I'm sure you've all done it. You read about a place in the magazines and say to yourself...boy, someday I'd really like to go there. It seems to get filed away with the other someday things. Labrador brookies have occupied that niche for me for years; through all the kids stuff, tuition, home improvements, family vacations and.., you know the drill.
On one family vacation we went to British Columbia and as is or habit, tried to get in a day or two of fishing. We were scheduled to fish a large river feeding the Pacific, trolling for King salmon. We had never done this and were quite excited by the prospect of fish of this size. When we got to the dock the guide announced his boat had broken, he'd borrowed another, but only two could go. So which son stays behind? The boys had a wonderful day, each landing a chinook over 25 lbs. of which they were very proud. I spent a nice day with their mother, and didn't think any oftener of what I was missing than every two or three minutes.
Karl, now 26, and living in the Seattle area (probably because of that trip) remembered that incident a few months ago. He wrote the neatest note to me thanking me for sending him and his brother instead of canceling or going myself. He wanted to know how to repay me. Their joy in that day was more than enough of course, but I issued a challenge to him. "You and your brother arrange with your employers, brides, in-laws, etc. for a week for the three of us to fish together." Likely this will never happen again, but he did it. The big one was going to happen, the trip of a lifetime.
So, where to go? After sorting through Chile, New Zealand, Scotland, Alaska, Western US, BC, the decision was made via the golden rule (he who supplies the gold, rules.) Labrador won. Hours of pouring over old magazines and the internet led us to decide on the Little Minipi Lodge, 65 miles southwest of Goose Bay Labrador. Months of evenings and weekends were spent researching and tying needed fly patterns. Gear was packed, weighed, and repacked.
Getting there is easy. You fly to Chicago, change planes, fly to Boston. Out of time, get your luggage, find a room. Next to Halifax Nova Scotia, change airlines, to St. Johns Newfoundland, change planes, to Deer Lake NF, to Goose Bay Labrador. Out of time, spend the night. Sunday A.M., weather permitting (visual flight only) you go to a large river where the fifth airline of the trip has several shiny old Otters and Beavers on floats docked and ready. You get aboard, excited but exhausted from the missed flights and lack of sleep. (You didn't really think that number of connections would go smoothly did you?) The Plane taxis out, builds power and lifts.
Soon you cross a ridge of low mountains and all signs of people are behind. The terrain is alternating ridges and valleys, rivers and lakes connected by fast runs. Black spruce forests (that have never seen a saw) cover the land, with interesting balds, left over from the last glaciers interrupting the trees. Caribou moss covers what the trees don't. The water is dark from the tannin, the sun glancing off. Everywhere the water looks fishy, and no boats have been able to enter due to the rapids interspersed where the waterways narrow. You look for moose.
The thirty-five minutes go quickly, you glide gently across the lake to the point where the camp, stolen from the forest, looks out of place. The guests who are leaving line up to help the gear exchange, not quite ready to return to the world. Everyone watches the plane noisily depart. Introductions and pleasantries are exchanged.
The big question is asked. "Well", says a guide, "fishing was good until last Wednesday, when da 'atches stopped and da effects of "igh water seemed to really take "old, but you never know. It might pick up, ay? Tough summer. Rain, rain, more rain." The letter "h" didn't make it to Labrador - It's probably back in the states somewhere, with the bags containing Derek's and my boots, waders, and clothes.
Beds are assigned, gear unpacked, the cook inquires as to whether we want lunch in or pack sandwiches to go fish. Two -sizes -too- small hippers are borrowed, and off we
go. Labrador law requires one well trained guide per two rods. Sam, with his long dark red hair and beard (click on picture for larger view), politely gets us settled into a large guide canoe with a 20 horse outboard, and a half hour later turns into a sizable run draining the lake into another.
This spot is where Lee Wulff landed his small float plane, wearing his waders, and fished the Minipi basin for the first time. He flew all over lower eastern Canada looking for waters similar to those of Maine which might hold the much beloved brook trout. Here he struck gold, and spent years successfully convincing Labrador to protect this unique treasure. The camp allows barbless fly catch and careful release fishing only. Except for smaller trout for a shore lunch, only one fish may be kept. No one did so the week we were there. Replica mounts from photos last and look much better if you must have a fish on the wall.
We pull near shore, tie the canoe to some rushes, and wade to a path through the spruces. Sam; "You can take a wading stick if you'd like". I didn't. After that moment any gentle, polite hint of a suggestion from Sam was treated as a direct order. Sam didn't waste words explaining things. He just spoke the truth.
The path was typical of streamside paths. Roots, muck, sticks, and widely variable sized rocks. Very comfortable in two-sizes-too-small hippers. The spruces, not very thick of trunk or exceptionally tall, filtered the light onto the caribou and other mosses which softly carpet and hide the uneven rock they cover. Sam levitated over the terrain, never missing each well placed step on the tops of the debris. I stumbled over and sunk between all the above. Tomorrow the stick!
We reached a break in the spruces. A path led to an area of slower, dark water. We waded near the drop off (rather Sam hopped from larger stone to stone, and I stumbled between the irregularly shaped rocks until I got to my assigned rock, nearly flat enough to stand on.) "Cast in close to the drop off, and work your way out." What fly? "Bit and dark. Try a #2 cone head wooly bugger." A half hour later and one hipper filling as I slip off my rock, "Now switch to a muddler." "Now try a dry, pretty large." Then down the path to another area, and repeat.
We fished our way about a mile down stream avoiding the heavy rapid areas, trying the slower waters until we reached a flatter, quieter run where we saw the other guys fishing from a large rock across the deep river run. Later we walked out and fished the big slick and runs where the lake becomes river, to where it got rapidy. The rains of summer 2001 brought the river up 3-4 ft, making streamer control difficult, access to the best runs a little scary, and no fish rising to the occasional bug.
At dinner that evening, when stories were compared, most of us caught fish, and what
glorious fish they are! My previous biggest brookie ever was a brilliant 10 incher from the upper Manistee in Michigan. My first one today neared three pounds, and I lost three larger ones. Karl got a five pounder (click on picture for larger view). A young man who had not fished a fly rod except in his driveway got a six and a half pounder. My other son Derek, a very competent caster, got a five pounder. The guides went on at great length apologizing for the terrible fishing. They swore we were doing nothing wrong.
So went the week, more rain, more apologies, and more fish. My two largest trout ever at 22.5 and 22 inches, both over five pounds. I tied my 2 previous largest at 21 and 20 inches. I got my first on a royal Wullf, which I felt I should try in honor of Lee in his place. My sons fished #2-4 mice patterns, and I watched from across the river as a five plus took Derek's off the top with a rush that sounded like a five gallon bucket smacking the water. He nearly fell off the big rock from surprise and glee. I'm very taken with soft hackles, and managed to score with one fished dropped from a numph right at the dropoff. We saw huge fish hunkered down behind rocks in the fast high water. (Sam saw them first of course, and pointed them out.) They wouldn't take a fly.
In the evenings it got into the 50's and after a great dinner, (one night roasted caribou, always mashed potatoes and gravy - which I don't get at home) we'd stop by the guides cabin at their invitation for a drink. They are smallish men by US standards, wiry, polite, and a bit lonely after 9 weeks away from their families. The commercial fishing in Labrador and Newfoundland has been finished off by the dredgers. Unemployment is at 29%. These men took the extensive guide training offered by the government so they could have work. If they can get 14 weeks employed by the outfitters they can qualify for aid for the rest of the year. Sam has his family apply for Moose permits and he bags two or three a year. That is what he eats in the winter. When asked why he doesn't move to the city for jobs, he replies he just couldn't stand it. I think his soul answered for him.
Ours is the last week for fishing. The guides will secure this camp and go north and west to tent camps, following the caribou herd and the outfitters' float planes for several more weeks. The generator, fueled by the drums of diesel that came in with us on the float plane, is turned on at 6:30 A.M. and off at 10:00 P.M. Thank God. By that time delightful exhaustion encourages an excuse to go to bed. I normally have trouble getting to sleep. Not there.
My wife chose to have my lost luggage flown in on Wednesday. The airlines have a max of $350 that they will pay. It was lots more than that, and now they don't want to pay that. We will go toe to toe over this one. I fished till then in my travel khakis, and the hole I wore in the seat was pretty large and becoming embarrassing. The water was 64 degrees, not really uncomfortable, but I was getting a little ripe. My own boots never felt so good, and my grip on the rocks improved significantly.
One morning we boated to a shallow cove to fish for pike. We knew they were in the area when a fly would suddenly just disappear, leaving an empty leader, and from the scars on the trout. We put the steel leaders on with large Dahlberg divers (kind of like casting small brightly colored chickens) and caught a couple dozen 4-6 pounders in 1 1/2 hours. When they hit the fly, it nearly explodes. Deer hair all over the surface. We kept four to fry on a pebbly island point for lunch. Sam squeezed orange over them at the end, and they were delicious.
Sunday we were up and packed early. The float plane had to wait for clear enough weather to get in to get us. That meant we missed our flight out of Goose Bay. One party this summer couldn't get out until Wednesday. Since they didn't know when the plane would be able to get in, they couldn't unpack and
fish. We were lucky. Our next flight out was cancelled. Here we go again. But I think this may have been fortuitous. The black flies really got Karl on Saturday. The lymph nodes in his armpits and on his face near his jaw were swollen. There was a red line running up his inner arm from his wrist to his armpit and we had two tight travel days to go to get home. We sampled the Canadian health care system, with the very nice young doc saying, "Welcome to Labrador Disease" and starting him on antibiotics and Benadryl. He slept well on all the flights.
We wanted and knew we were going to have an adventure when we chose this trip. Adventure it was. While we doubt we'll get to do it again, there are no regrets. The beauty of the wilderness, being together, having to work hard (50-60 hours of casting) for and catching these magical fish ( three dozen 3-6 pounds,) having memories of this trip instead of wishes for it, couldn't be better.
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The Buckeye United Fly Fishers, Inc is a non-profit corporation organized under section 501(c)(3) of the Internal Revenue Code, incorporated in the State of Ohio
for the preservation, conservation and wise use of our fishing waters and game fish; and to assist in the protection and improvement of our natural resources