We join the boys in the middle of action on their second last day of a New Brunswick Moose Hunt.
With Dad’s pep talk sinking in I mustered the gumption to man my post. But, as the morning wore on, I could feel my spirit drooping. It wasn’t long before Dad tapped me on the shoulder, recognizing I needed some lunch, a cold Pepsi, and some new scenery. And scenery we did receive!
A short distance into our travels we came across a fresh set of moose tracks meandering up the road followed by another set shortly after. Both moose must’ve been bulls because there were signs of a clash – gravel and shrubs were torn up on both sides of the road — an impressive display. We called with the hopes that moose were still nearby, but nothing came to fruition. One thing was clear, a switch had flicked in the Ackerman and the boys were out to play!
A tale as old as time, Boys fighting over a woman..
We returned to camp for a quick lunch and decided to approach our hunting spot from the other direction that evening. This route would take us through the scene of the clash before arriving at our spot, the last hour before dark.
As we made our way toward the fight scene, we met an oncoming truck. Bouncing along in a trailer behind them was a 6-point bull. Our worries went unspoken until we arrived at our calling destination and realized that was where they had shot it. Even Dad was starting to become disheartened with our luck.
Hopes to the wind, we drove right to our spot, parking in the middle of the cut. We settled in for the final hour before dark and debated even making a call. Finally, Dad decided to offer up a single cow call. What could it hurt? We were both well-aware that tomorrow was the last day of the season.
Dad wandered up behind the truck. He stopped nonchalantly and peered through the fading daylight toward the treeline. He came back to the truck with a concerned look on his face, grabbing binoculars. This grabbed my attention as well. He returned to his vantage point bringing binoculars to his eyes. No sooner than the eye cups touched his brow did his knees buckle and he spun toward me mouthing M-O-O-S-E!
I grabbed my gun loading three .270 Winchester rounds into my top loader Model 70. I shoved the bolt ahead and peeled toward Dad. He reminded me to grab my shooting stick from the bed of the truck and pointed me in the direction of the moose.
“Assuming a cartridge can make its way on merit alone, that cartridge is the .270” – Jack O’Connor
“Take your time bud. Find your shot.”
I locked the rifle onto the shooting stick. I focused the scope and peered through the glass. I spotted the lone cow almost instantly. As I readied myself, I saw another cow to her right. I held two fingers out to Dad indicating I saw two moose.
Dad whispered, “there’s two cows out there, Matt, take your time. Pick the one you want.” , clearly unaware I had already indicated such to him.
While panning my scope across to the second cow, I spotted a third moose. I lifted my cheek from the rifle stock to whisper back that I’d spotted another, and I was greeted with Dad’s exclamation of the same.
“Three Matt! Three!”
With uncharacteristic composure, I scanned each moose systematically for antlers or size differences. While surveying the third, I noticed movement even further to the right. I shifted my sight picture to see a bull feeding on a maple sapling.
“Bull Dad! Bull!” is what I thought. “Bull Matt! Bull!” is what I heard. The chaos was unfolding so quickly it was almost comical. Dad reminded me to take my time and stay calm. This would likely be our final chance.
I readjusted my footing and settled myself into the gun. I used this moment of calm to reflect on past mistakes. I found the bull’s front leg. I followed it up to the base of his neck. I adjusted slightly to center mass. I breathed. I felt the trigger on my finger. I slowly squeezed.
CLICK! — Damn safety!
‘You’re such an idiot’ I thought as I peered out over the gun and thumbed the safety. The moose had stepped behind the maple clump. I slid up the road further using a tractor push out to conceal my movement from the 8 eyes now staring me down. I posted up. Refocused. I found my shot.
BOOM! – fire blasted out the barrel in the fading daylight.
I shackled another round as the moose pivoted toward the treeline. I swung on him, finding his body, leading ahead and squeezed as he entered the sight picture.
BOOM! – the shot stopped dead. There was no noise. There was no movement. I turned to Dad, still holding his binoculars; so much for that second gun! His face told the story. We exchanged a couple high fives but knew we needed to get in there now. If that moose had anything left in him, he was only steps away from the Ackerman and hard night ahead for us.
Landmarking where we last saw him last we made our way through the cut. We headed toward the maple clump to find hair or blood for confirmation of a hit. That wasn’t necessary. There a few yards from the tree line, a large antler protruded up from the underbrush. We had a big bull down and we were ecstatic!
Now the work begins…
We called our friends for help. A jeep, a quad, a poorly tuned chainsaw, five men and seven hours later we had our moose on the trailer. It was the longest 218 yards any of us had ever covered! The bull would eventually weigh in at 853lbs, sporting a 12-point rack with a 54 inch spread.
Handshakes and rest were required, especially since those boys still had to hunt the next day. We felt bad for taking so much of their time, but we knew they wouldn’t have traded the experience for the world. You see, moose season isn’t just about hunting. It’s about comradery. It’s about sharing experiences with peers.
Back at camp Saturday after the moose was registered and delivered to the butcher, Dad reminded me, “Everything happens for a reason Matty!”
On a hot July afternoon, a co-worked probed, “did you get your moose license, Matt?”
“I haven’t checked yet”
“Jeez, you better check bud!” was his perturbed response.
The day had arrived when hopeful New Brunswick hunters flock to their computers to check the results of the provincial moose lottery.
Wanting to have an answer for the next nosey inquirer, I thumbed my cell phone. Nine keystrokes later and I was staring at a congratulatory message from the Provincial government. I had drawn my first personal New Brunswick Moose Tag!
I immediately made the obligatory phone call to my father.
“You’ve got to be kidding me?! Two in a row for us?!”
Once we were able to look past our luck I offered him my second gun designation, and he accepted. We both agreed that our scouting efforts from last season’s hunt were still valid, and the hunt was on!
Summer came to pass. Shorter days were on the horizon. Before long we were standing beside the picturesque Gaspereau River, cracking a couple cold ones, with 36 hours before opening day. Neither of us would rather be anywhere else!
Monday morning, 24 hours before opening day. Steam curled out of my coffee mug on the camp’s porch. The temperature was a crisp -5℃, and the siren song of Ackerman Heath was calling. My dad and I decided to jump in the truck and head out for an impromptu scouting trip.
The trip yielded four moose sightings within a few kilometres of our hunting area. We agreed that moose have tremendously long legs and therefore were only a few hundred steps from where we needed them!
The next morning, in the dark hours of opening day, we stirred to the shrill beeping of alarm clocks. We eventually rose to the jarring chill that had settled on the camp overnight. It was the type of morning hunters dream about, and we weren’t about to be late! With breakfast in our guts, we skipped to the truck with anticipation.
Upon arriving at our spot, we revived last year’s plan — wait until daylight and trek into the cutover. The air was still and a thick frost shimmered in the twilight. With no bedded moose in sight, my father called through a birch bark horn.
The call seemed to travel for miles — and the response was immediate. The sound of antlers crashing through brush echoed across the cut. We could hear the thud of each lumbering step as a bull moose pushed his way toward us. We positioned ourselves for a standoff, yet he remained a ghost in the morning air.
The seconds felt like hours in our heightened state. We strained our eyes across the cutover searching for the slightest signs of movement. Beyond us in Ackerman Heath, we could hear the excited cries of a cow in heat. My Dad reminded me, “… the real thing always sounds better.”
Feeling our chance slipping away, we made a move. We pushed through the frozen expanse of dried logging debris with the stealthiness of Sherman Tanks, helplessly trying to cover our advance with challenging grunts. The noise of his raking antlers seemed as if it were only meters away. Unfortunately as the moments passed, the sounds faded, as he moved toward his lover and away from our desperate pursuit.
When the action subsided, we regrouped and tried to determine what must have happened. We found the evidence we were looking for, all the way across the cutover. Fresh tracks and rubbed trees along the adjacent road told of his presence. We chalked it all up to experience and continued on with our hunt.
Back at camp that evening the air pressure dropped promising rain, however, the pressure on us was still unquestionably high!
Wednesday morning — the camp’s tin roof clattered with the sound of rain. Striking out we opted to stay dry by parking further down the road than normal. With vantage of the area, we waited until daylight before offering our first calls. Rain muffled our attempts, so instead, we resolved to cover ground and attempt to spot a travelling moose.
With the previous day’s proceedings fresh in our minds, we retraced our tracks, hoping to catch Mr. Bull returning to his hideaway. As we crested the knoll out of a brook buffer, we saw two gentlemen standing at the mouth of the road. There in the ditch, only feet away, was their 8-point bull. We approached and offered our jealous congratulations. Five minutes tardy dragging our asses out of camp and that bull could have been ours!
Driving away dad rationalized, “that’s not the bull we heard yesterday, Matt, he didn’t have enough of a board on him to resonate the sounds we heard.”
Everything happens for a reason, I guess” was my semi-optimistic retort. Day two faded away to dreary skies without success.
Back at camp we revisited our strategy over BBQ’d ham steaks — washed down with finest white wine $9.99 can buy. The moose seemed to be moving after daybreak. To counter their movement, we resolved to reduce our travel before daylight hours. Armed with this revelation we enjoyed a few more minutes of sleep before striking out on day three.
Our destination was the successful spot from the previous day — sometimes the Second Mouse gets the Cheese. The plan turned out to be perfect, but our execution of it was not. We stalked into the opposite side of the cutover, and, after a few calls decided to leave. As we neared the truck, with our guards embarrassingly low, we began to chat about our next moves.
SNAP! CRACK! SMASH!
There, just inside the treeline, a young bull jumped out of his bed. He ran for the road to quicken his escape. All we could see were ears and antlers as he slipped down into the brook buffer. I did my best Usain Bolt impression covering the 100 meters to the hill top for a second chance. He had stopped in the valley bottom, and was looking back to determine if he was in the clear.
Come on, Matt! Give it to him!” Dad excitedly pleaded in the distance.
I shouldered my rifle desperately trying to slow my heart. I took a deep breath preparing for a shot. The moose put his head down and started for the woods. Hurriedly, I adjusted my point of aim and fired. I knew immediately I had missed. I rushed down the hill in haste, trying to listen for the fleeing bull. Dad dove into the brook buffer with hopes of pushing him back into the cut, to no avail.
A survey of the scene yielded fragmented bullet pieces in a large depression in the road on the hill opposite. Only a slight breeze rippled my sails knowing I had missed clean; but had potentially missed our only opportunity on the short five day season.
Morale in camp was low that evening, only slightly higher than it was the next morning. I struggled with the notion that we might go without another chance. By this point last season Dad and I were enjoying some four-wheeling, visiting friends, and savouring our time away from the day-to-day grind. Instead, this year, we were grinding our way through yet another morning routine.
My Dad, ever the wise old fella, sensed my mood, “Get your chin up, Matt! You missed. It happens. You were the one that told me ‘everything happens for a reason’. Lots of time yet, bud.”
TO BE CONTINUED….
Join us right back here in September for the resolution of “The Highs and Lows of a New Brunswick Moose Hunt”
Portage Trail – the mere muttering of these words can send painful memories radiating down the necks of canoeists. Combine those words with a unit of measure greater than a few hundred yards and the ‘memories’ become crippling.
Such was my case as I began planning to complete the Cains – Gaspereau portage trail solo earlier this year. This 8.5km portage is the realization of a project undertaken by Canoe Kayak New Brunswick starting in earnest in 2008. There are now six traditional trails near completion in the province, joining watersheds and connecting major rivers. The project is a continuation of work completed by W.F. Ganong, who spent his time in the early 1900s mapping traditional canoe routes that aided his exploration, cartography and scientific documentation of New Brunswick’s vast wilderness. The trails were the mainstays of First Nations peoples long before his time and Ganong understood the cultural significance of the routes.
My plan was simple. I arranged an early morning drop-off at the Cains River bridge on Route 123 and a late evening pick up at the Burpee Bridge on the Gaspereau River. Almost 40 km of self-propelled travel stood between me and my goal, but I was optimistic I had the “stuff” to complete the journey.
The Cains River is a tributary of the Main Southwest Miramichi River. In its own right, the Cains is a storied fishing river known for plentiful trout and cold dark waters. Sporadic camps dot its banks, most of which were empty this early in May. With a wide channel and meandering turns, this section of river offers a relaxing paddle. Likely sensing my self-doubt, a couple of friendly beavers slapped their tails along side my canoe, perhaps offering encouragement of my hopeless pursuit.
The portage trail head sits in a spruce-hemlock forest roughly 10 km downriver from Route 123, river right. I eddied out shortly after 8:00 a.m. and immediately tied my paddle into the canoe. I hated to rush the landing but I felt I needed every minute of time to complete the journey in one day.
I slung my pack and canoe onto my shoulders and was off. The trails begins by ascending 150 meters out of the river valley. On this day, there was a bonus of shin deep snow. I felt every ounce of my 50 lb load as I crested the hilltop. What the hell I was thinking?
The first 1100 metres of trail crosses two logging roads, a small bridge over an unnamed stream and transitions through two different forest stand types. The trail showed signs of use, but not of the bipedal variety. Moose and smaller game have welcomed the 30-inch wide path and have left their respective marks on the landscape.
The first true milestone is a bridge over West Branch Six Mile Brook, roughly half-way across the portage. En route, I plodded through a managed softwood forest and skirted the high ground adjacent to a large bog. The methodical creaking of my improvised 1″x 3″ yoke — my Old Town Pack was not equipped with such an amenity — soothed my ears as my shoulders and neck cried for attention. Soon I began descending into the lowlands and the bridge emerged ahead. I checked my watch and was pleasantly surprised. It was 10:00a.m. and I was portaging at a pace of 2 km/hr.
I was doing better than expected. As I rested, the satisfaction of being ahead of schedule allowed me to fantasize about a supper more palatable than the squished cold cut sandwich in my pack. With a newfound sense of purpose and a belly full of beef jerky, I crawled back under my over-sized hat.
The next landmark, the final bridge of the trek, lay 1.5 km down the trail. The swale between the two branches of Six Mile Brook are choked with Labrador Tea, entangling your every soggy step. Crossing the Main Branch marks the transition into Gaspereau River watershed.
With approximately 3 km remaining on the portage I was beginning to feel real signs of fatigue. My shoulders spasmed as I shifted the canoe, desperately trying to find a comfortable hold. Further, my pace was starting to slow. I managed to find several trees to use as canoe rests for much needed breaks. As I leaned against a tree, I contemplated the historical significance of the trail. Before roads this trail connected the north and south of New Brunswick. Many a weary traveler had likely found themselves right where I stood, mustering the motivation to push on.
The trail intersects another two logging roads before entering the last leg of the hike. Gravity was pulling me down through a mature forest when I spotted the Gaspereau River through the trees. A euphoric “WOOO!” emerged unconsciously from somewhere inside me. I managed to cross the trail in just under six hours.
The trail concludes on a grassy flat flanked by robust white pine and sandstone boulders. In early May, the Gaspereau flows purposefully from it’s sources. The river offers some energetic water before widening as it approaches the community of Upper Gaspereau. Bald Eagles watch over these waters for dorsal fins and wary travellers, as they have for more years than I can fathom. Back in the canoe rhythmic paddle strokes and a helpful current propel me through this serpentine oasis.
The 20 km paddle on the Gaspereau was a challenge, especially after an 8.5 km portage. For the bulk of the journey, the wind was blowing upstream. I rounded the final bend before the bridge around 6 p.m., and again, I thought of those who traveled before me. After much longer journeys than my own, how did they feel when they arrived at their destination? How did their families feel when they arrived home? I wondered if someday my son would do a similar trip of his own. Or, perhaps carrying a canoe on your head will become an action of history, only spoken of in the deepest recesses of the internet.
Download Geo-Referenced PDF here: PortageTrailMap
The scars of winter’s recent exit were evident as we slid our boats into the current. Without leaves on the hardwoods, the forest felt lifeless. Overcast skies blended with bare, grey branches giving the upstream breeze a chilling effect. Freshly fallen trees sat perched in the current, branches dug into the gravel river bottom, roots reaching back toward shore searching for dry land.
Conditions were frigid in the morning. Thick frost covered the boats and our water was frozen. There was no need to cover a great distance so we relaxed. Matt landed a couple small brook trout, while I sat by the fire in the sunshine, drinking coffee.
We hit the water around 1 p.m., and throughout the course of the day we encountered several logjams, carrying around two of them. Many of the jams were well established — and likely have been for a long time.
I learned an important lesson about water depth near logjams. I approached a shallow arching turn where logs had entrenched themselves, forming a small jam. In an effort to avoid a portage, it seemed prudent to inspect — what looked like — a canoe-sized opening in the jam on the far bank.
With my snubbing pole in hand, I approached with extreme caution. As I neared visible range I thrust the 12 ft pole into the tea-colored water and the familiar crunch of gravel was strangely absent. The bottom had dropped away. The pole traveled downward until my hand was at the water line. Shocked and off-balance, I tossed my pole into the bow, sat down, grabbed my paddle and ferried into a nearby alder swale. As it turned out, there was no opening, and I — rather shamefully — had to walk the boat upstream.
We elected to set up camp shortly after. The site was on another gravel deposition on what is likely a floodplain. To say it was flat is an understatement. The ground under our tent, 30-40 ft from the water, was roughly 2-3 inches in elevation above the flowing river. The adjoining forest was thick with alders, so we paddled to a grove of mature spruce across the river to get firewood.
We spent the bulk of our third day fishing as we wound our way through more logjams. Pools at the base of jams were teeming with brook trout. The fish were small — in the 6-8″ range — but plentiful. Similar pools further upriver yielded no result. Who can explain the mystical nature of a brook trout run?
There’s an access point and campsite at the bridge located a few kilometers below our second campsite. This point would make a good put-in for those looking for a one-day trip.
By mid-afternoon, we were feeling the effects of two days of sunshine. Unfortunately for us, shady spots were in short supply. With an air of desperation, we pulled onto a gravel bar and rested under an ad hoc shelter of tarp and paddles. Feeling comfortable, we decided to set up camp.
The gravel was finer than the previous night, suggesting the current was slowing down. The river, however, displayed no signs of reduced power as it flowed past in silence. Logs of different sizes had collected along the far bank as the river folded back onto itself.
With the trip nearly complete, fireside conversation drifted between what’s to come and has been. Connections to past travelers became real. It was a privilege to travel a waterway that W.F. Ganong declared “one of the most important routes across the province.” A route that Maliseet and Mi’kmaq people used for thousands of years. Where 19th-century guides brought their aristocratic ’sports’ during New Brunswick’s tourism golden age.
We were on the water early on our last morning. The final leg was just over 25 km — 12 km to the confluence of the Little and the main Tobique Rivers, and the remainder on the main Tobique.
The Little Tobique straightens and widens as it approaches its mouth. With logjams no longer a concern, we expected a dull paddle. But, the beauty of the river valley took us by surprise. Large spruce line the towering valley walls as they slope toward the river.
To paddle from Riley Brook to Nictau is to experience these communities as intended. As we passed through, a small group of locals hunched over on the soft river bank picking fiddleheads. Canoes built by Miller and Chestnut adorned the shoreline. Life on the Tobique, it seems, maintains a natural rhythm much like it has for thousands of years.
Download Map PDF Here: Tobique
“Hey Pops. What’s going on today?”
“Oh just driving out the 502 road, Matty. You?”
“Well I’m glad to hear you’re sitting down bud but you should probably pull over…”
Fearing he’d think my wife and I were expecting, I promptly interrupted “Dad! You got your moose license!”
So began our 2017 moose hunting season. In New Brunswick, moose licenses are awarded based on a lottery system with notoriously low odds. This was the first time in 6 years that Dad had his license – and only the third time in 36 years. Naturally, I graciously accepted when Dad suggested I be his designate second gun. After our last excursion in Newfoundland, I assumed he thought me cursed and I needed a shot at redemption.
New Brunswick’s moose hunting season lasts only five days – prior to 2014 it was a whooping three. With such a short season, good scouting is essential to finding success – a principle that applies regardless of season length. Without knowing in advance whether you’ve successfully obtained a license, making time for scouting can be difficult. Vacation calendars fill up with commitments before the lottery occurs, so the first time I set foot in our designated hunting zone was mid-August.
I had recruited Grant to help with the scouting effort and our first stop was Ackerman Heath. The heath is a network of interconnected bogs that runs west-to-east along the southern flank of the Gaspereau River. We hadn’t travelled far before I noticed a larger than normal gap between my XR500 and Grant’s Fourtrax 350. Grant had spotted a set of moose tracks crossing the road. Over the course of the next hour we observed many sets of tracks spaced a few hundred meters apart, clearly there were moose in Ackerman.
Hearing of our success, Dad took over. He identified two separate bog edges with good travel corridors, and a natural funnel between bogs that looked positive. However, the most promising site was a cutover with good feed adjacent to an Ackerman bog. The cutover was close to our camp, giving us the best chance to arrive before other hunters. A friend later described the condition of the cut as resembling “tramped dog shit” – this was our friend’s way of saying there were many moose in the area. There was no question where we’d be opening morning!
As the season approached, time stood still. Moose were in my dreams. An opportunity to finally pull the trigger on moose consumed me. Finally, the weekend before the season arrived. Dad and I ventured out early to check our hunting area before settling into camp. Our main concern was to ensure no other parties had set up in the area. As we drove in, it was clear we had the area to ourselves, that is, until we broke out of the treeline. There, laying down in the cut, were two cows — the first moose we’d seen since finding out we had our license.
As we rolled along Dad overzealously asked, “What do you think Matty Ol’ Boy, did your pops pick an okay spot?”
“Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves Dad,” I replied looking over at his grinning face.
“Oh, I’m not,” he exclaimed, “because there’s three more right there!”
Silhouetted against the rising sun in the east, fleeing their beds, were a large cow and two young bulls. We watched as they scrambled toward the treeline — leaving us to consider whether or not all this action was a good sign — or a really bad omen.
Returning to camp we settled in to anxiously await opening morning on Tuesday. Fuelling our unease were radio reports of an extreme heat wave. Not the type of news one wishes to hear before a hunt. In addition, New Brunswick was experiencing the driest summer of my lifetime, so game movement, up until now, seemed mostly limited to nocturnal hours.
Tuesday morning arrived with alarms at Dark O’Clock. We gorged ourselves on rolls and cheese and struck out. Arriving at the mouth of the road half hour before legal shooting light, we discussed our plan. We were to walk in at legal time, glass the cutover, and make our way toward the adjacent bogs.
Following our plan, we took off on foot but, unfortunately, when our watches read legal time, we couldn’t see much, it was still too dark. We crept forward with caution and detected movement. Tensions rose, grips tightened on our guns, but peering through the morning gloom we disappointedly realized the shape of a bear foraging on blueberries. The bear paid no mind to us, so we continued on toward the bog.
By 9:30a.m., it was 25°C, and we were drenched in sweat. Day 1 was not shaping up well, we decided to head back to camp. The wind picked up that evening, blowing in the promise of changing weather for Day 2.
The next morning, we sat in the truck surrounded by darkness at the mouth of the road. In whispered tones we debated walking into the cut at shooting light rather than legal time. This decision would allow us to see perfectly — which for us was just before 8:00am.
Under overcast skies, we stalked up the logging road toward the cutover. Waiting the extra time turned out to be fruitful. Peering through the timber I could see a moose feeding in the cutover, about 200 yards away. I stopped abruptly and whispered excitedly to dad. My heart seemed to be pounding out of my chest, into my throat. I tried to steady my rifle on my shooting stick.
Looking on, my Dad leaned in, placing his hand on my shoulder — as fathers do.
“Take your time Matty, and you should probably shoot the closer one.”
In my haste I failed to notice, standing behind a blowdown at around 40 yards, an adult cow. Both animals appeared to be the same size, so there was seemingly no advantage to risking the longer shot. I quickly re-adjusted my shooting lane and settled the scope. Fighting hypertension, I found the front of her chest and squeezed the trigger. Skyward hooves and the thud of a 600lb animal falling was all the confirmation I needed to know I’d made a clean, humane shot. My first moose.
Normally, the story ends here with sharp knives and a lot of hard work, however, our day just got more exciting. The second moose was unfazed by the shot and sauntered toward the cow. As the moose approached it became clear that it was a small bull. The bull voiced his intentions through a series of grunts which brought attention, but not the kind he was looking for. A mature bull emerged in the morning mist further up the cut, clearly imposing his dominance over those below. Watching on, we revelled in this action-packed morning in the woods.
The rest of the day saw us venturing to the registration station and a butcher. We visited friends and celebrated like we didn’t have to get up in the morning. We used our extra time to prepare for deer season, not because we need the meat, but because time at the hunting camp with friends and family is time well spent.
“So Matt, quite an experience for a father and son to share don’t you think?”
“Yes Dad, it was pretty cool.”
“So when do you think you and Danielle will start having kids?”
“Ugh, I need to sit down.”
Part of the allure of a canoe trip is the bond. Nothing brings people together like shared experiences — and with canoe trips, the experience is all-encompassing. Breaking free from separate day-to-day existences and embracing the collective in the pursuit of adventure can only be about connection; connection with nature, connection with each other. If you’re lucky, these connections strengthen your most important relationships.
Last June, my father and uncle traveled to New Brunswick to connect with my brother and I. I’d been begging the old farts to come canoeing in New Brunswick for years. Both had long-since retired from tripping, so when they finally relented, there were some terms. No portaging, minimal rapids, and plenty of brook trout. Our destination was the first river I canoe every spring: the Gaspereau.
The Gaspereau River begins in earnest in Gaspereau Lake, a small lake that rises from the wetlands of the Bantalor Region in central NB. The Gaspereau is a part of the St. John River watershed and runs about 60 km in total — traveling northeast for 35 km or so before turning southward, where it eventually merges with the Salmon River.
In a time before roads, the Gaspereau served as an important travel corridor between the St. John and Miramichi River systems. Travelers coming from Saint John would cross a grueling, 8km portage trail to access the Cains River, a tributary of the SW Miramichi. Incredibly, the trail can still be used today thanks to the efforts of W.F. Ganong in the early 1900s and more recently an Ancient Portage Trails Committee.
We pulled off Route 123 and onto a logging road on a cool, rainy, mid-June morning. Our plan was to put in at a snowmobile warming hut on the upper Gaspereau and paddle down to the Burpee Covered Bridge. Given the timing of the trip, water levels were a concern. Locals tell me that — when looking down river from 123 bridge — if a large rock is not visible on the last corner before the river goes out of view, then there’s enough for the run. No rocks were visible, so we were feeling confident.
The upper Gaspereau flows through a narrow, well-defined channel. Dark, fast moving water flows between banks lined with thick grass and low-lying forest. In June, the river is home to a healthy population of brook trout. Within a few minutes of launching, we’d all caught our first trout. Within an hour, each of us could have easily been at our limit for the day. The trout were small, in the 6-9″ range, but beautifully colored.
With good fishing and heavy rainfall, our desire to paddle was limited. After a couple hours on the water, and only 3-4km traveled, we started looking for a campsite. Accessing the shore proved to be a saturating experience — 30-40mm of rain will do that. Enormous water droplets sat precariously on the fat blades of grass, waiting for a fool in a cheap rain suit to give them the gift of inertia. Ultimately, we ended up on a long, flat access trail.
We erected a fire pit, poured ourselves some Five-Star whiskey, and debated the best lines from our pre-departure movie, “The Edge” with Anthony Hopkins and Alec Baldwin. For your information, “most people lost in the woods, they die of shame” and “fire from ice“ were the two favourites.
The next day, as the rain continued to fall, my father and uncle reminisced about their tripping histories. They reminded my brother and I that foul weather builds character, and that camping gear has improved substantially over the last 40-years — no doubt in their day, they portaged uphill both ways. It was fun to watch them fall back into their old routine — the food manager, the chef, the wood collector..etc. In observing their systematic behaviour I had the realization that you can learn a lot from old guys.
Again, the fishing was excellent, so we spent our time casting rather than paddling. We only traveled another few kilometers before deciding to set up camp. Our second site was on a shrubby point off the sharp corner just below the mouth of Mountain Brook. The river slowed as it rounded the bend and formed a deep pool that was full of trout.
The sun finally emerged late that evening. Low angled light glazed the tree tops with a golden hue during the evening fishing session, a hopeful sign for things to come. My father — the grill master — looking on as he tended the cooking fire, noted that “you kids don’t have the experience to cook a perfect steak in the woods.” He was not wrong.
Later, we assembled around the campfire under a star lit sky and told stories of trips gone by — my brother and I struggling to imagine our elders as youths. After a couple whiskies and some campfire pizzas, we turned in.
The sun warmed our faces on day three as we finally paddled under the Route 123 bridge — a common nighthawk swooped to within a few feet of us on the other side. After this point, the Gaspereau widens out, becoming rocky and shallow. We realized that, without the previous two days’ rain, the trip may not even have been possible.
The fishing action quieted down, but we still managed to enjoy a shore lunch. Eventually, we picked our way down river a kilometer or so and settled on our final campsite. The site was nestled under some mature fir and spruce trees, elevated enough to be dry, with lady slippers dotting the understory. After an hour’s work, it was a great site with a nice fire pit and plenty of wood storage. We spent our last evening together enjoying each others’ company.
On our final morning, the sun was shining and the birds were chirping early. Inside my two-man tent, I opened my eyes to my brothers’ bloodshot stare, he mouthed, “The f-ing birds” — clearly sleep had eluded him. My father and uncle had the coffee percolating on the fire when we finally emerged. We pulled our stools up to the fire, poured ourselves a mug and sat together, enjoying a still moment watching the river flow by.
Here in New Brunswick, we’re lucky to have wild rivers right on our doorstep. Personally, I feel lucky to have people to share them with. On the final day of the trip we scrapped our way down 25 or so kilometers of river finally arriving at the covered bridge; a structure standing the test of time, like the bonds created by those who travel the waters flowing underneath.
Download map pdf here: Gaspereau
Boisetown, June, 2013 — My group had just finished a trip down the Taxis River, when loaded down canoes started arriving at our gravel beach take-out point in droves. The emerging paddlers described a harrowing trip full of rapids and waterfalls down the Main Southwest Miramichi River. The trip sounded fantastic, and the memory of that day was set to occupy a space in my mind for years.
Afterward, I learned that the trip from Half Moon Pit to Boisetown on the Main Southwest Miramichi was one of the classic New Brunswick canoe runs. Fellow canoeists describe the trip as a sort of rite of passage for New Brunswick adventurers.
The Miramichi River and its endless branches are steeped in lore. In many ways, these stories are what make the Miramichi experience unique. In the early 1800s British ships built with timber from the region helped defeat Napoleon. A century later, W.F. Ganong — the preeminent explorer and scientist — relentlessly studied the region’s natural history. In the 1960s, in her book Silent Spring, Rachel Carson dubbed the Northwest Miramichi ‘The River of Death‘ after applications of DDT infamously killed a run of Atlantic Salmon. The species endures, however, and for the better part of a century fly-fisherman from across the globe have flocked to the Miramichi for its prolific salmon runs.
Flash forward to 2016, Matt & I were in his truck bumping along NB Route 107 with his Nova Craft Prospector in tow. We’d decided to spend our May long weekend taking part in the tradition. I’d been warned about this road — it was supposedly one of the worst roads in the province — but I was skeptical. It turns out that the warnings were not unfounded. Years of hauling timber have taken its toll, and now the 107 is easily one of the worst paved roads in the province.
We arrived at Half Moon Pit around 11:00 a.m. The put-in was in excellent condition, it comes complete with garbage cans, signage, and — my favourite — a ramp and steps to help with launching boats. There’s even the added charm of paddling under an old rail bridge shortly after shoving off.
For the first few kilometres the water was fast moving, but relatively placid. Small swirls and riffles caused by unseen undulations in the river bed rose in silence around us as we debated the origin of some young forest on the water’s edge. Only a few sentinel white pines remained amongst a dense mat of balsam fir saplings in what was likely once a mighty stand of timber.
A palpable sense of excitement and apprehension filled the boat on the approach to the first set of rips around Fairleys and Louie Islands. We were living a tradition, but, much like those that had come before, the task at hand couldn’t be ignored. The rips were uneventful, all the larger rocks were easily submerged and offered no real threat. The closest gauge in Blackville read 1.5, which is reportedly the ideal height for a clean run. If the submerged boulders were exposed, all the rips in the upper stretch would have made this trip much more technical.
For the bulk of the day we cruised along, floating through rips and smaller class I-II rapids with relative ease — including the famous Big Louie and the Narrows. The scenery was beautiful, although there were more camps than expected. The dark green softwoods contrasted with the grey, leafless hardwoods giving the nearby peaks an almost distinguished appearance. As we ate lunch on the bank, a moose stood up in the grass 150-200 yards away and headed back into the woods — clearly annoyed by the handsome canoeists.
Several established, and well-maintained campsites occupy the first upper stretch, these would make an ideal destination for an evening or late afternoon start.
The biggest challenge of the day was the Burnt Hill Rapids, which, according to the map was Class III. The rapid was situated on a slight left-hand turn and consisted of one main ledge followed by a series of standing waves on the river left, with safer passage being offered on the right. After a day in the saddle, our confidence was high so we lined up the boat on left.
Above the rapids, the haystacks seemed manageable, but as we dropped in, suddenly they felt much larger. Firm braces at the bow and stern steadied the boat as it rode over the waves. Our line was good, but we narrowly avoided the central rock/ledge at the bottom of the rapid. Upon clearing the last wave we whooped exuberantly, while unbeknownst to us, a couple of seniors watched from the deck at the Burnt Hill Lodge.
Just below Burnt Hill we stumbled upon a flat, spacious campsite nestled under some white pines; it was too good to pass up. It was clean but had clearly been well used. An established firepit occupied the center of the site and nails could be found in most trees for hanging gear. We settled in for the night and enjoyed a moose steak and a few sips of wine while the crackling fire competed with the sounds of the river for our attention.
There was no rush to start day two given that so much ground was covered on the previous. After a bannock and bacon breakfast, we ending up hitting the water around lunch. The forecast was calling for a high of 20°C and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky — much better than the previous year.
With the difficult part of the trip behind us, our pace was vastly reduced. We stopped to bask in the sun on the gravel beach in front of the campsite at Clearwater Brook. The site boasts lengthy views up and down the river, space for numerous tents, and some of the most intricate fire pits I’ve ever seen. Inevitably, our discussion turned to how often the site is visited, and, as if on cue boats appeared on the horizon. Soggy looking canoeists eventually pulled up to the site and immediately started unloading their gear — most of which seemed to be beer. We took the hint and packed up our stuff.
A few kilometers beyond Clearwater Brook is Falls Brook Falls, the tallest waterfall in the province, which stands at 110 ft tall — as noted by W.F. Ganong in 1909. The falls itself is located a few hundred meters from the main river, and it is well worth the short hike. If you’re visiting with someone that hasn’t been there before, I suggest having some fun at their expense. Tell your friend to prepare for a grueling 5 km hike and watch their expression when you arrive shortly after departure.
Immediately after Falls Brook we stumbled upon the Trout Brook campsite and opted to set up camp. Similar to the previous night’s, the site showed signs of many years of use and abuse. Broken glass was scattered around the firepit and half burnt chairs were strewn about. The surrounding forest was mostly hardwood — beech, maple, birch, etc. — that had almost fully leafed out. Interestingly, the same species at the put-in — as of the time of our arrival — had no leaves at all, which points to discernible local differences in bud burst phenology.
From the site, we hiked upstream in search of a waterfall that the map indicated was nearby. We mistakenly assumed that a small gorge just above the campsite was the falls and only later learned that Trout Brook Falls is one of the more impressive waterfalls in New Brunswick — alas, maybe next trip.
The next morning, after a beautiful float down the river, a single fisherman stood on the bank of the river just outside Boisetown. Our gazes met, so I called over to him, “any fish?”
“Nah” he said.
I nodded in reply, we both knew it didn’t matter. Up here the river calls and you answer.
Finally, in mid-July the time had arrived. After purchasing 4-wheelers in the spring, Grant and I had been patiently waiting for a free weekend in which to hit the New Brunswick trails. This was going to be Grant’s first ATV trip, so I wanted to show him a good mix of trails and logging roads en route to our campsite. Our destination was a site on the Cains River, known locally as the Italian Bridge.
We discovered the site a few years ago on a canoe trip down the Cains. At that time it was unoccupied so we decided to squat for the night – it was too perfect to pass up. As it turned out, the site was for fishermen that had booked Upper Cains Crown Reserve fishing stretch. We resolved to return someday and fish.
During discussions leading up to our 4-wheeling trip we debated going up, camping if the site was available, and going elsewhere if it wasn’t. However, we decided that we didn’t want to spend time and gas roaming around looking for an alternative should the need arise.
Crown Reserve fishing is run on a lottery based-system. Each year anglers place their names in a draw for exclusive access to some of the province’s most sought after fishing spots. In the low season — when the fishing is poor — some weekends go undrawn. When this occurs anyone can book the stretch on a first come, first serve basis. As it turned out, we were in luck: our chosen stretch was unbooked, and just like that our 4-wheeling trip became a fishing trip.
Our plan was to meet in Chipman on Friday and strike out from my parent’s house. We arrived at the house around 4:00pm, secured our gear onto our quad racks, and hit the trail. In total, our route was around 60 km. We hoped to arrive at the Cains River in time to set up camp and partake in an evening fish.
We travelled down an old trail that connected North Forks to Gaspereau. Conditions were dry. On the Howard Lemon logging road the dust forced us to either drive side by side or 400 meters apart. We crossed the Gaspereau River at the Grand Lake SnoCruiser’s Snowmobile Shack. The trail system beyond the Gaspereau connected us to Mountain Brook Road and eventually Blue Rock. From Blue Rock we headed straight to the Italian Bridge –arriving at our site around 7:30pm.
The Upper Cains Crown Reserve is a live release only stretch that encompasses over 10km of the river. Several tributaries drain into the river in this area — Gordon, Otter and Wildcat Brooks to name a few. In total there are 14 named pools and an untold number of fishable rips, not bad for $23/rod.
With the temperature in the high 20’s, it was a warm evening. The water, however, was cool and deep, much deeper than the Gasperau. We scouted the four pools closest to our campsite — Salmon, Acadia Bridge, Pine, and an unnamed pool — and decided to fish only one for the night.
After setting up camp we tied on our go-to flies and hit the water. Things were quiet at first, but after settling in the pool suddenly came to life. Fish began rising all around us. In a short period of time we probably landed a half dozen fish — a mix of good sized trout and chub. Unfortunately, just as quickly as it came on, the pool went silent. Conditions were serene as the sun was setting so the lack of action didn’t matter. We were content to enjoy the tranquil sounds of the river and watch arced fly-lines travel through the air against a spruce backdrop illuminated by the setting sun.
Back at the campsite, the mosquitos were relentless. Our smoky campfire offered some reprieve, but regardless the onslaught lasted until dark. After a busy day, we attacked our steaks and wine with the same vigor as the bugs did us.
With heavy heads, we arose the next morning at the crack of 9:30am – well past peak fishing time! Dark grey clouds approached and thunder rolled in the distance, and, of course, our rain gear was packed deep into packs on the quads. The storm ended up being uneventful, it lasted just long enough to soak through my cheap rain suit. With low expectations, we made it to the river by 11:00am.
Grant had good luck the previous evening so he offered up his hot spot to me for the morning session. He had been fishing with a nameless orange dry-fly, and had enticed a few nice trout to the surface. I opted to stick with the Olive Crystal Flash Wolly Bugger from the previous evening, mainly for convenience sake. I was not having much luck, so I switched up my approach and began casting up river. This method allowed my fly to drift more freely through the center of the pool and resulted in a hook-up. A good fight ensued and I landed the first fish of the morning, a foot-long chub. Not really what we were looking for but good fun none the less.
I released the chub and began to cast away upstream again. After no more fish, I was ready to relinquish the spot to Grant when suddenly I felt a small bump. I pulled the rod skyward hooking nothing but water. I rolled the line a short distance upstream again only to feel the same bump. This time my timing was on. SCREEEECH!!! My Orvis Battenkill II reel screamed as I was into a very nice fish.
The fish swam straight to the bottom and made a run for it. In our limited experience we surmised this was the way a Salmon typically takes a fly, and, with the way my trout rod was bending I had little doubt. Grant ran back to the campsite to retrieve the camera. I did my very best to keep this fish hooked. I followed him down along the bank through the pool keeping the rod tip skyward. I was only a few minutes into this battle but I could feel my forearm pulsing to maintain the resistance. This fish was still pulling line. I had to palm my reel to slow his progress.
Grant returned out of breath but full of excitement — he wanted to land this fish as badly as I did. We coordinated an effort to land the fish on a small gravel bar along the bank. Our first attempt showed us that the fish was not a salmon, but rather a very large trout. However, the fish – like most people — spooked at the sight of Grant and peeled more line off my reel. For us, the third time was a charm, and we successfully landed the largest brook trout I will probably ever catch.
The trout measured in at 22inches in length. It had a girth similar to that of a football. I estimated that it would tip the scales at a minimum of 3.5lbs — but it was likely closer to a 4lb fish. After some photos I worked the fish back into the water to be caught another day. Grant caught a couple more trout, but I didn’t land another.
Eventually we packed up our gear and headed home. That night I would attend my 10-year High School reunion and ironically, the only story I told was from earlier that day!
A Thursday morning in the office quickly turned into an evening on the river when a coworker came to me brandishing a calendar and a camera. He showed me today’s date on the calendar with a black cartoon fish beside it and a photo of himself with three salmon on his fingers. “Last time the calendar showed this, I got these.” was all he said.
I have never put a lot of stock in suggested “best days” for outings based on the moon phase but his photographic evidence had me home packing waders and a rod into the bed of his truck. The plan was to drive up to Cormack, NL and hike 45 minutes up the Humber River to Cabin Pool.
Upon arriving at the pool it was clear to us that the water was high and the pool had expanded in size. We knew this because there were fish breaching — everywhere! We made a plan to go above the pool and work our way down both sides of the run.
After a couple hours of fish jumping all around us my coworker suggested I move toward him somewhat as he could see a fish between us that was rising towards my fly. I took a couple steps toward him and cast my line in such a manner that it would drift over the area he indicated. The fish took my Blue Charm with a Squirrel tail much the same way a trout would. She tugged on it a couple times before I rose my rod to set the hook. She stayed on the bottom and didn’t budge. Only when I made my way toward shore did she begin to run. My reel screamed as I persuaded her towards a shoal where my coworker was waiting with a net.
At 60cm and 5.5lbs she was definitely worth one of my tags. We hooked and lost another fish each that evening before trekking back to the truck. You can bet that the next time my calendar has a black cartoon fish on it I will be headed to the river!
On a May weekend I had a trip planned with some friends into the famed Chiputneticook Lake system of western New Brunswick and eastern Maine. These lakes comprise the headwaters of one of Canada’s most culturally significant rivers, the St. Croix River.
Our group proposed to travel roughly 55km from the north end of North Lake, across East Grand and Spednic Lakes to Spednic Lake Provincial Park. Unfortunately for us, the forecast for the weekend did not look promising — they were calling for abundant precipitation. Despite the negative forecast, the group agreed the trip was a go; consensus was we didn’t just suffer through a long, hard winter to be deterred by a little rain.
The section from North Lake to Davenport Cove on East Grand Lake is part of the ancient canoe route known as the Maliseet Canoe Trail. The route extends over 200km from just outside Woodstock, New Brunswick to Old Town, Maine. It crosses three major watersheds — the Saint John, the St. Croix, and the Penobscot Rivers — and served as an important travel corridor for Maliseet, Mi’kmaq, Penobscot, Passamaquoddy, and European people at different times throughout history. In the last 85 years only three parties have traversed the entire trail, the most recent of which was in 2005. The 2005 crossing featured several esteemed adventurers and can be read about online — a must read. While our trip was unlikely to be historic, it presented a challenge to the participants in it’s own right.
My Old Town Discovery and I rolled into Spednic Lake Provincial Park late Friday afternoon where we met up with our bowman Shane and our tripmates. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, we were crazy to have considered cancelling! The only issue was the shortcut via highway 630 was washed out.
Because of our circuitous shuttling route, we arrived at North Lake late in the evening. The fading daylight forced us to shorten our paddle by putting in at the border crossing between East Grand and North Lakes. From here it was a short paddle to our destination for night one, Blueberry Point on East Grand Lake.
With the boats loaded we set off down the inlet toward the open water — a slight breeze in our face. Empty cottages illuminated by the hues of what promised to be a memorable sunset, lined the banks on the Canadian side. As we approached a point before paddling out into a bay crossing, an ominous old man with a fishing pole appeared on a waterside rock. “I wouldn’t cross in these conditions” he announced, as his lure plopped into the water not 20ft from me. “It gets pretty choppy out there when the wind’s coming from the east.”
Someone in our group replied with something like, “well we’ll give it our best shot” and he shook his head in a way that suggested he’d go ready the rescue boat.
Of course — as they often are — the old man was right. We emerged from behind the point and a strong headwind was blowing from the east. Skirting the shoreline wasn’t possible, there were only two options, wait it out or travel straight across. It was early in the trip and we were full of energy so Shane and I decided that we could handle the crossing. We hit the open water paddling hard with little to show for our efforts, while our companions did the smart thing and waited for the wind to die down. Their decision was the correct one, they arrived at the far bank shortly after us.
The Blueberry point campsite was not where we expected it to be, it had been moved down the shoreline. The new site was rustic to say the least — it was damp and rocky, with few level spaces for a tent. With three tents, it was a tight squeeze for our group. One other awkward note: the privy is located effectively in the heart of the sight. With that said, we were in the woods and sitting around a campfire with good company — tough to complain about that.
Overcast skies and a moderate breeze coming from the south greeted us in the morning. The water in the vicinity of our site looked calm and paddleable. Unfortunately, a member of our group announced he was feeling sick and had decided he wouldn’t be making the rest of the trip. After some discussion we decided to press on.
Conditions on the lake were deceiving. The water was calm in the narrow stretch from before Spruce Point, but we were greeted by white caps and intense wind as we gazed across the bay toward Hayes Point and the Five Islands. Watching the force of the waves as they crashed into the shore did not fill us with confidence. We learned our lesson the previous evening, and decided to take refuge at the Spruce Point campsite. This site is a long, waterfront campsite with the firepit connected to the tenting area via a short trail. The best access is via a nice sandy point with some struggling cedars and a broken old picnic table. Sadly, the rain arrived soon after us — around 11:00 a.m.
After setting up a tarp, putting on a fire and enjoying a coffee, the weather still hadn’t broken. We’d traveled a total of 1.5km — roughly 5km out of the proposed 50km — and steady cloud cover suggested that we weren’t going anywhere. With enough firewood to last for multiple days we explored the area on foot. Mostly lowland species comprised the surrounding forest — cedar, black spruce, and the ubiquitous balsam fir. Fiddlehead season had just concluded and Trilliums were in full bloom. When 4:00pm rolled around the decision was made to setup camp and to start working our way through the beer supply.
Steaks were on the menu for supper, but because we neglected to bring a grill and there wasn’t one on the site, Shane and I were forced to improvise. We constructed a feeble reflector oven with tinfoil and a wooden frame, using rocks to seal off the sides and back. It got the job done — eventually — and the steaks were delicious, but then again an old boot with some steak spice may have been just as enjoyable. The night ended early with the group resolving to get up before sunlight and make a decision about moving forward.
At 5:30 a.m. thick grey clouds hung low in the sky but, more importantly, the wind had died in the night and the water was a smooth as glass. The group conceded to packing up camp and hitting the water without breakfast or even coffee. At this point the trip was in jeopardy and we needed to take advantage of our opportunity to get across the open water between Spruce and Hayes Points. After a couple handfulls or trailmix we — finally — resumed our voyage.
Out on the lake a soft, grey gloom engulfed our boat. Navigation by sight became impossible — the fog was so thick that we drifted off course and ended up near the Maine coastline. We headed west toward the American shoreline on a compass bearing and followed it until Work Point, and from there we paddled across to the Hayes Point campsite — where our tripmates were waiting, with coffee.