Open Writing

I have forgotten many things about the years I lived in Newfoundland, but a tiny clearing on the northwest peninsula of the island remains in my memory. Our family had taken an unusually long journey into the northern wilderness that summer on a camping trip. My father wanted to fish for salmon and trout. I think I had just turned fourteen, so my brother would have been eight. ‘We must be going to the end of the world,’ I thought, as my brother and I were jounced around on the backseat of the old ’53 Hudson. It was late summer and the car noisily rattled along the gravel roads, a cloud of dust billowing from the back. We were miserable, my brother and I. In between picking at each other, we wished we would get ‘there.’ Soon!

Finally arriving in the area where my father wanted to fish, he hired a Newfoundlander to lead us through the forest to the river’s choicest fishing spots. We walked behind the guide along the trail through the dense woods. It was cool and the air was fragrant with the smell of pine pitch and the composting forest floor. We followed quietly along the trail carved through the trees by earlier sportsman and animals, hoping to see a moose or a bear. While climbing up a small hill, I became aware of the sound of rushing water. Suddenly, we were standing in the sun on a cliff overlooking a cascading waterfall.

The cold water rushed over the rocks turning from dark blue into marshmallow creamy foam as it crashed down the waterfall. The air was full of spray and the icy smell of the water. We stood transfixed, becoming excited when we realized the water was teaming with Atlantic salmon leaping up the falls in their struggle to return to their own birthplace to spawn. I remember sitting on that mossy ledge a long time, becoming wet from the misty air, while marveling at the determination and athletic ability of the salmon. They leapt into the air with the single purpose of launching themselves to the top of the small waterfall so they could reach their spawning grounds. Their silvery bodies gleamed in the sun. They all could not succeed in one jump, and they would fall back onto the jagged rocks, only to valiantly try again.

I do not remember other details of that trip: I don’t remember our campsite, or if Daddy caught any fish, or even the name of the nearby town. Those details are merged together with memories of similar fishing trips our family took while living in Newfoundland in the 1950’s. But I clearly remember that little clearing alongside the river and the unexpected sight of those beautiful fish determined to overcome the obstacle of the punishing rocks and the rushing water for their future generations.

© Sandra Maroney