Early Fishing on the St. John River,
Part 1

Drifting back to my youth…as I’m allowed these days…I’m considering myself quite fortunate in choice of parents. Dad the Doctor, was a man who enjoyed playing golf, hunting or fishing or just being outdoors in his free time, often taking me with him whenever possible. Mother enjoyed fishing as well. As a child she’d lived alongside the James River in Virginia where (with 8 brothers and sisters) they’d fished for catfish. Later Atlantic Salmon fishing with Dad on the Miramichi in Quebec was a highlight of spring for several years.

Dad felt right at home with a 20-gauge shotgun, 30-30 rifle, or a fly rod, depending on the season. My fondest memories, when I was barely old enough to hunt with him and shoulder a gun, we’d be walking slowly through an Alder swale, air pungent with rotting leaves and wet soil. He’d have a whistle slung around his neck, following one or more of the varied Brittany Spaniels or Pointer collection of dogs at a particular time, and waiting for that partridge or woodcock to flush.

Summers, office hours over and staying at our camp on the lake, we’d be out on the lake trolling for bass and the occasional salmon with mother and younger sister Suzanne. About the only season he didn’t relish, was winter. Even then, pre-middle age, we would occasionally spend a Sunday afternoon on the ice with a handful of tip-ups and a bucket of fresh minnows.

In the early “50s,” so happened one of his summer patient families of the “Scott” clan, as in “Scott Paper,” folks, whose company vied for majority ownership of the most Maine woodland with Great Northern Paper Company, inquired if Dad would like a “pass” over the woods roads in the St. John River country. Paper company lands were tightly controlled at that time. Doctor/patient relationship must have been appreciated by the Scotts…Doctors did house calls back then and office hours were simply a posted formality. Anyhow, the offer was gratefully accepted.

This vast watershed, one of undoubtedly the best, the most fertile trout areas in the world lay at our mercy. Excitement level in the Wilbur household went off the charts! Not sure he checked off each calendar day until departure, but wouldn’t have surprised me in the least. Day after I got out of school in the spring we were headed “up.”

Fun part of that first year was being involved with assembling gear, learning the finer points of tying flies with Dad, (of which he already had dozens,) looking over maps, and most important of all, finding a guide. I was in the vicinity of 9 or 10 years old, already bitten hard from the fishing we’d do each summer at the family camp. Wasn’t too difficult that spring, anticipation rising, for my mind to roam out of a classroom, imagine the feel of a rod in my hand, and dream of a trout breaking water, rising to a lure or worm gobbed hook.

Finally, 10-day countdown. Dad had packed and re-packed our gear. Guide by the name of Camille Beaulieu from Daaquam, Quebec had been hired for the 10 day stay. We’d bunk down in one of his “camps” scattered over the watershed.

Not sure Dad realized what a day’s drive to the St. John would actually entail that year. The old Plymouth station wagon (My father, as I, bought only one new car in his life, believing a good used would serve the purpose as well) was packed the previous night. We’d leave before daybreak, hit route 201 in Skowhegan, drive on up to the French Canadian border, thence to St. George, Quebec where the “fun” would begin. Our next stop for an overnight was a rooming house in Lac Frontiere. However, to get there we had to drive over what seemed miles and miles of gravel highway.

This was now officially summer. Days could be quite warm. Cars had no air conditioning…not sure houses did either…couldn’t roll the windows down or vehicle would immediately fill with heavy road dust. Made no difference, dust filtered in through any and all minute openings. Part and parcel of the adventure. Great relief, however, when we’d finally pull into the small border town of Lac Frontiere easily find our rooming house…only one…and flip for dibs on first shower or tub of water. Although, and until we reached St. George again a week later, we’d be driving over dirt roads wherever we went. Occasionally, a rain would keep the dust down for a short spell, presenting another challenge in itself.

We met Camille the next morning after a “memorable” breakfast at the rooming house. (Everything cooked in pork fat or bacon grease including the toast). This being Monday, there was a line of French woodcutter’s cars and trucks waiting to cross the border. It was long, but moved along well, each vehicle showing some sort of identity papers and proof of a job. We got in line behind Camille, Dad showed his paper company pass and then followed Camille, who not only was a guide but by virtue of his having the mail delivery contract for the logging camps had unlimited access to the entire area.

First stop was camp. Perhaps more aptly described as “shelter” Built of logs, chinked with moss, split log planking and tar paper for roof. Split log door, squares of a rubber tire for hinges Pieces of birch limbs to hold the door to. No locks up here. Bunk frames were small cedar logs, split planks for bottoms. “Mattresses” of rough sheets sewn together on three sides filled with pine needles, hay, and/or soft cedar branch cuttings lay on top. Lighting was supplied by Coleman gas or smokey kerosene lamps. I’d have a book or two along as I did anywhere I roamed, but reading was out of the loop. Either too tired or too dark. Time we’d hit “the hay”… shortly after nightfall…, bunks felt like the Ritz Carleton’s finest.

First year was a wide eyed learning experience for me and I’m sure less for Dad who’d grown up under somewhat similar circumstances. Bathing for the adventurous (me) was in and quickly out of icey river water where ice on the banks still remained under an occasional overhang or spruce tree. Which, by the way, kept the perishables cold and drinks iced for the week. Cooking took place at breakfast and supper over an ancient “Clarion” wood stove which did it’s level best to fill inside of “camp” with black smoke when first lit and begun to draw. Occasionally there’d be a minor explosion when a piece of pitch loaded spruce would explode and rattle the old girl. Lunch on the river or stream wherever we might be fishing that day was often over a small driftwood campfire and consisted of bread, butter, and trout caught that morning, fried over a small fire in an ever present, black, cast iron fry pan, a meal I would cherish to this day.

On days when Camille didn’t have to deliver mail, we’d travel in his Jeep “station wagon” the ones when “Jeep” (ever wonder where that name came from…jeep…) designers weren’t allowed curves. Only seats in Camille’s mail wagon were in front. I sat in the back on a boat cushion amidst clutter, rods, and ice chests. Nothing to hang on except a strap way up on on the door post reachable only if I sat on one of the precarious ice chests....an experience in itself on many of the deeply rutted woods “roads.”

Stay tuned for next issue of FV when I recall the Brook Trout in those earlier days. This summer I’ll locate pictures and share how it was possible to tire of “trout for lunch and dinner” and finally enjoy those steaks iced down in the cooler under exquisite Canadian beer…

Fair Winds and Good Roads
– Lee Wilbur

• R E C I P E •

Lemonaise Romaine Salad
This salad recipe is just a bit intricate with an ingredient or two you may not keep in the pantry. But believe me when I say, it’s well worth the extra effort.

1 small head romaine
1/3 large sweet onion in large chunks
4 large white mushrooms sliced
Good olive oil

Saute chopped onions in 1 T olive oil on high heat until edges are brown but onions are still crisp in the middle (al dente). Remove onions and saute mushrooms until brown. Let both cool a bit and put over romaine cut in quarters. For the dressing combine half orange rough chopped (3/4") to 2 T Lemonaise (Lemon Mayo)…few drops lemon juice/mayo. Add teaspoon oil and scant 2 T raspberry vinegar.