Atlantic Salmon in Quebec

by Topher Browne

model.config.imageAsset.altText

It’s 8:30 a.m. and Greg Pearson and I are feeling rather refreshed. I’m staring into the black abyss of an extra-large Tim Horton’s coffee, wondering if there are any cells in my body that have yet to receive an infusion of caffeine. I tried a Red Bull yesterday for the first time, and it gave me wings. I figure it added at least an extra 15 or 20 feet to my single spey.

There will be no dawn patrol this morning or Red Bull for breakfast. We’re on island time, you see. I’m having a carrot muffin as a follow-up to an exquisite 12-grain bagel. There’s another extra-large coffee in the works. From my seat next to the window, I check our vehicle in the parking lot to make sure the double-handed rods are still affixed to the rod rack. I can see my Templedog fly waving vaguely in the breeze.

So far our moderately ambitious plan has worked out. Greg is an ace fish-spotter, and we take turns watching the reaction of salmon to our flies. Greg rose a fish yesterday on a hitched Sunray Shadow. I watched the whole thing off to the side. The nose of the 12-pound fish came within an inch of the softly waking fly. She came to the fly two more times before settling into her lie without further activity.