Read the latest Gordon`s Quill

Vol. XXVII, No. 32
Summer 2016
The Smith River
Photo: Sara Low
IN THIS ISSUE
On The Cover
Tenkara Trip
2 | President’s Message
5 | Montana’s Beloved River
8 | The Good Fight
9 | The Beaverkill Covered Bridge and Campsite Renovation
10 | Salmon Fishing in Russia: The Kola Peninsula
Tenkara Trip
Cliff Albertson
On May 17, I had my first exposure to
tenkara fishing with guide John Miko of Unreel
Fly Fishing. How that happened is a story in itself.
Anne and I moved to Asheville, North Carolina, last
December. When looking for a place to which to retire, one of
the criteria was access to trout fishing and golf, and the Asheville
area has both with lots of choices. There are about three thousand miles
of trout streams within a two-hour drive. You can fish small brooks in the
mountains for wild native brookies, tailwaters in North Carolina and over the
border in Tennessee for the largest trout east of the Mississippi, and everything in
between. And for the those who don’t fish only for trout, there is lots of smallmouth
fishing in some of the warmer rivers, and there are lakes with largemouths. And
for really big fish, a section of the French Broad River has muskies! (There’s even a
Muskies, Inc. chapter in the neighborhood.)
Continued on Page 3
THEODORE
GORDON
FLYFISHERS
INC.
OFFICERS AND
DIRECTORS 2015-2016
President
Bert Darrow
Treasurer
Warren Stern
Vice President, Conservation
Chuck Neuner
Membership Chair
Pat Key
Secretary
Charles Flickinger
Events Coordinator
David Berman
Vice President, Education
Karen Kaplan
DIRECTORS
Terms Expiring in 2017
Karen Kaplan
Pat Key
Steve Lieb
Sara Low
Chuck Neuner
Terms Expiring in 2018
David Berman
William Blumer
Bud Bynack
Bert Darrow
John Happersett
Terms expiring in 2019
Jessica Steinberg Albin
Joel Filner
Charles Flickinger
Richard R. Machin
Warren Stern
GORDON’S QUILL
Staff
Publisher
Editor-in-Chief
Bud Bynack
President’s Message
Summer 2016
As anticipated, our Catskill freestone rivers,
the Beaverkill and Willowemoc, have been
quite low and warm since the spring. The
lower Beaverkill has already seen water levels
and temperatures that are more characteristic
of late August. On a few occasions, the
total flow of the lower Beaverkill, which is a
combination of the flows of the Willowemoc,
the Beaverkill, and other tributaries, has been
in the range of ninety cubic feet per second. At
the same time, we have had air temperatures
in the ninety-degree range. More important
and more damaging than the air temperature is the amount of rock that
gets exposed because of lower water conditions. This heats the water
up quickly and keeps it warm, even after sunset.
Because of these conditions, I would strongly suggest not fishing
these rivers, even early in the morning. A fish that is caught and
released in this environment will be stressed quickly and probably not
stand a very good chance of survival. Tailwater fisheries are probably
the best place for fishing right now, but the water temperature should
be monitored there, as well. The Neversink River is a good example
of how a reservoir cold-water release goes only so far once it leaves the
source. On most days, the Neversink has reached 72 degrees by the time it
gets to Holiday Mountain or Bridgeville, a favorite fishing spot for many
anglers. So carry a thermometer and check the water temperature before
fishing.
At our May board of directors meeting, Bill Blumer submitted his
letter of resignation as treasurer of TGF. I want to thank Bill for taking on
the job and performing the duties of treasurer for the past year. At the
same meeting, director Warren Stern was elected to fill that position and
is already doing an excellent job. He has proposed some great new ideas
for the treasurer’s job, but also has thought up some great new ideas in
dealing with TGF finances. Thank you, Warren.
I certainly am looking forward to some cooler weather, and after I put
the final period on this message, I will be leaving for West Yellowstone,
Montana, to do some fishing with friends.
Art Director
Bruce Corwin
All correspondence regarding
Gordon’s Quill should be sent by e-mail to:
[email protected] or by post to:
Editor, TGF
PO Box 2345, Grand Central Station,
New York, NY 10163-2345
Bert Darrow, President
Theodore Gordon Flyfishers
Copyright 2016. All rights reserved.
—2—
Tenkara Trip
Cliff Albertson
Continued from Page 1
Before we moved, I looked up the Land O’ Sky
TU chapter and e-mailed them to get a schedule of
meetings. I went to my first meeting in January and
met John, who is the chapter president. At the May
meeting, he gave a presentation on tenkara , and to
the dismay of several members, the newcomer (me)
won the door prize of a guided trip with John. A few
days later found me on the West Fork of the Pigeon
River with John.
One of the first things you have to get used to
with tenkara is remembering that your rod is a lot
longer than your usual fly rod, and you have to be
more aware of the overhead canopy when you cast.
(Also, be alert for power lines!) Casting a 14-foot
tenkara rod is, I think, easier than learning to cast a
classical fly rod, and it takes only a few casts to get
the hang of it. John says he has taught some kids
who’d never handled a fly rod to be proficient in less
than a half hour.
Once you are comfortable with the cast, you
have to decide whether to fish wet or dry. John
started me out with a pair of nymphs and an
indicator. The tenkara cast is always upstream, and
you cover the water much as you do when salmon
fishing; a cast close to you and follow the drift,
then cast again a little farther out, and repeat until
you’ve covered the water. Then move upstream or
downstream and cover the new water the same way.
The drag-free drift you get with tenkara is
amazing. You have a 14-foot rod with 12 feet or
so line and a few feet of leader. You can make
drag-free drifts you wouldn’t even think of trying
with your usual fly rod. Keeping the rod tip always
downstream, you’re leading the fly almost as in
dead-stick nymphing, keeping the line almost taut.
The reason for that is when a fish takes the fly, you
strike downstream, not overhead. (Remember that
overhead canopy.) And fish will take your fly—I’ll
go out on a limb and say probably more often than
usual because of the longer drift. Just be sure to keep
an eye on your indicator, and if you see the slightest
move, sweep your rod downstream. As John says,
“Believe in your drift.”
When you hook a fish, playing it is a little
different. You have no reel, so you can’t recover
loose line. What you do first is determine how big
the fish is, so you keep a tight line and let it move
around a bit. If it’s small, say a foot or less, just let
—3—
it swim around for awhile until you think you have
it pretty much under control. Then start moving
it into shallower water and bring the rod up and
back behind you (minding the overhead greenery),
leading the fish toward you so you can release it.
If it’s a large fish, put on your track shoes and
get ready to follow it. If you have a friend fishing
with you, get your companion to move downstream
and net your fish. If you’re alone, just do everything
you’d do with a classical fly rod. (John calls them
“Western” fly rods. Not as in the U.S. West, but as in
Occidental, not Oriental.)
And that’s about it. Now, for some details on my
trip with John.
Once I was making casts to John’s satisfaction, I
started fishing in earnest, and it wasn’t long before
I had my first fish, a brookie. There were lots more
after that one. I typically lose count after five or six
fish (convenient, isn’t it?), but in the first section
of the stream, I’d guess I caught around fifteen or
so. And I completed the Smoky Mountains grand
slam—brookies, browns, and rainbows, including
one rainbow of about two pounds. That’s the size of
fish that you need assistance with to land, but even
with John’s coaching and netting, it was still touch
and go until he netted it.
We moved downstream to another area, with
a warning from John to watch out for snakes as we
walked across a rocky stretch. It seems that in the
early spring, the copperheads like to bask in the
sun for awhile. He says it’s not very common to see
them, but just to be alert. And something else about
tenkara: if you’re walking any distance, it’s best to
collapse the rod down to its shortest configuration.
You know what it’s like going through brush with a
9-foot rod. Imagine how hung up you can get with a
14-foot rod. Anyway, we got to the lower stretch, where I
tried dries. There isn’t the progression of hatches we
have in the Catskills, and while there are mayflies,
caddisflies, and stoneflies, much of the surface
fishing is done with small attractor dries and a
nymph dropper. While I didn’t get as many fish as I
did upstream, I still caught enough to lose count.
So, after a half day of fishing with John, I was
sold on tenkara. The next day, I went to one of our
local fly shops and outfitted myself with two rods,
lines, and the attendant gadgets. Total cost—under
$600. I went back out fishing a couple of days later
and had even more fun. And when I was done, I
stopped on a bridge to watch the anglers there.
After a couple of minutes, I saw some motion
upstream of them—it was a small bear cub crossing
the stream. Fortunately for them (and me), momma
was nowhere near. I’ve seen more bears in Asheville
in six months than I saw in about forty-plus years of
fishing and hunting in the Catskills. We live within
the city limits of Asheville, fairly close to the campus
of the University of North Carolina, Asheville. We
had one bear walk down our street and another
walk by the house right next to the deck. And we
saw others while we were driving around exploring
the area of our new home.
If any of you are thinking of visiting Asheville, I’d
love to show you around. Fishing here is best from
October through May locally and most of the rest of
the year in the higher altitudes and remote brooks.
If you’d like more information abut tenkara, guide
John Miko, or fly fishing in North Carolina, feel free to
e-mail me at [email protected].
Fifteenth Annual TGF Farmington Outing
A small, but select band of TGF members gathered on
the Farmington River in Connecticut on June 25, 2016, for the
fifteenth annual outing to this productive and challenging
tailwater fishery. A generous picnic lunch and good
conversation punctuated a day of fishing, with the evening
rise shutting down soon after the sun left the water and the
hatch petered out in the Farmington’s cold, cold water. The
Farmington outing is always a good time with good people.
Watch for next year’s event and come fish with us.
In attendance: David Kramer, Chuck Neuner, Joe Johnston,
Fred Shulman, Bert Darrow, Len Pickard, and (behind the camera) Bud Bynack.
—4—
Our Far-Flung Correspondents
Montana’s Beloved River
Sara Low
Check your bucket list for experiences that may
soon disappear! Considered by Montanans to be
the state’s most beautiful river, the Smith River flows
from the Castle Mountains in central Montana to the
Missouri River. Every mile carries anglers through
dense woodland forests, verdant rolling fields, or
steep limestone canyons. And—very important—the
water is a protected resource teeming with trout. A
fishing trip on the Smith promises a mix of opposites:
adventure and serenity, ancient history and modern
tales, breathtaking beauty and hidden danger.
I floated the Smith this June for an unforgettable
experience: spectacular fishing in awe-inspiring
surroundings. The
river supports
beautiful, healthy
wild trout: strong
browns and
rainbows and
colorful brookies.
On our trip, fish
were measured
at up to twenty-two inches in length. One day, my
three biggest fish were a nineteen-inch rainbow,
a nineteen-and-a-half-inch brown, and a twentytwo-inch monster rainbow. In the evenings, we
talked long hours over dinners cooked by a Culinary
Institute of America chef, sharing stories of our day
on the water and discussing a multitude of other
subjects. Our campsites were nestled among fir trees,
under the towering yellow and red limestone cliffs,
or on the banks of the river itself.
The Smith is currently one of the most regulated
rivers in Montana. State permits are required to float
it—and they are hard to get: last year, 8,096 people
applied for just 1,175 permits, which allow the bearer
and his or her party to spend a maximum of five
days and four nights on the fifty-nine-mile stretch
of river that is exclusively for boaters from the put-in
at Camp Baker to take-out at Eden Bridge. During
the river’s season, nine drift parties are allowed to
launch daily and are assigned campsites for each
night on the river. We traveled with Lewis and Clark
Expeditions, the largest outfitting company on this
waterway.
Our party consisted of eight anglers, four guides,
and three ground staff in six bright-blue rubber rafts
laden with fishing and camp gear—modern-day
concessions to comfort and safety. The new meets
the old in Smith River fly fishing. We used modern
equipment while observing the traditions of the
sport, releasing our catches of impressive wild fish.
—5—
Anglers held graphite rods; river guides plied carbon
oars; the camp staff oversaw colorful nylon tents
and aluminum cots. We drifted the river at different
speeds and met at our assigned campsite each
evening.
There can be a jam of boats leaving Camp Baker
on the first day, but the jostling calms down, and
within a short time, peace returns to the water as
boats disappear downstream, leaving each to its
own quiet.
Fishing proved to be both challenging and
rewarding. This is not simply a cast-and-catch
river. Anglers worked hard to present a fly to the
right spot and drift it without drag. Guides worked
even harder to row the boats to the best spots and
choose flies that would entice fish. With the river
level just dropping from spring thaws in the distant
mountains and cloudy water clearing after a recent
downpour, we threw an assortment of flies for
every level in the water column: Sparkle Minnows
for streamers, Lightning Bugs and Copper Johns
for nymphs, and Chubbies for dry flies. As a dry-fly
enthusiast, I was pleased to use caddis patterns
and Pale Morning Dun imitations, as well as Golden
Stoneflies. A bonanza hatch just starting, Golden
Stones were found on logs and rocks, in the air, even
on the sides of tents. Fish stayed in pods, feasting
on the insects. An exciting and successful fishing
technique was to bounce a dry fly off the base of
a cliff wall into the water to attract great browns
and rainbows. And of course, everything was big:
6-weight fly rods, 4X leaders, size 8 and larger flies,
with maybe a few size 10s. Trying lighter gear early
in the trip, I saw my 5-weight rod bend in half from
the strength of hooked fish working against the
powerful flow of the Smith’s current. After that day, I
used only the recommended 6-weight rod.
Cruising down the river, I observed history
seeping through the canyon. This was where
Native Americans roamed: the Blackfeet, Shoshone,
Salish, Crow, Assiniboine, and Gros Ventre tribes.
They left red pigment pictographs describing
their adventures from as long ago as 3,000 b.c.
and as recently as 1700 a.d. There were primitive
images of rabbits, foxes, bears, turtles, rattlesnakes,
crowns, and handprints. Millions of years ago, small
animals sheltered in these cliffs. Fossils found in
beach rocks are testimony to their early existence.
Overwhelmed, I threw my arms out many times as
we drifted, attempting to capture the magnificence
of the river in vast embraces.
With the exception of a couple dozen private
ranches, the Smith River flows through a remote
wilderness that is home to black bears, whitetail
deer, bald eagles, and great horned owls. The last
miles before take-out, the Smith passes farmland,
offering a glimpse of today as domestic sheep stare
at the boaters daring to disturb their peace.
Nightfall brought new experiences. It had been
a long time since I’d camped outdoors, but this was
different—a glamping trip, short for glamorous
camping, with a ground crew that set up each site
before our arrival. There was no electricity or cell
coverage, but we had wine with our hors d’oeuvres,
tents and cots with mattresses, and millions of
stars in the sky. For the curious, our bathrooms
were toilets situated in private spots outdoors,
surrounded by trees or a field with an occasional
deer startling the brush. On the first evening, an owl
flew to a nearby tree and, like a sentinel, guarded
my privacy.
Each person in our group responded to the
wilderness differently. Our ages ranged from twenty
to seventy-two, with the older folk fishing and the
youngsters working the campsites. There were
sons of Nobel laureates and the Ringling Circus
family, a couple of doctors, and two men from The
Nature Conservancy. The youngest stole off to go
swimming, and the oldest entertained with merry
—6—
stories. Every person, though, was awed by the
Smith as a river—its fishing, dramatic landscapes,
and ancient and modern history.
The Smith is a spectacular waterway, providing
many reasons for traveling along its nearly sixtymile corridor. We chose to fish the river this June
for what may have been our last opportunity—a
fishing option that may not exist in future years.
Undisturbed as it appears, the Smith canyon hides
a gleaming secret: rich veins of copper that may be
mined as early as 2018. A Canadian company, Tintina
Resources, has applied for the mining rights and may
begin soon to work the land, cutting into the idyllic
wilderness and stripping metal from deep in its belly.
Montanans, local environmental organizations,
and individual naturalists are making noises about
the impending copper mine. The state is in the
process of reviewing Tintina’s mine-operating permit
application. Every organization involved is moving
appropriately as the final decision approaches.
The issue is whether or not the copper mining will
destroy the landscape and habitat of woodland
creatures, the water, and river denizens. The mining
company believes that the riches to be gained
outweigh the possible loss of nature and vows to
use clean mining practices as countermeasures.
Environmentalists think differently.
The proposed mine would be located on
Sheep Creek, at the headwaters of the Smith River.
It will sit below the water table and require the
pumping of water to keep the mine from flooding.
The wastewater that is created from the pumping
will contain arsenic and other toxic elements. The
treatment and storage of this contaminated water
in addition to the sulfuric acid that may result from
exposure of minerals are some of the issues posed by
the mine. It is the predicted consequences of these
issues that are being researched and protested.
Tintina Resources and its new controlling partner,
the Australian mining firm Sandfire, have claimed
to maintain strong interests in Montana and in the
Smith River, in particular. “If the water is tainted,” they
explain, “our operations will be shut down.”
Montana Trout Unlimited is monitoring the
Tintina mining submission and keeping a current
list of the application’s shortfalls and unfulfilled
requirements. In addition to the environmental
issues relating directly to the mining, Montana
and Meagher County, through which the Smith
River flows, need to heed the economic factors
that may be affected by a copper mine on the river.
Smith River enthusiasts give the state of Montana a
minimum $10 million annually in the form of permit
applications and licenses. This money covers the
bulk of the upkeep and enhancement costs for the
river and the Smith River State Park. In addition,
travelers to the Smith bring tourist money to the
state and to cities near the river, Helena and White
Sulphur Springs, in particular. Money goes directly
to small-business owners for lodging, food, and
transportation before and after a trip on the river,
as well as for vital equipment needed for such a trip
and for tourist incidentals.
For anyone who has traveled the Smith River,
potential damage from the proposed copper mine is
unconscionable. The Smith has existed for millennia,
now protected by the state for minimal exposure
to humans and modern impositions. The majesty of
the Smith is greater than words can convey, and the
emotion it draws cannot be fully expressed. In this
case, fervent appreciation comes from familiarity
with this rare resource.
The story of my June trip should simply be a
glowing travelogue on a well-regarded river in
Montana. Instead, the narrative indicates a dark
shadow in the future: a battle between a mining
company and conservationists. Who will prevail
in this classic tale of progress versus nature? For
everyone who has experienced the Smith River, there
is no question of what the outcome should be. In the
end, the angler hopes that the river triumphs.
—7—
The Good Fight
News from the TGF Conservation
Committee
THERMAL POLLUTION
Charles Neuner
Thermal pollution seldom receives the same
attention as the many other environmental threats
to our rivers and streams, but it can have an
important impact on cold-water fisheries. It’s clear
to most people that higher water flows can mean
cooler water and therefore better conditions for
trout and insects. And indeed, this is generally the
case with tailwater fisheries in the summer, and
specifically those dependent on bottom releases—
water released from the bottom of the headwater
impoundment. However, it is not always the case
throughout the season, and it is generally not the
case with naturally flowing rivers at any time.
While typical tailwater fishery can support a
sustainable and healthy trout and insect population
with a low summer flow, such flow levels in a
comparable naturally flowing river can result in
thermal stress, fish kills, and loss of insect life. In
the Catskills this summer at the time of this writing,
current Beaverkill River and Willowemoc Creek flows
are both low and warm and are stressful to both
the trout and the insects on which they depend.
This is because these streams are dependent on
groundwater and runoff, which at this time of
the year are already nearing the upper limits of
trout tolerance even before they combine with
the existing flows. However, similar flows from the
bottom of the reservoirs supplying the West Branch
and East Branch of the Delaware River are so cold
that comparable flow levels in these rivers, although
perhaps not ideal for some forms of fly fishing, are
very comfortable for both the trout and the insects.
So while water flows and water temperatures are
often linked, one is not necessarily dependent upon
the other.
In streams that depend on rain for a large part
of their flows in the summer, such as the Beaverkill,
Willowemoc, and many other Catskill rivers and
streams, rain that falls steadily over a long period of
time and ideally after dark or on cloudy days is best
for mitigating rises in water temperature during the
summer. A sudden downpour in the middle of an
otherwise hot and sunny day may seem helpful, but
such rain often flows over hot roads and pavement
on its way to the river and may actually result in a fish
kill as a plume of hot water, often over 90 degrees
Fahrenheit in the heat of the summer, suddenly
swells the currents.
To mitigate thermal pollution, particularly on
naturally flowing trout streams, it is important for
rainwater to flow from or through riparian zones,
undeveloped fields, and woodlands adjacent to
the river. It is also ideal if the cobble banks along
rivers are minimized or replanted to reduce their
heating of rain and runoff water as it enters the
stream. The latter is particularly problematic in rivers
and sections of rivers that have been damaged
by floodwaters, which expand the floodplain by
scouring away trees and foliage, thereby exposing
more stones and cobbles to sunlight during normal
low-water periods.
Average rainfall has a big impact on thermal
stress, as do average temperatures during the
summer months, and both go through cycles and
changes as a result of both human activities and
natural forces. However, more immediate and
manageable causes of thermal pollution are the
reduction of riparian zones through poorly planned
development, mismanagement of runoff water from
roads and pavement, and insufficient municipal
recharge infrastructure. Less obvious, but equally
important to mitigating thermal stress on naturally
flowing rivers are the management and use of
potable groundwater, insufficient consideration of
land-use impacts, and the municipal management of
wastewater.
There is no simple solution to thermal pollution
on our rivers and streams, but it would serve us to
remember to view healthy environments for trout
and stream insects in terms of water temperature
and water quality, in addition to water flow, and to
focus on sustaining and restoring river conditions
based on the biological demands of the trout and
the environment.
—8—
THE BEAVERKILL COVERED
BRIDGE AND CAMPSITE
RENOVATION
Patricia Adams
supervisor for DEC’s Region 3, reported that the Excelsior
Conservation Corps is returning to level more knotweed
from August 15 to August 24.
The architectural firm W Architecture and Landscape
Architecture has come up with a vision document that will
help guide our work to protect and enhance the site and its
special resources.
The Beaverkill Campground at the Beaverkill covered
bridge has been very busy this summer, with hundreds of
day-use people and filled campsites every weekend, even
though both the campsite and bridge are undergoing
major renovations. With the help of individual donors
working with John Adams and Erik Kulleseid from the Open
Space Institute and the Alliance for New York State Parks,
a Beaverkill master plan for the site is being developed.
This plan includes a history of the tannery built in 1832, the
bridge construction supervised by John Davidson in 1865,
the establishment of the public campground in the 1920s,
and work by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the
1930s.
The plan highlights opportunities for restoring historic
features on the site (bridge approaches and abutments,
CCC and Department of Environmental Conservation
structures), interpreting four major historical themes (early
industrial development, fly fishing in the Beaverkill valley,
CCC campground development, and land conservation in
the valley), and assessing and restoring the compromised
ecology of the site.
An effort to restore the compromised ecology started
this June. A group of young people, ten men and one
woman with the Excelsior Conservation Corps (ECC)
summer program, worked in the campsite. These interns
are volunteers from AmeriCorps and come from as far south
as New York City and as far west as Buffalo. They basically
work for food and place to sleep (in a tent) and a few dollars
a week. Seeing them in the campsite reminds us of the fact
that in the 1930s, the CCC brought a very similar group of
young people to build the campsite. Over three hundred
young men came to the Beaverkill to work on building
cabins and tent sites, laying pipes for water throughout the
campground, and building fireplaces.
Today, the primary goal of the ECC workers is to get
rid of Japanese knotweed, multiflora rose, and barberry,
invasive species that have become rampant in the campsite.
Under the supervision of John Thompson, the CRISP (Catskill
Regional Invasive Species Partnership) coordinator, and
Evan Sweeny, both from the Catskill Center, they have dug
up barberry and multiflora rose. The knotweed is more
challenging. They have bent the plants over all through the
campsite, and in September, they will spray a mild herbicide
over them. This is less labor intensive than putting herbicide
down each plant root and also uses less herbicide. It is an
experiment—no one has found a sure-fire way to rid the
riverbanks of this plague. Bill Rudge, natural resources
As a part of enhancing the campsite, the Theodore
Gordon Flyfishers, Inc., has commissioned two benches that
were designed and made by Bob Batchik. His carpentry
company, Sunfish Wood Works, is in Michigan. The benches
will most likely be placed on the island near good fishing
spots. Bob brought his daughter with him when he delivered
the benches and was lucky enough to spend a day or two
with TGF president Bert Darrow. He and his daughter caught
some impressive fish.
With support from the Friends of Beaverkill Community,
the Beaverkill covered bridge was placed in the National
Register of Historic Places when George Pataki was governor.
Now, under Governor Andrew Cuomo, and with the support
of both the Department of Transportation and the DEC,
$2 million has been allocated for renovation of the bridge.
The DEC has set aside an additional $250 thousand for the
restoration of the old stone walls that form the abutments
on the east side of the bridge.
Joseph Boris has been contracted by the DOT to
supervise the renovation of the bridge, and he has
consistently talked with interested residents about its
progress. He also gave John Adams over one hundred
wooden “pins” that were taken out of the bridge. John plans
to give these historic objects to donors to the project.
The reconstruction of the bridge and campsite has
been a true team effort. Bill Rudge from the DEC has been
incredibly supportive from the beginning. Both state
agencies, the DEC and the DOT, have worked to maintain
the integrity of the bridge, and a great deal of progress has
been made so far. Donors contributing to this effort ensure
that the campsite will be greatly improved and we will all
be able to enjoy the living history of this section of the
Beaverkill River.
Adapted from the Friends of the Beaverkill Community Web site,
http://beaverkillfriends.org
—9—
Our Far-Flung Correspondents
Salmon Fishing in Russia:
The Kola Peninsula
Turhan Tirana
“This is surreal,” Terry Brykczynski, my fishing
partner, remarked. To make oneself understood
above the wonk, wonk, wonk of the helicopter
rotors, one had to lean over to the ear of the person
to be addressed and shout. Ear plugs wadded and
stuffed into our ears didn’t help.
Better than talking was watching each other
and occasionally shoving open a round, thick ­glass
porthole, braving the wind, to glance at what was
passing not far below. The scene was more desolate
than interesting—tundra pockmarked with brush
and stands of low birch and coniferous trees, miles
and miles of it, and nothing else but an occasional
silver lake or river.
The seventeen passengers sat on benches
against the bulkheads, facing each other. No seat
belts; this was a Russian aircraft. Piled in between
was cargo—large fishing-rod containers and other
personal gear, and camp supplies to take care of us
for the next week.
The passengers were composed of two groups,
one Swedish and the other us, each destined for
a different camp. The Swedes, mostly big, burly
blondes, had begun drinking earlier, probably at the
Murmansk airport. Evidently drinking is a Swedish
national pastime when in Russia. One passed around
a liter of twelve-year-old scotch. The two Swedes on
either side of me passed out.
Arrival
The helicopter descended, then landed, blowing
down the nearby brush. The rotors slowed, then
stopped. A pilot emerged from the cockpit, stooped
under the low ceiling, and opened the door. The
air was gray, humid, and cool. It was thick with
mosquitoes. Emerging from behind the mosquitoes
were men, their faces indistinguishable for the fine
nets covering them.
One of the Swedes next to me revived. The other,
who appeared to be a slightly aging football
linebacker, didn’t. At a signal of one of his friends, I
shoved his shoulder, then slapped his bristly face. He
came to, grunting.
We’d arrived.
Location
We were above the Arctic Circle in Russia,
several hundred miles east of Finland on what’s
known as the Kola Peninsula. The Kola is the size of
Pennsylvania from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh, or
Austria. If we had descended straight south long
enough, we’d have ended somewhere between
Beirut and Baghdad, former places of call for me in
long-ago, more peaceful days when I was a banker.
This was my fourth trip to Russia, the second for
pleasure. The first was in 1969, a year before my son,
Peter, was born. Being in Russia then, at least for a
visitor, was quieter, more orderly, and safer than now,
although one still feels an undercurrent of danger.
The effects of terror under Stalin and maybe also
the czars remains, or perhaps it’s the result of the
volatility of the Russian character, or both,
The Kola’s principal city is Murmansk. Murmansk
was created in 1916 when the British insisted
that the Russians provide a supply depot for their
merchant fleets plying the Arctic. Later it became
a trading center, including for minerals mined in
the interior, the uncontrolled processing of which
poisoned the surrounding forests. The major Soviet
naval base in the Arctic was placed there. Murmansk
also was the destination in World War II of American
convoys seeking to breach the daunting German
U-boat blockade and supply the Russians.
For some reason, the sea around Murmansk
does not freeze in the winter; Helsinki, much farther
southwest, requires two icebreakers shaped like
— 10 —
giant dump trucks to keep the port open in winter.
Officially, Murmansk’s population is four hundred
thousand. Other than three smaller cities, a few
towns on the coast, and some villages along the
rivers, the peninsula is uninhabited.
The peninsula’s populace consists of an eclectic
mix of military personnel; Russian engineers and
other professionals induced to move north during
Communism for incentives of up to double pay
(normal winter temperatures routinely drop to minus
25 degrees Fahrenheit and sometimes lower); an
indigenous population of Lapps (a Caucasian people,
but darker than most others, who herd reindeer for
food and clothing from the Kola westward, ignoring
national boundaries, across the far north to Norway);
some trappers (the Kola contains bears, moose,
and the largest species of wolf in the world, as well
as smaller mammals); and former Gulag prisoners.
Many of those mostly political prisoners did not
survive the cold, sparse and bad food, and lack of
medical care. When those who did were released in
the 1960s, most had lost their homes and places in
the society they had left. Many stayed.
The river we fished is called the Ponoi. It flows, not
far down from our camp, into the White Sea, which
eventually joins the Arctic Ocean, not the Atlantic.
Salmon in the more accessible portions of the
Atlantic are endangered. So far, salmon in the Kola
area are generally safe, although that may change.
Upstream from our camp was a village, the yearround population of which is about fifty. It consisted
of one-story wood houses with sheet-metal roofs,
scattered without apparent plan around a huge
satellite dish; the dish seemed to define the town’s
heart. Boats lined the river bank. Parked near the
houses were what appeared to be former beach
landing craft. Because no roads exist for hundreds of
miles, they appeared to be the appropriate vehicle,
assuming there’s someplace to go to.
Who We Were
Our group numbered seven, including Lee
Hartman, proprietor of the funky Indian Springs
Fishing Camp on the upper Delaware River in the
Catskills in New York across from Pennsylvania.
Lee, as an agent for Loop, pulled together the rest
of us. All of us knew Lee either from the camp or
from other trips he’s led. All were experienced and
traveled fly fishers.
Because of our strong common interest,
conversations omitted that deadening American
question among strangers, “Well, what do you do?”
In our case, our professions or former professions
didn’t matter; there were more interesting matters to
discuss.
Lee had a professional career of some kind
that he chucked a few years ago to open his camp
and, later, conduct fly-fishing trips out West, in
the Caribbean, and in Russia. Terry I met after a
mutual friend told me he might provide designs for
the chapter headings of my book. The publisher’s
choices Denise, my wife, and I thought poor. Terry
and his wife, who is the daughter of Mitch Miller, the
band leader, maintained in their Upper West Side
apartment a pet parrot, Stanley. They’re not certain,
however, of Stanley’s sex. Paul I’d met fishing at the
camp. He’s an aggressive but excellent angler and
likes to entertain and be entertained. Jon and Charlie
come from eastern Pennsylvania and fish together
on occasions such as this one. Both are quiet, Jon
the more so, and pleasant company. Jon hunts with
bow and arrow for elk out West, a daunting sport.
Unlike Eastern archer-hunters, he must find and then
stalk his prey. He was able to guide me in the use of
the GPS Denise gave me. Ray is from Farmington,
Connecticut, and teaches or taught public health
at UConn. He has fished with Lee before in Russia.
He was pleasant and good-natured, despite quiet
suffering from a problem that, upon our return,
landed him in a hospital. He had to forego another
trip, to Saskatchewan to fish with his son for pike.
The Resource
The rule of law exists as a shadow of what it is in
the West. This affects the resource of sport fishing, as
well. The Kola is blessed with thirty or so rivers where
salmon spawn. Some rivers the salmon frequent
more than others. But on some, the locals are ruining
them. Take the Umba, one of the best rivers until
recently. Unlike most Kola rivers, the Umba has a
town at its mouth, with the same name. Without jobs
and desperate, citizens overtly poach now. Not only
did they throw rocks at the sport fishers and guides
they saw, but they’re stringing nets across the river.
The companies that ran several sport-fishing camps
pulled out.
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The economics are simple. A kilo (2.2 pounds)
of salmon fetches 100 rubles (35 rubles equaled
one dollar when I was there) at restaurants in St.
Petersburg and Murmansk. Given the low cost of
living and numerous, heavy salmon, the returns can
be high. However, for reasons that will be explained
later, this fish source isn’t renewable. Soon, the locals
will have neither the income that trickles down to
them from the sport fishermen nor salmon.
Rights
Russians fish these rivers. They just need to afford
the licenses. Then they need access, which, except
for those few who live along the rivers, generally
must be by helicopter. Two types of license are
offered on the Kola. One is for twenty-four hours.
Its cost is about fifty dollars, and it precludes taking
any salmon. The other is for six hours and allows
one salmon. As soon as a salmon is killed, the angler
must stop fishing.
Enforcement is usually good. However, one
afternoon, one of our party saw an apparently
empty inflated rubber boat with an outboard engine
floating down the river. When his guide and he
reached it, they found a fish inspector collapsed in
the bottom, drunk.
The lessees of our camp (the Swedish company
Loop and its Russian partner) had rights to 20
kilometers of river. There is one camp below, at the
head of the river, and one camp above. The river
flows 400 kilometers The lessors are supposed to be
the Russian public. Who actually receives the money
is something of a mystery. Accordingly, the lessees
don’t ·usually invest a lot in a camp.
Camp
Our camp, new that year, accommodated
ten anglers. Large tents with wood stoves, some
furniture, and wood-frame beds with sleeping bags
slept two anglers each. Terry and I used the stove
in our tent all but the last night, when the weather
turned hot. Except for that night, we usually slept in
layers of clothing. Temperatures dropped to the high
thirties Fahrenheit and rose to the sixties, except for
the last day, which was uncomfortably hot.
Each tent had an electric light, powered by a
generator, but when we were there, electric light
wasn’t needed. At the darkest time of night, one
could easily read. Other buildings, either larger
tents or structures made of light plywood, held a
dining room, kitchen, and bathing room with woodburning sauna. There were three outhouses, plus
tents for the staff.
The staff numbered ten—five guides, three
women who cooked and cleaned, the Loop
manager, who was a Dane, and the Russian company
manager. The latter didn’t do anything one could
see other than to fish and glower, especially if a
guest approached where he was fishing. Most of the
Russian staff seemed to come from Umba, the town.
During the winter, most are unemployed. None
spoke more than a few words of English.
The lack of a common language precluded us
from communicating some more subtle wishes,
such as to move closer to or farther from a bank
or riffle or to ascertain what they planned to do
next. The guides were essentially boatmen who
knew from experience (each was assigned just one
beat, or area) where the salmon are most likely to
congregate, if they’re around at all. They also netted
and released the fish and marked the weights of
each on our licenses, presumably for later study by
fishery officials.
The food the cooks prepared was plentiful, fresh,
and good; it doesn’t lend itself to easy description.
However, every dinner and lunch included soup.
They served salmon as a main course only the last
night. Wild salmon is more lean and lighter in color
than farmed salmon. The food pellets farm salmon
eat include coloring in whatever shade of red the
business managers think consumers expect.
Meals were at 8:00, 2:00, and 8:00. Between
breakfast and dinner (9:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.) we fished
with the guides, two anglers per guide and boat.
The boats were somewhat battered flat-bottomed,
heavy aluminum craft, painted an ugly army green.
We took turns with the guides and also with the
beats. Sometimes one angler would fish from shore
while the other remained in the boat. One could fish
after dinner, as well. I fished sometimes to midnight.
Unable to sleep, Terry got up to fish once between
1:00 and 2:00 in the morning. Because the fish
seemed mostly to be moving upriver when we were
there, some beats were productive some days and
not at all on others.
— 12 —
The only game we saw was reindeer, if that can
be considered game. The only birds I identified,
by process of elimination, were a pair of whooper
swans. They are considered an Asian bird. In the
winters, they fly across the Eurasian continent to the
Aleutian islands off Alaska, where temperatures are
more moderate. This was a most unusual bird to be
able to check off on my list, maybe more so than the
endangered trumpeter swans Denise and I saw on
the Madison River in Wyoming.
Fishing
Salmon fishing, unlike fishing for trout, is
unpredictable. Adding to the mystery is why salmon
strike at flies at all, to say nothing of determining the
most likely fly, because in the rivers, they’re generally
not feeding. They feed in the ocean, accumulating
the strength to swim without eating, sometimes
hundreds of miles, sometimes leaping high
waterfalls, to their spawning grounds. Thus, the flies
are mostly what are known as attractors, stunningly
beautiful, artfully arranged collections of feathers, fur
(some from exotic creatures such as Arctic fox), and
silk. Their brightness may so antagonize the salmon
that they strike. Trout flies, by way of contrast, mostly
imitate specific aquatic insects in specific life stages.
Aquatic bugs are, at best, drab.
Was the fishing good?
By way of comparison, I’ve fished for Atlantic
salmon three times, for several days each, twice on
the Miramichi , a well-known salmon river in New
Brunswick, for a week each time, and once a couple
of days with Denise on the River Dee in Scotland,
down from Balmoral Castle, one of the Queen’s
summer residences. Each time, I caught one salmon.
I was content. The number was better than zero, and
no one else seemed to be doing much better. On the
Ponoi, I caught fifty.
My most enjoyable time was the two hours
before midnight of the last day, when the license
expired. I was the only one fishing. The sun had
dipped under the horizon. This was one of only two
nights in the week when the sun showed itself at all.
It highlighted clouds above. The mosquitoes were
benign. I was knee-deep in the river, in sight of the
camp, where the currents flowing from the Ponoi
and a tributary, the Acha, meet. I caught five salmon,
two of them, I judged from prior fish the guide had
weighed, to be fifteen pounds. (Most of the salmon
you see at the counter at the grocery store weigh
between ten and twelve pounds.) Being alone meant
I was without the guide and his huge net, so I had to
tire the fish, induce them onto the rock beach, and
with a minimum of handling, release them.
The group caught 285 salmon. Because of hot
weather, the prior group caught fewer. The group
before them caught more. The largest two fish in our
group weighed ten kilos (over twenty pounds). Terry
caught one of them. He wasn’t able to hold onto
another larger salmon. Other rivers on the Kola have
larger but fewer fish and due to more forbidding
terrain are more difficult to fish.
A friend asked what I think while I’m catching
a salmon. The magic moment is the strike. After, I
don’t think much; I mostly react. I’m in the moment,
outside myself. The past is gone. The future is
confined to speculating whether I’ll succeed in
bringing in the fish. I’m also alert to the possibility
of the salmon jumping, as these fish sometimes
do, several heart-stopping feet in the air. I’m also
strategizing—how much pressure to apply with the
rod and line; whether to try bring in the fish and how
or to let it go where it wants; how to discourage it
from reaching fast current, logs, or rocks; and when
it’s in, if I’m alone, how to take hold of it to release it.
Following the fish’s release is a moment of profound
satisfaction. All is right with the world.
Atlantic Salmon
Atlantic salmon are most desirable of freshwater
fish. They’re quixotic, beautiful, and incredibly
strong, dramatic fighters, especially when they’re
fresh in the rivers from the ocean. Unlike their
boring Pacific cousins, they can live beyond their
first spawning, and they grow quite large. Atlantic
salmon also are the only salmon that will rise to a
fly. To catch Pacific salmon, “sports fishermen,” to
use the term lightly, generally fling in the salmon’s
direction big chunks of colored steel, dangling from
which are huge hooks. Once they hook a salmon,
they drag it to shore in a matter of seconds, club
it, and chuck it on the bank behind them or to the
bottom of their boat.
Atlantic salmon in most of the range where
— 13 —
they were once plentiful are virtually extinct. In
precolonial times, their spawning runs returned to
virtually every river in New England and eastern
Canada, as well as the British Isles and Northern
Europe along the Atlantic. Now those living in
somewhat normal numbers in the Atlantic are
confined for the most part to northern Canada,
Iceland, and northern Norway. The secret of the Kola
salmon is that they don’t inhabit the Atlantic; they
fatten up in the White Sea, which connects with the
Arctic Ocean.
In early years, the culprits were pollution and
dams too high for even the acrobatic Atlantic salmon
to surmount, especially in the Maine rivers, thus
denying them access to their spawning beds. Now
the culprits are commercial fishermen, especially
those who employ nets miles long, and, worst of all,
salmon aquaculture. The salmon packed into farm
nets off the Norwegian fjords, Britain, and Ireland
are havens for sea lice, which in sufficient numbers
will eat salmon alive, and for diseases. When seals,
sea lions, and storms rip the nets, the farm salmon
escape. Those that don’t die sometimes breed with
wild salmon, producing genetically inferior offspring
not strong and smart enough to survive unaided.
Wild salmon are not renewable. Take the
Connecticut River. For years, at enormous expense
and effort, close to ten million salmon fry were
planted there annually and left the river as parr for
the ocean. Last year, forty-four returned .
In the Kola, too, wild salmon are vulnerable.
Besides the nets that poachers string, there are
two dangers. One is plans by the Norwegians
to bring salmon farms to the area. The other is
drilling for oil. The time to go there is now.
Home
In terms of drama or danger, the trip was
uneventful. (“Thank goodness,” Denise remarked
afterward; she was thinking of a year ago when
Alicia Orrick, a friend, and I couldn’t find our way
out of the Denali wilderness in Alaska.) From
reading and talking to others, everything that
happened I had expected, more or less, except
that I caught many more salmon than I had
allowed myself to believe was possible.
I learned more about the art of fly fishing,
especially for salmon. I’d always wanted to see
the far North, although it turns out to be less
interesting than I expected. Even central Alaska,
which is farther south, was more varied and
pleasing to the eye and also, where Alicia and I
were, more forbidding. Strangely, my life-long
interest in fly fishing had been waning. Thanks
to the trip, it has revived. The company, too, was
varied, entertaining, and congenial; we came to
know each other’s essential characters rather well,
and because those characters were good, that was
an additional pleasure.
— 14 —