Steve Dobson's Fisherman's Blog: Quarryville, New Brunswick

When I was younger, my Uncle Vaughan invited me to go fishing with him in the Miramichi country of New Brunswick. My total salmon fishing experience up to that time was a trip to Grandees Brook near Burgeo, Newfoundland, the summer before and some fumbling on local rivers.

I was pretty impressed with the whole thing. We were travelling in a superb RV complete with shower and kitchen. He loaded his beautiful Hardy fly rod, Hardy St John reel and lots of flies and gizmos. I threw in the Canadian Tire, all in one, learn to fly fish kit I’d bought years before when I lived in British Columbia. It had served me well for everything from Large Mouth Bass and Kamloops Trout to the sea-fresh Grilse in Newfoundland but it sure wasn’t a House of Hardy limited edition.

The salmon fishing is a bit different in New Brunswick. The rivers still have some privately leased waters and a guide must accompany non-residents. Having said that; there is still a vast amount of public water and lots of salmon. Another interesting thing about New Brunswick is that there is a spring or Black Salmon season there as well.
We left from Moncton and headed North towards Vaughan’s favourite spot on the Little Southwest Miramichi.

After spending the night in the RV we hit the river at dawn the next morning. It was a lovely spot to fish. The river was smallish with a pebbled bottom and an easy shore to walk. I can’t remember the names of the pools we fished. I’m not sure they were even named; there was so much fishy water. We didn’t see any salmon but Vaughan did spend some time correcting my cast and giving me some tips on where the fish would be and how to work a fly over them.

Around noon we packed it in and headed for Quarryville. What a pool there is there, I’d never seen or heard of anything like it. The Quarryville pool is huge with a well-defined gravel bar that anglers can wade out to and fish from. The thing that impressed me apart from the size of the water was the number of anglers on the river. I’d never thought of salmon fishing as a team sport but there were at least fifteen guys working their way down that bar. The system was; take a cast or two and then a step, a cast or two and then a step until you reached the end of the beat and walked back to the top to start through again. It was certainly intimidating for a beginner but what the heck; I figured I’d give it a go.

`We pulled into the parking area and got geared up. Waders on and rods assembled we started the short walk to the river. I noticed a Range rover with the tailgate down. A fellow who met every preconception I’d ever had about a salmon fisherman was busily making a cup of tea on a small alpine stove. As I passed him we exchanged pleasantries and doubtless after eyeing my equipment he asked if this was my first time fishing here. I acknowledged as much and he reached into his pocket for a well-worn fly box from which he plucked a green butt Butterfly, the first I’d ever seen. He encouraged me to give it a try. Out of politeness rather than confidence in this odd creation I tied it on while chatting with him and then scurried away as he wished me luck and caught up with Vaughan.

I should mention that that gentleman of brief acquaintance, who’s name I’ve long forgotten, did as much to shape my attitude and model my behaviour when on the water as anyone else I’ve ever met or fished with. It seems to be the hallmark of salmon fishermen to be generous with tackle and advice to newcomers. It is a wonderful tradition of the sport I aspire toward and admire mightily when I observe it in others.

Back to my story, Vaughan was waiting for me at the water’s edge and pointed out the route to wade to begin fishing the pool. He went ahead and I followed to try and see what he was doing. I confess it wasn’t for the fishing technique, rather so that I wouldn’t make too big a fool of myself.

I waded out to the gravel bar and took my place in the line of men, all casting out into the boundless pool in front of us. I couldn’t see any definable target so just whacked out as long a cast as I could manage and watched carefully as the current caught my fly and swung it in the perfect arc of a downstream wet fly presentation. I took another cast and then two steps down the bank. Off to my left about a dozen other fellows were doing the same thing. I took another cast and watched the swing. The fly went a few feet and stopped. I raised the rod tip in an instinctive reaction and to my complete disbelief a heavy weight pulsed through the length of the rod. A silver grilse immediately leaped and started my reel screaming.

I was thrilled and befuddled. I had miraculously hooked a fish but it was running down stream to my left, right into the thick of the line of anglers strung out along the bar. Then the fellow next to me hollered, ”Fish on” and there were two grilse leaping and running within yards of each other. It was a blur of excitement as we chased our fish the whole way down the gravel bar. Our fellow anglers parted then closed in behind us to continue their fishing, one eye on the circus playing out off the end of the bar and one eye on their own flies. The other guy landed his fish first, and then tailed mine for me. There we stood still shaking with the excitement and laughing at our mutual good fortune to have been the ones in the right place at the right time.

I still have that tattered green-butt Butterfly. I keep it in a little container by my fly-tying stuff. Occasionally I spill it out onto my palm and remember that extraordinary trip and the characters that played a role in it. Each worthy of a few moments reminisce, my Uncle Vaughan, the gentleman brewing tea on the tailgate of his truck and my partner in the two grilse flying-circus.

Many years have passed since then and this year I used Uncle Vaughan’s Hardy rod and reel to land and release the biggest salmon I’ve ever tangled with. I don’t know if I ever told Vaughan how much that trip meant to me. I wish I had.