Hogsback Hill

This is likely the last chapter of this trip but, as with my big trip a couple of summers ago, the end is like a bit of a fireworks show. I woke up at the national park beach-side campsite feeling that strange thing I'm starting to feel in Nova Scotia where things seem so familiar. I drove south for 2k and used the ole "sneak a shower at the next campsite" tactic. The beachside campsite had no water, but the next spot up the road did. So I parked the truck and bathed, and reorganized a bit, and then drove south toward Margaree. I txted my friend and told him I'd be headed to the fly shop to get my licence before I headed his way.
Just as a refresher, I had rolled randomly through this section of Nova Scotia last year only to then learn about the fishing magic that was here. Still such a novice to all this fish stuff! I had stopped at the fly shop (The Tying Scotsman) knowing that I didn't have time to take day to walk the river, exploring on my own. I asked the owner, Alex, if he could connect me with a guide and he said he thought everyone he trusted was booked up. He suggested I stop by the next morning just in case. When I got there the next day, he had roped his cousin-in-law, Patrick,(not a guide but a fisherman) into taking me around. He took me to all the spots I could possibly hit. There were around a dozen places he showed me and we got out and fished about five of them. It was pouring rain, but not too cold, and we didn't catch any fish. Still, I learned how to find my way on this river if I ever came back. And obviously, I came back. A month ago, I stayed at Patrick's house(remember he was away), I was able to go fish in lots of the places he had taken me to. But I didn't hit the magical Seal Pool....back to the present...
Within minutes of me arriving to Patrick's, it seems we were geared up and headed out his back door. His house sits high on a hill, above the famous Margaree River. There were makeshift stairs helping to navigated the really steep embankment. On the way down he pointed out a flying squirrel nest just as a passing eagle screeched a greeting. I was already enthralled with this place and I hadn't even put my feet in the water. At the bottom of his hill, a canoe was tied to a tree. We hopped in and paddled across the river to the opposite side where we beached the canoe and clambered out. I got into the water with my little trout rod and started to fish. There was another gentleman there, too. All of a sudden, this other man hooked a fish. And it fully left the water with the power of a rocket. The "We're gonna need a bigger boat" line from jaws came to mind. What was I doing with this little fly rod? Patrick saw the look on my face and handed me an extra rod he had brought down. It was basically a telephone pole but it was, I would find out, much more appropriate. These Atlantic salmon are, as my old friend Al would say, "a whole other side of the fish" (his mish-mash of the two sayings "kettle of fish" and "side of the coin") In the past, I've had fun catching pacific salmon but it wasn't hard. I remember days where you'd catch your limit of salmon in less than half an hour. These guys, the Atlantic Salmon, are stealthy. And elusive. And completely unpredictable. The phrase "fish of a thousand casts" was thrown around. The anticipation of a big, strong fish chomping down on the line made for this weird, hyper aware experience. It's kind of like hearing a strange noise when you stop still and listen intently. Listening somehow with more than just ears. More like listening with your whole body. That's what it felt like for me when I hit a good cast. One that looked like one a fish might take. And when one actually gets on a line? It must be an amazing feeling. I didn't get to experience a "hit" but knowing I hadn't fished for this species before, Patrick handed me his fly rod after he had a fish on, to let me experience the trying to bring it in. Not keeping the right tension on the line means losing a fish. I got to experience that. And then learning from that mistake I was actually able get a fish to the net next time. Losing the first one made this even more fun! I'm, pun intended, hooked. These are some fun fish! And it has been a long time since I was in a place where I wanted to fish at the crack of dawn and, again, until the last glow of sunset. The Margaree does that to you!
The thing was, however, even as amazing as the fishing is here, the beauty of the place is just as special. The beach in photo one is just down the road in Margaree Harbor. The Margaree Valley(photo 3) is this beautiful range of rolling hills. We walked across this farmer's field to fish another pool down from the Seal Pool. Walking back across this field as the sun was going down, the low angle of the rays back lighting the tall grass and the never ending waves of lupine, was breathtakingly beautiful.
(Little aside: As I said good by to Alex at the fly shop on my way out of town on my final day, there was a little flurry of people coming and going from the shop. One was a woman, who comes here frequently who lives in Newburyport.(What?) And a couple. On their honeymoon. Who had both graduated from Governor's. Last name Phelps. "Of course we know Dave Hudson!". They now live south of Portland. This is a giant and tiny world. Yin. Yang.
Leaving Margaree to start heading home left me with a feeling, one that is now familiar on these big trips. Its as if something in me has been permanently altered. That I'm a slightly different person than the one who left Exeter in early June. It's a strange and confusing and wonderfully rich soup of emotion. And as I drove, and thought about my experiences and then felt the accompanying wave of 300 different levels of consciousness or awareness, the sky reacted as if in perfect synchronicity with what what going on inside my being. At one point(photo 4)the sky was literally, again, yin and yang. Half blue, clear, calm and half dark, swirly and stormy. I marveled at the visual depiction playing out in front of me. And after driving through that storm, with the water droplets still pooled up on the hood, the sunset was all glowy and sunbeams and the colors of pinks and oranges and purples and blues. Almost as if to reassure me that I was on the right path. (inside quote for Kelly and Vaughan: "Roberta is following the Silver Stream home.")Read more