Copyright © 1998 David Adams Richards
Anchor Canada edition 2001
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National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Richards, David Adams, 1950–
Lines on the water : a fisherman’s life on the Miramichi
eISBN: 978-0-307-36382-4
I. Fly fishing – New Brunswick – Miramichi River – Anecdotes.
I. Title.
SH572.N4R525 2001 799.1′2′0971521 C2001-930657-1
Miramichi map by Robbie Cooke-Voteary
Visit Random House of Canada Limited’s website:
www.randomhouse.ca
v3.1
To Peter McGrath and David Savage
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my editor, Maya Mavjee, and my agent, Jan Whitford. And, as always, my wife, Peg, and children, John Thomas and Anton.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
I love my river. I can tell you that. Each year there are days when the Miramichi shows its greatness—its true greatness—once again. And each year on the river, once or twice, I will meet men and women with afire of generosity in them, of love for others that God required old prophets to have.
One
AS A BOY, I DREAMED OF fishing before I went, and went fishing before I caught anything, and knew fishermen before I became one. As a child, I dreamed of finding remarkable fish so close to me that they would be easy to catch. And no one, in my dreams, had ever found these fish before me.
I remember the water as dark and clear at the same time—and by clear I suppose I mean clean. Sometimes it looked like gold or copper, and at dusk the eddies splashed silver-toned, and babbled like all the musical instruments of the world. I still think of it this way now, years later.
As a child I had the idea that trout were golden, or green, in deep pools hidden away under the moss of a riverbank. And that some day I would walk in the right direction, take all the right paths to the river and find them there.
In fact, trout, I learned, were far more textured and a better colour than just golds and greens. They were the colour of nature itself—as naturally outfitted in their coat of thin slime as God could manage. They were hidden around bends and in the deep shaded pools of my youth.
I had the impression from those Mother Goose stories that all fish could talk. I still do.
My first fishing foray was along the bank of a small brook to the northwest of Newcastle, on the Miramichi. A sparkling old brook that Lord Beaverbrook took his name from.
My older brother and a friend took me along with them, on a cool blowy day. We had small cane rods and old manual reels, with hooks and sinkers and worms, the kind all kids used. The kind my wife used as a child on the Bartibog River thirteen miles downriver from my town of Newcastle, and her brothers used also, at the same time that I was trudging with my brother.
It was a Saturday in May of 1955 and I was not yet five years of age. Fishing even then could take me out of myself, far away from the worry of my life, such as it was, and into another life, better and more complete.
We had packed a lunch and had got to the brook about ten in the morning. Just as we entered the woods, I saw the brook, which seemed to be no deeper in places than my shoe. In we went (a certain distance) until the sounds of the town below us were left behind.
Leaning across the brook was a maple, with its branches dipping into the water. At the upper end of the tree, the current swept about a boulder, and gently tailed away into a deep pocket about a foot from the branches. The place was shaded, and sunlight filtered through the trees on the water beyond us. The boys were in a hurry and moved on to that place where all the fish really are. And I lagged behind. I was never any good at keeping up, having a lame left side, so most of the time my older brother made auxiliary rules for me—rules that by and large excluded me.
“You can fish there,” he said.
I nodded. “Where?”
“There, see. Look—right there. Water. Fish. Go at her. We’ll be back.”
I nodded.
I sat down on the moss and looked about, and could see that my brother and his friend were going away from me. I was alone. So I took out my sandwich and ate it. (It was in one pocket, my worms were in the other. My brother doled the worms out to me a few at a time.)
I was not supposed to be, from our mother’s instructions, alone.
“For Mary in heaven’s sake, don’t leave your little brother alone in those woods.” I could hear her words.
I could also hear my brother and our friend moving away, and leaving me where I was. In this little place we were out of sight of one another after about twenty feet.
I had not yet learned to tie my sneakers; they had been tied for me by my brother in a hurry, for the second time, at the railway track, and here again they were loose. So I took them off. And then I rolled up my pants.
I had four worms in my pocket. They smelled of the dark earth near my grandmother’s back garden where they had come from, and all worms smell of earth, and therefore all earth smells of trout.
I spiked a worm on my small hook the best I could. I had a plug-shot sinker about six inches up my line, which my father had squeezed for me the night before. But my line was kinked and old, and probably half-rotted, from years laid away.
I grabbed the rod in one hand, the line in the other, and tossed it at the boulder. It hit the boulder and slid underneath the water. I could see it roll one time on the pebbled bottom, and then it was lost to my sight under the brown cool current. The sun was at my back splaying down through the trees. I was standing on the mossy bank. There was a young twisted maple on my right.
Almost immediately I felt a tug on the line. Suddenly it all came to me—this is what fish do—this was their age-old secret.
The line tightened, the old rod bent, and a trout—the first trout of my life—came splashing and rolling to the top of the water. It was a trout about eight inches long, with a plump belly.
“I got it,” I whispered. “I got it. I got it.”
But no one heard me: “I got it, I got it.”
For one moment I looked at the trout, and the trout looked at me. It seemed to be telling me something. I wasn’t sure what. It is something I have been trying to hear ever since.
When I lifted it over the bank, and around the maple, it spit the hook, but it was safe in my possession a foot or two from the water.
For a moment no one came, and I was left to stare at it. The worm had changed colour in the water. The trout was wet and it had the most beautiful glimmering orange speckles I ever saw. It reminded me, or was to remind me as I got older, of spring, of Easter Su
nday, of the smell of snow being warmed away by the sun.
My brother’s friend came back. He looked at it, amazed that I had actually caught something. Picking up a stick, and hunching over it he shouted, “Get out of the way—I’ll kill it.”
And he slammed the stick down beside it. The stick missed the fish, hit a leafed branch of that maple that the fish was lying across, and catapulted the trout back into the brook.
I looked at him, he looked at me.
“Ya lost him,” he said.
My brother came up, yelling, “Did you get a fish?”
“He lost him,” my brother’s friend said, standing.
“Oh ya lost him,” my brother said, half derisively, and I think a little happily.
I fished fanatically for the time remaining, positive that this was an easy thing to do. But nothing else tugged at my line. And as the day wore on I became less enthusiastic.
We went home a couple of hours later. The sun glanced off the steel railway tracks, and I walked back over the ties in my bare feet because I had lost my sneakers. My socks were stuffed into my pockets. The air now smelled of steely soot and bark, and the town’s houses stretched below the ball fields.
The houses in our town were for the most part the homes of working men. The war was over, and it was the age of the baby boomers, of which I was one. Old pictures in front of those houses, faded with time, show seven or eight children, all smiling curiously at the camera. And I reflect that we baby boomers, born after a war that left so many dead, were much like the salmon spawn born near the brown streams and great river. We were born to reaffirm life and the destiny of the human race.
When we got home, my brother showed his trout to my mother, and my mother looked at me.
“Didn’t you get anything, dear?”
“I caught a trout—a large trout. It—it—I—”
“Ya lost him, Davy boy,” my brother said, slapping me on the back.
“Oh well,” my mother said. “That’s all right, there will always be a next time.”
And that was the start of my fishing life.
That was long ago, when fishing was innocent and benevolent. I have learned since that I would have to argue my way through life—that I was going to become a person who could never leave to rest the idea of why things were the way they were. And fishing was to become part of this idea, just as hunting was. Why would the fish take one day, and not the next? What was the reason for someone’s confidence one year, and their lack of it the next season, when conditions seemed to be exactly the same?
Or the great waters—the south branch of the Sevogle that flows into the main Sevogle, that flows into the Norwest Miramichi, itself a tributary of the great river. What infinite source propelled each separate individual fish to return on those days, at that moment, when my Copper Killer, or Green Butt Butterfly—or anyone else’s—was skirting the pool at exactly the right angle at that same moment, and when was it all announced and inscribed in the heavens—as insignificant as it is—as foreordained.
When I was seven we moved to a different side of town where we fished a different stream. Here grass fires burned in the April sun. Here the sky was destined to meet the horizon beyond the pulp fields and tracks, where the woods stretched away towards the hinterland of the north, arteried by small dark-wood roads for pulp trucks. Boys not much older than I would leave school to work cutting pulpwood, or try to make money any way they could to help their families.
When we lived in the centre of town, we might have been described as city dwellers. But here we had different friends, far more ambitious and competent woods travellers. We were closer to the main Miramichi River. We would jump ice floes in the spring, with kitchen forks tied to sticks, spearing the tommie cod under the ice, as the sun melted these floes beneath our feet. Or we would wait along the side of the bank and throw hooks baited with carpet lint at the smelts that ran close to shore.
I grew up with poor boys who knew when the smelt run was on, and when the tommie cod came, because much more than me, they needed these things for their families to eat. We were wasteful—they were not. To them, fishing, and their fathers’ hunting, had a whole different perspective. Some I grew up with ate more deer meat than beef, and relied upon it. And when they went fishing, it was less a sport than part of their diets. I remember a child who fell off an ice floe and started crying, not because he fell in, but because he’d lost the tommie cod he had promised his mom he would bring home.
As we started off to fish in June, the year I was eight, I did not know that out in that great river was the next generation of salmon moving up. They travelled in waves and waves of fish—perhaps seven to ten feet under the water and no more then fifty or sixty yards from the shore—absolutely unconcerned with me, or the fact that I would be fishing their descendants in the years to come; that they were the ancestors of fish I would some day see rise for my fly on the Renous or Little Souwest; that they were the progeny of fish that had moved up these rivers in the time of Caesar and Hannibal—the glacier fish (as David Carroll calls them), the salmon.
By late May to late June we would be fishing in the cool brooks and streams beyond town. We would sometimes jump a freight train leaving the Newcastle station, and ride it about a mile, as far as the Mill Cove turn.
I was with my brother and two of our friends, one who had the nomenclature Killer, and that morning we had walked down to the Mill Cove brook past the ancient crooked bridge, past the turn where the headless nun (a seventeenth-century French nun) would sometimes appear to unsuspecting lovers (almost always nearing the moment of climax) to ask them if they would be so kind as to help her find her head, which was chopped off by the Micmac, so that she could go back to France and rest in peace.
We passed the Cove, splendid in the early sunshine, where a small boy we knew had drowned the year before, in a neat little shirt and tie he had worn for a Sunday outing—when they found him, there were still sinkers and hooks in his shirt pocket. Then crossing the bridge, we turned to our left and went up the rocky brook.
The brooks we fished always had the same make-up. They were two to three feet deep, maybe four in the hidden pools, and sometimes no more than five to eight feet wide. They meandered and babbled through a green windy valley towards the great Miramichi, overgrown with alders and tangled with blow downs, which crossed them haphazardly, and for the most part the paths to and from them were paths made by children.
All during our youth we invented ourselves as cavemen, as Neanderthals. We had our own spots, caves along the side of the embankment, places on the streams that allowed us the luxury of this. This part of the spirit can never die if you are going to be self-reliant. If you think it can, try to excise it away from children, from one generation to the next.
Each year of our early youth we revisited spots on this Mill Cove stream that were rich with the memories of the year before. The dreams of children are poignant because they are so easily dashed.
That day, long ago now, we had gone to the left bank. It was hard going all the way. Many times we’d have to crawl through alders and thickets to get to a spot. Or cross the windfalls from one side to the other. And the spot where we were going was not much more than a small rip in the texture of the stream, about four feet long, just beneath the bank that we were walking on. Yet out of these small tiny pockets in this most unassuming remote northern stream came wonderful trout—ten inches long and more—which to boys of eight and nine years old were God-given.
There were four trout taken that day. It was a warm day and we were walking back and forth on the windfalls that crossed the brook, wearing sneakers and short-sleeved shirts. It was almost time to go when we decided to cross, once more, a windfall to the right because there was a pocket further down the brook that Jimmy remembered, which we hadn’t been to yet.
“It’s right over there. I caught a trout there last year this same time,” he yelled.
We put our rods in one hand and started to cross the wind
fall that was angled higher on the right bank than the left. Jimmy went across first and then my brother, then Terry, and then me. I am fairly clumsy and have fallen in many times. When I hear of old river guides on the Miramichi who’ve done handstands going down through the rapids in a canoe, I can only say I’ve unintentionally done that as well.
I started inching along the windfall and glanced up to see the rest of the boys already on the other side and moving along the bank. The water babbled swiftly beneath me. I took one more step, and then another, and suddenly found myself under the windfall I had been crossing, and underwater as well.
The log was directly above me and I couldn’t stand up. There was a rock in front of me so I couldn’t go ahead, and one of the tree limbs from the windfall was preventing me from going backwards. Even when I lifted my head I couldn’t clear the water.
I just had to hold my breath and watch the boys walk away. I was literally between a rock and a hard place and I must have looked something like a trout. I can tell you there was no panic. But I sure thought I was in a bad spot. With the sound the brook made, the boys had no idea I had fallen in.
But then Terry said something to me, and when I didn’t answer he turned. I wasn’t on the log, but he could see something under it.
They ran back and hauled me out. They were all quite pleased they had saved my life. So was I.
The pool Jimmy wanted to fish was half full of sand and silt. The year had changed it, and aged it forever. That’s why he hadn’t initially found it.
We went home. It was June 1959.
This was the day of the Escuminac disaster, when men drifting nets for salmon got caught in a storm as fierce as any seen at sea. Their boats were twenty-five feet long, the waves they faced were eighty feet tall. But so many of them would not leave other boats in trouble, and continued to circle back for friends being swallowed up, cutting their nets so their drifters wouldn’t sink, but being swept away, tying their sons to masts before losing their own lives. Handing lifelines to friends instead of keeping them for themselves. If this sounds heroic, it was. It was.
Lines on the Water Page 1