Kneeling on the rocky bank, I tucked my cap inside my jacket, death-gripping various bags and a 12-gauge shotgun to prevent any loose objects from being sucked into the chopper's whirlwind. As the helicopter slowly lifted off, it gained altitude and then began flying forward. I waved goodbye, harnessed the shotgun, and carried our bags towards the river’s edge. We wouldn't see the chopper again for the rest of the day unless the weather turned.

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My two sports were already assembling their rods, each reaching for the smallest dry fly in their boxes. They were eager to cast over the long, placid pool that stretched out before us. The pool meandered for several hundred yards before curving left into a steady flow. Its low gradient and scattered submerged boulders created perfect conditions for dry fly fishing, providing salmon a resting place before they continued their journey through kilometers of white water upstream. By now, the morning dew was evaporating, the sun's rays piercing through the spruce and fir trees lining the riverbank. It was mid-June 2014, and at 18 years old, I was embarking on my first season as an Atlantic salmon fly fishing guide in Southern Labrador.

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A Guiding Life Begins

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That first summer was everything I had imagined and more. Nestled next to the mighty Eagle River in one of the more luxurious camps in Labrador, helicopters were always ready to whisk us to any nearby river system in the region. It felt like the early run of big fish lasted forever, before transitioning to the large run of grilse. We chased the larger fish throughout various magnificent river systems, giving fly fishers ample opportunities to land a trophy.

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It's hard to pinpoint my favorite river, as each one offered a uniquely different fishing and guiding experience. From massive watersheds to tiny tributary streams and the tranquil pools I mentioned earlier, each had its own charm. Sometimes, upon client requests, we would fly to a nearby camp on a lake beneath the Mealy Mountains. This lake was home to brook trout averaging 2-6 pounds, fed by a gin-clear mountain stream on one side and a small to medium-sized river starting behind the camp. Here, trout fishing was almost effortless; almost every cast met with a trout striking the dry fly, especially if it was a size 8 Smokey Ball’s Bomber being stripped across the surface. Although trout fishing was prolific, it was not something I entertained. Maybe it was the feeling of wading in large moving bodies of water, or the acrobatic display salmon provided, my passion was always for chasing salmon. However, as the newest and youngest guide—20 to 40 years age difference—I was often assigned to guide here.

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From Then to Now

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I assumed my guiding aspirations would wane after university, but as I gear up for my 11th season, the pull towards the river systems that salmon call home becomes undeniable. As the season’s opening dates draw near, an irresistible force draws me back to these waters, regardless of my whereabouts or current engagements. Yet, a lot has changed since that enchanting summer. 

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Every generation reminisces about the "good old days" when rivers and lakes teemed with more and larger fish, when regulations were more lenient, and the natural beauty was untouched. Having started young, I struggled to imagine how it could have been better. From ages 7 to 11, I was still finding my footing, occasionally hooking a salmon. It wasn't until I turned 13 that I began understanding the art of fly placement, and hooking salmon became a more frequent occurrence.

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As I reached my mid to late teens, the freedom to drive allowed me to explore my passion for fishing during endless summer vacations. During these adventures, I couldn’t help but take notice how the stories about the good old days evolved into almost dystopian predictions: “Fish while you can, for I can’t see there being many salmon around in the future.” Yet, I was somewhat shielded from this grim outlook. By then, I had figured out the patterns of my favorite rivers and consistently enjoyed good fishing. This proficiency fed my optimism and passion. 

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As my 18th birthday approached, a new chapter beckoned. I was ready to delve deeper into the untouched watersheds of Labrador, pursuing my dream of becoming a fly fishing guide during the summers. 

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Evolving Pursuits

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In my early guiding days, my goal was to land clients as many fish as possible. I savored every aspect: seeking the fish, selecting the right fly, guiding the placement, and witnessing the exhilarating sequence of the take, the battle, and the release. The camaraderie that followed each catch was priceless. Back then, it was always about moving on to the next catch. Now, while my passion remains undiminished, my eagerness wanes after a few catches. I find myself questioning the relentless pursuit of quantity. My focus has shifted dramatically. I now seek quality over quantity, choosing to explore new waters or attempt different techniques, and I prioritize fishing in pools where larger salmon are likely, or taking extra time to spot them. However, I speak from a place of privilege, as not all rivers boast healthy populations of salmon to allow for such a comment. This ability is becoming increasingly rare.

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A River Never the Same

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Reflecting on the evolution of my fly fishing and guiding patterns, I quickly notice a troubling trend. In recent years, the island of Newfoundland and its mainland counterpart, Labrador, have experienced consecutive mass river closures due to warm weather conditions. These inhospitable conditions, compounded by the inexcusable human exploitation of natural resources, have led to poor returns in some rivers. This has prompted me to venture further north, where the river systems are less affected by human activity and more likely to remain open throughout the season. It’s a trend I sincerely hope will not repeat in the upcoming 2025 season.

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Among Atlantic salmon anglers, there exists an unwritten doctrine: no experience on the river is ever the same. Even if one ventures to the same pool, with the same companion or guide, the river's constant flow washes away all past encounters. Each visit brings a renewal, a chance to engage with the natural world in a way that transcends the simple act of catching fish. In this continual rediscovery and connection, how can one find a more profound joy in life? And, perhaps more importantly, how can we ever allow this to end?

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