The Monster Salmon
Eight inches between the eyes and scales the size of silver
dollars
Salmon Log - Herb
Curtis
THE OTHER NIGHT, I was driving down the Hemlock Road, feeling somewhat fed up with the snow, the cold, the salted roads, any thing and everything that relates to winter, when my thoughts went on tour and I remembered the time I was fishing in the Home Pool. I had tied on A little number eight purple and black Woolly Worm with a bright orange hackle and I'd made a 199-foot cast out over Poop Rock when I hooked into the largest Atlantic salmon that ever was. It was eight inches between the eyes and every time it jumped the water dropped a foot. The Home Pool is located just below the mouth of Cains River and it was the last day of the season, and when I finally brought that fish ashore two days later I was five miles down stream. I remember a warden came along and threatened to run me in for fishing out of season.
"It's not my fault," I told him. "When I hooked this fish the season was open."
They didn't believe me at first, but once they got a look at the salmon, they reasoned I was probably telling the truth and actually gave me a hand bringing it in.
A big salmon like that is a tough fish to land. That one was particularly tough, and what made it even tougher was the fact that it had spent all of its life in Miramichi Bay, down river, French country. I have no handle whatsoever on how to speak French, and the salmon either wouldn't or couldn't speak a word of English.
When I told the salmon that I was a good sport and would release it if only it would come ashore and let me touch him, it simply ignored me.
"What in the world am I ever going to do?" I asked the warden, whose name was Mike.
"If the fish won't come ashore, we'll have to go out and get it," said Mike. "I'll fetch a canoe."
In less than an hour he returned with Kid Lauder's canoe. Mike sat in the stern with the paddle, so I climbed into the bow. As he paddled toward the fish, I reeled as fast as I could. It wasn't long until we were within 10 feet of the fish and I could see it lying there on the bottom with that little, purple and black Woolly Worm with the bright orange hackle stuck in the comer of its mouth. The scales on the sides of that mighty salmon were the size of silver dollars. I could see the whites of its eyes. We looked at each other, studied each other for the longest time.
"Try Morse code on it," suggested Mike. "Tap out a message on the rod. I saw a guy do that last year in Quarryville and the salmon swam right in."
I thought, "Well, why not?" and gave it a try.
With my knuckle I tapped, "Dah dit dah dit dah dah dah dah dah dit dit dah dit dit dit dit dit dit dit dah dah dah dit dah dit dit." It was a simple enough message, "Come ashore."
The second I tapped the last dit, that salmon took off like a bat out of hell. I had about 300 yards of line on my old reel and that salmon stripped every foot of it. off in less than five seconds. The reel was so hot you couldn't touch it and was smoking by the time I ran out of line. I dropped my rod to a vertical position and like a 10 Johnson that salmon began to tow us downstream. I recall the wind was blowing through Mike's and my hair and swells from the canoe were washing up on the shore.
And then we ran into a bit of bad luck. The salmon went down the right side of a bridge abutment and Mike and I went down the left. It was then and only then that we came to a halt. And when we did, we were hanging side by side with that salmon, the line so tight you could hear it singing in the breeze. I could have sworn I saw that salmon grin.
"If we only had a scoop net we could scoop that salmon right here no trouble at all," I said.
"Yeah," said Mike. "You could."
"I don't suppose you'd wade ashore and go get one, would ya?"
"Yes sir, I could do that for you no trouble at all," said Mike and stepped out of the canoe and waded ashore.
Well, I don't know just how far he had to go to get a net, but I figure it was a good long way, maybe as much as five or six hundred miles, because he didn't return until two o'clock the next day and I had spent one of the longest nights of my life under the October stars.
"It took you long enough," I said. "Where you get the net, Montreal?"
"I knew I had one home, so I went there for it. Lucy, my wife, had supper on, so I had to have a bite. Then she wanted me to rake the leaves, then it was bed time. . . "
"Never mind, just scoop the fish, please. 1'. in so tired fighting this monster, I'm about ready to drop."
Mike reached down and slid the hoop over the salmon's tail and tried to lift it from the water.
"I can't lift it," he said. "It's too heavy."
So, I gave him a hand and together we managed to get the salmon into the canoe.
I've never told that story to a single person and I don't know if Mike told it either. Mike's dead now. I was thinking about it as I was driving down the Hemlock Road, was thinking that maybe I'd tell the boys about it.
But you know, they'd probably not believe me. Too bad Mike's dead. He'd have backed me up.
- Luther Corhern
Herb Curtis' most recent book, Luther Corhern's Salmon Camp Chronicles, was nominated for the Stephen Leacock Award for Humour. He lives in Fredericton.
THE END
