After a frustrating full day’s delay due to typical
Newfoundland south coast summer fog, we were finally airborne.
Unfortunately, the weather was still awful, which meant we had
to miss out on the most spectacular views offered by the
35-minute helicopter flight. Dense, low-hanging fog banks
cover most of the deep and spectacular ice-notched fjords.
Only now and then did we catch a glimpse of the rivers just
below us. The impressive forms created by the torments of the
ice-age were hidden from us by the hopelessly dense mist.
Having to miss those views was an absolute disappointment to
us. There are only a few areas left in the whole world (such
as this part of Newfoundland) that reflect geological
evolution so well. "Four miles to go," chopper pilot Mike
reports through the intercom. The closer we got to our
destination, the better our view became.
 Despite
the last persistent rags of mist, we at last saw the Grey
River and Salmon Brook converging towards each other.
In a desperate attempt to get a good picture, I
rapidly finished my roll of film and hoped that one of the
shots at least would record forever this fantastic spectacle
of haze, mountains and water. Straight beneath us we saw how
Salmon Brook winds its way among enormous rocks. Innumerable
boulders clearly stand out against the background, giving an
unmistakable image of how this powerful water has chewed
through the rugged landscape. The wildly flowing river
gradually settles down when it joins the deeper water of the
main Grey.
Then the lodge came within sight and everybody fell silent. A
very modern log cabin, Scandinavian style, closed in on us.
Mike sat the helicopter gently on the pad only feet from the
front door and together we waited with tense expectations as
the rotor stopped turning.
The lodge owners Tony Tuck and Dennis Taverne plus Tom the cook and guides Clarence and Alvin,
introduced themselves as soon we stepped out of the chopper.
Two Americans, Peter and Mark, who traveled together with us,
could no longer control themselves and immediately prepared
their rods, while my wife Ina and I enjoyed Tom formidable
lunch - but when Peter hooked his first fish, salmon fever
gripped us as well! We had a marvelous afternoon started with
a short walk to the Hospital pool. Beside the riverbank we
could clearly see the consequences of strong erosion.
The grating activity of running water, the pressure by ice
during the winter and the enormous power of broken ice in the
spring has left deep traces behind. According Tony's
information, Ina is the first woman to fish this fabulous
river. I eagerly played a waiting game and settled down on a
bulge rock to get a first class view of the entire pool. Ina
did great and caught here first ever salmon and landed 3 more.
I enjoy myself as never before and even caught some fish too.
This was dry fly paradise, the Garden of Eden for every
fisherman.
The next day a steel-blue sky gave a completely new dimension
to this wild and breathtaking landscape. The heavy rain
showers of the previous days had raised the water two feet
overnight. Disappointingly, prospects for dry fly fishing were
poor. I float a fly down the Whaleback pool anyway, but (as
usual) my guide Tony was right, and the fish seem to have no
interest in dries now.
So Tony asks me to show him my wet flies. He peruses the box
silently, and a few seconds' later plucks out one of my
special Scandinavian patterns tied with an exaggerated long
beard of orange rabbit fur. I’ve never really bothered to give
it a name, but it’s worked well in the past. Proudly I show
Tony the action in the water and he nods approval. When I hook
my first fish only a few casts later, I immediately name the
nameless fly "Tony’s First Choice". It remained our first
choice fly for the entire trip and it succeeds not only in
Newfoundland but also in Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.
There’s more to fishing here than fish. The sun set slowly
behind the Long Range Mountains. The last sunbeams just reach
the water surface through which the sunlight reflects with a
vivid, dazzling beauty. I enjoy myself and gaze along the
valley. An osprey makes a wonderful dive, just missing his
prey. Its second attempt also fails and with a loud cry it
loses courage. In the middle of the river, only about 40 yards
distant, a stag caribou ambles straight towards me. The river
rocks are no problem for him. His beige color is a perfect
camouflage against the light-colored boulders. Slowly he
comes nearer until just 10 yards in front of me he climbs out
of the water easily. With his big black sorrowful eyes he
looks directly at me, seemingly unafraid of human beings. A
few seconds later he fades away into the dense forest. Ina
plays her last fish of the day and another great fishing day
sadly comes to an end.
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