This Fish Doesn’t Look Like Much (But It Is)

My first salmon, a long journey to Labrador, and the moment I finally understood why people do this.

Not much to look at, right? (Also, please excuse my fish handling here… it was my first salmon ever.)

So, like with most things in life, at first glance—or if you were just scrolling past—this photo might not make you say “WOW.” But just like most things, there’s usually more going on behind the photo.

I didn’t start fly fishing until I was 35. And to be really honest, even then… no one really asked me.

I don’t think Dad ever intentionally left me out of fly fishing. When I was little, girls didn’t really fish, and though I wasn’t exactly a girly-girl… I hated (and still hate) bugs, getting up early, and being cold. So I think in everyone’s mind it was just a non-starter.

(For those of you who don't know - my dad was Mike Crosby - and from what I have come to understand even more than I had before - he was quite a legend in the Atlantic Salmon Community - he wrote a book called River Talk - and was part owner in Hawke River before he passed away)

Here’s how it went down:

In 2019, my husband Alex decided he wanted to try casting a fly rod on the lake where my parents lived. We had an old aluminum boat there that we used to take the kids out trolling or using worms for bass, and Alex had a feeling he might enjoy fishing more with a fly rod than a spinning rod.

(Spoiler: he wasn’t wrong.)

He was really enjoying it, and the kids were having fun catching bass and the occasional trout in the lake.

And then 2020 happened. There was so much hard, and so many challenges. But the silver lining—if we can call it that—was the Atlantic Bubble. It limited access to the fishing lodges that my dad was part of to people living in Atlantic Canada, which meant there were suddenly spaces that couldn’t be filled. One day dad called and said he wanted the kids to come experience fishing in Labrador... and to be honest... I did NOT want to go.

But my kids were Papa’s joy. They were his little buddies. They loved doing things with him and learning from him. So for him, and for them... I said yes.

And then I thought, “I better learn to cast so I can at least help the kids if they need it.”

I said that like it was a simple task.

It was not.

(Not for me anyway. Unlike my daughter, who is a fricken natural.)

I remember getting so mad at Dad when he would say,

“It’s just this…” (stopping the rod at 10 o’clock)“

…and this.” (stopping at 1 o’clock)

He made it look absolutely effortless—with the perfect amount of effort, pause, and flick.

Honestly, I think it had become so second nature to him that he was no longer fully aware of all the pieces of the casting puzzle. It was almost as familiar as breathing.

Meanwhile, I was extremely frustrated. The line wouldn’t go straight, I tied knots in everything, and I basically decided that anyone who enjoyed this sport was absolutely bananas.

Then the summer of 2020 arrived, and we started the journey from home to Hawke River:

• We left our house and drove five hours to Sydney, Cape Breton, arriving two hours before the ferry.

• Overnight ferry (8 hours).

• Then a seven-hour drive to stay with Diane—the wife of Wally, one of the guides at Hawke River—neither of whom we had ever met! No one was even home when we arrived, but they had told us to “go on in and make yourselves at home.” So we did! All I can say is no wonder dad loved Wally and Diane!

• The next day we took another ferry across the straits into Quebec—which immediately turns into Labrador—but not before making your head spin with three time changes.

• Then another 3.5-hour drive to what Dad called “Charlottetown Branch.”

We pulled over on the side of the road and didn’t see another car for over an hour—until Dad pulled up. He had been in Goose Bay after fishing on the Eagle River.

The kids jumped in with Dad, and we followed him down to “the pond.”

(They call lakes ponds in Newfoundland, just as an FYI.)

There we met Tony—the very best bush pilot to ever exist, in my opinion.

He was amazing with the kids and incredible to fly with. The confidence he has in that Beaver is something else. As we flew across the wild Labrador tundra, I realized just how remote we were about to be.

We were welcomed warmly by Sandra and Ada, and I couldn’t understand a single word of the guides’ conversations with each other—but we got geared up to go for a quick flick.

Dad wanted to catch up with the ladies and send a few messages, so he sent us across the water with our guides first.

Wally walked me out to my spot in Home Pool, tied on a fly, and told me where the fish would likely be sitting.

“Cast short,” he said.

So I hauled off an arm’s length of line.

“Reel that in and cast short,” he told me with a chuckle.

“Did ya see that?” Wally asked.

I hadn’t seen anything.

“There it is again,” he said.

Still nothing.

Apparently my worries about not being able to cast a long line were completely unnecessary, because I hadn’t even gotten six feet of line out on the water when—

WHOMP.

(The sound Dad always used to make to describe a salmon take.)

And it was on.

I may not have played it expertly. But as my dad came across the water in another aluminum boat, he watched me land my very first salmon—not just on the Hawke River, but ever.

The week continued with Alex and me both hooking salmon, landing a few, losing a lot of flies, and learning a lot.

The kids each briefly hooked and landed fish too, but it would be the next season before they would hook and land their own—at seven and eight years old.

So when you look at this salmon, it may not seem like much. But to me, it’s a lot.

It’s the beginning of a new passion. New adventures. A whole new world I didn’t understand before. I instantly became one of those people who would willingly go out and casts for hours on end.

I was hooked.

A few photos of Heather + her family's first trip to Hawke River.