Day 1: Crooks Lake Lodge

Recently, I have been going through some of my personal belongings that have set idle for the last 4 years. I pull books and books about fishing out of boxes; fly tying books from Classic Salmon flies to Saltwater patterns and everything in between, fishing books from basic spin-fishing skills to advanced fly fishing techniques in fresh and salt water. I find a green booklet with an oak leaf labeled "Journal", I remember my father bought this for me to record my adventures for the summer in. Opening it up and scanning through the pages, most of them blank. I was frustrated with myself that I didn't record my day to days. Apparently work got too busy, or I was much to tired to even think let alone write about my days that season. Regardless, here is the first and last entry I made in my journal that June 2, 2016.

"Day 1: The day started early as we packed the Twin Otter full of gear, We stood eager on the dock as we board the aircraft bound for the wilderness of the Eagle River Plateau. Before I knew it we were in the air and flying over Goose Bay, and quickly my motion sickness kicked in. I swore that I was going to be sick a few times, but after what seemed like a long 25 minute flight, we landed at Crooks Lake Lodge. The wharf was submerged due to snow melt, and we had trouble docking. Once settled, each of us started to unpack all gear from the float plane and started to fix up the grounds. A long day of hauling boxes and fixing water leaks ended with a nice supper of pork chops and veggies. 

After supper we had a short exploration of the lake and surrounding pools. We motored down the lake dodging rocks as we reached the outflow. A difficult maneuver and I’m through the upper run of #1, we stopped to listen to Head Guide George Sheppard as he explained the fishing locations in this area. We then moved down to Pool #2, and anchor for a fish. I’m fishing my 10ft 7wt Vision Vipu with a Guideline Bullet 8wt line to toss the clunky articulated fish-skull baby brook trout pattern I tied up. First cast as my fly came to the boat I hooked and lost a good brook trout. After a few more casts I hook and land a fish that was approximately 5 pounds on the same fly. A quick photo with a big grin and my first Labrador Brook Trout is released safely. I am instantly distracted by a large pike swimming sideways in slack water?! I realize that this “big pike” was actually not so, as a much bigger one had it “T-Boned” and was swimming away with it. I Couldn't believe my eyes! After the fish swam away, I manage to catch two small pike before Perry Munro, George and I move over to Pool #2.5. 

We fish with no luck, and move back upriver through runs and dodging rocks until we reach the lake. We decided to troll one side of Duck Island, but this yielded no success. As we steamed up the lake I decided I wanted to head into the camp creek, I troll up and get to the corner pool and anchor. Within a few casts I hook and land a 3.5 lb Brook Trout and a small pike. I hook another brookie and lose it. I managed to raise a large fish twice and I decided to rest it. About 5 minutes later I put the fly over the fish again and I hooked it. A nice female about the same size was the one previous. I released the fish and pull anchor. As I made my way back to the lodge, I felt proud to have caught so many fish at my first attempts at Crooks. I dock the boat, tidy up and sit in for a quiet night in the guides cabin.

- C.S. "

Here are some pics from that first week or so of guiding at Crooks Lake Lodge.

Above: Looking up Pool #2 in High Water

Below: Pulled up on East Bay

 Above: My first Labrador Brook Trout

Below: My first client Alex Stratton and his first Labrador Brook Trout

 Above and Below: A couple fine Brook Trout from the Camp Creek

 Above: Alex Stratton hooked up on an indicator rig at the far side of #2

Below: Kyped up Humpback Brook Trout from the Camp Creek.

Isolated Reflections - Drawing Connections

The crunch of the reindeer moss underfoot becomes a frequent sound when in the big land, as does the constant hum of the mosquitos and black flies as they search for bare flesh. Other biotic sounds such as the complex tune of blackbirds and hermit thrush that are the background music to another unforgettable day of fishing. These seemingly minute details that become so regular, and so frequent that we may become deafened to as the summer progresses. Days and weeks after the trip, what stands out but the fish; the song of the reel and the people? After all that isn't that what we all go to Labrador to experience? 

Not is it until months past that these minute, overlooked details of our recollections of past trips become ever more apparent. Photos allow us to peer into the past and reincarnate these intimate forest sounds in our mind. Videos are the next best thing, capturing all sounds; like broken records these intrinsic sound-bits play. Bringing myself, and many other frequent flyers North of the fifty-third parrell a sense of serenity.  Is that what we all chase? But what about the fish, leather armchairs, scotch and camaraderie among like minded anglers? For some that may be so; maybe it is a checkmark on a bucket-list, or to break a personal best, possibly a IGFA line class record? The intent of a trip to Labrador may be clear before, and when one is there. Yet, glimpses of the true reason an angler escapes society can be seen when peeking through the willows of our consciousness to reveal our dream river. 


How do we express or relive those thoughts? Reading our journals, scanning through photos and videos, painting or drawing scenes based on memory, or writing nostalgic hindsight articles like this to somehow reconstruct lived experiences. Whether that is with or without the mind’s eye painting a romanticized version to allow us to feel a deeper connection to the land. Doing so is in no way a degradation of one's character, I myself am probably the largest culprit allowing my mind to roam. In some ways it could be a sense of loss, an empty space that can only be filled by exercising the mind by reliving past experiences. Possibly some form of grieving, or a vehicle to transport you somewhere other than being isolated during a pandemic.

There is no better time like the present to comfort yourself with these fond memories that poke through from your subconscious in shoots of beauty. Flush yourself from head to toe and become entranced by your love for the small things. Become creative, express your inner emotions and thoughts in a physical manner, make them reality. In a time when I am unsure of my departure to the big land, I find myself wandering in Nova Scotia’s barrenlands, to somehow draw a connection that one gets to the expanse, desolation and sense of distance from the world. Bringing those familiar sounds of the North into a reality in my home province will have to do for now. Trudging on through the knee high leatherleaf to get to the rising fish in the stills, or the smell of sphagnum as you punch through the bog as the black flies pick you apart like a skilled angler after trout on mayfly. 

Today, I’m off to the woods like many other Nova Scotians, and we are chasing more than finned quarry. Go catch what your soul needs for your tomorrows.

River of Flowers

This has sat on my desktop of my MacBook for much too long... Staring at me, begging to be re-read, edited, or what have you... So like most of my articles I post, it gets published on a cold winter night. When I can truly allow my soul to fiend the freshness of the boreal forest, and gin clear waters that run freely without human disturbance. Fully knowing it soon will come, and along all those potential memories for next winter.

*For clarification the Flowers River is not named after the plant group, but rather a popular surname of settlers near the mouth of the river. 

~

Swinging a fly for anadromous fish is a complex, frustrating and mind numbing activity that many fly anglers are intimidated by. The seemly never-ending search for that tight line after reading the water and repetitively presenting a fly to river looks no different than the rest, but you can feel the difference. Hours of casting with faith that the next cast will bring you the rush of dopamine that drives the addiction. We find ourselves chasing that fleeting connection between us and the fish of a lifetime, one that never dies. Spend countless hours preparing gear and tying flies. Lining boxes with tried and true patterns and others waiting for their moment in the spotlight. All for that overwhelming zero to sixty rush that can turn a day of fishing, into a day of catching. When perfect casts don’t always produce, the uncertainly of fly choice limits confidence in hooking a fish. Confidence; A feeling many anglers have when fishing in front of a seasoned guide; whether that be in themselves or their attendant. One must never lose it, for the beat and fly will be fished improperly. Ending fish-less sessions will put the weak off their game, but the dedicated rest and return with a positive outlook. 

A new day rises, confidence and expectations are on par, as is the weather. The canoe glides upriver as the hanging mist over the water is cut by the bow. Cruising over shoals and deep slots, around winding turns you reach your morning beat. Slowly drifting ashore, waterworn pebbles scrape the fibreglass as the boat slides to a halt. The failures of yesterday are now behind you, and the fruits of your efforts are ripe for picking. Approaching the head of the pool, a fly of confidence is selected. Fly speed ranks highest in importance of persuading a fish to take. Being careful to not wade deep, a short cast is made to mark the beginning of your rotation. The slow steady flows that are characteristic of the Flowers River pools are dotted with rocks, sods and clay banks that a keen guide will identify as prime lies. It is imperative to fish the entire stretch, as fresh fish often prefer non-traditional, unnoticeable lies. Unbeknownst to you, the fly tracks through the water on a bowed line; speeding closer and closer to your dream fish. A violent swirl disturbs the flat calm water of Jones Pool… but no tug. Was it the fly? presentation? Or both? Another cast is made, mimicking the initial offering. Again the same result, a refusal. “Try the hitch on he”, your guide says in his unique bay dialect. Taking the fly in, you keep your eye on the lie. Knowing full well that even if your offering isn’t exact, the Portland Creek Hitch will conjure the reaction you’re looking for. A half hitch placed over the head is all you need to make your fly create that irresistible “V” wake. 

Doing this has allowed the fish to rest. With another bowed cast, the fly skates over the lie and up rises the fish. Breaking the surface this time, it sucks the fly under in a toilet bowl flush. Your quarry turns and heads down river, bending the rod deep as the reel sings that familiar shrill tune. Flooding your soul with the sensation all salmon anglers pine for. The line sings through the flat water of Jones Pool, the fish breaks the surface in an forceful leap of silver and shimmering water. The twists and turns force you to bow to the tsar of salmonids and the hope that your line stays tight after one of presumably many jumps. 

One often takes mental notes of every detail that could somehow explain why that fish decided to take…. It seems no matter the amount of evidence, one may never know.

~

I probably could have continued on with this, but open ended stories allow the mind to be guided by their own desires. An ending that can only be controlled by the reader's Labrador memories, and subsequent fantasies.  I hope you enjoyed. 

C.S.