Who
Let The
Dogs Out?
Story and photos by Martin Silverstone
A BUNCH OF “REGULAR GUYS” BUY INTO
THE PAST, PRESENT AND FUTURE OF A
SALMON CAMP AND A COMMUNITY.
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B A C K
W
HEN “DOC,” ONE OF SIX KEEN FLY
anglers who have purchased the
Restigouche River Lodge, tells the
story, it’s all Keith’s fault. Bill plays
peacemaker with a different take—
it was just meant to be. If there are two things these
three close fishing buddies can agree on (and they
don’t agree on much), they are: 1) Harry was way out
of control; and 2) everyone should have known better
because it wasn’t the first time.
Behind me, a warm blaze roars in a fireplace
framed by a yellow birch log mantle. In front of me is
the biggest, juiciest slab of prime rib I’ve ever had the
pleasure of meeting and eating. I’d like to tell them
they all seem a little crazy, but instead I just hold up
my glass and someone fills it with wine.
The food is great, but the entertainment is even
better. Over argument and counter argument a central theme takes shape—perhaps it was their destiny.
If it was, and believe me, not much else could
explain how these four “regular guys” got hold of such
prime real estate, then fate’s finger took the form of a
For Sale sign in front of a small, white cottage. Doc
says he shouted, “NO!” Either way, Harry made the
call to the owner on his cell and afterward reached
Keith. “Hey, guess what,” he announced proudly,
“You just bought a place on the Restigouche.”
The simple, but tidy home on River Road in the
shadow of Mann Mountain, belonged to Queenie
Chesser, who had recently passed away. Her son, Bill,
made the purchase easy by offering to take care of
their pied-à-terre in the off-seasons.
The term pied-à-terre perhaps gives it more credit
than it might deserve, but that was all it was supposed
to be—a base camp from which the wonderful flyfishing opportunities of eastern Canada could be
explored. Yes, they had employed similar lunatic tactics before, buying a rundown trailer on the Delaware
River to help support their trout addiction.
Just the mere mention of the trailer fills the log
cabin with accusations and counter charges. It’s the
kind of abuse and denigration that can be thrown
around without violence between only the very best
of friends.
These are close friends and this latest gambit is
obviously their biggest adventure ever. Not for the fact
The original house, purchased sight unseen over the phone (above,
left). It now serves as a bunkhouse, mainly for the owners when
guests fill the comfortable cabins at the camp. In another era it was
a one-room schoolhouse, which the present-day camp manager
attended. The spacious kitchen, magnificent fireplace (left) and
sturdy bridge (facing page) were all built by local artisans.
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that they bought it sight unseen over the phone while
driving home to New Jersey. Nor that it wasn’t even
on the river, although you could see it, sort of, from
there. No, this one will always be special because of
what cropped up next door—something extremely
rare in these parts—an opportunity to buy a private,
luxurious fishing club. Literally, next door lay the
Point du Jour salmon camp, an exclusive, private
club that sat atop the junction of the Restigouche
and Matapedia rivers. Thomas Head III, advancing in
years, was getting ready to let it go, but it had been in
his blood too long to just sell it on the open market.
Head wanted someone, not so much to own it, as
to love it. Not so much to manage the staff and buildings, but to become part of a family that draw their
living, enjoyment and spiritual renewal from a healthy
Restigouche River.
Somehow, over the telephone, Head sensed his
new neighbours shared many of the principles he
held dear. Live release was an essential prerequisite,
as was maintaining the same local staff.
The group didn’t have a lot to offer financially,
but no matter. Head must have figured he hit the ethical jackpot. Here was a keen conservation-minded
group who were ready to buy the camp, run it as a live
release operation, and employ the same longstanding
employees that had cared and nurtured the lodge
and river for generations.
On their side of the coin, the Trailer Park Boys, a
nickname that grew out of a modus operandii of purchasing cheap, but well-located, accommodations,
felt the conditions suited their own goals and just
maybe they could meet the asking price. It seemed a
perfect fit, and it was so perfect that the owner turned
down subsequent, more lucrative offers solely on the
basis of his initial telephone handshake. In the end,
the sale was finalized without the two main parties
meeting face to face. Talk about destiny.
The camp is a gem—a solid log lodge with two
comfortable sleeping cabins, a full workshop, a guide
house and even its own beam and truss bridge that
leads to the main dining area. And to top it all off,
they owned outright, three miles of prime salmonholding water. Included in the deal was everything
they could almost see from the back of the original
purchase—the small white cottage.
What drives a group like this to toss in all their
chips, almost on a whim, and purchase a fishing
camp? An Atlantic salmon camp on the Restigouche
River, for God’s sake. This is no trailer park, no summer cottage, but a living, working operation, complete with a present and a past. What motivates such
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a move—big fish galore, even bigger waiting lines of
eager clients, wealth?
We’ve all had a long day, now the meal over, the
fire illuminates tired, but happy faces. The goodnatured kidding continues, but it’s obvious this group
dreams as one. Making a difference seems to be their
unifying mantra. They are old enough to have glimpsed
another era, when everyone seemed to take clean air,
water, and endless wilderness for granted. They were
also there to witness the horror of what happens
when it all goes south.
For many, pollution and other forms of environmental degradation are mostly abstract terms.
Anglers, especially fly fishers, are often the first to
see the disastrous effect humans can have on nature.
But as dedicated fly fishermen—members of Trout
Unlimited, ASF and the Canadian Wildlife Federation
as well as dozens of river restoration committees—the
six owners have seen that humans can also help.
They hope to correct the past. Uncharacteristically,
there is not a peep of protest as Bill details plans to
host as many youth as possible at the camp. They
have already invited locals, who might not get a
chance to fish such exclusive waters, as well as groups
like the Penn State Fly-fishing Club and Mario
Viboux’s Point de Mire Youth Centre in Montreal.
Involvement with programs like these will allow the
Restigouche River Lodge to instill conservation awareness in a new generation of outdoor enthusiasts.
Talk of charity seems to be infectious and Keith
describes how they want to use the broad appeal of
fly fishing to help heal the wounds of battle on both
sides of the U.S./Canada border. Towards this end, he
has already contacted West Point and the Wounded
Warrior Project with the goal of having injured Iraq
and Afghanistan war veterans visit and fish the healing waters of the Restigouche.
The future shines bright, but these anglers have
also committed to the Lodge’s past and present. The
commitment is outlined in a promise to the previous
owner. All the staff, many of whom have worked at
Getting There
For more information regarding
The Restigouche River Lodge, please
contact Harry or Jonathan Huff:
• (201) 934-1138
• info@restigouchelodge.com
• http://restigouchelodge.com
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Dale Moores, at the helm of a
Sharpe canoe, just downstream
from the Pulitzer Camp. He follows in the wake of his father,
John Barry Moores, whose
handiwork graces the camp
and who died of a heart attack
in sight of the bridge he built.
At left, an ASF live release flag
flies proudly from the lodge
flagpole.
the lodge in the footsteps of fathers and mothers,
will be kept on.
And what about the long term? There was no
question the camp would go live release. “It’s who we
are,” Huff tells me as Geoff Giffin hands him ASF’s live
release flag, which now flaps proudly over the front
lawn, framing the sweep of the Restigouche.
There is no kidding now. You can see it in their
faces. They do mean to make a difference. Our last
evening is burning down to the final coals. We had
some good laughs and it’ll be hard to forget my time
at the Restigouche River Lodge. On the last afternoon,
while the others fished, guide Dale Moores took Bill
and I up river. We passed through crystal clear salmon
pools—Home Pool, Poker, Mann’s, Adams, Scowshed
(anglers used to travel upriver in horse-pulled scows
from here), the Ledges and England. I was keen to
check out the old Pulitzer camp on the far side of the
river. Here, the famous newspaperman’s son hosted
friends and vacationed from the hyper-intense world
of the St. Louis Dispatch Herald. Joseph Pulitzer II
leased the former Point du Jour camp on occasion.
We’re motoring back to the camp when I hear it.
Almost impossibly faint at first, but Dale shuts the
motor. Bagpipes, there is no mistaking them. Dale
stands in the stern paddling us silently downstream.
When one song ends, he tells us it’s Archie Babcock
playing. On some days during the summer his mother
would sit on her veranda on the Quebec side of the
river and telephone Archie on the New Brunswick
side with a request.
Maybe Dale understood how peculiar and special
it is for two city boys like me and Bill to come up to
the northeast wilderness and be serenaded by bagpipes on the river. Maybe he was just remembering
his own childhood, after all, his mom’s house is just
opposite us on the Quebec side. Maybe the expressive, mournful melody of the bagpipes reminded him
that his dad worked the camp, built the flagpoles, the
birch mantled fireplace and the bridge. Sadly, but perhaps suitably, John Barry Moores died peacefully of a
heart seizure among friends, leaning against a tree
beside the bridge he built. Whatever the reason, the
young man seemed as entranced as us, and he didn’t
turn the motor back on until the last haunting notes
merged with the sounds of the river and the wind.
After the goodbyes, on the spur of the moment
(those guys must have had an impact on us), we
stopped in at the Sharpe canoe factory next door.
Then we headed down towards the bridge to cross
back to Quebec and home. As we crested the last hill
before the turn, we spied Bill, Harry, Keith, and Doc.
They weren’t fishing, but were jockeying and pointing
on the roadside, trying to get a glimpse of the river
through the trees, as the sun set over the mouth of
the Matapedia and behind the town’s church.
We’d only parted a half hour earlier but still I
wanted to stop and wish them well on their mission
to make a difference, something I felt I had failed to
do amidst all the laughter and wonder. The four were
running around excited, like kids, so instead, we
beeped our horn and waved. But they didn’t hear,
completely engrossed in the raw, spectacular beauty
of a river and a place they are now a part of.
Martin Silverstone is editor of the Journal.
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