Margaree Magic

Deliver Steve Erickson, rod and reel in hand, to a storied salmon-fishing river and you will soon see you are in the presence of someone in Elysium. I joined Steve for a day-long adventure on the Margaree, a salmon river rivalled in the Maritimes only by New Brunswick’s magnificent Miramachi. Rising at 4 a.m., Steve and I spent an hour getting to Margaree Forks, an hour of edifying and wide-ranging conversation that boosted my opinion of Jan’s elder son even higher than it already was.

Mere days earlier, Steve had wrapped up a fortnight as fishing guide on the Great Bear Lake, Northwest Territory. One might have speculated that two weeks of non-stop fishing north of the Arctic Circle might have slaked the man’s appetite for fly-casting and mosquitoes but such speculation would be entirely wrong.

We arrived at Margaree Forks just past 5:30 and soon struck up amiable conversation with Scott, another angler waiting for the clock to strike six, the official start time for fishing the Margaree. No need to rush in any event, Scott advised, the Margaree’s salmon have not been rising to the fly. The weather hereabouts has evoked Louisiana more than it has Nova Scotia this summer: given inadequate rainfall and a run of too-hot weather the waters of the Margaree are low and warm. What’s more the salmon have “sore lips”: some have already been seduced by a man-made fly and are loath to make the same mistake twice.

The reward of catching a salmon on the Margaree is definitely not the feast one anticipates after landing a ten- or twelve-pound fish. Uh, uh. The fishing protocol is strictly catch-and-release. If you’re lucky enough to hook and land a salmon you may take a few seconds to pose for a photo before releasing your prize unharmed.

Starting at six sharp, Steve methodically worked the Dollar Pool where, on a July day nine years ago, he was the only angler to land a salmon. My key role was to play cameraman in the event that Steve hooked a salmon again but there was plenty more to occupy me. Above the high water line the banks of the Margaree teemed with wildflowers. Clearly I do not spend enough time wandering river courses: several of the flowers I spotted were new to me, so with one eye cocked on what might be unfolding at the river’s edge, I got nose to stamens with several flowers I’d never laid eyes on.

At the outside edge of the Dollar Pool there were salmon to see—plenty of them. But they had zero interest in Steve’s flies. Over and over again, as his well-cast ‘bomber’ fly floated over their heads, the salmon—perhaps fifty of them in one section of the pool—looked as disinterested as Donald Trump might be in a meeting of the local social justice league. If the fish had middle digits to raise, I thought, we’d see them in force. It was then, nearly six hours in, that I absolutely knew Steve’s efforts were futile: there would be no salmon in his immediate future.

We moved back to the shallow rapid that marks the forks—the junction of the Southwest Margaree and the river’s main branch. By now almost all of the other anglers had abandoned ship. I was on my knees looking at yet another unfamiliar flower when I heard Steve’s shout: he had a salmon hooked! It was in this moment that his expertise rose to the fore. The fishermen use barbless hooks; if he allowed the line to slacken the salmon could free himself from the hook and be on his merry way. After six hours on the river Steve had reconciled himself to going without a catch. The cast that did the job might well have been his last fruitless offering of the day. It was his last of the day, but one that ended in glory. The picture tells all. Behold the angler’s smile as he shows off his ten-pound beauty. His delight was infectious: I too was high as a kite, just about as excited as if Steve Nash suddenly showed up at my Boularderie door, keen for an afternoon of conversation in the cool of the cabin porch.

Here is the best part. Steve duplicated what he’d done nine years ago: his salmon was the only one we saw landed in our day on the Margaree. It couldn’t happen to a more stand-up guy.