There’s All Kinds A Time

By Dewey Gillespie

 There was a time when the salmon season on the Southwest Miramichi River ended on September 30th, and the season on the Cains River ended on October the 15th.

Jack J., was telling Clarence T., about an old American he was guiding about a mile and a half above the mouth of the Cains.

“She was pretty near dark”, said Jack. “Me and the old American had been on the river all day.  That old lad was bound and determined he was gonna catch a fish.  She’d been a long, hot day.  The bugs were bad and the fish weren’t takin real well.  I tried to talk the old feller in ta goin back ta camp, but no way, that old lad kept me out all day long. I was real hungry and a bit agitated, and besides, it was comin on dark when the old lad told me he’d had enough and wanted ta head back ta camp. 

For more than an hour I’d been watchin a great big salmon break water on the outside of a rock that the old American had just about reached, and I don’t think he knew the fish was there.  He was a dandy salmon, and I know fer shore he’d a went 25 or more pounds, maybe even 30.

I sung out to the old American that we had a little time left, and fer ‘em ta give ‘er a few more casts and maybe he’d hook somethin on the outside of the rock he was facin. 

The old American took one cast, and as soon as that fly hit the water, BANG!  That salmon dogged on ta that fly and made off down the river.  Before a man could blink, that salmon hauled all the line, and pretty near all the backin, off the reel.

Now, I could tell the American fella never hooked anything like this before, and it was quite plain that he didn’t know what in the-name-o-God, ta do.  I made me way out in the river ta where the old lad was.  All he kept sayin was, “Jack, what’ll aah do with this fish.  Ah don’t thank ah can hold ‘em.”

“He’s a “Jim Dandy”, I said.  Your gonna have ta put the grief to ‘em, or he’s gonna strip your riggin.  The old American did like I said, and that fish hauled the tip of the old lad’s rod about a foot down inta the river. She was a tug-o-war, with neither one of them wantin ta give an inch.  I thought fer sure the fish was gonna haul the reel right off the rod, but just when I figgered he would, the salmon stopped.  Ta this day I don’t know what kind a leader that old American was usin; must a been a cable, ta have that much strength.

Well, the old American started reelin, and the fish was comin along real good; had him in about half way on the line when, didn’t that fish take off agin.  He sommersaulted and upended down the river just like a porpose.

Across the river, there was a dirt road that runs right along close to the water’s edge. Here it was, just about dark, the last day of the season, and ta top ‘er off what did we spy, but the Wardens goin up the road.  I knew they were out checkin for poachers and sure as the Devil, they’d be comin ta check the pool where we wus.  The old American saw the Wardens too, and he started goin on somethin awful about how we were gonna get arrested: he was gonna loose all his riggin; have his car seized, and probably go ta jail. He looked at me and said, “Jack, what in the Craust We Gonna Do, Boy?  Were gonna run out of time.”  

Jack J. was not your typical guide. He was able, mischievious, and very clever. In answer to the old American’s statement, Jack answered.  “Here’s what were gonna do.  You and me’s gonna walk that fish right down this river till we come ta the mouth-o–the-Cains.  Once we hit the mouth-o-the- Cains, were gonna backtrack up in ta that river, cause there, ya got 15 more days ta land that fish.  There’s all kinds a time now.”