The Vickers Atlantic Salmon Journal

A Fish for All Seasons
By Squirrel Tail Vickers

In 1925 John Cosseboom captured much of what draws the salmon angler back to the river year after year. I found his poem "Old Time Salmon Fishing" in Joseph D. Bates, Jr.'s book, "Atlantic Salmon Flies and Fishing."

"... Did you ever see a wave behind your fly And know it for a fish of monstrous size, And when that wave exploded two feet high, Feel your great rod bend near double to the rise?

Did you ever have a guide yell in your face When your salmon surged across the heavy pool And dragged your rod down level with your waist, "Keep your tip up, or you'll lose him, you dumb fool!"

Did you ever race along the slippery shore With your rod held high and bended to the fray, While down across the rushing pool he tore And jumped two hundred feet and more away? Did you ever feel your rod and line go slack, And cry, "He's gone!" in disappointed pain, And when you found he'd only started back, Did you madly reel the strain on him again?

Did you ever back up slowly on the beach And draw him gently toward the waiting guide, Then have him stop and stay just out of reach, And chug those scary chugs from side to side?..."

There is no doubt that once baptized by the Atlantic salmon, the angler's quest will be eternal. There is no escape from the memory of a bowed rod, taut line, and singing reel. The seasons of the angler and the king of fish become one.

As the soaring praise of Christmas preacher and tenor fall silent on the distant, snowy slopes, it's time for the old lad to create and dream about the silver monsters he will meet on the next trip north. A glow engulfs the wizened bespeckled fly-tyer hovering over a barren, blackened hook. The glacial walls of winter may conceal his slumbering adversary, but not his preparation for their next battle. New hooks, hackle, tinsels, yarns, floss, hair, feathers, threads, and cement are arrayed in the small well-heated study that holds only dusty tomes. As the snow recedes, he fills his fly boxes, loads his reels with sinking lines, and stuffs his warmest clothes into duffel bags.

Long before the crocus and daffodil dress the barren ground, the shivering, snow-covered fisherman slowly retrieves a streamer or buck tail. As long as there is open water, he will crouch in the canoe about forty feet from the riverbank. It's always a beautiful day to fish!

As the waters warm and slowly recede in early June, he slowly pushes aside the swarm of black flies and mosquitoes and emerges from the tall grass into the holding pool. Not a bright salmon has broken the surface since last fall, but he beckons them back from the sea, cast after cast.

The leaves now claim their glory as the river's water chills and darkens. The splash of the heavy-bellied silverside announces his return home. In thigh-deep water, the layered angler loads his rod and fires his old favorite at his elusive prize. His cast lengthens and quickens as the days shorten. This is trophy time, time when big fish are in the pools. It's time to make memories, memories that will calm the winter winds and light the winter nights.

Heading Home
By Squirrel Tail Vickers

It's a clear still morning. The warmth of the sun slowly creeps through the car windows onto Lady, my Golden Retriever, as she sleeps next to me. I thought about leaving her home. I simply didn't have room in the car. Her pleading eyes and wagging tail just wouldn't accept that option. After all, who would watch over me while I waded in the Miramichi? The journey has begun. The road is mine, and so are the memories that drench me like a summer rain.

Soon I am lost in the world of a four-year-old boy, anchored in a canoe at the mouth of the Cains River. My dad and uncle had left me alone as they waded further down the river. I was terrified that my boat would come free and I would be washed into the ocean. I kept a sharp eye on the anchor line, as I bobbed my fly rod up and down. Bang! I felt a pull. The line shot out from the reel and I screamed for help. I can't remember the rest, only that I saw the fish in our net and remember my father carving my name, the day's date, and the size of the fish into a timber in our boathouse. That was it - that was the moment the Atlantic salmon had hooked me. I would never escape. My initial fears had been devoured by the majesty of that creature.

As we cross the railroad tracts into McAdam, I am back on the Canadian Pacific train to Fredericton Junction. Sheets of fall rain fly by as I wave to the flagman. The chill of the passenger car is consumed by the ditties of the conductor, my Uncle Gilfred, a powerfully built lad with a contagious smile and open arms. I think he knew I had my usual bag of jellybeans tucked in my jacket. At least for a day or two, sugar-free candies served by my vigilant aunt would be history. Soon we would be at camp and Unc would be standing on the porch, directing me further out into the river. At first, I listened. But then, when I felt the rush of cold water coming over my chest, I realized that once again he had "nailed me." Oh yes, how he loved to maneuver each new angler into that same deep hole and then roar as each tip-toed back toward shore!

The reds, yellows, and orange hues of the fall foliage of the Miramichi valley magically appear as we coast down the slope into Boiestown. As the river's mist drifts skyward, I can feel her waters quietly filling my veins. I begin to picture my first few casts, and the time when I arrived at camp in the late afternoon comes flashing back. Our sports were sitting on the front porch. After a terse hello, I quickly waded into the home pool. On the second chuck of my Bomber, the reel started to whine. What could be better - a great fish, cheering spectators, and flashing cameras! I am entering Doaktown and visiting with Mr. Wallace Doak in his tiny fly-tying shop. He was a polite man of few words. Yes, he would have this year's edition of the old standards, the ones that have worked for years. It was a simpler time, when there were only one or two rods, reels, lines, or waders to choose from, when there were more fish in the river, when I could pitch hay onto the wagon and swat ground hornets at the same time. Now Doak's store is much larger, with many more items and employees. There are more choices, many more decisions, less time to know each other and touch the harmony of nature.

It's 3:30 PM when we turn onto the Howard Road. I'm sure Irving, my cousin and fishing buddy, will be waiting for me. I'll hop out of the car and Irv will say they're taking a little Green Machine, no matter how high or how dirty the river is. Then I'll notice that he has a double, #4 Cosseboom on. Before we head for the river, one of our relatives needs to be visited, Old Grand Dad. After a couple of shots, with health and family issues out of the way, we're off. A good size salmon breaks just below us. The bets are on for first fish, the biggest fish, and the most fish. God help me, if he hooks the first one! I'm reading the water - I'm paying attention to my cast and position in the pool. I just checked Irving out to see if he has changed flies. We're moving slowly through the pool. More fish are showing! Splash. Sure enough, Irv has done his usual stupid trick of tossing a rock into the river just behind me. Zzzzzzzz, slam! Not again! There he is, smiling and laughing as he prances toward the beach. Oh yeah, I'm the one going for the net. How did he do it? Maybe it was the fly. Maybe he was covering fish that I couldn't reach. Okay, it was just his turn to get lucky. I wonder if he would be this happy if he were fishing alone. Of course not, but so what? Isn't this the reason why we enjoy fishing with each other? As the trophy glides into the net and then is quickly released, I shake his hand and call him a few bad names. I'm a carefree kid again, not one thing to worry about. The Miramichi's waters have cleansed me of the overwhelming pains of the crushed, smoldering humanity of 9/11. The chemicals and microbes of inhumane souls can no longer cling to me. Peace in the midst of chaos! I'm home!

Epilogue
Salmonier and Squirrel Tail

In sharing our love of Atlantic salmon fishing on the Miramichi River we hope to benefit the Miramichi Salmon Association, the key conservation organization of the Miramichi water shed. We have penned the river's song, revealed some of her most sacred secrets, and shared her traditions.

We leave you with some of the thoughts of Roderick L. Haig-Brown that he presented in "A River Never Sleeps":
"All these things - fish caught, problems solved, the sights and scents and sound of woods or meadows, the quiet ease of companionship, good food on a sharpened hunger, comfortable warmth built from cold and a measure of discomfort - are satisfactions, some are physical, some mental, some, no doubt, spiritual. I count myself lucky that I am a fly-fisherman, because a fly-fisherman has all these things in full measure and in addition he has an active, moving sport. Friends, who do not fish, ask me where I find the patience for fishing. The answer is that I have none and in fly-fishing none is needed. Waiting around is seldom a productive occupation for a fly-fisherman; a fly will not do much good work by itself. And the business of getting it out where the fish are, of bringing it over them properly, is at least as intense and satisfying as actually hooking and playing the fish. If one is fishing in the light of acquired knowledge, with a definite plan in mind, a theory to test or retest-as one should be, there is never a moment when mind and body, eyes and hands are not fully occupied."

Join us in fly-fishing for Atlantic salmon fishing on the Miramichi River! Help preserve this treasured resource by becoming an active member of The Miramichi Salmon Association!

Fishing Conditions
The number of salmon entering the Miramichi River System has recently dramatically increased. For actual, up-to-date counts click here.

Available Fish Dates
We have openings for spring, summer, and fall Atlantic salmon seasons.

Reservations

Reservations can be made by calling or writing: