Praise the Lord and Pass the Atlantic Salmon on the Miramichi ASAP
5th May 2008
Today fly fishing is much less about fishing and way more about the ritual of celebrating an atavism mostly faded from modern memory. New Brunswick is blessed with countless gravel bed gin clear or stout colored boreal rivers flowing to the North Atlantic. Most are gentle in their grade and flow – long gone the alpine gorges.
Salmon have migrated here choking these rivers and streams since the glaciers receded….., and man came not long thereafter, after them. Elders tell of the fish’s profound numbers when ours weren’t; and of our ancient and innocent arrival.
Now, at the turn of this fifth or sixth millennium since our pursuit of Atlantic salmon began on the Miramichi, here in the Northeast the quest is now cermonial and in the mind of this minimalist is best practiced without the “trappings of Rome, Freeport, Me. and countless false gods”; and is best symbolized and expressed by the simplicity of the fishing tools created and honed by the flash of invention and eye of refinement
Take the tiny fly hook, which literally and beautifully imitates both art and nature; tied to an eight foot gossamer thread; then to a 100 foot plastic coated dacron line and then another 300-600 feet of straight Dacron. An eighth of a mile of line wrapped round the spool of a well crafted reel – a simple machine, the windlass in miniature. Think of the threshold of evolution crossed when we realized we could let our prey run 600’ away and still prevail over it-in fact it was the only way to defeat it!
This iconic implement of pursuit is attached to a wisp of a graphite/ bamboo pole of eight to ten feet which also is an achievement of art and mechanics. It is an ultimate refinement, an understatement of man’s crafting of implements; like the first flint chipped to aid the kill. This is your “stick”; your “pole”. Although its weight is mere ounces; It too is the scepter, the mace, the ceremonial remnant of the staff, spear or other implement of the hunt or pursuit.
So with a dozen well chosen and well made flies (bugs, bombers; butterflies; conrads; cossebooms; Wulffs and McIntosh’s are but a few); a pole that won’t break with the cry of “Fishon!!”; a fist size windlass with gears that won’t burn and line connecting pole to fly and with a few small accessories added you are ready to go – Oh, and throw in a pair of chest waders you’ll want to get as close to the prey as you can – although that is unnecessary.
Fly casting is the Zen, the essential rhythm and grace of the ceremony and if one doesn’t get the casting they will not succeed at the communion; not because they won’t cover the fish but simply because they will not connect on the necessary plane;
The equipment is not complicated; the cast is simplicity; the pursuit is distant from the blood sacrifice of previous generations. Just come for the tranquil valleys with their wildlife and birds and the valleys and the villages and hamlets and the monks and devout who still practise knowing that a day fishing does not count on the tally of our limited time on this old sod.
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