BY MONTE BURKE THRTF NAYS ON THF BOI\AVENTUR,F

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PHOTOGRAPHY
>The Preamble
On the drive up from Maine, Yvon Chouinard tells
me about a Inan, a hermit, who lives on a small bluff
above a pool on the North Umpqua River, that steelhead cathedral in Oregon. This hermit does not fish.
Rather, he spends nearly every day in a lawn chair on
the bluff, looking down at the pool, watching what he
calls "my fish," those beguiling western analogues of
the Atlantic salmon.
The hermit watches fishermen, too, just as keenly
as he does the fish. He sees anglers come through his
pool nearly every day waving their sticks, throwing
their lines down and across, trying to entice one of
hjs fish. The hermit has no feeling either way about
these fishermen catching his fish. He is not protective
of them when it comes to lawful angling. These fish
are not his Pets.
Ancl besides, the hermit says he can tell at first
blink whether an angler is going to have success or
get blanked. His fish react differently to the presence
of different people. \A/tren some anglers approach the
pool, the fish start to get agitated, scooting up and
clown tlre pool, thrashing their tails, slicing through
the water's surface. But with other anglers, the fish
remain placid and hold their lies, even when the
angler is a mere five yards from them.
The former group rarely gets a tug' The latter group
frequcntly finds success. The hermit believes that the
reason for this is that all anglers have an aura. And that
aura is transmitted, somehow someway, to the fish'
As Chouinard and I pull into the driver'vay of The
Salmon Lodge on Quebec's Gasp6 Peninsula, I tealize
that even if this hermit is batshit crazy, even if this
story is apocryphal, it certainly gives you something
to think about.
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BY TOM MONTGOMERY
>Day One
AtThe Salmon Lodge, the sevcn of us-Jim Lawley,
Grant Reid, BillTaylor, Charles Conn, Tom Montgomcrl,4
Chouinard and I-are treated like childrcn. In a good way'
We're sent out in the morning with guides to fish the
Bonaventure River and are told to "be home by dinner'"
Tom and I fish with Roddy Gallon, a tull bellied,
blue-eyed, lifelong resident of this valley and a long
time salmon guide. Roddy likes to smile a lot' At
Slocum Pool, he hands me a Picasse, a pretty littlc fly
tied with pheasant feathers" Tom graciously gives me
first run through the pool. Almost immediately I hook
a big salmon that leaps five times before finding the
bottom of Roddy's net. Roddy tells me it's a 25
pounder, which would make it my best Atlantic ever'
It does seem rather large. I write down "25 pounds"
in my notebook. Later-, Tom will not agree with that
weight. I come from a long line of exaggerators, stt it
doesnt bother me. But Tom, to his credit, prefers precision. He says the fish is morc like 20 pounds' (FIow
about we callilz2? I like that number,)
Either way, it's a magnificent fish and a banging
way to start a trip. It also makes what comes next
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easier to bear.
As the morning wears on, Tom and I draw blanks
on a few more runs through Slocum and some nearby
holding water. We stop for lunch, resting ourselves
and the pool. Then Roddy tells us we need to do one
more run through Slocum- Hc rummages around in
his fly vest. F.ventually he pulls out the single ugliest
fly I have ever seen, a shaggy brown and rnustard
colored dry. I shrug and tie it on' It's hear'y. lt requires
heaving rather than casting.
It floats high on the water, right through lhe meat
of the pool. Its garishness is an insull to the stunning
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beauty ofthis crystal-clear river and its vibrant green
boreal surroundings, "That thing looks like a damn
parakeet!" Tom yells from dor,vnstream. He's right. And
just as I am about to pick it up off the water and ask
for another, more dignified fly, a salmon crushes it
and goes crazy, tail-slapping, leaping and working the
once-placid pool into a froth. The fish seems furious'
I have no control over the salmon, so I decide to
take a step back to gain shallower water. But as I do,
I trip over a submerged rock and fall backwards into
the river. Everything-head and all-goes under. I have
the sensation of being entombed in a casket as the river
closes in on my face. \Mhen I arise, somewhat miraculously, the fish is still on. I'm shivering. The water' I will
find out later, is 50 degrees. Tom and Roddy are on the
bank, howling in laughter. I am numb. I fall in again.
This time the fish has had enough of my clornm show.
It spits the hook.
Tom is still cracking up. Roddy disappears into the
forest- For a moment, I think he's had enough of the
ungainly American and his conr,'ulsing companion.
But five minutes later, Roddy returns, holding a bundle of sticks. He builds a roaring streamside fire. I strip
dowrr. Some 20 minutes later, I am in the river again,
dry casting and smelling of sweet woodsmoke'
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ATLANTIc sALMoN
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I sUMMER 2o11
Riverside dryer: Bonaventure guide Roddy Gallon helps get the author into
dry clothes. Previous page: Guide tlaude Bernier uses a "Look a Tout."
That evening we gather back at The Salmon
Lodge, which is perched on a bluff overlooking the
Grand Cascapedia. The amiable 100-year old building
is right across the river from Lorne Cottage, the fish-
ing lodge built for the late lgth'century Governor
General of Canada and his sporty wife, the daughter
of QueenVictoria.
I'm not the only one with a memorable story'
Charles Conn is a former Internet startup impresario
(citysearch.com; match.com) who nowworks for the
Gordon and Betty Moore Foundation on its wild
salmon initiatives. That day he had hooked a fish that
dove immediately for some deadfall in the river. His
line came to a complete stop. Charles was sure he had
been wrapped around a submerged branch- So he
yanked on his l4-foot spey rod. It snapped in half'
The yanking freed the line. The salmon was slill
attached to it. Charles hand-lined in a l6-pounder-
>Day Two
Tom and I are paired with Clement Bernier, the voluble French-Canadian who ties exquisite-looking tube
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flies. Clement speaks emphatically, something you
learn to appreciate on a noisy river. Clement also comes
armed. He has a contraption, a box viewfinder with
mirrors. At every pool, he submerges it into the river
and scans the area for holding salmon. Because of the
viewfinder's mirrors, all of the Bonaventure's beautiful
rocks-in oranges, tans and whites-and salmon appear
upside-dor,rm. But at least you know they are there. That
knowledge lends a bit more confidence to each cast.
It is overcast and spitting rain. I hook and play six
salmon that day. I lose all but two. Tom hooks two and
Iands them both. All of the fish are in the teens, "classic Bonaventure fish," says Clement. Tom and I chuckle at our good fortune, so hard-won over so many
years of salmon-angling and yet so random. We file
this one away as a day to remember on the tougher
ones we will inevitably experience down the road.
Late that night back at the lodge, a bit into our
cups, we discuss the state of the environment. With
Bill, Yvon and Charles, we are blessed with the prescnce of some of the world's top conservationists. The
general consensus is that things are not well, that the
earth is sick and that we are the disease. We all lament
our own personal roles in this, the jet fuel, the driving,
the disposable consumerism. But the battle has not
been given up, not by these men. Eden is lost.
Redemption is still possible.
into the 26-foot, green-hulled canoe. Roddy stands in
the back and poles us gently dor,nrn the stream. It'.s an
old skill, this boatmanship, one that harkens back to
the l9th century, when poling up and down salmon
rivers was the only way wealthy sports could reach
their lodges.
The day is bright, crisp. The fragrance of the riverside poplars, known as the "balm of Gilead," wafts
over the river. We float over pools up to 30 feet deep.
The bottom is observed with absolute clarity through
this incredibly clear ice water. A feeling of vertigo
ensues after just seconds of gazing.
We hit a series of treacherous, rock-strewn rapids.
Tom, in the front of the canoe, gets antsy. He's worried
about his camera equipment and perhaps his life,
Roddy's demeanor never changes. He's as nonchalant
as aVenetian gondolier. He does not serenade us,
however. We stop a half-dozen times. Tom and I fish,
hard. Neither of us gets as much as a nibble. Perhaps
our aura, so perfect the day before, is off. We don't
much care. We are playing with house rnoney and are
both well-pleased to be escorted donm this beautiful
and bountiful river.
With our last casts comes the inevitable and
regretful end to another trip. Only then does the mind
leave the now and project into the future, looking
forward to the next one.
>Day Three
Tom and I are backwith Roddy.We've drar.ur the public
water, so Roddy has decided we will float. We clamber
Monte Burlce is a staff writer at Forbes magazine, His work
brings him in touch with some of the top guns in professional
sport. His beat forAS/includes the kings and queens ofAtlantic
salmon angling the guides.
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