Newfie June - The Blue Haired Man

My parents married in 1938. Within the first ten years of marriage, they had brought six children into the world. There was an eight year gap before I came along, in the mid-fifties.

Dad was a St. John's fireman and, some time around the early sixties, Government regulations (labour laws) were put in place and he was afforded more holiday time than he had ever had before. He wanted to take us camping and he wanted to go fishing. So my father took up fly fishing for salmon. He would have been in his late forties at that time. I suspect that my Dad just couldn't afford to fly fish before that point in his life. The cost of decent equipment and licensing would have been prohibitive, especially with so many mouths to feed.

Watching my Dad fly fish was like watching a concert pianist play a beloved concerto. He was so relaxed when "on the river" that the motions of whipping out the line and dancing the fly across the surface of the water seemed to be effortless. He truly felt at peace with himself and God when fly-fishing and it showed.

Anyone who has fished for salmon in Newfoundland knows that it is not your average fishing experience. There are strict regulations to give the fish a better than average chance for escape. The regulations determine what size of line you must use, what type and length of leader you must use and what types of flies you may attract the fish with. Atlantic Salmon are, after all, fish of quite discerning taste. Not just any lure will do, don't you know. Of course, all of these restrictions make for great "play" once you have a salmon on your hook.

One year Dad decided that we should go down, past Terra Nova National Park, to some of the tributaries of the Exploit's River. This was purported to be the best salmon river in Newfoundland (if not all of North America) and Dad wanted to see what it was all about. He had purchased an old, used, canvas tent. It was quite large, probably 12 by 14 feet. It had canvas curtains that fell across the middle, inside, to make two separate rooms. I thought it was the best thing since sliced bread and couldn't wait to sleep out in it!

Off we went on our little vacation. There was Mom, Dad, my brother Ernie, my sister Rita, and myself. We had the car so bundled up with "gear" that it's a wonder any of us could fit in to go along. After driving for hours, we got down near Gander and veered off onto the unpaved roads to try to find the "right spot". Of course, by this time all of us kids were ready to pitch the tent anywhere as long as we were out of that hot, dusty car. We ended up outside of a small town/village called Aspen Cove. The Ragged River ran through it and there were lovely sandy banks on the river that extended up for a ways and leveled out. It would be a perfect place to pitch the tent. The river water was clear and pure and we would be able to drink it, swim in it, and fish too.

All of the main Newfoundland towns and cities had electricity by that point in time, but not all the small, out port, communities did. Aspen Cove and nearby Ladle Cove were among the ones that did not have service at that time.

Not far up the road from our chosen river site was the local service station, owned and operated by a Mr. and Mrs. Chaulk. The fuel pumps at the service station were run by a gas powered generator. Mr. Chaulk would turn on the generator to pump our gas and then turn it off again. His wife was one of the few people in that neck of the woods to own an electric range and refrigerator. They didn't operate all of the time, though. Mr. Chaulk would turn the generator on periodically during the day to keep the fridge cool or while she cooked something in the range as well, but then it was shut down. Now, we had only just begun unloading our car, after arriving on the Ragged River, when Mr. Chaulk appeared and introduced himself. My father dragged the big blue tent out of the trunk, unfolded it and proceeded to erect it, with some help from my brother and Mr. Chaulk. Dad had to get inside to erect the main support pole and we tried to help by hooking in the end poles on the outside. We had no sooner gotten set up when, in true Newfie fashion, Mr. Chaulk asked us to come up to his house to meet his wife and have a cup of tea to wash the dust out of our throats. Dad didn't want to use the car with it half unloaded, etc. so we all tramped the quarter mile to the little gas station and the Chaulk home to meet the missus. She was a lovely old gal. She made a fuss over us youngsters and fed us continually while we were in her kitchen. She seemed really fascinated by my father, however, and was actually almost staring at him. Now, my Dad was quite a good looking man and did draw attention from women at times (much to my mother's chagrin.) He was over six feet tall and had gone prematurely white by the time he was in his late thirties. He looked quite distinguished and actually strongly resembled the actor John Forsythe.

After tea we went back down to the riverbanks to get settled away and fully unpacked and organized before dark. We had a kerosene lamp for light but you didn't want to burn it too long at night. Best to get done everything that you could before dark fell. As soon as supper was done, Dad headed out on the river because the fish always bite best at dawn and dusk. He had no sooner gone when Mrs. Chaulk and a couple of her lady friends from the village came by for a little visit and to see if we were going to be alright for the night. They were obviously disappointed when told that Dad had gone fishing for a few hours. After a short visit, off they went but, as they were leaving, Mom overheard them talking. Mrs. Chaulk was telling them to come back with her the next afternoon. She said, "You got to see him. I never saw anything like it in me life. His hair is so white, 'tis blue!"

Mom was confounded! She didn't know what to make of this. Dad didn't have blue hair…what were they going on about?

Dad typically fished until dark, arrived back at the tent and immediately washed up for bed. He was going to get back on that river at the crack of dawn. In the poor light of the kerosene lamp Mom could not see anything different with Dad, especially not blue hair!

Next morning Dad was quietly up and on the river by 5 a.m. Again, we did not see him until about 11 a.m. As he was wandering down the river towards camp, here came the ladies again. They seemed delighted that Dad would be there this time. They giggled like school girls awaiting his arrival. When he got near enough, though, they could see he was wearing his fishing hat. Mrs. Chaulk looked crest-fallen but she didn't say much. The ladies visited for a while. They had brought us some fresh bread one of them had baked and a bottle of home made baked apple jam. They stayed and had a bit of lunch with us, but the highlight was when my Dad (ever the gentleman), took off his hat before eating.

Mrs. Chaulk could contain herself no more. She blurted out, "Bye, sir, you sure got a lovely head of blue hair. I've never seen hair like it before!"

Dad looked at her like she had two heads. Mom took a good look at Dad and laughed. Sure enough, Dad had a lovely blue hue to his hair! Turns out that his white hair had been rubbing against the blue tent while he was in trying to erect the centre pole. From then on my father was jokingly referred to as the blue haired man.

We made fast friends in Aspen and Ladle Coves. We returned many more years to the river to fish. There will be more Ragged River stories to come from Newfie June.

© Newfie June




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