmon is George Hardy’s Brown Bug, a renowned salmon fly for dry fly fishing salmon on the Garia Bay River. I can’t tie those worth a darn either but that doesn’t seem to matter to the fish.



A while ago Pat Donoghue from “ Nova Scotia Fly-fishing, Tying and Tall Tales” mentioned Bryant Freeman’s name to me in an email which led me to Bryant’s website. Imagine my surprise when I saw his comments on the Carter’s Bug. Spend a few minutes browsing his site and you will understand why I feel a bit better about not mastering this fly. I’ve rarely seen such high-end fly tying.

Bryant has a fine pedigree as a salmon fisherman and fly tyer. If you spend any time at all in the Medway Country you’ll hear more than one story about his Dad, Lew Freeman and his exploits fishing the Medway in those not so distant good old days.

My brother Warren wrote recently that there is some work being done on the Medway this year. There is a plan to lime the river as well as plantings of genetic stock to enhance the runs of sea trout and salmon.

A Simple Water System for a Riverside Cottage

Here is an interesting wildlife related problem for you all to mull over. I have a cottage on the wonderful Medway River. I carry in my drinking water but for showers, toilet and sinks I draw water from the river. The system is simple: a pump and pressure tank up at the cabin and a long run of plastic pipe to the water. To prime the pump I use a “shop vac”, one of those wet/dry workshop vacuum cleaners, to suck water into the intake pipe. It doesn’t quite have the power to finish the job so a bucket of water is still required to completely fill the pipe and pump. Before my Dad had the brainstorm to try the vacuum it would take many buckets painstakingly poured into the prime inlet on the pump. Anyway, once it is primed and working it just ticks along, adding an element of luxury and convenience that makes the cottage very comfortable. The thing I like about the system is that it is non-intrusive. When I shut the place down for the winter I just roll the pipe up and put it in the garage ready for next year. There is no trace that it was ever there.
Sounds great so far, right? Well, here is the thing. Beavers! They must figure my water pipe is a root or tree branch that is in their way and set out to chew a path through it. When primed, there is a fair amount of water in the pipe. The beavers gnaw away and as soon as they break through, a stream of water jets out like a geyser. The pressure switch kicks in and runs the pump which makes a wonderful fountain-like effect as a pulsing jet of water comes shooting up out of the Button Bushes that line the river bank.
It must scare the dickens out of the beavers because when I repair the leak they won’t touch it again for weeks. Inevitably though, they will try and clear it out of the way once more.
And I used to laugh at the effort people go through trying to outsmart the squirrels that rob their bird feeders.
Here is a tip for you if you can trust a man that is not as smart as a beaver. I use the shop vacuum again in the autumn to suck out all the water from the camp plumbing. No water gets left in the pipes so no leaks from poorly drained fixtures or low spots freezing come spring . Well, in theory anyway.

Playing a salmon

I was thinking recently about some of my early salmon fishing escapades.

I caught my first salmon at Grandy's Brook near Burgeo in Newfoundland and was well and truly hooked from then on.

The guides on that first trip were the Hare brothers and it was Clayton that put me onto the first grilse I ever hooked.

The big lesson for me was that hooking a salmon is only the beginning. Playing one is something else entirely.



Before leaving on this trip I'd discussed my upcoming adventure with the great fly-tier and raconteur, Jim Harding.

Jim's advice about playing a salmon was pithy and to the point. "When he pulls, you don't. When he don't, you do".

Well, it turns out to be pretty good advice and I have offered it many times myself to new adventurers.

When I got back from that trip I couldn't wait to try for salmon on the rivers in my home province. There are some good ones too, the St. Mary's, the Margaree and the Medway to name but a few.

There is a spot on the Medway River called High Rock Pool. Before the run was depleted and the river closed to salmon fishing it was one of the spots that could sometimes be fished without a boat.

Shortly after my return from the Newfoundland trip I headed out to High Rock Pool to try my luck. Trust me, skill was not going to be a factor in that day's activities.

The Medway is a lovely river. A gravel road runs down one side of it's length. The other side is well treed and wild with a few campsites and cabins.

The River Road makes a slow turn and the view opens up at High Rock Pool. It is pleasant to pull over for a few minutes and watch the angler lucky enough to be fishing while you are headed to work or on some other errand that keeps you off the river.

That's how it was this day. I was standing at the top of the run, casting a Blue Charm, quartering down stream and concentrating with all of my might on every bit of fishing lore I'd heard in Newfoundland.

There was a truck pulled over on the road across the river. Watching I supposed with envy as I fished. Just then I noticed something odd in the water. It was a blue shape, bobbing downstream in the current and slowly sinking. It was almost lost to sight when it struck me. That is my jacket.

It must have blown off the rock behind me into the river. I mentally wrote it off as lost when another thought hit me: My car keys are in the pocket!

As fast as I could I stripped in my line and made a desperate cast at what I now could see was an air bubble trapped in the material of the jacket, barely keeping it afloat as the current rushed it away from me.

What a miraculous sense of relief when the line came tight and my hook set firmly into the sodden mass. The rod arced with the weight and I struggled with the rushing current to reclaim my keys.

No easy thing, I had to skip across the rocks, gradually working the closest thing to an anchor I've ever had on a fishing rod, into the slacker water below me.

At some point I looked across the river towards the road. Imagine my embarrassment as I saw not just a couple of vehicles pausing momentarily in their journey but several cars parked and people standing on the bank watching what to them must have seemed like a lucky fisherman battling a huge salmon.

The whole thing became much more complicated as I tried to retrieve the damn jacket all the while keeping my face averted in the hope that no one would recognize me.

I finally had to reach down into the water below the rock I was standing on, grab the soaking wet jacket and hoist it up.

Acutely conscious of the crowd on the opposite shore I pantomimed my disgust with hooking this strange thing, snapped my leader, leaving the hook in my jacket and flung the whole sloppy mess into the bushes.

Burning with self-consciousness I opened my fly box and tried to portray calm as I tied on a new fly. When I slid my gaze back across the river, the road was mercifully empty.

I leaped like a deer into the bushes and grabbed my dripping coat, feeling frantically for the reassurance of car keys in the pocket, then I got the Hell out of there.