The Salmon of Labrador

by FRED S. GIBBS

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AS TIME is reckoned, it isn’t so very long ago that great schools of salmon heralded the coming of summer throughout hundreds of miles of New England coastline. Rivers large and small provided healthy housekeeping facilities for millions of salmon following their compelling urge to seek the waters of their birth and propagate the species. But the spreading tentacles of a growing civilization stripped the land of its forest cover, dammed some of the coastal streams, and fouled the waters with sewage offal and industrial wastes.

There are coastal rivers on our North American continent that still meet the specifications of the migrating salmon—rivers born in watersheds far from human habitation, whose cold tumbling waters are unimpeded in their race to the sea. These perfect salmon waters abound in the most easterly triangular strip of mainland, which until recently was politically a dependency of Newfoundland and is known as “The Labrador.”

The Strait of Belle Isle separates the northern tip of Newfoundland from the southern boundary of Labrador. To the east, north, and northwest, Labradors rugged coastline is continuously carved with fiords and bays that mark the mouths of beautiful salmon rivers.

The coming of the short Labrador summer is greeted with huge schools of magnificent salmon working their way through the cold waters of the iceberg-st rewn Labrador Current to the rivers of their birth. And the rivers coöperate with ideal flow conditions that are dependably maintained by the melting of the deep snow cover in the Arctic interior. Here is a fishing paradise that is beyond the imagination of most anglers.

My introduction to the salmon of Labrador was by accident, not by design. Four of us were spending two weeks in July, 1950, fly-fishing the coastal rivers of northwest Newfoundland. We cruised the coast from Rocky Harbor on the Madelyn Rose, a fifty-foot fishing boat built and skippered by Captain Alexander ("Sandy”) Parsons. A combination of indifferent Newfoundland fishing and unusually calm weather induced Sandy to suggest that we chance the run across the Strait of Belle Isle and try one of the Labrador rivers. His idea met with instant and unanimous agreement. We put in at Flower’s Cove for gas, oil, and bread, spending as little time as necessary there before heading out into the fast currents of the Strait. By nightfall we were securely anchored in Labrador’s Forteau Bay near Buckle’s Point, with four huge anchors spread-eagled to hold the Madelyn Rose safely away from gigantic rocks hidden under the powerful tides and currents.

The next morning our skipper warned us that our Labrador fishing would have to be confined to just a few hours, because the barometer was falling and we would have to cross the Strait that afternoon or risk being stormbound in Labrador for days. We made the most of our time, fishing several of the Forteau River pools near tidewater. The fishing was superior to any that we had enjoyed in Newfoundland. Newfoundland salmon are marvelous fighters — leader-breaking, dynamite-loaded, slashing wildcats; but the Labrador salmon had all that and more. The pools were well populated with magnificent fish fresh from the sea, and many fine salmon rose to our flics. The morning passed too quickly and noontime found us most reluctant to leave such a glorious salmon river. We were determined to plan the next year’s trip so as to spend a full week on the Forteau.

Through the long winter months I indulged in many a reverie in which the Forteau River and its salmon held the stage. And always the river was in perfect condition; the magnificent salmon coöperated in rising to my flies and gave me many a terrific battle with their tremendous leaps and powerful rushes. My anticipation had been built up beyond any reasonable achievement, but such is the stuff that makes a fly-fisherman.

Exactly a year after our Newfoundland trip, four of us flew north from Boston to Gander and Port Saunders and again crossed the Strait to the mouth of the Forteau. I shall never forget my first cast on this return to Labrador. It was in the first pool above tidewater, The river, as in my winter dreams, was flowing bank high with clear cold water. I remembered my winter preoccupations, comparing my oft-repealed mental pictures with the actual beauty of this untamed stream.

I studied the water to determine whether I could actually see any of the salmon that were so evident in my winter imagination. It takes a little time for one’s eyes to become accustomed to looking t hrough the mirror of a water surface to see what is beneath. You cannot, of course, see clearly, but you can determine what is there by observat ion and deduction. As I peered intently into the flowing water, some shapes took substance. I was standing knee-deep in the water near the tail end of the pool, and my observations were limited to an area of possibly forty or fifty square yards. Yet, in that comparatively small area, I could see three salmon as they moved slightly to hold their positions in the powerful currents. Two of the fish were lying in about four feet of water and were parallel with each other on either side of a deeper channel with a gravel bottom. As I watched them, their slight movements would cause their silver sides momentarily to reflect light, and furl her watching brought out more details of their shape and size.

About fifteen to eighteen feet downstream was a large round boulder that nearly broke the water surface. Current eddies boiled around each side of the rock, and the water bulged somewhat in front. As I studied the water, lost in my thoughts of dreams versus reality, a glimpse of silver directed my attention to a spot in front of the boulder. The silver flash repeated itself several times and 1 was sure that a restless salmon was swinging with the currents upstream of the boulder, and this salmon appeared larger than the other two.

Three days before, I had bought some Englishmade flies at Goodyear’s Store in Gander. I selected a No. 8 Black Silver Tip and tied it to one of my home-tied nylon filament tapered leaders. Two or three false easts and the Black Silver Tip dropped into the water a few feet upstream of the large boulder. The fly swung with the current just in front of the salmon’s nose. Nothing happened, but I saw The salmon turn from his stand and follow the fly a foot or two. I lengthened the next cast to drop t he fly a yard or so upsi ream of t he first east. This time the fly swung into the current more sharply and achieved that mysterious action that either provokes or entices a salmon into a smashing strike. This salmon hit so quickly and so viciously that I hardly knew what had happened.

One who has not experienced the strike and fight of a Labrador salmon will have some difficulty in understanding how any fish could possibly have such tremendous energy and power. This salmon struck “going away,” and he kept right on going with a phenomenal speed, weaving his frenzied path upstream between (he boulders in the pool. About thirty or forty yards from where he struck the fly (and but the slightest fraction of a second later) he came tearing out of the water in an arching twisting leap that ended in a crash landing in the pool inlet rapids. That was it and I had had it! My line had fouled or caught on one of the boulders, so that when the fish leaped he jumped against a tight line and the little No. 8 hook pulled out. In this minor detail, reality differed from my dreams.

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I SPENT the ensuing seven days fishing and exploring the Forteau River, and learning a little about this interesting country and the fine people who make it their home. Strangers in a strange land, we were dependent on the help and guidance of the Labrador natives in our fishing and exploring. The natives are the descendants of white settlers who, several generations ago, came to Labrador for the exceptional cod fishing in the icy Labrador Current. In Forteau Bay there are three settlements: Forteau Village, Buckle’s Point, and Eastern Point. Our native guides were recruited from these scattered groups. I believe that it was the first time that they had ever worked as “guides” for sport fishermen. I do know that they thought that it was the height of foolishness for anyone to try to catch salmon with a light bamboo rod, silken leader, and tiny fly. They are deep-sea fishermen who must earn their year’s income in a concentrated six or seven weeks of cod fishing, and sport fishing is an unheard-of luxury.

That week on the Forteau was all that we had hoped for. The river flow eonditions were ideal and the innumerable pools were well populated with salmon. We explored and fished the river to Outside Pond and went on upstream to the big falls and Middle Pond, finding choice pools all the way.

The inlet pool, which we now call the Lady’s Pool because if can be fished readily from a boat, is approximately three hundred yards long and about fifty yards wide, with a water depth of from three to six feet. The water surface is broken here and there with swirls where underwater boulders disturb the smooth flow of the current. One third of the way down the pool, boulders narrow the stream to twenty or twenty-five yards, making a large pool within a pool. The entire length, and most of the width, of the Lady’s Pool affords beautiful water for resting salmon gathering their strength for their ordeal in the swift waters upstream. At times the surface of this pool is ruptured by dozens of jumping salmon. It is the culmination of a flyfisherman’s dream.

A short distance above the Lady’s Pool is another smooth-surfaced fast water, sixty yards in length. I first fished this pool from one of the large rocks at the head. Then I discovered an underwater flattopped boulder some fifteen yards downstream, located off the edge of the salmon water but requiring some precarious wading to reach it. I crossed the slippery rocks and strong currents and found myself on the boulder joyfully casting a dry fly to the most promising part of the pool. Businesslike rises were frequent, and soon I had hooked a fat silver speed demon. The battle had not progressed more than two or three jumps when the enraged salmon took off for the rapids below the pool. The reel handle whirled like an electric fan, the fly line out and the backing fast disappearing.

My only chance was to get into shallow water or ashore and follow the salmon in his downstream rush, hoping meanwhile that the boulders in the rapids would not foul the line and that all the line would not run off the reel before I could catch up with the fish. I took a backward step feeling for the bottom with my boot toe. The bottom was not there. I lost my balance and fell backward into the icy river. By the time I was pulled out, my salmon was well on his way to Forteau Bay, a brown BiVisible with a few inches of leader hanging on his lip. Victor, our guide, suggested that since I had made such a big hole in the water back there, we should call it the “Gibbs Pool.”

Before our week was out, we were making plans for the next year. Sandy suggested the possibility of building a camp on the Forteau. With such a camp we could fly directly from Gander to either Outside Pond or Forteau Bay, thus eliminating the uncertain boat crossing of the Strait and giving ourselves more days in Labrador. His ideas were enthusiastically accepted, and he was given the job of getting a Labrador camp ready by the next July, He had his troubles. A lesser man would have given up. But Sandy came through against seemingly insurmountable odds.

Labrador could furnish the camp site on the Forteau and some rocks for the foundation, but nothing more. When the fishing season was over, Sandy purchased in Newfoundland all the necessary items tor building a camp: lumber, windows, doors, roofing, furniture, stoves, and so forth. When everything was assembled early in October, he chartered a schooner, loaded the material, and made Ihe stormy run from Rocky Harbor to Flower’s Cove and across the Strait of Belle Isle to Forteau Village. He unloaded the schooner at Raymond Flynn’s stage and made the return trip to Rocky Harbor without incident. His plan was to have Raymond Flynn arrange for natives with dog teams to haul the material to the camp site later on in the winter. Up to this time, everything had proceeded according to plan, and Sandy relaxed confidently by his fireside in Rocky Harbor.

On December 16 unusually high tides struck Rocky Harbor but no damage was done. A few days later the bush pilot air mail service of the North brought Sandy a letter from Raymond Flynn. The high tides at Rocky Harbor were coincident with disastrous tidal waves that beat against the Labrador coast, and Raymond Flynn’s letter succinctly describes the terror of the berserk seas.

FORTEAU BAY, Dec, 17 inst.
DEAR SANDY,
I must try and write you a few lines but hardly know how to get at it, of course you have heard about the wonderful storm or tidal wave we had here, and it sweep Forteau and just about clean up everybodys things, and am sorry to say it took my stage and everything with it all of your lumber is practically gone I mange to get a thousand or fifteen hundred, out of it, I lost everything I was owerner of trying to save that much, I never had a chance to save a thing of my fishing gear all my salt dogs food barrels punches all my brothers lumber everything was in that stage because it was a big stage and was there for a hunderded years everysince my grandfather fished there and never a sea came up there before, I tell you I don’t feel to dam good today over it the sea just sweep in taking everything as it came it took my dory from up on a bank were we had our flakes, and all our flakes, but your boats is alright they are in my store up on the hill, the sea took nine stages the same sea I am sure nobody in the world seen the like, there was people here thought they had to leaves there houses the sea came up to there windows, I had to write and tell you today, but I don’t feel much like writeing I teel you, hope you don’t take this to serious, because I really could have saved some of my own stuff but was trying so hard to get what lumber I could it was sloup and sea together I tell you it was a wonderful sight, everymau here help me that could get there well I must close hopeing to hear from you soon.
Yours tryly,
/s/ RAYMOND FLYNN

Sandy’s fall work had gone for naught, and the Labrador camp was still only an idea. The bitter cold of winter had descended and the northern seas were frozen. He could duplicate his purchases of materials but the transportation of them had to wait for the spring, when the lumber and miscellaneous supplies and furnishings were delivered again at Forteau. But this lime their t ransport at ion to the camp site could not be achieved with dog teams. Sandy recruited strong and willing natives to slog the camp components piece by piece on their backs through the marshy barrens.

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ON JULY 7, two Eastern Provincial planes flew over the Strait and circled the Forteau River from tidewater to the first pond. Six pairs of eyes anxiously scanned the terrain looking for the new camp and there it was, on a low bluff overlooking the tidewater pool. We landed on the first pond, where we were met by Sandy and a group of native artisans who had helped him to complete the camp but an hour or so before our arrival. Sandy triumphantly led our little procession from the pond to the new camp, and we were soon installed comfortably in luxury uncommon in Labrador.

For the next four weeks we enjoyed the finest salmon fishing that our North American continent can offer. During the entire time the river flow conditions were consistently excellent, and countless magnificent salmon were ever present in the beautiful pools from tidewater to the big falls.

The weather was typically Labrador: good, bad, dry, wet, hot, and cold, as low as 40°, as high as 90° — which is exceptional. Either the Labrador winds whistled down the river valley, making it difficult to cast a fly without endangering the back of your neck, or the black flies and mosquitoes descended (or ascended) in swarms to test the savor of your favorite insect repellent. When the wind dropped we had no choice but to scramble ashore and build a smudge. But no matter what, the salmon fishing was superb.

The salmon of the Forteau do not follow any specific pattern of weight range or of sequence of grilse runs. Throughout our stay the salmon population seemed to be consistent. A single fisherman in any one day would see hundreds of fish, and it would not matter particularly what section of the river received his attention. He would see lish of all sizes, from fat saucy five-pound grilse, making their first return visit, to broad veterans of ihirtyfive to forty pounds. Occasionally one of these silvery monsters would find the artificial fly enticing and you would be treated to an aerial acrobatic exhibition that belied the bulk of the hooked fish. Fish of from eight to twenty pounds abounded and they were more commonly honked and, with luck, captured. In a month of fishing, my largest salmon in hand was eighteen pounds, hut many much larger lish combined their lighting frenzy with the powerful currents of the rushing stream to defeat my best efforts.

It would be unfair to create the impression that the Labrador salmon can be had by the simple expedient of cast ing just any old fly in a careless manner on one of the Forteau pools. You will respect these salmon for their discrimination as well as their fighting abilities — and the latter will not be experienced very often unless you use good judgment in the fly selection and care in its presentation. These are wild salmon, but they are surprisingly hard to please.

We soon learned that the smaller artificial fly, fished on a relatively long tapered leader with a terminal test of two to four pounds, would bring many strikes. The larger flies and heavy leaders made more sense from the standpoint of landing a hooked fish in the fast water, but a strike is the prerequisite. Either dry flies (fished to float on the water surface) in sizes Nos. 8, 10, and 12 or wet flies in the same sizes proved most productive. A fighting heavy salmon successfully landed with such gear is no mean accomplishment; and win or lose, the thrill of the battle is beyond compare.

One day I waded through fast deep water to a good casting position on the Ledge Hock Pool and soon was hooked to a small salmon. I didn’t care to risk the fast water wading back to shore for beaching or tailing the salmon, so I decided to try an experiment. I had read in one of Lee Wulff’s books that, once hooked, a salmon would not try lo free himself if the line were slackened. This salmon had made several wild jumps and was dogging it across the current and building up to another jump. I dropped the rod tip and pulled a few yards of line from the reel, lighted a cigarette, and made some notes in my notebook. Nothing happened. The slack line floated downstream in a broad loop. The salmon didn’t move. When the cigarette was finished and the notebook back in my pocket, I reeled in the slack and found myself fast to the salmon, and the fish was full of renewed energy. Several times in different pools I tried the same experiment. Each time the salmon stopped moving when the line tension on the hook was eased, and the hook did not come out. The Forteau is particularly conducive to this type of experimental foolishness because you do not worry about losing a few salmon. There are more!

It is possible to breakfast early in New York City or Boston and before nightfall be fighting a Labrador salmon. A commercial transatlantic flight to Gander, Newfoundland, and an Eastern Provincial Airline charter flight to Labrador will have you there in less than twelve hours. The alternative is to drive or take the train to Sidney, Nova Scotia, overnight ferry to Port-aux-Basques, Newfoundland, and the narrow-gauge Newfoundland railway to Corner Brook; there you catch a coastal steamer, the S.S. Springdale, which visits several Labrador ports, including Forteau. In all, you had better allow a week for this route. The costs of transportation are compensated for by the fact that the Labrador rivers are open waters and Sandy Parsons’s charges are reasonable: the flight and Sandy’s bill for two full weeks amount to about $750 a rod. The salmon will be in residence throughout July and August, and I know they will cooperate.