Aardvark McLeod

For the last 18 months I have been involved in testing a whole new technology of rod manufacture with Hardys. I was wondering not so long ago how rod technology could evolve any further. Where can we go from 60 million modulus carbon fibre? How much lighter and stronger can a fly rod be? Well, this is the answer. The first time I tested these rods I was blown away.

This could be the most significant development in fishing rod design for twenty five years. SINTRIX™ (silica nano matrix) material provides rods which are 60% stronger, up to 30% lighter and with hugely improved impact resistance over conventional carbon fibre. Initially the new technology will be used in Hardy fly rods but eventually SINTRIX™ will also be used in Carp, Coarse and Sea ranges within the Greys and Chub brands.

Decades ago when they moved away from cane and fiberglass, carbon fibre changed the way fishing rods were made. Carbon being remarkably strong for its weight gives us many advantages for modern rod design. The new material feels like the difference between glass fibre and carbon fibre.

The carbon rods we use today have of course advanced over the years but the trends for lighter and faster blanks lead to rods which can be brittle, unforgiving and prone to breakage during use.The carbon fibre in any fly rod blank is supported by a bed of resin, typically this resin or matrix simply holds the fibres in parallel alignment so that as the rod bends, the fibres can flex and return into position. However if a carbon rod is suddenly bent beyond its limits, the normal resins used in manufacture are unable to support the fibres adequately because the carbon fibres are stronger than the resin. The result is catastrophic failure due to the fibres buckling or, put simply, the rod breaks. These failures occur because typical modern fishing rod resins simply do not contain enough toughening mechanisms to give the fibres enough protection.

SINTRIX™ is an enhanced fortified matrix resin which supports and bolsters the carbon fibres to withstand a far higher degree of bending and loading than ever before. Through technology, exclusive to Hardy & Greys Ltd, specially treated silica nano spheres are blended into a SINTRIX™ resin. Thousands of the nano spheres surround every individual carbon fibre giving a very even distribution of the particles throughout the resin which results in rods with unparalleled smooth casting actions. This technology is radically different to any previous nano rods using titanium nano or carbon nano tubes. These previous carbon nano technologies simply attempted to reinforce the carbon and not the all important resin. The bending strength of a SINTRIX™ fly rod is vastly improved over outdated common designs. Controlled testing has proven that SINTRIX ™fly rods are over 60% stronger and up to 30% lighter than previous carbon rods. A SINTRIX ™fly rod will bend further without damage and will also take incidental impacts far better than any conventional fly rod design.

On a recent test trip to Florida five Hardy & Greys product developers caught around 1,000 fish on SINTRIX ™rods .The fish ranged from 5lbs to 350lbs and the idea was to put the SINTRIX blanks in situations above and beyond normal use.  Despite their best efforts to test the rods to destruction our testers did not break a single SINTRIX ™rod!

Andy Mill, Hardy & Greys US based consultant and five time gold cup Tarpon tournament winner said about SINTRIX™ rods.

“These new SINTRIX™ rods are the most powerful, lightest, smoothest casting rods ever designed EVER!”
Andy recently landed an 80lb Tarpon in Just four minutes using a SINTRIX™ rod.

For me these were perfect rods for the flats, I adored using them. They are light, responsive, have quick recovery, fantastic presentation and huge reserves of power. The blanks were so thin they just cut through the wind. Bottom line is these are without doubt the best rods I have ever used and when they go into production I will use nothing else. My best effort was a 7 1/2lbs bonefish off the flats at Los Roques on a 6# Proaxis (The saltwater version). It was like dry fly fishing for bones and the rod easily subdued the fish.I can’t wait to try the 12# on the GT’s in Cosmoledo in February.

Initial SINTRIX™ developments involve three Hardy fly rod ranges, one saltwater range and two freshwater ranges which will include double handed models. The new Hardy SINTRIX™ rods are set to be available in January 2011.

In addition to these increases in performance and durability the company retains its commitment to using the highest quality fittings. This combination has not, however, resulted in a price increase which puts this material and its advantages out of reach to most consumers and prices should be comparable with other premium fly rod ranges.

Having experienced low water conditions in July last season at Langá I was somewhat horrified, on arrival this year, to see the even lower level of water in the river. I was quietly thinking to myself “what on earth do the twelve guests think I have brought them to?” Well I need not have worried as the river was stuffed full of fresh fish. In fact the run of fish was deemed to be 40% higher than last season. The weather was more akin to Majorca than Iceland and, at one stage, in the shallows the water temperature rose to 20 degrees C. Guests all said “if this was Scotland we would all be on the Golf course and only going out at dusk”

Well Iceland is different and the fish were very obliging and took in the brightest of conditions. We were all amazed at how small a fly they would take: a large number were taken on size 18s and tiny hitched tubes with a number also falling to micro cone heads. The middle beat fished best followed by the lower section; especially after a high tide. Indeed a number of salmon (and a couple of seatrout) were caught in saltwater). A large percentage still had sea lice on and were extremely sporting on light tackle. Those fish that had made it to the top beat were to be found in deep holes with many having already made a dash for the lake in the headwaters.

The lake tends to keep the Langa topped up with water through the season. However there had been little snow last winter so water was not so plentiful but still better than many neighbouring rivers which were definitely suffering in the adverse conditions. I was hoping for an average of 15 fish per rod for the week given reasonable conditions so we were all thrilled to have averaged 13 in ultra low water totaling 104 fish for the group. Most rods lost a similar number so there was plenty of action. I am looking forward to a week of medium water with overcast skies – that could be truly awesome! Four of us had been before and our average catch for the two years is 14.5 which is pretty respectable for poor coditions.

Iceland is not just about the fishing! The Langá Lodge, although architecturally no beauty, is most comfortable with twin bedrooms (single occupancy) with their own en suite facilities. The sitting room overlooks the river with stunning views of a glacier and hills to the North West. The staff were charming and highly attentive to our needs. The Chef was sensational and our well travelled group felt he provided the best food of any sporting Lodge that any of us had ever been to!

The bird and wildlife were plentiful with arctic foxes and mink spotted along with merlins, golden plover, skua, ringed plover, drumming snipe, whimbrel and bar-tailed godwit to name but a few!

A big thank you to the proprietors, staff and guides of SVFR – we will be back!”

Ruaridh Nicoll is the comment editor of the Observer, but little known to his political peers is his obsession for fly fishing. He recently travelled to Bell 2 Lodge in northern British Columbia and this is what he experienced:

I barely remember my grandfather – only that he would clap his hands above his head if I behaved well and, more hazily yet, him turning towards a river, a split-cane fishing rod resting next to his perfectly bald head. I recall my mother far better, although she’s been dead these 20 years. I see her standing in another river, deep in the Scottish Highlands where I was raised, throwing long, looping casts through the September sky. They would ride out over the water and land with barely a ripple.

My grandfather was a talented fly-fisherman, but unlucky. My mother was superb, and lucky. I am a terrible fisherman, but lucky. Hearing that I was off to British Columbia, Canada, on the trip of a lifetime, my friend Olly said to another chum, “He probably won’t catch, cos he casts like shite.” But it doesn’t work like that, as Olly well knows. There is more magic to fishing than skill.

So it was that I found myself knee-deep in the Bell Irving, a river not far from the border with the Yukon. To get in, I had stepped over the heavy footprints of a grizzly bear and her cub, and pushed through a log jam where a beaver was building its nest. The river flowed at walking pace, and when I launched the fly, it swung back across the stream with the smoothness of a hand across the face of a clock. In the way of a heron standing sentry, I let nature reassert itself. I watched a snow shower blur the sky upriver, a rainbow cast outwards over the white-topped mountains and the autumn yellowing of the forest.

And as I let the rhythm of casting lull me, I remembered how, as a child, I found fishing boring – the catching too infrequent and too dependent on the fish. Instead, I would sit on the riverbank with a rifle and try, unsuccessfully, to shoot the salmon when they jumped, while reading Jack London’s White Fang and imagining places just like this.

Then the fly stopped and I felt the weight of a fish turning against the hook. One’s focus shifts fast when fishing and so it was as I raised the tip of the rod. Used to salmon, I kept my hand close to the reel. That was a mistake. In a moment blood was spraying from my finger and the reel was, as they say, screaming.

A steelhead is a big fish, and this one was 7kg. Genetically, it is a rainbow trout but spiritually it is something else entirely. It has travelled out to sea and then swum back, climbing thousands of feet through waterfall and cataract and log jam in its desire to spawn, under the eyes of bear and eagle. Steelhead do not tire easily. Each time I brought her close she would run again, drawing the line swiftly across the pool, occasionally flashing into the air to spin, turn and tumble against the spike. The idea is to do as little harm to the fish as possible, so there was no barb on the hook.

When I was first pondering this trip, my editor, believing one big article on fishing was probably enough for a while, told me to chase my dreams. So I thought about it, and thought about Jack London: I wanted wilderness, powerful fish, and to be as close to nature as is possible. I wanted to be where people normally do not tread. “Puny adventurers bent on colossal adventure, pitting themselves against the might of a world as remote and alien and pulseless as the abysses of space,” as London put it.

North Americans call steelheads “chromers”, because they’re so shiny some will reflect the mountains back to you. This was true of the fish I finally scooped out of the net beside that log jam. The barbless hook slipped easily from her mouth and, having gazed at her in awe, I put her gently back in the stream, a thin smear of my blood on her flank. She waited for a moment in my hands and then, with powerful strokes, beat back into the stream where, soon, she would empty herself of her eggs.

My brother Angus and I had taken a flight out of the horrors of Heathrow, with its shabby, money-grasping departure lounge, to Vancouver, all light, running water and polite officials, where the shops are dedicated to hockey, sailing and skiing. Crossing to the domestic terminal, with its departures to points north, we saw a different kind of traveller: rougher of skin, with heavy beards and wearing baseball caps advertising mining companies and tackle shops.

A two-hour flight, the setting sun reflecting off glaciers and fiords, saw us settle into the damp browns and greens of Terrace, a rough logging town close to the Alaskan panhandle. In the small airport, the car hire woman suggested we watch out for “bear and moose on the road” and laughed, a touch manically. So we set out in the last of the light, slowing only to watch a big bull moose cross the gravel expanse of the Skeena river. The drive to the lodge was four hours and for the last two-and-a-half, we passed no signs of obvious habitation.

The fish we were hunting had been approaching from the opposite direction. Having left their home rivers two to four years before, they had grown sleek and heavy out at sea off Alaska. Frighteningly few return to their rivers to spawn. Only 2,000 a year are counted into the Bell Irving, which, given that the average hen lays 10,000 eggs, is haunting. Our adventure came with a precognition of tragedy, that despite the conservation measures now in place, man-made factors, from climate change to logging, may soon see their extinction.

The Bell 2 Lodge was once a gas station but has grown into a collection of log cabins amid a dense forest of aspen, alder and mountain hemlock. Hunters, tourists and miners travelling the Alaskan highway stop for the superb food and, in winter, a substantial heliskiing operation. The fishing was an afterthought. The owners saw a market not only for taking people out on the Bell Irving, but also for flying them by helicopter to the Nass river, the upper part of which is 100 miles from the nearest road. The fish there are unlikely to have ever seen an artificial fly.

As we ate breakfast, our guides appeared. Steve McPhail and Michael Brackenhofer are dissimilar men. Canadian Steve brings a Zen attitude of “do no harm” to his job. Against attack by bear or bull moose, he carries a small can of pepper spray and what is, in essence, a party popper. Bavarian Michael, on the other hand, carries a short, ugly rifle of the sort the outlaw Jesse James might have used.

Steve took us down to the Bell Irving, reversing his metal-hulled skiff into the clear waters and then, with the outboard fired up, navigating through torrents and placid pools, past the remnants of log jams and under great cottonwoods, yellow in the late September sunlight, while Chloe, his princess of a Labrador, flinched against the freezing spray.

As we powered forward, I realised I was happy: as I get older, I find fishing brings me peace. And I was happy until 9.23am on that first day, because that is when my brother caught his first steelhead. I try to wish the best for my fellow man, but when it comes to fishing, I’m with Gore Vidal. Every time a friend of mine is successful, a little part of me dies.

A couple of days later we headed downhill from the lodge to the waiting helicopter, a Bell Ranger with room, at a push, for five. Angus, a fellow Brit called Nico and I stood nearby, kitted up in waders and the thickest woollens we could find.

“I’m not riding bitch,” said Steve, jumping into the front seat. We packed into the back and lifted off, heading downriver and crossing the forest before climbing through a valley and up into the snow-covered peaks. Between the swirling clouds, we could make out mountain goats on their vertiginous ledges. As we crossed the high passes the tips of the rotors were only feet from the cliffs.

Soon, the weather licked at us and the pilot was forced to circle down a thousand feet into a thin layer of clear air above an exuberant stream.

“Do you think this is the Muskaboo?” he asked Steve. We explored on, across a landscape that may never have felt a human footprint.

“Imagine five guys smoking in here,” said Nico, playing with the ashtray. When the view opened up, we saw a large meandering river, the Nass, and followed it until the water pooled on great gravel beds. Leaves and sticks scattered as we drew down to land. After dropping us, the Bell flew off to collect a raft left downstream by a previous party. “Juicy water,” said Steve.

I wandered up to the neck of the pool, the opposite bank a thick wall of hemlock and cottonwood, and immediately found action. Then Angus connected with an astonishing fish that ran from him for 60 metres or so, before charging back, leaving my brother to grab handfuls of line in an effort to keep tension on the barbless hook. He looked astonished by the battle when at last Steve swept the fish into his net. “This knocks salmon into a cocked hat,” he said.

We fished the Nass for two days, flying back to the lodge each evening. We drifted through pools and rapids on the inflatable, expertly guided by Steve, who also found time to barbecue steaks. Sometimes we would see a moose gazing at us from the bank. Otherwise we were alone. In places, the water flowed so smoothly over the uneven rock it left us awestruck. We could be certain of the presence of the fish in this, their perfect resting place. The fly, a pink piece of fluff I called a Barbara Cartland, would stop, and then everything would explode. If Steve was nearby he would whoop.

In the evenings, back at the lodge, having changed and warmed ourselves by the log fires in our rooms, we would have dinner together. Nico and I argued about global warming, listened to politely by the guides and Sid, the pilot. When we finally shut up, they chimed in, discussing the changes they had seen – from later winters to the way magnetic north has shifted. They spoke with a dignity and depth that made me feel like an urban blowhard.

(Sid would later tell me he had started out mining in eastern Canada, but given it up when two of his friends died below ground. Now his office is the vast expanse of the north beyond the screen of his helicopter. He exudes an extraordinary calm, and an odd politeness straight out of the Coen Brothers’ Fargo. “Are you ready? Rightyo then.”)

On our final day Michael stepped in as guide, taking us back on the Bell Irving. A true denizen of the mountains, he pointed out terrifying slopes high above us that he had skied. He is cutting a five-mile track through the forest so that he can reach the high alp and hunt mountain goats on the cliff edges. His knowledge is both profound and personal.

“The aspen is the world’s largest organism,” he said. “Many, many trees share a root. It is why whole woods can turn yellow at once.”

Those dreams I had had as a child in the Highlands, reading Jack London, were embodied in the way Michael lives. Yet this lifestyle would have a catastrophic effect on most relationships, and certainly mine. The only alternative is to visit, and that requires wealth. Nico is rich enough to come here because he sold a large company in the late 90s. Yet, as Steve pointed out, it is only the money of well-off visitors that protects the life of these extraordinary fish. The loggers would come for the trees otherwise, and the spawning grounds would be destroyed.

On that last day, such privileged access meant we fished close to some extraordinary creatures. A black bear slowly crossed the river above us, looking back only once. At lunch – a picnic of soup, beer and sandwiches – we watched a curious ermine skip towards us through a log pile. It probably fancied a go at my jugular. I caught a final fish, bringing my score for the week to nine steelheads, along with a Coho salmon and a 3kg bull trout. Angus was close behind (ha!). For the salmon fishermen, used to days without catching, this was a dream.

Nothing however, compared with a moment up on the Nass a couple of days before. I had been struggling to keep my footing on a steep bank. The casting was difficult, left-handed into the stream, and I was imagining building a platform in the trees, setting up home, when a viscerally unsettling cry went up. It was the sound that Jack London described: “Palpitant and tense… It might have been a lost soul wailing, had it not been invested with a certain sad fierceness and hungry eagerness.”

I gazed over at the opposite bank and out along the trunk of a long-dead cottonwood walked a wolf. It reached the furthest point and turned to stare over at me. In the face of this, the truest incarnation of the wilderness, I forgot my daydream. Another howl rose from beyond, and the wolf turned and, without haste, wandered back and out of sight.

Written by Ruaridh Nicoll and reproduced by kind permission of The Observer, Sunday 15 November 2009

While staying at Country Haven Lodge Henry and I were joined by James and Jonathan Paterson who drove up from New York to fish with us. James and Jonathan have fished all over the world with me, and I was looking forward to spending some time with them on the river bank,along with the harsh banter and ribbing that would take place as well! Jonathan had caught a lovely fish on arrival of about 22 lbs on a bomber, and risen another on the dry fly as well. James and Jonathan also chose to fish with their 14′ 9# rods and actually found it remarkable easy to cast the bombers on them, so it just goes to show.

We left the lodge that morning by boat from directly in front of the lodge with Jeremy and Ken Vickers who would be our guides for the day. Jeremy and Ken are third generation guides on the river and have spent their whole lives fishing it, guiding on it, hunting on it and leading the life of a riverman. After a short run of maybe 15 minutes or so we arrived at Crawford pool, a lovely run that we would fish from both sides. On arrival fish were moving everywhere, and at one point I counted four jumping within 30 seconds. Needless to say that does not mean you are going to catch one, but it does mean there are fish in the pool in greater numbers meaning your chances of hooking a taking fish are very much increased. Today I followed the Patersons’ example and fished with a two handed 14′ 9# rod.

On the second run down James hooked a lively grilse of about 5 lbs that was particularly acrobatic on the dry fly, so honour was restored and Jonathan could not give him quite as much grief as before. Some fish had been jumping just above the rapids that we had been fishing below, and being the adventurous sort of character that I am…. ahem…. I decided to put a wet fly on and wade above and see what I could tempt. On the third cast I hooked a good fish that attacked the small green butt Black Bear as it came careering across the V of the pool above… but needless to say I failed to hang onto it. After the deep disappointment and the obvious vocal sympathies and abuse of those I were fishing with it was time to head back to the lodge for some fantastic home cooking.

Normally in the afternoon everyone takes a break, has a sleep or relaxes before going out again at about 4 pm. However all of us had developed a serious taste for the Canadian Coffee know as Tim Horton’s. Henry had been mentally drinking their French Vanilla Cappuchino all morning, so as we were intending to visit the Miramichi Salmon Museum and Doak’s Fishing Tackle in Doaktown we made a little expedition to appease the craving. I know it sounds daft, but it really is that good!

For the evening session we split up again, and Henry and I headed off to Shelley’s pool with Jeremy. This time I insisted that Jeremy fish as well to increase our chances, and as anyone knows the best way to learn is to watch the guide fish his home water as they invariably catch something. This was to be no exception. Shelley’s is a little further up river than Ted William’s pool, but below the Orr pool. Having walked down the bank we were again greeted with a simply stunning piece of fly water. A lovely glassy stretch punctuated by some delicious looking riffles created by nicely space boulders producing some lovely lies. There was hardly a breath of wind and the evening was warm and calm. As I fished down Jeremy came in behind me and began fishing. He was throwing a long line at 45 degrees, but fishing with a small brown Bomber. The fly would fish for a couple of feet on the dead drift before he would pick it up, move down and recast all in the same movement. After no more than 10 casts there was a bulge out in the current, the rod shot up in the air as he struck, and the fish launched itself into the air. A lovely grilse of again about 5 lbs. He was quite dark and beginning to develop a kype, or “Hook Bill” as they call it over there.

I started fishing again, and fish were showing across the pool including a fish of 25 - 30lbs that tried to jump but could not lift its vast bulk out of the water and end up waking like a submarine. I persisted with the Bomber as I REALLY wanted to catch a fish on dry. It may not be as successful as wetfly, but it is incredibly exciting. Jeremy hooked another fish, a little large this time so I went down and played net man for him. At least Henry had something to take some piccies off as I was failing to produce the goods! Another fascinating day on this huge watershed, and time to head home for dinner. Barbecued steak tonight…

The Miramichi is one of the largest Atlantic Salmon fishing systems in the world with huge numbers running the river. Henry and I left very early from Salmon Lodge on the Grand Cascepedia and drove the four hours south from Gaspe back down to Country Haven Lodge in New Brunswick. Country Haven is operated by Byron Coughlan and is located in Gray Rapids near Blackville on the South West Miramichi. From here his clients have access to huge areas of the Miramichi system. Much of the Miramichi is privately owned, and Byron owns 11 private pools, leases a few more and has access to some 25 in total throughout the system and on the tributaries. The main river itself although large is not daunting, and many of the tributaries such as the Cains, Renous, Little Southwest and Sevogle are a lovely size to fish. The Cains especially reminded me of some rivers I have fished in Scotland.

Although you can fish a standard 14′ two handed rod and traditional methods the Miramichi is also world renown for dry fly fishing. It has the highest temperature of any Atlantic salmon river in the world and fish will regularly take in much higher water temperatures. This makes the fish very aggressive in hitting surface flies, and on the Miramichi the Bomber is king. Many of the locals fish with nothing else. They also tend to use a single handed rod, and this is certainly easier when dry fly fishing as it allows better line management and delicate presentation for fishing drys. The idea is to work down stream scatter casting as you go, and the key is to have no drag on the fly. This requires a lot of casting and at different lengths of line. Effectively the further you can cast the more water you can cover.

On arrival we were met by Byron Coughlan, the owner, and Axel Lerche. Axel emigrated from Germany and is one of the most enthusiastic fishermen I have had the privilege to work with. He is one of the directors of Salar enterprises, but more of that later. First, there was fishing to be done! We headed out immediately to a private pool called the Orr pool. Axel and I both fished for a few hours before lunch, and during this time Axel filled me in on some of the history of the surrounding area and the river itself. He also tutored me further on fishing the bomber on a larger river, and various tried and tested techniques that have proved successful here. The weather was bright, and even though we saw a number of fish nothing decided to latch on.

After lunch Axel had to head back to Bathurst for some meetings, so Henry and I fished with Pete Randall in the afternoon. Although Pete is semi retired now, it was a joy to fish with someone who has spent so much time on the river. Our destination, the fabled Ted William’s Pool on the Main Southwest Miramichi. Ted William was a famous baseball player back in the day for the Boston Red Sox. Having fished the Miramichi he fell in love with it, bought a camp and spent many months fishing here. Pete Randall lives on the other side of the pool, so every morning he has his breakfast reading the water and watching the salmon as they moved on their journey up the system. To say he knew this pool well was an understatement…

The pool is idyllic, with lovely glassy water rolling over various large boulders creating obvious lies. I should clarify what these pools are like on the Miramichi, as many of them are sometimes 200 - 400 yards long, so there is plenty of fishing. To fish down it once takes at least an hour, so fishing down with a couple of patterns can take a big chunk of time, and a fish could hit at any time. The pool was positively boiling with salmon, and many were rolling and showing while I fished, constantly keeping me on edge. A fisherman on the other side hooked a lovely fish on a bomber, and I could see the take from where I had been sitting. Memorable.

I fished down with a bomber first, and had one roll on the fly but I was too late with the strike to set the hook properly. I then went down with a Green Machine (a very popular wet fly here) and lastly I fished down with a single wet fly called a Red Butt Black Bear on a size 8. As I drew down the last rock and was loosing the light completely the line stopped and slowly tightened. I lifted the rod and felt the thump, thump of a large salmon attached to me. My heart was in my mouth that finally I had hooked one, but before I had a chance to wind in the slack we parted company from one another. Arrrrgggggh! In retrospect I found out what I should have done was to strike the fish…. hard. In the slow water the take had been very light and I should have set the hook. Ah well, that’s fishing! Time to head for home….

Again the morning greeted us with clear blue sky’s and warmth of sun. A beautiful day, but perhaps not the best for salmon fishing. Our guide today was Bruno Lepage and he quickly took us off to our beat for the day, ASPB. After 15 minutes of bumping down the old logging roads the pool we would be starting with opened up below us. If someone had an opportunity to make a perfect salmon pool then this would have been it. From the neck to the tail the pool was about 300 yards in length, and again due to the crystal clear water many fish could be seen.

As usual the best laid plans always go aside, and a combination of jet lag and excitement found us both bouncing around at four in the morning thinking of the day ahead…. and then we found out that we had actually driven across a timeline last night and it was in fact three in the morning.. oh joy! Luckily we discovered how the coffee machine worked.

I made one cast that alighted over the a pod of fish, and as usual I was thinking they would not react when suddenly a large fish of maybe mid twenties turned around and chased the bomber downstream trying to inhale the fly. A big swirl, a splash and no tightening as the fish had missed the fly…. or was that because I squealed like a girl and pulled the fly out of its mouth? Not sure, but it was incredibly exciting and the adrenalin was overcoming the sleep deprivation nicely!

I switched down a size from the small chicken on the end, and immediately a small grilse came and hit it like a rising trout on a chalkstream, and my first fishing on the Bonaventure river came to hand. Not a monster, but nevertheless a fish! I moved a few more fish but did not manage to hook any others, but by now the sun was breaking through the clouds and the air temperature was rising. I did try a down stream wet fly, but this was met with no reaction from the fish at all, and having seen the whole thing take place with a surface fly I really wanted to persist as it is breathtakingly exciting.

Jean-Marc produced the lunch cooler and as we sat eating hot chili cooked on the back while sipping a little red wine he explained further the theory behind their winning technique here. The pool must be fished systematically to find a fish that will rise. The size of fly is also important as the larger flies will often get them going to make them hit a smaller fly immediately afterwards. I fished the next pool down after lunch, and although again I had several fish come and look at the fly, one actually trying to eat it which I again with precise precision managed to extract the fly from its jaws at the right moment. Time flew by, and before I knew it tea time was approaching.

Our little group them moved down to a pool called Eleanor that due to it being a little way down the bank did not receive much pressure. Jean-Marc had been down earlier,and using his periscope had actually seen 20 or so fish in the pool. Very cool. The visual aspect of this fishing is staggering. First cast was met with a big swirl. Second cast saw a fish rise of the bottom and bulge under the fly. Third cast, a little further out, and I watched the fish move up in the water column, open its mouth, engulf the fly and descend as I set the hook. Trout fishing… for salmon!…. with a 6 weight. I nice little grilse of 5lbs or so. I immediately lost another at the hand.

As the sun came off the pool I switched to a hitched tube the skated nicely across the water. It was attacked immediately by a nice little salmon that gave me quite a battle on the 6 weight. The pool came alive, and nearly every cast was being met by some kind of reaction. The finale to the session was a large 20 - 30lb cock salmon that proceeded to attack the fly four times accompanied by ooohhss and aaahs from the bank. At this point I reeled up and we headed for home. I had experienced surface fishing for salmon like never before, and quite a baptism of fire. Can’t wait for tomorrow!

Well, Henry Gilbey and I are once again on our autumn travels in an effort to find some new and exciting Atlantic salmon fishing for our clients. This seems to be becoming a regular event. After our trip to the Gaspé peninsular on the East Coast of Canada last year we had to return to experience more of this unique fishery. The allure of crystal clear rivers and large salmon has kept us going.

This year rather than fly through Montreal, wait for a while and then head up to Gaspé we took the new Canadian Affair flight that comes directly from Gatwick to Fredericton in New Brunswick via Halifax. The flight was really pretty good as it is six hours to Halifax and then a further thirty minutes on to Fredericton. The main reason for doing it this way is that after fishing on Gaspe we are moving on to the Miramichi in New Brunswick, so it made sense to be hire a car from there and do the long drive first.

A six hour drive moved us up along the Miramichi system, up to Bathurst and Campbellton, past the Restigouche river system and then up into Gaspé where immediately everything reverts back to French speaking. Henry and I just about managed to negotiate petrol and some directions with our school boy French. Finally we arrived at the Camp Bonaventure Lodge on the banks of the Bonaventure River. The lodge is relatively new, built in 1995 and very comfortable. After a brief orientation we hit the hay in an attempt to be fresh for the following day.