My daughter Kirsten loves pink. If you ask her, she’ll tell you it’s her favorite color. She likes pink dresses, shirts, socks, sneakers, crayons -- practically anything and everything pink. Now, I know what you’re thinking – “What does the color pink have to do with a fishing story?” Well, there is a connection. Read on. I’ll get to it. I promise. As I was saying, my daughter loves pink. I was contemplating this fact during the long drive from New Jersey to the Miramichi River in New Brunswick, Canada, for a weeklong fishing trip for the best sport fish known to man, the Atlantic salmon. Accompanying me on this quest was my dad, also Robert Skead, and cousin, Richard Carbone.
I was deep in thought when suddenly…. “Cast a pink fly and you will catch a salmon.” The voice called to me while I was driving my dad’s Mercury Grand Marquee down Route 95. I felt like I was in the baseball film Field of Dreams. You know, the one where Kevin Costner hears a voice saying, “If you build it they will come.” My mind quickly began to envision every single display case of flies I had ever seen in every single tackle shop I have ever been in.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pink salmon fly, I told myself.
“Cast a pink fly and you will catch a salmon.” The voice echoed again.
I turned and locked eyes with my cousin Rich. “Did you hear that?” I asked.
“Hear what?” he replied.
I knew then that I was on my way to a much-needed vacation. After all, a vacation with the family is fun. A fishing vacation is relaxing. You know exactly what I mean, don’t you?
The voice was proof that I needed this vacation. I pushed the pedal harder and increased the speed of the car. I knew the Mighty Miramichi was calling me. It had been for months. And I couldn’t wait to get there. After 12 hours of driving, we finally arrived and unloaded our gear.
The first two days at Vince Swazey’s Tuckaway Lodge in Boisetown brought lots of laughs, important relaxation, but no salmon for our party. The water was low and so was our spirits.
As I cast and prayed for a salmon to take my fly, my thoughts often drifted to my family. I love being a husband and father even more than I love fishing. It’s true, and hey, I’m no dummy – my wife will read this article too and I’d like to live and go fishing again someday.
I gazed across the river at my dad and laughed out loud. I’m a better man than he is, I thought, as I pondered what my wife and kids were doing at that moment. You see, my dad recently confessed that many years ago he once spent three and a half days fishing on the Miramichi and hadn’t thought about his family the entire time. I joked when I heard the comment that it was because I hadn’t been born yet (Why would my dad want to think about my two pesky sisters?)
Here I was thinking about my wife, son and daughter, and then it happened again.
“If you cast a pink fly you will catch a salmon.”
I turned around – there were no rows of corn stalks anywhere in sight. This was not Iowa. It was Canada! What is happening to me? Come on! A pink fly? Yet the voice’s call captivated me. In three prior trips to the Miramichi I had only caught multiple grilse. I was anxious to hook, play, fight and net a salmon. I need to experience that, I told myself. I needed to catch the Leaper. But a pink fly? I continued casting and blocked out the fact that this was happening. A few more days of rest and the voice will dissipate, I reasoned with myself. The rhythm of casting soothed me and I felt normal again.
Later that afternoon, I told one of Tuckaway Lodge’s fine guides, Renate Bullock, about my daughter’s love for pink and my “desire” for a fly of that color. Renate, a proud grandmother herself with a granddaughter who loves pink as well, understood my sentiment. (I strategically left out the part about the voice for fear of my reputation.)
The next morning our casting of well-presented flies still failed to deliver any whizzing reels and leaping salmon. The water below our lines seemed lifeless and, regrettably, still low. As our evening appointment for fishing came, badly needed rain poured down upon us. Renate lifted my spirits as she presented me with a pink butterfly pattern fly. “This is for your little girl,” she said with a smile.
My eyes lit up and I thanked her. “I think you misunderstood me Renate,” I added. “I intend to fish with this fly.”
Renate seemed surprised. Politely, she didn’t mock me, but gave me her blessing.
“Nothing else is working. I guess it couldn’t hurt,” said Dan Bullock, Renate’s son, and our guide.
“Let’s stop wishing and lets go fishing,” exclaimed Cousin Rich. And we all entered the river eager with anticipation. Forty-five minutes later, Cousin Rich caught a grilse at Elbow pool on an Allie Shrimp pattern fly. The rain and wind pelted my dad and I in Home pool as we cast and cast and cast. Suddenly, my reel went whizzing. ‘Fish on!” I yelled. The salmon leapt into the air. “Yahoo!” I hollered. The fight was on. The salmon took off causing my reel to sing. What sweet music that reel played! I waited for the salmon to stop, and reeled in, keeping the tension tight until it took off again, and again, and again…
That salmon leapt nine times before it ended up in Dan’s net ten minutes later.
I was ecstatic!
“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen a fish caught on a pink butterfly,” said Dan, as he gently removed it from the eight-pounder, male salmon’s mouth.
Vince Swazey smiled proudly as he stood next to Dan. Vince had told me earlier that afternoon that we’d catch fish. Like any outfitter and guide, he loves being right. “What’s your daughter’s name?” Vince asked, as we released the beautiful salmo salar back into the river.
“Kirsten,” I replied, “but let’s officially call this fly ‘The Baby Girl.’ That’s my nickname for her.”
Vince laughed as he shook my hand. He then studied “Baby Girl” as if to memorize every aspect of it’s being for later re-creation.
A few minutes later, my dad caught a salmon and it was a terrific evening of fishing for us all. When we got back to the cabin, I immediately called home with the report. My wife was delighted that we finally caught fish. She had a good laugh when I told her about the pink fly. We exchanged “I love you’s” and I hung up the phone. At that moment I decided I was going to retire the “Baby Girl.” I wondered what fly to use the next day. Yes! The Black Bear with a Green Butt! Now, there’s a fly that would make my kid’s laugh. Best of all, they both like black and green. Sounds like a winner!
And it was. I caught two more salmon with it on our last day of fishing.
As we drove home, I noticed the voice had not spoken to me again. I was relaxed. I felt great. Now, it was time to go home – for a different kind of fun.
