Main Brook adventure
Last week in my article about stuff, frying pans and the like, I related some information about a secret salmon fishing spot on Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula. Wiggy Steady is a pond, or a small lake by mainland Canada standards, miles from the salt, on the Main Brook watershed. The river meets the sea on the south shore of Hare Bay, near the town of its namesake, Main Brook. It is indeed a fine salmon river with much opportunity for those who like to paddle, or so it was.
Main Brook does not flow from one particular large lake. Rather it builds up its flow from a series of ponds stretched out across the Great Northern Peninsula. As I said Wiggy Steady is one of them. The trip on which Charlie Piercey took a bath and rescued my beloved frying pan was our very first canoe excursion on Main Brook. That evening when we arrived at Wiggy Steady the fishing was fantastic.
Have you ever had three salmon rise for your fly on one cast? Maybe, but you know that’s not the kind of salmon fishing you find every day. The stars were lined up in proper order and the gods were smiling upon us. My daughter Megan caught her first salmon that evening. It was grand and wonderful. By the way, I was fishing a bomber when I had those three rises. It was pretty skinny water and I could see clearly that there were three separate fish. On the next cast I hooked one of them. I let Megan play that fish, and later she hooked and landed one without any help at all. Those are amazing memories. Megan was about 10 or 11 years old.
That was in the mid ’90s. There’s still good fishing at Wiggy Steady I’m sure, but all our secret paddle to fishing holes on Main Brook are gone. Not geographically vanished, but far more accessible due to the construction of logging roads and ATV trails. Back in those days the only way in was by canoe or foot. I liked it that way. If road and trail building continues there won’t be any wilderness fishing left. That is sad.
Ben Coombs, from Plum Point is a very tough and rugged man, as hard as they come. I’m going to tell you about one of the most exhausting adventures of my life. It was on Main Brook and Ben paddled this trip with me when he was well into his 60s. I was just a young fella Frank Samson taking a tea break
back then. We were four men and two canoes, Ben, myself, Rod Hale and Frank Samson. We started paddling at Bartlett’s Hole, a tiny pond in the middle of the peninsula that’s the headwater of Main Brook. Our destination was Mitchell Steady, where buddies of ours had built a small plywood camp during the previous winter.
To begin we had to portage our canoes from the side of the highway over a mile or so to Bartlett’s Hole. It was all down hill, so that wasn’t so bad. Although I slipped and fell with a canoe on my head, the result of felt boots on wet mud and grass. I was young and limber so no harm was done. At Bartlett’s hole we discovered that the water was very low. This meant not enough water for paddling over many stretches of river. We’d be dragging our gear-laden canoes over wet rocks. It wasn’t pretty. I sweat gallons and drank much river water. There were some complaints, but not from Ben.
The trip consisted of paddling across ponds and then shooting down stretches of river where enough water covered the rocks. Otherwise we’d be portaging or wading and pulling our boats. It was very hard work. And we were trying not to think about coming back upriver in a few days time. On the bright side we were hooking a few salmon at pretty much every run–in and runout. That’s where the salmon seemed to be concentrated, where flowing water met still. Morale was high.
Ben and I were in the lead canoe shooting a lively flow, plenty of water for a change. I fancied my young ears picking up quite a commotion up ahead. We nimbly rounded a turn and there it was not 30 feet away, the falls that we knew was somewhere, but not the exact location. I quickly reasoned my only chance was to jump out and dig my feet into the bottom. Felts work much better in the river. I stopped the canoe just on time, with the bow floating on thin air. Ben was looking out over a five-foot ledge in the river. Frank and Rod pulled in behind us laughing up a storm. I held on, Ben not daring to move. We could have taken quite a spill. The other lads beached their craft and helped me haul Ben and the canoe ashore. A cup of tea was in order.
We had left our truck not much past daybreak, and finally as darkness fell we reached Mitchell Steady. Now where was that camp? Just a ways to the southerly side of the brook Chris Coombs had told us. You can’t miss it. Well indeed, in the dark, yes you can miss it, and just exactly how far is just a ways. Nobody panicked, but after a long summer’s day of paddling and dragging canoes, not even a woodsman like Ben fancied the idea of sleeping under a canoe. Finally Frank found the cabin with his tiny flashlight and all were happy.
We lit the kerosene lantern and sized up the accommodations. There were four bunks. Rod and I opted to sleep on the side away from the door and stove, one bunk above the other, both fashioned of solid one-inch rough sawn boards. There were two three-footlong pieces of mattress foam in total. Do the math. That’s only the length of one weary hombre. So is it better to have half a mattress for two nights, or a full mattress for one, a deep philosophical question. Dark rum was rationed out. Ben and Frank found the whole dilemma quite amusing. Finally I opted for the first night on solid board. I slept like a baby, dreaming of the next night with a mattress.
The next day was packed with adventure. We would see just how tough Ben really was. Stay tuned.