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We came to learn, and the learning didn’t take long. It began with the lobster boil-up. In this case it was a steam-up. Philip Nadeau made it clear that the right way to cook lobsters is by steaming them, not dropping them into a pot of boiling water, as is the norm for us “city slickers.”
Charles Cusson, ASF’s Quebec program director, had been whisked out to Esquimaux Island via plane, car and ferry shortly after our arrival in St. Paul River. The lobsters were delivered by Percy, a Nadeau cousin, right to the cabin built close to where Philip, his brother Garland and their nine siblings had spent summers as youth. Brenda, Philip’s wife, remembers that when she and Philip returned to St. Paul River during the pandemic, they did their quarantine time here. “It was the most magical two weeks,” she says.
“Magical” is a word that comes to mind whenever Philip or his brother Garland talk about their early years here on the Lower North Shore. Of course, life was tough. They were completely cut off by distance and the absence of any road links. “Coasters” lived off the land, or more accurately, the sea. Yet the brothers rarely talk of hardships. They always speak of plenty. Plenty of fish, plenty of seals, plenty of seabirds, plenty of shellfish. Plenty of friends.
Today, perhaps due to climate change, there are more lobsters and halibut, but the amount of Atlantic salmon spawning in the St. Paul River is a point of concern. After we chowed down on the delicious steamed lobster, we hung out on the porch. Off in the distance we saw a large boat approaching. “Purse seiner,” Garland said, not without a little disgust. “You see, it has a small boat in tow that will help pull out the net. Nothing can survive. It’s gross.”
Vessels like this are after capelin. In recent years, there has been an increase in the quota for this food fish, and the state of the stock is of great concern. Garland and Philip feel that the capelin are being overfished too close to their spawning beaches, and this hurts the St. Paul River salmon run. They are not alone; ever since the 1970s, researchers have linked capelin numbers to the health of populations of Salmo salar.
As we looked out over the islands off the Bonne-Espérance archipelago, where whole families would move each summer to fish and hunt, Garland shared a new concern. He has received reports of a bycatch of salmon smolt in capelin seine nets. If this is true, it does not bode well for the St. Paul River.
ASF’s own studies have shown that smolt survival can vary greatly from river to river. On the Northwest Miramichi, where striped bass gather in large numbers to spawn, smolt survival plummeted from 85 per cent to below 28 per cent. On average, only two to three per cent of smolt make it back to a river as adults, making these silvery survivors a crucial link in an Atlantic salmon’s life history.
“Magical” is a word that comes to mind whenever Philip or his brother Garland talk about their early years here on the Lower North Shore. Of course, life was tough. They were completely cut off by distance and the absence of any road links. “Coasters” lived off the land, or more accurately, the sea. Yet the brothers rarely talk of hardships. They always speak of plenty. Plenty of fish, plenty of seals, plenty of seabirds, plenty of shellfish. Plenty of friends.
Today, perhaps due to climate change, there are more lobsters and halibut, but the amount of Atlantic salmon spawning in the St. Paul River is a point of concern. After we chowed down on the delicious steamed lobster, we hung out on the porch. Off in the distance we saw a large boat approaching. “Purse seiner,” Garland said, not without a little disgust. “You see, it has a small boat in tow that will help pull out the net. Nothing can survive. It’s gross.”
Vessels like this are after capelin. In recent years, there has been an increase in the quota for this food fish, and the state of the stock is of great concern. Garland and Philip feel that the capelin are being overfished too close to their spawning beaches, and this hurts the St. Paul River salmon run. They are not alone; ever since the 1970s, researchers have linked capelin numbers to the health of populations of Salmo salar.
As we looked out over the islands off the Bonne-Espérance archipelago, where whole families would move each summer to fish and hunt, Garland shared a new concern. He has received reports of a bycatch of salmon smolt in capelin seine nets. If this is true, it does not bode well for the St. Paul River.
ASF’s own studies have shown that smolt survival can vary greatly from river to river. On the Northwest Miramichi, where striped bass gather in large numbers to spawn, smolt survival plummeted from 85 per cent to below 28 per cent. On average, only two to three per cent of smolt make it back to a river as adults, making these silvery survivors a crucial link in an Atlantic salmon’s life history.
Before heading up to the Green Point Outfitters Lodge on the lower St. Paul, we met with a concerned angler who works at the local fish plant. We listened quietly as he described how smolt were present in the catches the seiners were bringing to the plant. These fish are either thrown out or cut up for animal feed. “How often does DFO inspect this plant in regard to bycatch?” asked Charles, vowing to contact Marilène Gill, the local member of parliament, over the matter.
Wherever we went and whomever we talked to in this tiny coastal enclave, interest in our visit to the fishing camp on the lower St. Paul River was high. It’s not hard to see why, as salmon were always part of the community’s daily life. When the coastal nets were bought out by the Quebec government in the 1990s, the fishing camp was one of the measures introduced to help replace this key activity. The camp’s lease stipulates that four of the 12 rods that are permitted each day must be reserved for locals.
My visit isn’t the first by a Journal writer. Hugh McKervill arrived here in 1999, but the camp had not been built (“The St. Paul River,” ASJ, Autumn 2000). Back then, anglers stayed in the village and were transported each day up to the pools by boat. In 1998, materials were hauled in to build a main lodge, plus cabins that could sleep eight anglers. Certainly, since then, the St. Paul River has always been a well-kept secret. Even Garland, who wants to highlight concerns about the bycatch, worries that if too many anglers discover the river’s delights it will become overcrowded.
Those delights began the moment we disembarked at the camp. We were greeted by Marilyn and Jim Thomas. The husband-and-wife team also met Hugh a quarter century ago and have continued to manage the camp since its very beginnings.
History in these coastal communities often draws a straight line from the earliest settlers to today’s inhabitants. Marilyn’s birth name is Chevalier, and her family was one of the last to fish salmon commercially. She told me the same story she told Hugh. I repeat it here because it is an anecdote that reflects the large historic bounty of the region. The day her brother Harold was born (95 years ago now), her father pulled 500 salmon from his nets.
Marilyn and Jim haven’t changed much compared to their photos in Hugh’s article. Perhaps it’s because this is going to be their last season—they recently sold the lodge—but both had a youthful spring in their step and voice. The buildings looked like they had been frozen in time, and were obviously well maintained. The new owners plan to renovate, but also to keep the simplicity and down-to-earth comfort that permeates the place now.
The ambiance encourages an atmosphere of fellowship. It only took one meal before we shared a communal table with the other guests at mealtimes. Soon, we were like old friends comparing notes on the days fishing. There was Harvey, a retired food distributor; Dennis, an electrician; and Clyde, a retired insurance broker. Clyde had been coming to the rivers for years and knew it and the people well.
The St. Paul River finds its source in Labrador, but here at the lodge it operates under Quebec fishing rules. In other words, unlike Newfoundland and Labrador, out-of-province anglers do not need to have a guide. It makes for an interesting and refreshing change. After breakfast, Jim would drop guests off, after a five-minute boat ride, at the section of river they would fish, then pick them up and bring them back for lunch at noon. The evening fish would go from 3 p.m. to 7 p.m.
On our first day, we “hunted” the salmon, as Philip likes to say. On the second, based on the success of our fellow guests, we focused on the Chute Pool. We rotated through, Charles and I stepping carefully because we didn’t have felt soles, which are strongly recommended, on our wading boots. Garland followed me through and, sure enough, hooked a fish on the water I had been fishing minutes before.
I helped him land it, grabbing hold of the leader and twisting the hook free. It looked to be around 12 pounds. Watching it swim away against a backdrop of the mountains and forest reinforced to me how much the river meant to people in the town. It not only attracts visitors, which is good for business, but the locals love to fish it. Like leaving for the islands in the summer months in bygone days, this is also an annual ritual.
During a break in the fishing, I interviewed Garland on camera as Charles filmed. “What does the future hold for the St. Paul River?” I asked. “In 2011, we had one of our best years ever,” he replied. “That was because of ASF’s Greenland Agreement. The river is in good condition. There is no reason we can’t have seasons like that again if we can control the purse seining.”
Reliable fishing is one reason the camp has a very high returnee ratio. Anglers who come here come back.
Guests that do come, both first-timers and returnees, are in for a pleasant surprise. The new owners are planning some upgrades, which will include a screened-in porch, perhaps a whirlpool and the installation of solar power. Will the feeling of stepping back in time and the atmosphere of fellowship be lost?
It is very doubtful. Like everything else in St. Paul River, the past is never far away. On our last morning, I woke up early and wandered up to the shed that houses the generator that provides the camp’s electricity. The large diesel generator is over 50 years old. Charles Langlois, an ASF (Canada) director, had helped Jim buy it off the old Quebec-Labrador railway. It was shipped by sea to St. Paul, then towed in winter to the camp on a sled, by snowmobile.
Jim was in the process of starting it up. It wasn’t quite an automated affair. He attached cables to a battery and twirled some dials, and as he pushed the power button with one hand, he grabbed a spray can of ether and gave one quick shot in the carburetor. The old generator chugged to life. Jim stood back and smiled at me like it was the first time he had used it.
Yes, the fishing, food and friendship are things that will bring people back to Green Point year after year. But the memory of that smile is something that will call to me and warm my heart whenever and wherever I am.
Martin Silverstone is editor of the Atlantic Salmon Journal. He and Charles Cusson travelled to the lower North Shore, and after to Labrador with Kim Thompson, ASF’s program director for Newfoundland and Labrador, in July 2024.