Cape Breton Salmon Fishing

Sometimes a whole trip can come down to one cast. One chance, do or die, for one fish. I remember such a moment on a small, crystalline river in Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. It was the second week of September, the last glory of a hot, dry summer. We were prospecting for late run Steelhead but secretly hoped a rainy day would flush some fresh salmon into the rivers. The weather however continued hot and dry. We caught countless small brookies on tiny dry flies but no Steelhead and no Salmon.

We took a break from the punishing heat to visit the Margaree Salmon Museum and even put a few casts across the logey salmon holding deep in that pool behind the town library. Later that night we enjoyed a “sociable” with the fellow we were renting the cabin from and laughed as he commented on our day’s adventures on the Margaree.
“Those fish have seen so many flies by now that you can just picture one of the hook-jawed old brutes turning to his buddy and saying -They call that a Blue Charm? I’ve seen better.”
He went on to tell us of one pool on a smaller river that just might hold a few takers. It involved a ninety minute walk through the woods and no guarantee but that we would work up a sweat. We set out at dawn the next morning.

There is nothing like a long walk through unfamiliar woods on a thready path to make you second guess what seemed like such a good idea over a short Glenfiddich and a Cohiba. Our doubts vanished as we crested a hill and the view of the river opened before us. High rocky banked on the far side with a series of small falls up stream and a boulder strewn flat on this side. The river was deep with a jewel-like green tint in the very deepest parts but clear as glass in the shallows. It ran off to our left heading towards the sea, gradually slowing and widening as it made its way down out of the highlands. The beauty was literally breath taking after the close, sweaty walk through the bush. We barely had time to wonder how we’d figure out the pools in this exuberant tumble when a silver missile shot from the water, smashing back with a nerve-jangling crash just below the first small falls.

As I approached the river I could see fish lying in a deep pocket behind a low, flat rock. I backed away slowly, carefully marking where they lay, amazed again by the clarity of the water. How many times do I have to learn this lesson: stop and look around before rushing up to a new pool? I backed well off and studied what appeared to be the named pool just upstream below the first white water.

I took a step and scanned, took a step and scanned, took a step and stopped. Sure enough, there was the deep, green-tinted flash of another fish a longish cast away and up stream. It took a moment for my brain to sort out the complexity of light and shadow under moving water but there they were. Another pod of salmon deep in the spring fed security of a small, boulder strewn pool.

I crept back from the river and conferred with my fishing partner. Our opening strategy was to assume that I had spooked the fish in the lower pool but they would be settled again by the time I had rigged up a longer leader and sneaked back to the river, as long a cast away from the fish as I could manage. The upper pool was undisturbed and I suggested Brad “give that a flick” as they say in Newfoundland, while I changed my terminal tackle.

The pools were an amazing confusion of currents and boulders making it extremely difficult to present the fly. The scenery was glorious and wild. It was invigorating just to be there. I’m sure a local guide could have cracked the problem of these currents in minutes but I was baffled. As I studied the situation in the pool I was fishing it dawned on me that these fish had not read the same books I had or they would know that they were holding in the wrong place. Every boulder littering the streambed deflected the current in unpredictable ways. It was such chaos that I couldn’t get a wet fly near them and a dry fly was snatched away before drifting a few feet. If the water was not so clear I would have waded out above the rock that created this unexpected eddy they were sheltering in.

With nothing to lose anyway I tried something that would make a purist cringe. I changed from the small Blue Charm I was fishing to a large marabou Cardinal. It wasn’t that this fly would be a better choice but I wanted to be able to see every moment of its action during this experiment. Then, I laid a cast so that the tip of my fly-line landed on the rock the fish were sheltering behind. The current snatched my fly and swung it in a perfect arc, pivoting on the point of contact with the rock that had created this tiny pool. A grilse bolted from the group and I was fast into a fish before I had a chance to process all that had happened.
The fish was just turning dark from being in the river a while but had all the vigour of this cold, highland stream. By the time Brad had worked his way back to where I was fishing I had released two grilse and had another tail-dancing across the pool.
There are lessons in this day about much that is fundamental to good fly-fishing, the need for stealth, accurate casting and the other, almost innumerable, scraps of knowledge essential to the art of fly fishing for Atlantic Salmon.









I think Brad summed it up best though during the long walk back when he said, “all things considered, it doesn’t hurt to be lucky.”