Originally published by the Salmon Preservation Association for the Waters of Newfoundland (SPAWN)

Robbie Bennett lived in Seal Rocks, St. George’s. If you reference some old writing or French maps, Seal Rocks, established in 1804, was also referenced as Ance des Sauvages, roughly translated as people of the forest. The majority of people in Seal Rocks were of Mi’kmaq ancestry. These people were great woodsmen, fishermen, trappers, hunters and gatherers. They provided for their families with the help of Mother Earth.

I had the privilege of being raised in Seal Rocks in the 1950s and was often invited to go fishing or hunting with Robbie Bennett (Benoit) and some of his brothers, especially Siki and Aussie.

Robbie was a marvelous fisherman. He had a limited amount of gear, but he tied his own flies, mostly on small trout hooks. He would align the bend of the hook, use sewing thread, and with feathers from local birds such as Road Island red roosters, geese, wild ducks and partridge, along with hair from moose, bear, beaver and caribou skins, he would fashion his killer flies. The flies he tied always had big heads, and he would paint eyes on the head with white and black paints so it resembled jungle cock.

I have joined the ranks of the seniors in my golden years, and let me tell you these golden years are not for sooks, wimps or cowards. I often dwell on my growing up in Seal Rocks and remember the carefree days of summer – especially going fishing with Robbie. He would come to our house and get me. We generally fished Little Barachois where Robbie spent most of his childhood.

His father, Johnny Edward Bennett (Benoit) had a cabin on the river at Seal Hole. Robbie knew every rock, drung, pool, nook and cranny of the Little Barachois. He also knew when the salmon would run, and when the main run of sea trout would be coming through – oh, what glorious memories. On occasion, if dad wasn’t too busy, he would drive us up to the ponds and if he was busy we would walk the 18 kilometres.

Occasionally, when we got to the ponds, if we were lucky, we would hitch a ride up the ponds with Robbie’s brother Siki who was the fishery warden on Little Barachois and had a Government canoe with a square stern and a small outboard engine to drive it. We would go up through to the last pond in the canoe. Johnny Stride had a camp there that he used in the winter for cutting logs, and we had access to it in the summer. The first thing we did when we arrived at the camp was bough our bunks. That was an art in itself. As I look back now I think it was a native thing. We would go to a grove of young fir trees. First, Robbie would select a young fir tree and cut off all the limbs except for the bottom row. Then he would select the tips of other young firs, break them off and reeve them on the carrying stick. When the carry stick was chock-a-clock full we would bring them into the cabin.

The bunks were framed out with small sticks running parallel. Robbie would take the small fir boughs, stand them on end between the sticks and chinch them in. He would repeat this until all the frame was full. When we were finished, we had a bough mattress about 10 inches thick – all the comforts of a better hotel, plus the aroma of young fir saplings. Life was good!

When we had all our chores finished – that is, the wood cut, the water brought in, new stove pipes on the old drum stove and the bunks ready, we would go fishing.

We had several pool we could fish from the camp. We could walk for 40 minutes along an old road up to French Island Brook, Louis Pool or Upper Louis. Generally we left these pools for the morning fishing as we would have the whole day ahead of us. We would fish Siki’s Run just up from the camp in the evening, just before dark in the long evening twilight, in the calm waters with the reflection of the mountains and large trees in the river.

We could see the schools of salmon coming up through the mirrored water of the big steady from the ponds, driving a wake in front of them. Oh the excitement! In a matter of minutes whomever was fishing the run would have a salmon on – generally Robbie first and then the rest of us depending how many people were fishing the pool.

On one particular trip we left Seal Rocks early one sunny summer morning. We walked into the run out at the bottom of the ponds. Robbie had access to Siki’s canoe. As we made our way up through the ponds in the canoe, we could see the summer rain clouds gathering. I was in a summer shirt and did not have any raingear. Robbie put the canoe ashore by a large grove of birch. He went in to the grove with his knife and came out with large sheets of birch bark that he wrapped around me. He tied the bark at my shoulders with some marlin and made me a birch bark cap. I looked like a Roman gladiator. He told me to fold my arms inside the bark – which I did. We continued on and with all the rain I did not get wet or cold. The storm passed and when we got to Frankie’s Hay Place, the name of the fishing pool, he put the canoe ashore.

There were other fishermen fishing the pool, but they did not seem to be doing much with it. Robbie went across to the other side of the river and began fishing in a most unlikely spot. Of course I followed him. In a matter of minutes he had a salmon on. I asked him what he was using. Robbie was a man of few words, and all he said was “a brown fly for Barachois Brook.” I tied on the only brown fly I had and landed five grilse and two extra large trout before I lost my fly. My heart stopped! It was the only killer fly I had. Robbie looked at me and said, “put away your rod.” I said, “I’m allowed eight salmon.” “Yes,” he said, “you are right, but when we get to the bottom of the ponds tomorrow we have to walk to Seal Rocks and you can’t carry them.” He was right. I was 14 years old and very slightly built. It was interesting to see what he did to preserve the salmon overnight in the summer heat so they would not go soft. He cleaned his eight salmon and I cleaned my five grilse and two trout. He went in to the woods and came back out with an arm full of fresh green ferns. Then he went back in again and came out with sheets of birch bark. He rolled the ferns and stuffed them in the belly of the fish and wrapped the outside of the salmon with birch bark and tied it tight with marlin. We then went to a small mountain stream and put the fish in it. He said the water is cooler here and they will keep better and with the birch bark, the eels cannot get at them. He knew what he was doing and when I got home the next day my fish were still fresh.

I look back now and remember that what I was experiencing were the ways of the native people. They lived off the land and respected Mother Earth. I thank you Robbie for the opportunity to fish with you, for the lovely memories of my childhood, for giving me an opportunity to experience the ways of the native people and a wonderful appreciation of Mother Earth.

Bob Mercer
Corner Brook, NL